Gordon & Cremonesi, 1978, 155 p

There is, of course, an ongoing fascination with the works of the Brontë sisters and their genesis, a fascination not restricted to the sisters themselves. Their brother, Branwell, apparently described to his friends a novel he had written but of which no trace was found in his papers after he died. This book is Barbara Rees’s construction of that novel. How much she had to go on, the form Branwell’s effort actually took, is not elaborated on in the surrounding blurb so the reader must just take what is presented to her/him as an example of a Victorian novel.

It consists of the reminiscences of a young girl taken home from Steepleton Horse Fair by Mr Robert Ogilvy to be brought up as a servant in his house, Thirleby Hall. He named her Harriet Dark. In this first-person account “Harriet” refers to herself as a foundling, but since she was four – or five, or six – years old at the time (and could speak well enough) that description is not entirely accurate. Orphan is more so. That such a child would not really remember her mother, nor realise till much later in the book that her mother had died is one of the factors which stretch credulity a little.

Under the unbending gaze and strictures of the cook, Mrs Duckham, Harriet develops a hatred for the household and of Mr Ogilvy but she eventually forms a friendship of sorts with the housekeeper, Mrs Minim, and in the fullness of time as she grows into adolescence, a yen for Mr Ogilvy himself. She finds more acceptance in the family of the local clergyman, Mr Ponsonby, whose wife helps her to read.

The later incursion of Nina Sanctuary, Mr Ogilvy’s intended, into Harriet’s life darkens her outlook. Sanctuary treats her harshly and, in a touch of Gothic, she conceives the thought of herself as in league with the devil against the world; going so far as to believe her wishes directly contribute to Sanctuary’s death in a riding accident, after which Ogilvy falls into what the Victorians called melancholy.

The book displays some of the infelicities of an inexperienced novelist. Whether this is intentional on the part of Rees in trying to replicate what Branwell Brontë might actually have written, or are her own, is impossible to determine. They do, though, lend an air of verisimilitude to proceedings.

Despite Ogilvy’s continuing indifference to Harriet Rees contrives, on Branwell Brontë’s behalf, a happy ending of sorts.

Pedant’s corner:- “‘So you’re back then are you,’ said Mrs Duckingham.” (ought to have a question mark after ‘you’,) “elbows akimbo” (elbows resting on hips and pointing outward?) “will-of-the-wisps” (wills-of-the-wisp, or, better, wills-o’-the-wisp,)

Head of Zeus, 2023, 309 p. Reviewed for ParSec 9.

The Yorkshire Moors make an ideal setting for tales of the uncanny. A thin place. Remote, wild, desolate, atmospheric, and above all, wuthering. A world beyond the world. It is easy to imagine strange goings on, mysterious creatures, ghosts, hidden menace, inhabiting the landscape. But we don’t have to. The Brontë sisters (well, Emily) already did. And now, so too has Tim Powers in a story whose central focus is on the Brontë family and Emily’s dog, Keeper, but also incorporates the author’s usual injections of weird. In particular here we have boggarts, gytrashes, barguests, (the latter two being essentially the same thing,) werewolves, a temple on the moors to the Roman goddess Minerva, double-bladed knives called dioscuri, an ancient creature with latent potency buried inside Haworth Church under a slab with an Ogham inscription. Not to mention clandestine human organisations known as the Oblique and the Huberti.

The prologue sees Branwell Brontë inveigling Emily and Anne along to a cave where they all leave smears of blood on the rocks. This acts as a primer for the subsequent plot, a debt to be called in. (I note again the prevalence of blood in these sorts of invocation.) Later, in his time in London, Branwell is bitten by a dog and more recently pricked by a dioscuri. Emily too has been bitten, though escaped the knife. But both are marked.

Their father Patrick’s great-grandfather, Hugh Brunty, had been on a boat crossing to Ireland when a child stowaway was found whom the crew said was a devil and wanted to throw overboard. Hugh saved the boy, who received the name Welsh (his believed origin,) and adopted him. Welsh was a spirit and possessed Hugh, and later his son, but in the next generation Patrick’s father resisted possession, and with the help of his dog killed Welsh’s body but not its spirit. When Patrick (now Brontë) came to England the spirit followed him. It is to keep any such demons at bay that Patrick fires his gun at Haworth Church every morning.

Emily’s embroilment comes when, near a ruin called Ponden Kirk, she saves a man named Alcuin Curzon from a werewolf. He is one of the Huberti, working to prevent the Oblique reuniting the two halves of their biune god (one half being Welsh and the other the thing under the slab.) Emily in this tale is the strongest of the Brontë siblings, and along with Keeper, whose ghost doppelgänger manifests itself when times are needful, is instrumental in the resolution.

Powers has form with incorporating literary figures in his work. Previous books of his have featured Lord Byron, the Rossettis, and William Ashbless, a poet of his own invention (with James Blaylock.) How much this convinces may depend on the reader’s knowledge of those characters’ backgrounds but in My Brother’s Keeper there is too little of the Brontës as Brontës. It could of course be argued that in the context of the story Powers had little room for this, but while mention is made of the sisters’ initial book of poetry, the manuscript of Wuthering Heights being at a publisher and Branwell’s tendency to see himself as his fictional creation Northangerland, only once do we see the sisters sit down to write. (Branwell’s attempts to do so are depicted as futile, counterproductive and tainted by possession.) That the sisters’ work exists is, however, essential to the way Powers resolves the story and he gives us a supernatural – and also literal – explanation for the disease then called consumption, which in real life was to take both Emily and Anne.

All that aside; as a fantasy the novel is gripping and very well written, as is customary with Powers. Certainly not a chore to read.

Pedant’s corner:- “an uncharacteristic howel” (howl,) “toward he parsonage” (the parsonage,) “in that that wilderness” (only one ‘that’ required,) “none of the Oblique order were very eager” (none … was eager,) “‘has strived’” (I’m sure Emily Brontë would have said ‘has striven’,) ditto “‘a different route than the one’”  (‘a different route from the one’,) “keeper had laid down beside her” (had lain down,) “off of” (it’s just ‘off’ no ‘of’,) “the paralysis had been had been some consequence” (no need for that second ‘had been’.) “‘Where’s your crows?’” (‘Where are your crows?’,) “straps on this shoulders” (on his shoulders,) specactles (spectacles,) metioned (mentioned,) “and laid down between their boots” (lay down.)