Modern fantasy is slowly wasting away, feeding on its own past like maggots devouring a corpse from within. By definition, fantasy writers are not bound by the logical strictures of science fiction. They have free rein to launch into creative and experimental frenzies, bound only by internal storytelling logic, and even this can be fudged. Despite the potential for greatness inherent in fantasy, most writers and publishers seem content to go dumpster diving. Present fantasy writers are not even midgets attempting to climb the shoulders of giants. Instead they are content to borrow the giants' clothes and wrap themselves in the finery of the past, abandoning even the pretense of novelty or originality. Most of fantasy's great forbears are ignored: Jack Vance, Lord Dunsany, Clark Ashton Smith, all creators of rich works of imagination that lie forgotten and rarely reprinted. Instead, virtually every modern fantasy is based on the Lord of the Rings--a worthy work, but a careless literary sire.
One definite exception is Michael Shea. A World Fantasy Award winner for Nifft the Lean, Shea is back, sorely missed, after a ten-year absence. His latest novel, The Mines of Behemoth, returns to the world of master thief Nifft the Lean, and his trusty companion, Barnar Hammer-Hand. Whereas Nifft the Lean collected six compact stories of Nifft's exploits, The Mines of Behemoth is a full-length novel. And it shows. In places the fabric thins to a near tearing-point. But even these few moments blaze in furious landscapes.
Nifft and Barnar are shipwrecked when an amorous sea monster mistakes their ship for a mate. Penniless, they weigh the unsavory prospect of honest labor, working for Costard, Barnar's nephew, in a tapping mine. Deep within the mines of Kairnheim lie Behemoths, massive beasts from the sub-underworld. Here humans mine the sap from larval creatures, infants of the Behemoths, in their dark nurseries. Ha'Awley Bunt, a bee hiver, persuades Nifft and Barnar to undertake a somewhat more profitable task: tap the Queen directly for her highly potent ichor. Naturally, the vast profit this offers is not without risk. Such wealth instantly attracts the greed of Costard, along with anyone who hears of Barnar and Nifft's venture. The Queen, however, inhabits the underworld. Like Nifft's visit to this domain in Nifft the Lean, the underworld is rife with dark temptations of vast wealth and other distractions.
The recycled Tim Powers introduction, originally written for the Wildside Press limited edition of Nifft the Lean, is a testament to Shea's influence on other writers. Still, it gives the reader little indication of Shea's activities between his 1987 Arkham House collection Polyphemus and this novel, and his world-view appears to have darkened significantly in the interim. His style, already mordant and edgy, now is bleak in tone and color. Despite this, Shea remains a daring and skilled writer. He paints a world few of us would wish to visit (let alone live in), but none would forget. The Mines of Behemoth is a grim reminder that magic doesn't solve everything, and that life, when it comes down to it, carries a big ugly factor of randomness.
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