Look, The Ship of Ishtar is an unusual book. There’s no question of that. It dispenses with traditional tropes. A. Merritt does not tread familiar fantasy paths. He picks his own unexpected tangent and proceeds pellmell along it. The pocket universe he creates and its rules appear initially quite strange and arbitrary. But in context of the story’s underlying assumption of the reality and power of the ancient Sumerian pantheon, and of the wrath of Ishtar’s vengeful incarnation, it all coheres more or less consistently. But nothing is ever clearly explicated or spelled out. Merritt trusts the reader to figure things out for himself. It is sink or swim aboard The Ship of Ishtar.
So, what is it about? From my reading, it concerns the conflict between Ishtar and Nergal; that is, between generative life and the foulness of the grave. Baldly put, it is about sex and violence. And, perhaps in the final analysis, about love mediating between the two extremities while partaking of aspects of both. You may get something entirely different out of it.
Merritt jumps right into the action. We are introduced immediately to the protagonist being sucked from his own world onto the eponymous ship. (Begin nitpick: Merritt misdates Sargon of Akkad’s reign by about 1,500 years. End very picayune criticism.) John Kenton, the protagonist, is another of Merritt’s WWI vets. (e.g., Larry O’Keefe, The Moonpool.) Kenton adjusts well to (or is predisposed toward) committing brutal acts of violence, enslavement, sexual aggression. He’s not a model of genteel 20th Century man. In fact, there are hints that he was predestined to voyage on the Ship of Ishtar, which is stuck like a fly in amber in a perpetually primitive pocket world. For example, Kenton already possessed the sword of Nabu, which plays important roles in the narrative. He is familiar with the language (written and spoken) as well as the poetry of Uruk. Merritt deliberately notes that Kenton grows while on the ship, not merely in strength but actually in height as well. This supernatural result suggests that he is (or was fated to become) a focus or avatar if one accepts that attributes beyond those of ordinary man are necessary to handle a numinous visitation. Thus supernally gifted he is able later to receive direct and immediate communications from the gods. And more, he ends up serving as judge for the central conflict. Does his capacity to judge the gods themselves indicate he might be one himself? Merritt writes, “‘Of course,’ said Kenton naively, and with no ironic intention, ‘I am no god…'”
Then there is the glorious redhead Sharane. Another of Merrit’s priestesses or numinous avatars, possessed by gods, monsters, or aliens. Loa-ridden, if you will. Sharane is, on occasion, the vessel of Ishtar herself. Sharane’s reluctant, contemptuous, even spiteful early attraction to Kenton is drawn out to a satisfactory length. Her love for Kenton, and her resultant fate, are adumbrated by the loves and fates of two other women in the tale, a point which perhaps should be considered in light of the thesis of Ship.
I recall feeling a sense of disappointment at the ending the first time I read this. Perhaps my tastes are overly simplistic: I like happy endings, a triumphant hero gaining his reward. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the bittersweet: Frodo sailing away from the Grey Havens; King Arthur floating off on the barge to Avalon. But tragic characters such as, for example, Elric are a bit harder of a sell for me. However, I think I have a better understanding of both the story Merritt was trying to tell and for the character of Kenton this read through. Appreciating the story from his perspective rather than my own, and having a better grasp of the story’s metaphysical revelations regarding the nature of love, his ending is, in a sense, a happy one. A eucatastrophe, if you will. (And given the hints of an afterlife for the lovers…)
If any of the foregoing suggests that the narrative of Ship is tedious, I apologize for the inadvertent misdirection. The book is full of rousing fight scenes, heroics, and battles on sea and land. It does not, in short, lack for action. It’s just that there is more to it than straightforward, two-fisted action (not that there is anything wrong with straightforward, two-fisted action), and that’s what I concentrated my comments upon.
I’d like to end this with a compliment directed toward Merritt’s descriptive gift. His work features beautifully limned pictures of light, form, and movement that he clearly had fully envisioned to the minutest detail. More importantly, he possessed the skill to masterfully convey his imagination on the page; a rare confluence of the skills of the technical writer and poet. Many are gifted with imagination. Few can impart those visions to others. Merritt could. (If I have previously downplayed his skill in the slightest, I hereby retract and beg your indulgence.) If you want to pick up a copy for yourself, please note that DMR is releasing a Centennial Edition in November.
I am writing this post from Orycon 44, in Portland, Oregon. The convention was kind enough to issue me yet another invitation to blather on panels. Of note was the Saturday panel, Sword-and-Sorcery 101, at which I shamelessly cribbed from Brian Murphy’s Flame and Crimson. I also sold several books. Speaking of which, herein follows the obligatory self-promotion. (We all have bills to pay.) Aethon Books has undertaken the effort and expense of publishing all four volumes of Semi-Autos and Sorcery. Now the series is also available in collected format, as both digital and audio books. Get yours today.
Bonus con pictures.