by June Pulliam
Moorcraft, Paul. Anchoress of Shere. Scottsdale, AZ: Poisoned Pen Press, 2002. 320 p.
Tem, Melanie. Slain in the Spirit. New York: Leisure, 2002. 317 p.While religious mania is a typical theme in horror, it is unusual for two books about fanatics kidnapping people in order to save their souls to come out in the same year. This, however, is the story behind both Anchoress of Shere and Slain in the Spirit. In both novels, women are kidnapped by men that are obsessed by a particular religious vision that they are hell-bent on coercing others to share.
Tem's narrative is rather straightforward and plot driven. Lelia Blackwell (her first and surnames, by the way, both mean black) is legally blind. She can make out dim shapes and can watch films and read with some assistance, but has difficulty navigating the outside world without a guide. Nevertheless, Lelia is determined to do as much as possible on her own, which is why she insists on going solo to the movies via public transportation. Unfortunately, this independence ultimately makes it possible for Lelia to be kidnapped by Russell Gavin, a former student now professing a particularly twisted version of evangelical Christianity. Russell wishes to repay his favorite teacher by reversing their roles, convincing her to accept his particular ideological bent and ultimately reshaping her life into something he finds acceptable.
He begins this campaign of re-education by renaming her Christina Luce (bearer of Christ, light), proclaiming that Leila's old name is Satanic. Leila's schoolhouse is an abandoned house where she's held captive in an attempt to slay her in the spirit, a phrase used to describe what happens to believers who change their lives utterly as a result of their religious conversion. Gavin seems unaware that this phrase is usually used to describe people who make this change of their own volition. He withholds Leila's eye medication, claiming that God will restore her sight as evidence of her conversion and subsequent salvation. His ultimate goal is to reprogram Lelia into what he sees as a more appropriate model of femininity. He brings her modest clothing and whorish undergarments, and at one point, attempts to cure her sexual orientation (she's lesbian) by forcing himself on her.
A month into her ordeal, Lelia escapes, stumbling into a clan of blind homeless people who also consider her unacceptable, since she is not completely without sight. This group represents the other extreme of Russell's fanaticism, believing that Lelia can only see the light if she gives up her eyes to the group's leader, Seph.
Moorcraft's novel follows the same very basic plot, but is more subtle and interesting. Anchoress of Shere begins with the 14th century story of the Anchoress herself, Christine Carpenter, who was enclosed in a small dank cell attached to St. James church in order to lead a life of strict religious contemplation. Anchoresses were medieval holy women who elected to have themselves entombed so that they could better pursue a personal vision of God. Soon readers realize that this tale within the tale isn't an objective account told by an omniscient narrator, but instead a history being actively constructed by Father Michael Duval. Duval is a Catholic priest who is more interested in bridging a gulf of 600 years and somehow bringing Christine to life than he is ministering to his steadily dwindling flock.
But Father Duval isn't satisfied with piecing together a history from raw facts. His own understanding of Christine, and his own spiritual development, necessitate that he witness a flesh and blood woman who herself will become a modern day anchoress in pursuit of a sort of mystical transcendentalism. Not too surprisingly, 20th century women don't volunteer for such a position, and thus Father Duval must resort to kidnapping someone who can be convinced to assume this role.
Marda Stewart is Duval's fifth attempt at reincarnating the Anchoress of Shere (his previous experiments all disappointed him and were left to die). In Marda he sees great potential, since she seems to be on the cusp of so many things. While she's not a member of any organized religion, she is also not an atheist; furthermore, she's a child of the 1960s in that she believes in the ideas of free love--yet she cannot bring herself to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh with the reckless abandon that others of her generation do. Duval keeps Marda prisoner in an austere cell much like Christine's, with no bathroom or running water or heat, and gives her daily religious instruction. While Marda is left alone to contemplate the meaning of her lessons, Duval is using her captivity as the inspiration he needs to continue writing his version of Christine's story. Occasionally he lets Marda read his manuscript in progress (a true act of trust in the days before personal computers and Xerox machines in every grocery store, since he only has the one type written copy) in the hopes that his story will influence her to embrace the life of an anchoress and let Duval witness her subsequent performance of the only sort of femininity he finds acceptable.
But Duval can't hide from the entire world, and eventually he's caught. Most threatening to his existence is another historian, an American expert on Christine Carpenter. Irving Gould seeks Duval so that the two can compare notes and synthesize a more complete narrative about the anchoress, about whom there is precious little written documentation. Most of what is known about her is speculation, cobbled together from incomplete 14th century records, and a more general knowledge of the time period. Duval rebuffs Gould's attempts at collaboration, since the American's version of events threatens the integrity of his own story. Unlike Duval, Gould believes that Christine didn't willingly become the anchoress of Shere; rather he argues that she was coerced into spending her days entombed in a dank cell, and furthermore, that she eventually left her confinement and died not a virgin, but a widow with children.
Both novels deal with a theme central to horror, the harm that results when one official story (of creation, of human existence, of our purpose and roles in society) is imposed on others at the expense of a plurality of beliefs. Indeed, this is the very origin of horror. The monster is the scapegoat Other, vilified and ultimately silenced in its estrangement because its very existence has the power to question the legitimacy of the ruling class. Thus non-Judeo-Christian cultures are branded heathen and suppressed in favor of the True God and his official story of human existence. Or women are seen as irrational, PMS crazed, penis-envying shrews whose voices must be silenced lest they be cozened into taking any more forbidden fruit from serpents. Horror results from the impossibility of forever suppressing these other stories, voices, beliefs. Both Russell Gavin and Michael Duval are actively engaged in this process, but because these stories are told within the framework of the genre of horror, they, not their victims, are the true monsters.
Moorcraft's novel succeeds where Tem's fails. Moorcraft's novel is subtle and memorable since it's about much more than a woman being held captive by a fanatic. But Tem's novel is predictable, offering nothing new, and is easily forgotten.
This is mainly because Slain in the Spirit is extremely plot driven, at the expense of character development. We are expected to take on faith that Russell is a religious fanatic who believes it is his duty to go against the dictates of civilized society and kidnap people for the purposes of saving their souls. What finally turned Russell Gavin into a crazed religious fanatic is never explained. Instead, the novel is written entirely from the point of view of his disabled victim, Lelia Blackwell. Perhaps this structure is supposed to better allow the reader to experience fear, since one is completely focused on Leila's physical helplessness, exacerbated by her limited vision. But Tem has forgotten an important principle of horror: the monster is the most interesting character in the story. If readers can't be given a portrait of the monster as a young man (vital in an age when we can only truly feel safe when an Authority can explain, and hopefully ultimately contain, aberrant behavior) then they at least want to follow this creature around a bit so that we can get a better understanding of him. Telling the story only through Leila's perspective doesn't make the monster more frightening; it only annoys the reader.
Even more annoying are the people that Tem's heroine comes into contact with after she escapes Russell's clutches. Is this coterie of people who have chosen to be completely blind a commentary on fanaticism of any sort? If so, it fails badly. Something this bizarre in a novel driven by psychological horror only serves to further annoy and confuse the reader. Since the story is told through Leila's perspective, there should be more emphasis on how she is affected by her ordeal. Much attention is paid to the special difficulties Lelia encounters due to her disability, and the pain of her unmedicated eyes, but very little is made of her psychological state, especially at the novel's conclusion. The novel just ends, with Lelia talking to the police and saying that she's going home. Was Tem as tired of writing this story as I was of reading it?
Anchoress of Shere is a more restrained and well-crafted piece of writing. By telling the story through multiple points of view, Moorcraft is able to subtly characterize his monster. Duval is not some dull, literal minded Christian fundamentalist. He is more scholar than priest, concerned with experiencing God outside of the narrow boundaries of the modern Catholic Church. We see this thorough Duval's own first person perspective, through his crafting of Christine's tale, and through the eyes of his captive. And Marda does more than stumble around in a physically limited body. She struggles with her own ideas about herself, with whether or not in some sense she deserves this fate, and with whether or not some of Duval's (and Christine's) ideas about spirituality make sense. Most interesting of all, by the end of the novel, the once agnostic Marda has become a nun. Is this some subtle version of Stockholm Syndrome, where the captive comes to identify with the captor a la Patty Hearst?
Perhaps the most interesting feature of Anchoress of Shere is Moorcraft's emphasis on how the construction of the story constructs the teller and, to some degree, his/her audience. The good historian may attempt to be impartial, but complete objectivity is impossible since as human beings, we are all ultimately shaped by our own time and prejudices. Duval is ultimately monstrous because he will not recognize his own limitations as a historian (which is ironic, as he does believe that his beloved Catholic Church is fallible). Duval believes that Christine Carpenter is a supernatural entity who he channels in order to write her biography. Instead, Duval's telling of her story is the telling of his own story, a sort of conversation with himself, and later with his captive, about who he is. Marda in her cell keeps a secret diary where she continually attempts to construct herself in opposition to the person Duval wants her to be, but when she escapes from captivity, she later opts for a life of seclusion and religious contemplation, leaving the reader to wonder if Duval has prevailed after all.