The Wheel's Last Turn

“The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fade to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in [locations vary]. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.”

Thus begins the first chapter of every book in the Wheel of Time series. The wind is then followed through various landscapes toward the character the reader shall follow throughout the chapter.

The series operates on the premise that time is cyclical rather than linear. What happens has happened before, and will happen again. The world described in The Wheel of Time is therefore both our past and our future.

The first book, The Eye of the World, was published on January 15^th, 1990. I only encountered it in 2008, entirely by chance, on a boring day. The final book, A Memory of Light, was published earlier this week, on January 8^th, 2013. I do not have my copy yet.

Soon, Precious.

 The first book narrates the journey of Rand al’Thor and his friends Matrim Cauthon, Perrin Aybara, Egwene al’Vere and Nynaeve al’Meara from their once peaceful village of Emond’s Field to the White Tower, domain of the Power-wielding Aes Sedai. Rand is thought to be the Dragon Reborn, the reincarnation of a hero three millennia dead.

If this hardly seems original at first (the journey theme is a staple of the fantasy genre), the true strength of the series lies in its use of the ripple effect. Rand and some of his companions are ta’veren; people who somehow make events around them unfold in certain ways, not always to their advantage. These events have consequences in other characters’ lives, whose actions create yet more ripples, and so on. With each new book, the scope and the stakes widen, and the story is told from the point of view of an increasing number of characters.

Given such complexity, it is small wonder that the tale grew in the telling (from a planned trilogy, the series was expanded to fourteen books), or that it took twenty-three years to complete.

Cardiac amyloidosis claimed the life of the author in 2007, with only eleven volumes published. Robert Jordan, whose birth name was James Oliver Rigney, Jr., would not live to complete his great story. He was prepared for that eventuality, however, and left behind what I understand is a staggering amount of notes, recordings and the like, in the hope that someday another would finish what he had begun.

That other turned out to be Brandon Sanderson, a young author whose works include the excellent Mistborn trilogy and the newly begun Stormlight Archive. Sanderson was charged with writing the last book of the story, which, given the amount of information to include, was split into three.

Robert Jordan, handing over the Dragon Banner to Brandon Sanderson, as characters look on.

 When the announcement was made, fans the world over (me included) held their collective breath as they wondered whether this new writer would do the series justice. Having already read two of the three Wheel of Time books Sanderson wrote, I am really satisfied with him. Granted, the story will never be completed exactly as it would have been under Jordan’s penmanship, but I doubt even a clone could pull that off.

The Wheel of Time has taken me places. Beyond the narrative itself, there is a treasure trove of references to many of our own myths, not to mention a few winks and nods to the present-day world (I smiles when I really understood what a sa’angreal referred to). I have reread the entire series (such as it stood) many, many times, and each time some new nugget of understanding came to me. I have been recommending the series to anybody looking for a new read, much to the irritation of some.

As I patiently (after a fashion) wait to buy my copy of A Memory of Light, I wonder what life will be for us fans, after we turn the last page. I wonder what will become of the online communities, of the discussions and the ruthless ‘flaming’ in forums, now that theorising is no longer necessary.  I can only hope some of the bonds we forged hold.

The Wheel has turned its last, its history has entered legend, a legend I will not soon forget. Robert Jordan’s work may not have been a part of my life for as long as some, but for that very reason I feel these words about the Dragon apply to the author just as well as they do to the character:

“He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind, was gone.”

A Thousand Lives

I have clear memories of the time my mother taught me how to write. It was long before I started school. We’d be in her office, and she would hand me pieces of paper with dots that outlined letters, and I was supposed to connect them. Over time, each letter was made of fewer and fewer dots. I cannot imagine what sort of patience she had.

Reading came to me more readily than writing did. I’m left-handed, and western calligraphy was designed with right-handed people in mind (I would totally own an Arabic class). As soon as my reading skills were good enough, my mother set me loose upon comic books. I had nearly every issue of Asterix, Lucky Luke and Tintin.

In high school, I encountered story books with not much in the way of pictures. Rather than feeling like Gaston (failing to understand this reference means your childhood may have a missing piece), I discovered this was better. A picture may be worth a thousand words – jury’s still out on that – but it is a frozen thing, static and immutable. A thousand words could evoke a million shifting ideas, depending on the person that encounters them.

That realisation was the drop that broke the dam. A good chunk of my allowance was dedicated to book purchase and exchange, and I became more indiscriminate in my reading as time went by. On the bright side, this helped with school, as I would read my textbooks for fun along with any science journal I could find. On the not-so-bright side, I was quite unprepared when I had a run-in with my uncles’ *Ahem!* spy stories.

I began to look for bigger books. Now, as men so fervently (and naively) believe, size doesn’t matter. This is true in literature as well – just compare Narnia to Inheritance. But I have found, especially when my means are limited, that I like to prolong the pleasure. And THAT concludes the 'innuendo' section of this article.

My first heavy-duty read was The Count of Monte Cristo. I loved every page. Alexandre Dumas wrote a lot, and wrote well. He probably did little else. I imagine him permanently connected to a feeding tube and a catheter, taking time off only to sire yet another writing Alexandre Dumas. No, seriously, that's actually true. Or maybe he cloned himself for increased productivity.

Dumas sparked my interest in historical figures and event. Visiting the past eventually led me in the realm of mythology, and from there it was only a small step to the genre that I enjoy most. Fantasy was unique in that its many themes resonated with me so strongly it was like finally finding my place in the world (nothing like a good exaggeration to get a point across). The epic contests between Good and Evil mirrored my own inner struggles. The various ‘magic’ systems obeyed clearly defined rules rather than being just some convenient plot device – really helpful when it comes to suspension of disbelief.

I got a glimpse of heaven the day I entered The Book Den in Windhoek. Back then, it was still situated in Gutenberg Plaza, and you could stay in there for hours, lost among the shelves, or seated on the floor, turning pages. There were books for all tastes, all ages, and all walks of life. Leaving felt like waking up from one of those sweet, sweet dreams we have every once in a while. Broke or not, I found myself there very often. I have looked for something similar over here to no avail. I hear South-Africa has even grander book stores (true, if the CNA store at the airport in Johannesburg is any indication), and I hope one day to visit them, but our firsts do hold a special place, do they not?

So here I am, having consumed hundreds of books by dozens of authors, having produced a couple of manuscript s I will keep on polishing until they reflect my satisfied face back at me, and thinking up blog articles I hope will inspire someone to… I dunno, pick a passion and run with it, maybe. I know I got mine and I feel like a fish in water nurturing it. To have had your emotions tugged at by words on a page, to have felt the joys and sorrows of multiple characters, to have received authors’ wisdom, to have lived a thousand lives and learnt a little from each… Try and top that.