Beneath A Thousand Skies

Summary:

IN THE CENTER OF THE FOREST SITS A HOUSE OF LEAVES AND ASH. INSIDE THE HOUSE, HIS HEART AND LIES.

Inside the house called Sempiternity there is a lake, at the center of which an island sits. Upon the island, a spire of stone. Surrounding the spire, an orchard of dreams.

Beneath an apple tree sits faceless Self, who writes of sorry things. “What an awful place. What a cruelty it is, being birthed of pain.”

But when a dog that should not be wanders into Sempiternity through a door that should not be, Self learns a terrible truth: Sempiternity is no longer safe, no longer theirs. Fictional failures come in search of proper ends, in search of slaughter quelled by Self’s prosaic hand.

In search of lies.

Thus, Self departs Sempiternity for the forest dark, for at its center is the ruined town of Own.

The place where the nightmare began.

‘Healing isn’t linear. And grief will always be. But you need not always fear that monster in between.’

A Cup of Tea at the Mouth of Hell a prequel of sorts, although both could be read independently – although why would you rob yourself of the chance to experience both aspects of this part memoir, part fantastical exploration? That one was a gut punch to the stomach, raw emotions, crafted into a story that would resonate differently with each reader, but had the power to tear tears out of everyone.

Liminal Monsters follows on in that vein, but in some ways this one felt softer. More melancholic in places, but reflective, in the way of the quiet that follows grief. The quiet after loss. A space that can be filled at any moment with life, or rage or grief, or any one of the myriad emotions that can flood into that space. In some ways it made me think of standing at the edge of the water and tossing in pebbles to see the ripples, with each one causing different ripples that overlapped just a little with the one before, only these pebbles are moments, some real, some fantastical, fantasy stories wrapped up in the chaos and trappings of real life. But, in the wake of each there was a feeling of peace, of hope, of healing.

That isn’t to say Liminal Monsters is lacking in the dark, twisted violence that is present across Tarzian’s body of work. Life and death in an endless, intimate dance, marked by blood and violence; and softened by absurdism, and a humour that is all Tarzian. The fantastical parts in particular delve very much into the darkness, a soul fighting its demons across the pages, and those were the moments that swept me up the most, that posed the questions that sometimes need that distance, that slight step back from reality to be asked, and to be answered. Yet, some of the more personal moments, were wrapped in the chaos and absurdity that can only come from reality; and really that coexistence, contradictor and complimentary all at once, breaths power into the title.

What Tarzian also demonstrates is that fantasy is as close a step to the left of the beaten past, or looking through slightly different eyes, and as far away as a distant world beyond a portal. And that reality can be as strange as fantasy, and fantay as deep and emotionally relevant as reality.

“It matters not,” the portal groans. “The guilt will always call you back. Ink is permanent; you cannot erase what once had form.”

This line delighted me – for anyone who has read Tarzian’s other works will recognise the line; and here, with the weight of reality bearing down it directly it takes on fresh meaning. It’s amazing to see this seed amongst all the other seeds of creativity that are scattered throughout Liminal Monsters; and to see how the understanding of emotions, of how grief works and lingers, haunting unexpected moments bears out in the other books when the characters fight to reclaim those they’ve lost.

Liminal Monsters builds on a Cup of Tea at the Mouth Hell, but is also entirely its own beast. Here we see the curtain pulled back on the fertile ground that has brought forth some of the most profound, disturbing and enchanting works by Tarzian, but also has filled a cemetary with abandoned, forgotten and lost stories. Here we are given not only a mediation on grief in all its complexities, the highs and lows of moving forward in it’s shadow, and when the sun shines that bit brighter; but also a profoundly intimate look at creativity, both as a reaction to life and grief, but also growing from it.

Tarzian has written another masterpiece here, one that refuses, like it’s namesake to be corralled into a single definition or genre. With ink and paper, and blood and tears, we are given a tale that is as real as it is fantastical, and both deeply personal and intimate, and yet a mirror, that is capable of reflecting not the face of the reader – but the truth of their own map of grief and other raw emotions. It takes incredible skill, and deep wellspring of understanding of emotion and creativity to create a book like this; and it takes Tarzian to transform that into something that is as absurd as it is serious, as melancholic as it is hopeful, as raw and angry in grief, as it is soft and lost; and even more to let the sunrise in the wake.

A fantastic book that will linger far past the final page turning. A book that maps out grief in all its complexities, through valleys and over mountains. Liminal Monsters is a powerful read, that will resonate differently with each reader and with each reading. Both a memoir and mirror, a nightmare and a dream.