Putting the family back together: the archetypal family in Battlestar Galactica

In Christopher Booker's work The Seven Basic Plots, he discusses the idea of an archetypal family unit at the centre of all stories. This family unit comprises the hero or heroine, a father-figure, a mother-figure and an other half, and shows the cycle of human life and regeneration. Each child is born into a family unit with a mother and father, and as they grow up they negotiate the expectations and conflicts that these primary bonds produce, so that one day they can find their own other half and eventually have a child of their own to start the next generation and continue the cycle. These are essentially familial versions of the Jungian archetypes known as the Wise Old Man and the Great Mother, along with the Hero/Self and the anima/animus. It struck me while reading this that the core 'family unit' in the new version of Battlestar Galactica (Bill Adama, Laura Roslin, Lee Adama and Kara Thrace) epitomises this archetypal structure perfectly, and that the stresses and strains of adhering to or diverging from the drive towards the archetypal aim shapes much of the action throughout the series as a whole. In this essay I would like to analyse each of the four main characters who make up Battlestar Galactica's core family unit, and their relationships to one another, to show the effect of their internal, familial, archetypal struggle on the wider family of the Fleet as a whole.

Bill Adama is the father-figure, the Wise Old Man of the Fleet. He is left as military leader by default after the Cylon destruction of the Colonies, as his Battlestar (which was on the verge of being decommissioned) is the only one to survive. He functions as a symbolic father to the Battlestar crew (who refer to him as 'the Old Man') and the fleet as a whole. He is also a literal father to his son, Lee 'Apollo' Adama, and a pseudo-father to Kara 'Starbuck' Thrace, who was engaged to his other son, Zak, before he was killed in a flying accident. Lee and Kara both function interchangeably as Hero and Other Half in this analysis, or rather they could more usefully be described as Son-Hero and Daughter-Heroine. They are both clearly heroic characters, gifted Viper pilots and natural leaders. In addition, Kara is repeatedly shown to have a special destiny, revealed at the end of season three to be to lead the fleet to Earth, and Lee himself has carved out a particular role as the voice of moral conscience, as shown most clearly with his speech at the trial of Gaius Baltar (both Crossroads Part II). The final member of the core family unit is Laura Roslin, sworn in as President after the destruction of the Colonies and the civilian counterpart to Bill. Her role is less explicitly defined in terms of a 'mother' than Bill's as 'father', but she has a strong spiritual aspect which has often traditionally been equated with mother figures (Mother Earth, for example), and it could be argued that with her former roles as first a teacher, then as Secretary for Education, she is often defined in terms of her nuturing relationship with children. She believes her role is to guide the Fleet to the legendary home of the Thirteenth Colony of Kobol, Earth, and as such she is fulfilling the role of the Dying Leader from the religious Book of Pythia.

Bill's relationship with his son begins coldly, as at the point of the mini-series they have been estranged for two years following Zak's death. It is shown quite clearly that this is mainly because of Lee's feelings towards his father, not the other way around, and it is notable that Kara (who was actually partially responsible for Zak's death, not Bill as Lee thinks) has a good relationship with Bill from the start. She almost luxuriates in this in fact, like an indulged daughter who can misbehave all she likes because she knows her father will forgive her, as witness her run-in with Colonel Tigh in the mini-series. This makes it all the more powerful when she confesses what really happened with Zak to Bill, after having previously told Lee in an attempt to heal his rift with his father (Act of Contrition). It appears Bill is not going to forgive Kara, and it hits her extremely hard. She subsequently gets stranded on a moon after her Viper crashes, and the strength of Bill's real feelings for her are displayed in the way he risks the entire Fleet and uses up valuable resources desperately trying to find her (You can't go home again). It's notable that this is also what brings home to Lee quite how much his father does love him and heals their initial rift, with Bill telling him 'If it was you down there, we'd never leave.' (You can't go home again). However the relationship between the Adamas is still the more tempestuous, characterised throughout the series with periodic estrangements and reconciliations, more so than Bill and Kara's relationship. This reflects how a key part of the 'archetypal family drama' (Booker, p.289) is the struggle of the Hero to step out of the shadow of his Father and eventually supplant him* (Booker also comments on how often this drama is couched in terms of royalty, with the ultimate aim for the Prince being to become a King in his own right like his father**). But Kara too needs to grow up and become her own person, free of dependence on the indulgence of her 'father', and this results in her conflicts with Bill. Confessing her part in Zak's death is an important step in this, as is her decision go against Bill's orders and jump back to Caprica with the captured Cylon Raider to retrieve the Arrow of Apollo (Kobol's Last Gleaming). Overall, both Lee and Kara mature significantly throughout the series from their personas as first introduced in the mini-series, where both come across as a bit arrogant and not entirely likeable, and this can be seen as the portrayal of their personal journeys to adulthood within the context of the archetypal family. By the end of season three both have become strong, mature characters in their own right, capable of making difficult decisions and standing up for what they believe in (Maelstrom, Crossroads).

Laura's relationships with Lee and Kara differ from Bill's with their lack of emotional baggage from the past. Laura has no relationship with either of them prior to the mini-series and the events of the Destruction of the Twelve Colonies so these characters are starting afresh within the context of the new world the survivors find themselves in. Laura's relationship with Lee develops quickly as the two are thrown together in the immediate aftermath of the attack - Lee is with Laura as she is sworn in as the new President and the two embark together on a programme of locating and rounding up surviving Colonial ships (Mini-Series). She quickly offers him a position as an advisor (Water) and affectionately refers to him as Captain Apollo. He therefore becomes one of her inner circle, and she relies on his knowledge and judgement. It could be argued therefore that Laura's relationship with Lee is very much a nurturing one, as she builds his self-confidence (which his own doubts from his difficult relationship with his father have marred) and helps him mature into his own leadership role later in the series. She trusts him completely from the start, as is shown time and time again, for example, him being in charge of her security on Cloud Nine (Colonial Day), and after their escape from Galactica's brig following Adama's military coup (which Lee opposed, again displaying the strength of his moral compass) (Kobol's Last Gleaming through to Home, part II). Laura's acting as a mother-figure in this way is very positive for the younger Adama in the early part of the series, but, in keeping with the terms of the archetypal family drama, would become unhealthy if allowed to continue unchecked, and so later on in the series Lee starts to break away from Laura, becoming less closely involved with her faction. Nonetheless, she still trusts him enough to want him to oversee Baltar's trial, and is shocked and disappointed when he seemingly betrays her in his subsequent actions, defending Baltar and revealing the return of her cancer publicly. We do not yet know how this will affect their relationship long-term, but in this reading is a clear indication of Lee's breaking away from the maternal relationship just as he has done from his father, asserting himself as a vital part of the hero's journey within the archetypal family.

The relationship betwen Laura and Kara is the least firmly established among this quartet at first glance, however from early on Laura displays a great deal of trust in Kara. This is first shown when Laura chooses Kara to go and interrogate a copy of the Cylon model known as Leoben Conoy when he is found on another ship within the Fleet (Flesh and Bone), however, other than this, they have little to do with each other until Kara's injured knee (sustained when she crashed on the moon in Act of Contrition) throws them together in observing the Battle for the Tylium Asteroid from Galactica (The Hand of God). When Lee successfully pulls the mission off, Kara impulsively hugs Laura, a surprising gesture but one which clearly impresses itself on the President. But the significant development in their relationship comes at the end of season one, when Laura convinces Kara to steal the captured Cylon Raider and jump back to Caprica to retrieve the Arrow of Apollo, which according to the Book of Pythia will show them the way to Earth if it is brought to the Tomb of Athena on Kobol (Kobol's Last Gleaming, Home). Laura achieves this by appealing to Kara's religious side and convincing her of her role as foretold in scripture, and Kara is sufficiently religious (although she keeps this a private matter) to defy her father-figure and do so. This is the only time Kara explicitly chooses the Mother over the Father, but it is not the only time she chooses the spiritual option, which of course is an aspect strongly associated with Laura and the Mother, for example the events of Maelstrom, which lead to Kara's 'death'. The points of identification between these two characters (Mother and Daughter-Hero) therefore run deeper than the explicit terms of their relationship would suggest - they are perhaps the two most spiritual of the main human (at least, so far!) characters. Both have a 'special destiny' in terms of the Fleet's survival and quest for Earth - by the end of season three both have explicitly referred to themselves as responsible for leading the survivors there, Laura repeatedly in her identification with the 'Dying Leader' of the Book of Pythia, and Kara when she reappears at the very end of the season, telling Lee 'I've been to Earth. I know the way. I'm going to take us there.' (Crossroads, part II). If Laura does die of her cancer before they get to Earth, as the Book of Pythia prophesises, then Kara has already been set up as her successor in this way, Daughter-Hero succeeding Mother, Princess becoming Queen. In addition, Laura's actions with regard to Kara can be seen as nurturing her also towards her destiny - Laura picks Kara of all people to interrogate Leoben Conoy, exposing her for the first time to her 'special destiny' (Flesh and Bone).

The parent-child relationships within this 'family' are therefore consistent with those described by Booker, with the child characters striving to become adults in the image but independent of their parents. Booker makes much of the psychological reasoning for this, with the archetypal family drama reflecting every child's own maturing process, learning from the example of their parents to become a full adult, find their 'other half' and continue the process by becoming the parents for the next generation. I will examine this last stage (finding the 'other half') later with regard to Lee and Kara, but it seems appropriate to first examine the relationship between the parent-figures, Bill and Laura.

As with Lee and Kara, Laura's relationship with Bill starts off as a clean slate. They have no prior relationship and are merely thrown together by the events of the Destruction of the Colonies. At first, it is safe to say, they do not see eye-to-eye. Their interests and background are completely at odds with one another and they begin with a substantial disagreement - Bill wants to stay and continue to fight the Cylons, Laura wants to gather the survivors and flee, in order to try and ensure the survival of the human race. They therefore begin with a fairly conventional male-female conflict. Bill's attitude is conventionally masculine, wanting to fight, kill, get revenge. Laura is more interested with the more feminine idea of preserving life, even to the point of telling Bill flatly that they need to 'start having babies' (Mini-series). Bill is initially contemptuous of this idea, but her words had an effect and by the end of the mini-series she has swayed him to her point of view. It is at this point that Bill takes on the role of Father to the fleet as a whole, rather than just to his son, pseudo-daughter, and crew. This is consistent with one of the functions of the ideal 'other half', to 'tame' the excessive masculine and help the Hero realise his inner feminine, so as to become a balanced individual. Likewise Laura herself has to learn to accommodate her inner masculine as she grows into her leadership role as President of the Colonies, and it is shown that Bill's support helps her with this as they establish the boundaries of their authority as civilian and military leaders respectively. Both Bill and Laura therefore have to reach a state of equilibrium, both within themselves and with each other (and do so fairly quickly) in order to assume the roles and function effectively as Father and Mother to the microcosm of their archetypal family and the macrocosm of the Fleet. Once they have achieved their equilibrium, their personal relationship can begin to develop, adding an emotional bond which strengthens their parental relationship. Conflict leads to a respectful balance, which leads to friendship and eventually something deeper - Bill and Laura begin to rely on each other emotionally (most clearly shown in the episodes surrounding Laura's degeneration and cure from her cancer in season two) and the possibility of a romantic relationship is clearly hinted at but not (as yet) fully explored.

Lee and Kara's relationship is yet more complex, in fitting with their roles as Son-Hero and Daughter-Heroine - both roles demanding the eventual discovery of the Other Half as part of their succession to the roles of Father and Mother for the next generation. They begin very much as friends, as pseudo-siblings (again fitting with the concept of the archetypal family) - they were nearly brother and sister by marriage at least due to Kara's engagement to Zak before his death, but quickly move on to the possibility of something more. The 'will they, won't they' nature of their relationship has been clearly portrayed and developed throughout the series, with plenty of sexual tension, jealousy, flirting, and abortive attempts at coming together (Home, part I when Lee kisses Kara, their drunken almost-liaison in Scar, the one-night stand on New Caprica (Unfinished Business), the doomed affair subsequent to their cathartic boxing match (The Eye of Jupiter). While undoubtedly dramatic, this relationship seemingly forever on the brink of actually happening is perfectly appropriate to their roles in the archetypal family. The union with the Other Half is climactic, it is the ultimate reward for the Hero once he has completed his journey and has matured into a complete human being. Lee and Kara are not quite there yet, therefore they cannot yet fully realise their relationship. Both are on personal journeys of self-discovery, as discussed above, both need to break free of the influence of their parent figures and also, like Bill and Laura, achieve the balance within themselves of their masculine and feminine sides. Interestingly, however, for each of them the side they need to develop seems to be the reverse of what would be expected. Lee starts off in conflict with the masculine, in the shape of his issues with his father, blaming the very masculine ideal ('A man isn't a man until he wears the wings of a Viper pilot', Lee quoting Bill in the Mini-series) for all his problems in life. He has to learn how to balance the masculine role he is forced to assume with his internal more feminine instincts (his strong moral sense and regard for the civilian Fleet applies here), and as he does so he grows into his role as a leader, eventually being rewarded with the command of the Battlestar Pegasus (The Captain's Hand). Kara, on the other hand, is too masculine and has to learn to accept her feminine side throughout the series, particularly as this relates to her spiritual destiny. At first she is portrayed in an aggressively masculine way, with her smoking and drinking and swearing and fighting, although this is clearly shown as being a defensive persona, hiding her hurt and vulnerability away from the world (she was an abused child, and of course suffered the death of her fiance, Zak, just two years before the events of the mini-series). Gradually more and more of the 'inner Kara' is revealed, her love of poetry (Final Cut) and artistic leanings (Valley of Darkness), and she also has two very significant confrontations with her feminine, life-bearing potential (The Farm, and the episodes with Kacey, her supposed daughter, at the beginning of season three). By the beginning of season three therefore she has reconciled with her feminine aspect to the point of marrying Sam Anders and setting up home on New Caprica, and then coming to love and care for her 'daughter' Kacey when she is held hostage by Leoben Conoy after the Cylon invasion. Of course, the feminine is strongly associated with the spiritual throughout Battlestar Galactica (as with Laura), and Kara reconciles with this aspect of herself climactically in Maelstrom, when she allows herself to be taken on a spiritual journey to confront her demons over her mother and dies to fulfill her destiny as the one who will lead the Fleet to Earth (Crossroads, part II). It remains to be seen whether, now that both Lee and Kara have made significant progress on their personal journeys and achieved their inner balances, they will be able to form the functional relationship which is necessary for them to be able to realise their potential of eventually taking on the roles of Father and Mother, King and Queen, for the future generation.

The relationships within this core family unit are therefore in a constant state of flux and development. Periods of estrangement are followed by reconciliations, then further disagreements and conflicts as the stresses of the extraordinary situation they find themselves in takes its toll. This too reflects the theory described by Booker of how stories are shaped and experienced as alternating 'phases of constriction and release, a kind of systole-diastole rhythm which provides one of the greatest pleasures we get from stories' (p.49). When the members of the core family unit are estranged or in conflict with one another, we as viewers feel 'tense and apprehensive', we sense that the threat is greatest at these points when the family and the Fleet are disunited, following the old adage, 'united we stand, divided we fall'. We need our family to be together in order to feel they have a chance of combatting the Cylons and surviving to reach their goal, a future life on Earth when they, having undergone their personal journeys of development and having played out the drama of their relationships to a satisfactory conclusion with the two pairs in balanced relationships, Son-Hero and Daughter-Heroine ready to take up the mantle of King and Queen from the Father and Mother, themselves providing a positive example. When therefore the 'family' reconciles once more, we enjoy a period of release, where we can relax knowing all is well. A perfect example of this is the beginning of season two. The events of the season one finale separate the core family dramatically - Laura persuades Kara to disobey Bill and jump back to Caprica to fetch the Arrow of Apollo, an act which provokes him into arresting her and carrying out a military coup. Lee initially seems to side with his father, but balks at actually carrying out his father's orders, and instead turns his gun on Colonel Tigh and gets himself arrested along with Laura for mutiny. Bill is subsequently shot by the Cylon sleeper agent, Sharon Valerii, and spends the first few episodes of season two in a critical condition in the infirmary. The fleet is therefore left leaderless and in the hands of Tigh, who is dismissive of the needs of the civilians (much like Bill Adama himself was in the mini-series before Laura helped him see his role as protector rather than combatant), and of the authority of the Vice-President, Gaius Baltar. Furthermore, his military decisions are erratic, influenced by his power-hungry wife and his drinking, and result in the Galactica losing the rest of the fleet and being boarded by Cylons, with near-disastrous consequences. It is only the actions of Lee, taking on the leadership of the panicked marines when the Cylons are running riot inside the ship despite technically being supposed to be back in the brig, that avert total catastrophe. It is not until the seventh episode of the season (Home, part two) that the family finally reconciles, with a recovered Bill returning to Kobol to follow Laura, Kara and Lee to the Tomb of Athena, a decision he himself describes as 'putting our family back together', and portrayed touchingly and emotionally. Of course, unconsciously understanding the dynamic of the archetypal processes, we know that this is a pattern that must repeat many times before the final resolution.

The archetypal roles and relationships described by Booker are a fundamental part of the way stories work and, more importantly, the way we expect stories to work. Diana Wynne Jones has described how part of the function of a hero is to be a scapegoat, there to do the suffering for us. They act as a kind of concentrated reflection of experience, a microcosm. The core family unit of Battlestar Galactica fulfills this role, playing out the archetypal family drama within the wider world of the Fleet, who as survivors are of course representative of humanity as a whole. They haven't quite completed their journeys, both personal and between themselves, but as we watch them struggle with themselves and each other, all the while in the midst of humanity's struggle for survival, they provide a multiple hero for us to follow. 'Nothing is more remarkable about the way stories naturally form in the human imagination than the way, beneath the surface, they unconsciously centre round this most fundamental of all dramas in human life, involving just four basic figures' (Booker, p.292), and Battlestar Galactica provides a perfect example of the truth of this.

Notes
*A fact which is explicitly articulated by Romo Lampkin, Gaius Baltar's lawyer, with reference to the role Lee will play in Baltar's trial and the effect this will have on his relationship with his father: "There's no greater ally, no force more powerful, no enemy more resolved than a son who chooses to step from his father's shadow."
**This matter of social status is addressed within the show, most notably in Dirty Hands, when Baltar says: "Do you think this Fleet will ever be commanded by someone whose last name is not Adama?"

Reusing myths in children's literature

This could be viewed as the ‘pick and mix’ approach to rewriting traditional material for a modern audience, and refers to the way in which authors ‘borrow’ or introduce mythic story elements into their work. The list of authors who do this, to a greater or lesser extent, is extensive, and the ways in which they use the material is as varied as the material they borrow, but there are three main ways in which mythic elements are used by modern authors: transposed directly in their original form, translated to suit the story, or as archetypes. I would like to illustrate these three approaches by considering the ways in which modern authors have used mythic characters, before studying a work which makes use of all sorts of mythic elements in all three ways, namely Elidor by Alan Garner.

Characters from myth, legend and folktale can be used by modern authors as individuals, as stock characters or as archetypes. The first of these ways is least common as it can have a Verfremdungseffekt[1], introducing something alien into the story, and requiring an effort on the part of the author to assimilate this character into their world. This is what Diana Wynne Jones does in The Homeward Bounders, explaining the presence of legendary characters such as Prometheus, the Flying Dutchman and the Wandering Jew by making them exiles (‘homeward bounders’) in the same way as her main characters, and by extension, re-explaining their roles in their own stories by recasting them in this new light:

Have you heard of the Flying Dutchman? No? Nor of the
Wandering Jew? Well, it doesn’t matter, I’ll tell you about them in
the right place; and about Helen and Joris, Adam and Konstam, and Vanessa, the
sister Adam wanted to sell as a slave. They were all Homeward
Bounders like me.

p.7

The effort required to assimilate mythic characters leads to them more usually being used as stock characters or archetypes, where the character can be altered as necessary to fit the modern story. So in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, Cerberus becomes Fluffy, guarding the trapdoor to the ‘underworld’ where Dumbledore has hidden the stone to keep it from Voldemort. This gives an added resonance to Harry’s trip through the trapdoor, casting it in terms of the heroic pass through death (as described by Joseph Campbell in The Hero with a Thousand Faces). However, often characters are used merely to add colour to a narrative, to give it the flavour of a fantasy tale, as in The Chronicles of Narnia, where Lewis peopled his world with all the creatures of classical mythology, Dryads and Naiads, fauns, centaurs and satyrs. Most of these have no function in the narrative, much as their equivalents often don’t in the Harry Potter books, where in both for example the seer nature of centaurs is useful (Glenstorm and Roonwit in Prince Caspian and The Last Battle respectively and Firenze in Harry Potter), but hardly essential, and their function could arguably be fulfilled by some other means. It is interesting that this is one of the main criticisms levelled at the Harry Potter books by Pennington (2002):

Rowling also seems to purchase her marvellous assorted creatures from the Sears
catalogue of fantasy clichés: poltergeists, longing ghosts, dragons,
hippogriffs, giants, humongous spiders, vampires, werewolves, trolls, unicorns,
a sphinx, sirens, Pegasus horses (and I am certain that I have missed
some). With such a menagerie, Rowling is unable to develop any of
the fantastical creatures; in fact, she seems to expect the readers to bring
that magic to her creations, a dubious technique at best.

Pennington, 2002, p.82

I would dispute that this is a ‘dubious technique’ and argue instead that expecting readers to bring magic to such creations is a perfectly valid use of this sort of stock mythical character. That is precisely the reason they are there, to help readers experience the magic by the associative process of recognising them. From a very young age children are able to pick up on these stock characters and so the authorial use of them helps to create the parameters within which the story will be received and interpreted. A book chock-full of centaurs and dragons is asserting its identity as a mythic fantasy, much like wearing a badge or a uniform. This is not to say that it is necessary to create the desired ambience, merely that it is one way of doing so.

The use of archetypal characters is far more subtle, and not restricted to this kind of fiction, but as a function of the human psyche can be found in all literature. Archetypes underpin myth in the most fundamental way, due to their prevalence in human thought, and therefore are taken up most enthusiastically by mythic writers. A full discussion of the Jungian interpretations of children’s fantasy fiction is too wide a topic to explore here, and one which has been considered in some depth by many critics (see for example Mills (2003) and Cech (1992)). I wish merely to stress that as characters in myths are often as much archetypes as fully-fledged personalities, so too are their equivalents when used by modern authors attempting to harness the power of myth in their work. The adult fantasy author David Eddings referred to his conscious use of archetypes in writing The Belgariad as ‘mythic fishhooks’, designed to ‘catch’ the reader (Eddings, 1998, p.12). He may be unusual in using archetypes so deliberately, but most authors of modern mythic fiction, particularly that written for children or ‘genre fantasy’ for adults, do so to a more or less conscious extent. The use of archetypes lends psychological depth to a work, and the mythic and archetypal are inextricably entwined in any consideration of the role and value of literature which seeks to be built on such foundations. Authors often play with archetypes, twisting and subverting them, as for example Diana Wynne Jones having her heroine transformed into an old woman in Howl’s Moving Castle, undermining the received picture of the Old Woman as a threatening character in hundreds of fairy tales, but maintaining the archetype itself in the background.

Alan Garner’s Elidor is a very heavily mythic book, possibly the most weighted in this sense of any of his works. It is packed full of borrowings from myth, legend and folklore, assimilated to a greater or lesser extent. At its most basic level, it is an almost bare but very atmospheric story about four children who find themselves taken into a parallel world, dark and wasted, where they are prompted by a mysterious guide, Malebron, into retrieving four ‘treasures’ from a mound. They are then chased from Elidor by shadows and return to their own world, where they hide the treasures, but continue to be pursued by shadows until eventually a unicorn, which they’d been told by Malebron had to sing before Elidor could be redeemed, breaks through and is killed, at which point the children are able to get one last glimpse of the light returning to Elidor as they throw the treasures back. However, this surface story belies its inner complexity as it is deeply layered with mythic resonances that work on both a symbolic and an archetypal level.

On a symbolic level, Elidor can be read as a Grail story, with numerous references to Grail mythology. Malebron, the mysterious fiddler who calls the children into the other world, is Garner’s version of the Fisher King, the ‘maimed king’ (Elidor, p.38) of a wasted land, awaiting the arrival of a boy who will save him and his world. His name even echoes that of the Fisher King in Robert de Boron – Bron. Roland is Perceval, in the same way, the naïve boy who does not understand what he has to do the first time he comes to the ‘Grail Castle’, and has to leave and travel elsewhere for a long time before he understands and can return. The treasures, despite their more straightforward mythic correspondence with the treasures of the Celtic Tuatha Dé Danann[2], also equate with the ‘treasures’ of the Grail legend – the bleeding spear, the stone (the form the Grail takes in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s version), and of course the cauldron, the most common form the Grail takes. The Biblical aspect of the Grail legend is reflected in the climax of the book where Findhorn, the unicorn (the unicorn being a medieval symbol for Christ) is stabbed in the side by the spear from Elidor (the bleeding spear associated with the Grail in medieval legend was said to be the spear of Longinus which pierced the side of Christ on the cross) and is comforted in his death by Helen, who carried the cauldron, remembering the Grail as the cup in which the blood of Christ was collected by Mary Magdalene. And of course, it is Findhorn’s death which saves Elidor and cleanses it of its ‘sin’. Such potent use of mythological symbols endows the story of Elidor’s redemption with much more meaning than it might otherwise have. When taken in conjunction with an archetypal reading, this depth of meaning increases yet further to transform Elidor into a universal tale of redemption.

There are many ways in which Elidor can be seen to reflect archetypes, but two of the archetypal readings are particularly pertinent, that is, Roland’s story as a hero myth, and Elidor’s relation to our own world as its dark shadow. Joseph Campbell, in his work The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), describes how the universal hero, as found in myths, legends and stories of all kinds the world over, shares fundamental characteristics and follows the same pattern in their quest, whatever their goal may be. As such, this can be applied to the heroes of all the books I am discussing, and David Colbert, for example, has described how Harry Potter fits the description of the universal hero (Colbert, 2001, p.155-166), but in the context of examining the universality of Elidor it is worth comparing Roland’s story to this fundamental blueprint.

Campbell summarises the heroic adventure as follows:

The mythological hero, setting forth from his commonday hut or castle, is lured,
carried away, or else voluntarily proceeds, to the threshold of
adventure. There he encounters a shadow presence that guards the
passage. The hero may defeat or conciliate this power and go alive
into the kingdom of the dark […] or be slain by the opponent and descend in
death. Beyond the threshold, then, the hero journeys through a world
of unfamiliar yet strangely intimate forces, some of which severely threaten him
(tests), some of which give him magical aid (helpers). When he
arrives at the nadir of the mythological round, he undergoes a supreme ordeal
and gains his reward. The triumph may be represented as the hero’s
sexual union with the goddess mother of the world (sacred marriage), his
recognition by the father-creator (father atonement), his own divinisation
(apotheosis), or again – if the powers have remained unfriendly to him – his
theft of the boon he came to gain (bride-theft, fire-theft); intrinsically it is
an expansion of consciousness and therewith of being (illumination,
transfiguration, freedom). The final work is that of the
return. If the powers have blessed the hero, he now sets forth under
their protection (emissary); if not, he flees and is pursued (transformation
flight, obstacle flight). At the return threshold the transcendental
powers must remain behind; the hero re-emerges from the kingdom of dread
(return, resurrection). The boon that he brings restores the world
(elixir).

Campbell, 1949, p.245-246

Roland is ‘called to adventure’ (Campbell, 1949, p.58) by the chance of finding Thursday Street and the abandoned church, and ‘crosses the threshold’ into Elidor, which is the ‘zone unknown, the fateful region of both treasure and danger’ (p.58). His journey through Elidor, for example the dead forest of Mondrum and his entry into a tumulus, equates to the heroic pass through death. Roland then faces the trials of the stone circle, entry into the Mound of Vandwy and the temptation of the branch of apple blossom, before he and his brothers and sister achieve the treasures. They are then able to return to their own world, having succeeded in the quest, or at least the first part of it. For Garner doubles the hero quest, in much the same way as medieval Arthurian romances did, by forcing his hero to pass through a dual cycle where at first he achieves what he initially set out to do but does not resolve the problem, and must continue to wander before finally gaining the knowledge to complete the quest in the second cycle. This is what Roland must do once he has returned to his own world. He has the treasures, now he must learn about them, and Elidor, so that when the moment comes, when Findhorn breaks through, he will know what must be done to save Elidor and fulfil his prophesised role.

Structurally therefore, Elidor follows the pattern of the universal hero myth. Garner’s use of this pattern (although to what extent this was or could have been a conscious decision is debatable – Campbell’s point is that in writing of heroes and the heroic, this is the pattern that the story will take) makes Roland’s story relevant to everyone, everywhere. Heroes are there ‘as scapegoat[s] […] [having] to do the suffering for everyone’, and reading about them ‘gives you this sense of something other and better, […] a sort of blueprint of how to manage’ (Jones, 1992). This is why both authors and readers are drawn to the idea of the universal hero, and why it is one of the most fundamental ways in which myth informs modern literature.

If Roland is a universal hero, undertaking a universal quest, then his goal must also be universal. And this is where a Jungian interpretation of the land of Elidor and its relationship to our world comes in. One of the interesting features about Elidor in Garner’s work is its non-presence. ‘Garner has been criticised for creating a new world and then abandoning it (only five of the twenty chapters are set in Elidor), but he is essentially interested in Elidor as an idea rather than as a reality. Elidor’s value is as a point of reference by which we may understand the emptiness and futility of our own world’ (Philip, 1981, p.45-46). I would go further and say that Elidor actually represents the Jungian Shadow, the dark obverse of our world. Cech (1992) has discussed Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea as a ‘dramatization of one young person’s discovery of and reconciliation with his own shadow’ (Cech, 1992, p.84), a reconciliation which, according to von Franz, ‘is the beginning of individuation, the lifelong process of coming to know our own unconscious and its “regulating center”, the Self. The shadow represents “those qualities and impulses [an individual] denies in himself but can plainly see in other people”’ (von Franz, The process of individuation, quoted in Cech, 1992, p.83). The childrens’ journey into Elidor and attempts to come to terms with this shadowy land that they were shown and which increasingly impinges on their own world can be seen as Garner’s attempt to achieve reconciliation with the shadow aspects of the modern world. The importance of attempting this reconciliation, of facing the shadow, was described by Le Guin in terms strikingly similar to the scenes in Elidor where the shadows break through:

The less you look at it […] the stronger it grows, until it can become a menace,
an intolerable load, a threat within the soul.

Le Guin, 1979, p.64

Again Roland felt the charge as abruptly as if it had been switched on, and he
arranged everybody in a tight group on the lawn facing the spot where the
shadows had appeared. […]
“Watch the rose bed. And keep
watching,” said Roland. […]
The two shadows stood on the rose bed. […]
“Is
this one of your hallucinations, eh?” said Roland, and tried to turn his head to
see how Nicholas was reacting. But his neck muscles were
locked. The shadows darkened.

Elidor, p.148-149

The children had to face the shadows in order to shift them from being a threat to being a physical presence and therefore able to play their part in the ultimate redemption of Elidor through Findhorn’s death. In Jungian terms then, through the children being made aware of Elidor, our world’s shadow, recognition and understanding is made possible for all those living in our world, and Elidor becomes a universal hero myth. Garner’s work shows therefore how the use of mythic elements, in various ways and to various extents, gives a modern story additional depth and resonance. Many of the authors of such mythically based stories which fall into this category, would I’m sure agree with Diana Wynne Jones’s aim ‘to write fantasy that might resonate on all levels, from the deep hidden ones, to the most mundane and everyday.’ (Jones,1992, [web page]). This multilevelled resonance might not always be completely achieved, but even an imperfect achievement is significantly more satisfying for the reader than one which ignores the deeper levels of the human psyche. The use of mythic elements in modern stories allows authors to come closer to achieving this than they would be able to on their own.

Notes

[1] Effect of distancing or alienation
[2] ‘Their former homes were four magical cities, Falias, Findias, Gorias, and Murias. From them they take their principle treasures: from Falias Fál or Lia Fáil, the stone of destiny, which cries out under a lawful king; from Findias the sword of Nuadu, which allows no one to escape; from Gorias Gáe Assail, the spear of Lug Lámfota, which guarantees victory; from Murias the cauldron of the Dagda, which leaves everyone satisfied.’ The Oxford dictionary of Celtic mythology, p.415. Garner also uses the names of the cities as the names of the four castles in Elidor.

References

Campbell, Joseph (1949) The hero with a thousand faces, London : Fontana, 1993

Cech, John (1992) ‘Shadows in the classroom: teaching children’s literature from a Jungian perspective’, in Sadler, Glenn (ed.) Teaching children’s literature: issues, pedagogy, resources, New York : Modern Language Association of America, pp.80-88

Colbert, David (2001) The magical worlds of Harry Potter: a treasury of myths, legends and fascinating facts, London : Penguin.

Eddings, David; Eddings, Leigh (1998) The Rivan Codex, London : HarperCollins

Garner, Alan (1965) Elidor, London : Collins, 1974

Jones, Diana Wynne (1981) The Homeward Bounders, London : HarperCollins, 2000

--- (1986) Howl’s Moving Castle, London : HarperCollins, 2000

--- (1992) ‘Heroes’ [web page] <http://www.leemac.freeserve.co.uk/heroes.htm> Accessed 20th October 2004

Le Guin, Ursula (1968) A Wizard of Earthsea, London : Penguin, 1993

Lewis, C.S. The Chronicles of Narnia:

--- (1950) The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, London : Collins, 1987

--- (1951) Prince Caspian, London : Collins, 1987

--- (1952) The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, London : Collins, 1987

--- (1953) The Silver Chair, London : Collins, 1980

--- (1954) The Horse and his Boy, London : Collins, 1980

--- (1955) The Magician’s Nephew, London : Penguin, 1963

--- (1956) The Last Battle, London : Collins, 1980

MacKillop, James (2004) Oxford dictionary of Celtic mythology, Oxford : Oxford University Press

Mills, Alice (2003) ‘Archetypes and the unconscious in Harry Potter and Diana Wynne Jones’s Fire and Hemlock and Dogsbody’, in: Anatol, Giselle Liza (ed.), Reading Harry Potter: critical essays, Westport ; London : Praeger, pp.3-13

Pennington, John (2002) ‘From Elfland to Hogwarts, or the aesthetic trouble with Harry Potter’, The Lion and the unicorn, v.26:no.1, pp.78-97

Philip, Neil (1981) A fine anger: a critical introduction to the work of Alan Garner, London : Collins

Rowling, J.K. (1997) Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, London : Bloomsbury

--- (1998) Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, London : Bloomsbury

--- (1999) Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, London : Bloomsbury

--- (2000) Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, London : Bloomsbury

--- (2003) Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, London : Bloomsbury

--- (2005) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, London : Bloomsbury