Mordew by Alex Pheby is the opening instalment of The Cities of the Weft trilogy, a much-praised novel and one I’d been looking forward to reading. And it didn’t disappoint…

The main character in the book is Nathan Treeves, a boy from the slums of Mordew who possesses a mysterious power. His father is slowly and painfully dying, and the city itself is rotting and diseased. The ruler of Mordew is the almost god-like Master, who seems to control every aspect of the city, from the ‘Living Mud’, which gives birth to strange mutated creatures, to the rigid social hierarchy. When the Master notices Nathan’s abilities, he draws the boy into a world of privilege and danger, and the novel becomes a dark, twisted coming‑of‑age tale, eschewing the usual moral clarity.

Although a compelling protagonist, Nathan is far from a conventional hero. He’s frightened, angry, and often morally compromised. His choices are shaped by desperation, and the novel is honest about the way poverty distorts agency. The friendships Nathan develops with a gang of street children—Prissy, Gam, and the Joes (a clever character/s creation) —give the book emotional weight, helping to ground the more fantastical elements. But these relationships prove unstable, threatened by the city’s violence and by Nathan’s own growing power. All the characters in the novel are complex and layered, with first impressions often undone by later actions and revelations.

The book’s focus on poverty (which is shown with an unflinching eye) and the corruptive nature of power feels almost Dickensian, but with a feverish, surreal imagination that reminded me of Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast series. Pheby’s prose draws you in, using rich sensory detail to bring this disturbing but fascinating world to life.

It’s not possible to discuss Mordew without reference to its excellent world-building, and I found this to be one of the most immersive fantasy settings I’ve encountered for some time. For readers who really like to go deep in this area, there are maps, a dramatis personae and a glossary. For all the horror, fantasy and odd beauty of this world, it never feels anything other than real. So many elements of the world-building showcase the scale and depth of Pheby’s imagination, for example the magical book the Master gives to Nathan, the primordial Living Mud and the unnerving Gill-Men. And through the twisted lens of Mordew, we perhaps see more clearly the injustices and inequalities in our own world.  

Mordew is an unsettling and extravagant fantasy novel, which creates strong foundations for the later novels in the series, for as many riches as the reader experiences in this first book, there’s a sense of a lot more of this world to be discovered, of many more secrets to be revealed. Mordew takes place in a mouldy, rot-filled city, but this is a fresh voice in the world of fantasy fiction, and I look forward to reading the other books in the series.

I’ve long admired the SF novels by British author John Christopher (Sam Youd), and have posted about his works such as The Tripods trilogy and the Sword of the Spirits series, with the former in particular having been an influence on my novel The Map of the Known World. Christopher’s Death of Grass is also an excellent post-apocalyptic novel, one that is rightly lauded and which felt eerily resonant with the onset of Covid-19 in 2020.

I recently read another of Christopher’s post-apocalyptic books, Empty World. A short novel, at around 134 pages, it follows fifteen‑year‑old Neil Miller, a survivor of the catastrophic Calcutta Plague. The story begins with Neil losing his parents in a car accident. As Neil struggles to adapt to this tragedy, the whole world is devastated when the Plague swiftly wipes out the adult population, including his grandparents, with whom he has lived with since the death of his parents.
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Although clearly published for young adults, Empty World does not soft-peddle and is often an unsettling read, with a bleak, unflinching atmosphere, establishing a bleak world of silent streets, abandoned homes, and the threat of rats and feral dogs, all punctuated with moments of fear and sadness. For example, the fate of Tommy and Susie, two young children Neil tries to help, is both brutal and movingly told.    

The inexorable spread of the Plague, and the rapid societal collapse it causes, feels horribly plausible, given weight and power by Christopher’s taut writing and chilling imagery.

Empty World perhaps works best as a character study, as Neil, already numbed by unimaginable loss and trauma, is forced to confront the disintegration of civilisation and the psychological torment of isolation. His struggle to survive and to find other survivors is quietly but vividly portrayed – when Neil reaches a desolate London, he finds all the material resources he could ever need to survive, but as one shocking encounter with an unfortunate survivor who believed himself utterly alone, the greatest danger, the biggest threat of all, is loss of human connection. When Neil does meet other survivors, their interactions are riven with suspicion and fear – this is a new world, without order, without rules, with the ever-present threat of violence, and who, if anyone, can you trust?

As he is forced to both battle for survival and face his own trauma, Neil is morally conflicted, and this is brought into sharp focus in the novel’s very last pages, which I won’t spoil here.

Empty World is a brief but impactful science fiction novel, a layered exploration of grief, loneliness and human relationships.
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If you’re interested in finding out more about John Christopher / Sam Youd, it is well worth visiting the Syle Press website, which is packed with information and resources about the author and his books. 

I’ve read many Stephen King novels in recent years, including recently completing his multi-volume magnum opus, The Dark Tower. With novels such as The Stand (which I reviewed previously), IT, ‘Salem’s Lot and 11.22.63, King’s imagination and brilliantly observed characterisation always shines through, whether working with horror, fantasy or science fiction elements, or portraying gritty realism. So, I was looking forward to reading The Institute and it did not disappoint.
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Luke Ellis, a twelve-year-old genius is abducted and his parents murdered. Luke is taken to a secret government facility in Maine, where children with powers of telepathy and telekinesis are drugged and subjected to cruel experiments to exploit their abilities for a mysterious purpose. The situation looks hopeless, with any thought of escape just an impossible dream, but the arrival of young Avery, whose powers outstrip anything seen before, encourages Luke and his friends to plot a way out… 

Although The Institute is not as overtly frightening as some of King’s work, it is a deeply unsettling and suspenseful page turner, and I raced through the novel’s final hundred pages.

There may not be literal monsters in The Institute, but the casual and unquestioning cruelty of the adult staff – personified by Mrs. Sigsby and Trevor Stackhouse – is horrifying. They commit inhuman acts and deceive the children in their ‘care’ at every turn, not because they are demons, but because it is their job, and although some claim to work for a higher purpose, their lack of conscience is both disturbing and all too plausible.

The imprisoned children suffer enormously, but show resilience, courage and a macabre humour in the face of evil, and their reactions always feel authentically child-like and believable. Their friendships – forged through mutual torment at the hands of callous adults – are hard-earned and touching, perfectly captured through King’s well-tuned dialogue.

There are plot twists aplenty, which I won’t reveal here, but it is another plotting masterclass from King. And King displays his talent for creating a vivid sense of place - alongside the more fantastical parts, the community of a small town, of people doing their best to get through tough challenges in life, is sensitively and movingly portrayed.

The Institute might not be quite as well-known as some of Stephen King’s other novels, but this is a top-notch, inventive thriller, the impact of which lingers long after the final page.

Treacle Walker is a short novel by Alan Garner, the English author of esteemed novels such as Elidor, The Owl Service and The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, and is a blend of folklore, magic and myth, exploring time and the nature of reality.

Joseph (Joe) Coppock is a boy who lives alone in an old house. From the house, Joe marks the passing of time by watching trains pass, and reads comics, collects bird’s eggs and plays with marbles. Joe is recovering from an illness and wears a patch to correct a lazy eye.
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Into Joe’s lonely life comes rag-and-bone man Treacle Walker. Treacle Walker trades a cure-all medicine and a donkey stone for a pair of Joe’s pyjamas and a lamb’s shoulder blade. Treacle Walker himself is an almost shamanic figure and is once referred to as a psychopomp, a guide for nearly deceased souls. The story develops through the friendship between Joe and Treacle Walker, and their interactions with Thin Amren, a mysterious figure with shades of Tollund Man and Lindow Man. 

Set in a Cheshire landscape infused with meaning, the style of the novel is spare and taut, with a sense of every word being chosen with immense care, and at times the book felt to me more akin to poetry. Magic permeates the story, digging deeply into folklore. There are shifts in time, with the appearance of a doppelganger an especially unsettling moment. Garner moves away from conventional narrative, for example the dazzling, dizzying scenes when Joe enters a mirror-world of comic books, fighting foes alongside Kit the Ancient, fusing the modern medium of comic books with myth.
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Treacle Walker is an allusive, challenging read, one that is not easy to categorise but I feel this intense novel carries real power and brims with energy and imagination. Treacle Walker would, I’m sure, reward repeat reading to tease out some of the details and it is a novel to which I’m sure I’ll return. 

Set in a future England, No Man’s Land is a curious and fascinating SF novel. The main character is teenager Alan, who lives with his family in the coastal village of Hamerburgh, an idyllic and gentle place of woods, orchards and dunes, and with a prominent landmark known as the Keep, the remains of a 900-year-old castle, but trouble is looming...

Hamerburgh is due to be ‘rationalised’ and most of the villagers have already left. Alan’s friend, the old General, who is the guardian of the Keep, and who is being forced to move to a Welfare Home, entrusts him with the keys. Soon, Alan’s family abandon Hamerburgh for a modern flat in the vast concrete city of Easton. Alan feels lost in his soulless grey surroundings and begins to make regular return visits to his former village to explore his old haunts and to visit the Keep. Hamerburgh is now deserted, but Alan is shocked to find the General has escaped the clutches of the authorities and still lives secretly in the village.

​The General is far from safe, as danger takes the shape of Giant, a nightmarish robot of terrifying size built by the authorities to clear land for rationalization with formidable speed. And Giant has Hamerburgh in his sights…

No Man’s Land is a carefully paced, thoughtful novel focused more on character and themes than action, though there is definite excitement in the closing stages. Watson takes the time to portray the beauty of Hamerburgh (a village I guess is based on Orford in Suffolk) underlying what will be lost once rationalisation has taken place. Alan is a well-developed character, whose appreciation for the natural world and the human history represented by the Keep, sees him marked as unusual, even a risk. Giant appears to represent the cold, remorseless drive to standardise and control, to view nature simply as a resource to be exploited or to be swept aside, with culture and history just meaningless impediments to progress.

Written in the 1970s, the story and its themes still resonate strongly, as swathes of the English countryside continues to disappear under brick and concrete in the name of progress, and society struggles to offer adequate care for older people, in the worst instances robbing them of agency and dignity.

I’ve tried and failed to find out more about the author Simon Watson, and I don’t believe No Man’s Land is currently in print, though secondhand copies are available (I read the 1977 Puffin Books' edition) and it is well-worth tracking down. In some ways, No Man's Land reminded me of the novels of John Christopher, another author whose work I've long enjoyed and who has definitely been an influence on my own writing.

No Man’s Land is a quietly powerful slice of British SF and deserves to be read and remembered. 

Survival is insufficient.

Station Eleven is a post-apocalyptic novel set during and after the ‘Georgia Flu’ pandemic, which kills 99% of humanity and leads to a widespread collapse of civilization.

The novel starts with the death of famous actor Arthur Leander, who suffers a fatal heart attack on stage during a production of King Lear in Toronto. Leander’s sudden death comes just as the pandemic is beginning to strike North America.

Station Eleven moves between the past and the future, connecting key characters through their relationship with Leander. In particular, the story follows Kirsten Raymonde, who was a child actor in Leander’s fateful King Lear. In the world shattered by the Georgia Flu, Raymonde performs in the Travelling Symphony, a nomadic collection of actors and musicians who strive to keep art and culture alive for the many scattered communities. The motto for the Travelling Circus is Survival is insufficient, which underlines one of the novels key themes, namely the value, the necessity, of art and community for humanity.

Miranda Carroll, Leander’s first wife, is a fascinating character. Her obsession with creating her graphic novel – the titular Station Eleven – reflects both her loneliness and her appreciation of the beauty of Earth and the joys of human society. Carroll’s graphic novel forms a metaphor for the suffering and struggles of the survivors of the pandemic.

The novel’s complex structure is no gimmick but a highly effective method for giving insights into the characters and developing the plot, building genuine suspense and adding layers of meaning. And throughout, Mandel’s prose creates a prevailing dreamy, poetic atmosphere.

Although Station Eleven is far from a standard post-apocalyptic novel, there are genuine horrors in the book as humanity reels from the pandemic, such as a murderous cult inspired by a fanatical prophet. I found the chapters where Jeevan Chaudhary seeks refuge with his brother Frank especially chilling, as they witness the relentless breakdown of Toronto to desperation and violence, and the eerie silence that follows, and clearly this grim scene is being repeated across the world. The bonds holding together civilisation are thin.

Although often haunting and unsettling, I believe Station Eleven to be an ultimately hopeful novel. It doesn’t shy away from the enormous loss and suffering inflicted by the pandemic, nor the appalling struggles endured by the survivors as they try to build lives out of the wreckage of civilization. But Mandel stresses how art, culture and community are necessary for humanity to endure. Station Eleven prompts us to remember and be grateful for the beauty of the world around us and the values of the connections we share with other people.

Survival is insufficient.

My first encounter with the work of British author John Wyndham was the BBC’s chilling 1981 adaptation of his classic SF novel, The Day of the Triffids, and although I’ve read several of his novels since, I’d somehow never got round to reading one of his most famous--The Midwich Cuckoos, an omission I recently put right.

The Midwich of the novel is a small, unremarkable English village, but everything changes when it is enveloped by a mysterious force and everyone inside falls unconscious. When the stricken villagers awake, everything appears to be normal, however it is soon revealed all women of child-bearing age have suddenly become pregnant. When the women give birth, the children, or the Children as they become known, are all golden-eyed and develop remarkably quickly. As the Children grow, they show signs of accelerated learning—when one of the Children learns something, they all learn—and appear to have telepathic ability.
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Within the village, unease grows into open hostility. And if this is not dangerous enough, it becomes evident Midwich is not the only place in the world to have experienced this weird phenomenon, and fears grow of a hostile alien invasion…  

Cosy catastrophe is an accusation often directed at John Wyndham’s work, and there are moments in The Midwich Cuckoos when this does not feel unreasonable, as without doubt some elements of the novel have dated. However, there’s a chilly undercurrent to the novel and the brutal force of the ending carries real weight. Wyndham masterfully reflects post-war concerns of invasion, infiltration and fears of the consequences of the growing gap between generations.

The Midwich Cuckoos explores the potential consequences of humanity’s relationship with an intelligent alien species, with the main characters struggling with moral and religious questions—is the very idea of killing the Children permissible, even necessary, to protect our own kind? Wyndham offers no comforting answers and the fact the novel plays out its weighty themes in the softest of settings—a quaint, quiet village—does, in my opinion, give the story even more impact.

I wouldn’t rate The Midwich Cuckoos as my favourite John Wyndham book (that would still be The Chrysalids, with The Day of the Triffids as a close second) but I thoroughly enjoyed it as a thoughtful, suspenseful and unsettling SF novel.

Like many others, I had been looking forward to Scarred for Life: Volume Three. The first two Scarred for Life books (I reviewed both books previously) were real treats, digging deeply into the dark, often dystopian, world of 1970s and 1980s pop culture.

So, did volume three live up to my expectations? Absolutely, indeed I’d say it exceeded my expectations.

As with the first two books, Scarred for Life: Volume Three is a mighty tome, with over 700 pages and the book’s scope is enormous, encompassing novels, films, comics, games, music, television and much more. In fact, there’s so much packed into this book, it’s almost impossible to give a summary that gives its breadth and scale any justice!

Some of the many highlights include a fine section on horror novels from the 1980s, taking us through the paperback gore of writers such as Guy N Smith and Shaun Hutson, through to Stephen King and Clive Barker.

The section on comics – split into British and American publications – is exhaustive, and I particularly enjoyed the 2000ad chapters and the article on Charley’s War, my favourite comic story of my youth.

As a child in the 80s, I was fascinated by the paranormal, whether UFOs, ghosts or cryptids, and Scarred for Life: Volume Three excels in describing that decade’s obsession with all things paranormal. I loved the chapters on Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World and Arthur C Clarke’s World of Strange Powers – series I remember fondly!
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One of Volume Three’s biggest treats is the ‘book within a book’ focused on Cold War pop culture during the 1980s. From Z For Zachariah to Protect and Survive, When the Wind Blows to Judge Dredd: The Apocalypse War, the impact of nuclear anxiety on our culture is brought to vivid life. I was particularly engrossed by the extended chapters on the terrifying Threads, arguably the apogee of nuclear war films, and treated in the book as the masterpiece it undoubtedly is.

Scarred for Life: Volume Three understandably goes to dark places, but it is always witty, well-informed and deeply researched, and is often laugh-out loud funny. The level of detail and the passion of the authors shine through each chapter.

I can’t recommend Scarred for Life: Volume Three highly enough; as with volumes one and two, it provides hours and hours of absorbing reading. The three volumes of Scarred for Life form, in my opinion, a significant publishing and writing achievement, a passion project that has deservedly reached a wide and enthusiastic readership.

As well as live shows, the Scarred for Life books have also spawned an excellent podcast, with guests such as Danny Robins, Joe Cornish, Alice Lowe and Michael Sheen – episodes are now released weekly, and it’s an entertaining and fascinating listen.

It is also worth following the Scarred for Life account on X - as well as some great posts, there are regular and generous discounts on all their books. So if you can, order all three books and prepare to plunge into a world of 1970s and 1980s nightmares…

Scarred for Life (Volume one)
Scarred for Life (Volume two)
Scarred for Life (Volume three)

Professor Suzannah Lipscomb’s excellent foreword to A History of Magic, Witchcraft & the Occult sets the tone for this fascinating book, which explores how humans have sought to understand the universe and their place within it, and how they can appease or control spiritual forces to influence their environment.

As seems to be standard with DK titles, the book is beautifully designed, with lavish illustrations (including paintings, photographs and woodcuts) and quick-fact panels to define and explain key information.

The book is an intriguing journey through magical history, travelling from prehistoric times to the modern world, encompassing divination, alchemy, shamanism, Wicca and so much more. The broad historical narrative unfolds chronologically and takes a global view, drawing on cultures, beliefs and practices from across the world. There are many highlights I could mention, but I found the chapters on Mesopotamian magic (I’d also recommend The First Ghosts by Irving Finkel on this topic) and Renaissance folk magic especially engrossing. 

I bought the book as part of research for my latest novel, and while it has certainly proved useful in that regard, it is also a pleasure to read and there is always something unexpected to find. The sheer scope of the book inevitably means the subjects are not explored in great depth, but there is enough detail to interest the reader and to encourage further and research.
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A History of Magic, Witchcraft & the Occult gives the reader a good sense of the important role magical practices and beliefs have played in shaping civilisations around the world, and the ways in which they continue to enrich many people’s lives. So, whether you’re looking to discover more about the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Mayan cosmic cycles, tarot or countless other magical subjects, you’ll find something in this book to spark your imagination or inspire your creativity.
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If you’re interested in learning more about the history of magic, I would also recommend The History of Magic by Chris Gosden (which gives a more in-depth survey of the subject, and which I reviewed in a previous blog post), and from a British perspective, Pagan Britain by Professor Ronald Hutton and The Book of English Magic by Philip Carr-Gomm and Richard Heygate.

​The Stand has long been on my ‘to read’ list and I am glad to have finally read this epic thriller from Stephen King.

The early stages of the novel are post-apocalyptic, as a manmade flu-like virus is accidently released from a top-secret US military laboratory, causing a catastrophic pandemic. Despite frantic, belated efforts by the government and the army to contain the outbreak, including brutal enforcement of martial law, 99% of humans die from the virus, and King vividly portrays the terror and despair as civilisation rapidly collapses – one scene that will stay with me is Larry Underwood’s nightmarish journey through the Lincoln Tunnel, a moment of visceral horror and tension.

As the traumatised, often grief-stricken survivors try to regroup and make sense of their disintegrating world, The Stand moves towards more of a dark fantasy, and the shattered remnants of the United States gradually becomes the setting for an epic struggle between good and evil, and fear and paranoia become as deadly foes as the virus itself. For the survivors begin having strange dreams: either of a kindly, aged prophetess, Mother Abigail or of the ‘dark man’, Randall Flagg.
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Mother Abigail leads her followers to Boulder, Colorado, where they start to rebuild a society, facing challenges such as restoring the power, providing medical care (I felt sorry for Dick Ellis, the overworked veterinarian who is initially the only ‘doctor’ in the community) and shaping an effective government. Meanwhile, the demonic Randall Flagg beckons followers to his growing empire formed around Las Vegas, including murderer Lloyd Henreid (who Flagg rescues from prison and cannibalism…) and the pyromaniac Trashcan Man. And the stage is set for a struggle between the two communities, and the future of humanity…

The Stand is a powerful, frequently disturbing novel, but at its core it is driven by insightful human details, which gives the book real emotional impact. One character I found especially interesting was Harold Lauder – he had been a social outcast at school and retains an obsessive love for Frannie Goldsmith, with whom he travelled to Boulder. (Minor spoiler alert) Despite becoming a valued and respected member of the community, Lauder cannot let go of the difficulties and rejections of his past, internal wounds that begin to lead him down a dark path. Harold Lauder is a complex character and is written with such skill by King, we can see how Lauder is twisted by a sense of betrayal, placing vengeance for past humiliations above embracing a new life for himself.
 
I also enjoyed the scene (again, minor spoiler alert) when Glen Bateman, a retired professor of sociology comes face-to-face with the demonic Randall Flagg – this moment is a powerful demonstration of how brittle authoritarian power can be when faced with mockery.

Reading The Stand requires a significant time commitment from the reader, but in my experience, it was absolutely worth the effort. It is a gripping novel of huge power, encompassing fantasy, adventure, horror and much more, and from the first page you’re safely in the hands of a master storyteller. It is a long novel (and I read the extended / revised version) but for me the story never dragged and the scope of the novel justified the page-count. There is always a large number of characters in play, but the majority are so richly developed they are memorable as well as being key to propelling forward the plot.

I have read (embarrassingly) little of Stephen King’s work before tackling The Stand, but I am definitely hooked now! I have just started reading The Dark Tower and look forward to losing myself in another epic dark fantasy…