Good God! There's writing on both sides of that paper!

Look: the origin of usury, theft and robbery lies with our lords and princes, who treat all creatures as their own: the fish in the water, the birds in the air, the plants on the earth – everything must be theirs.

On 15 May 1525, a few thousand German peasants, under the rainbow flag of the Peasants’ Revolt, faced two armies of mercenaries, infantry, cavalry and artillery, who duly annihilated them at a place afterwards known as the Schlachtberg (Slaughter Mountain). One of their leaders was Thomas Müntzer, subsequently captured, tortured and executed. He was an intellectual, a Reformation minister who composed hymns and services in German, rather than Latin, so that his working-class congregation could actually understand what was going on (“It can no longer be tolerated that men attribute some power to Latin words, as if they were the words of magicians, nor that the poor people should leave the church even more ignorant than when they entered”). How then did he arrive at the Schlachtberg?

Andrew Drummond writes both fiction and history (sometimes, as in his novels Novgorod the Great and The Books of the Incarceration of the Lady Grange, both at once). This is emphatically history and, though written in his usual lively style, is scrupulous in its evaluation of sources, its distinction between what is known and what can be speculated (important in a life for which there are several poorly documented periods) and ardent in its zeal to correct the “veritable cottage industry of falsification” that has been spread about Müntzer ever since his death, mainly by Dr Luther and his allies.

The basis of Müntzer’s theology, and what alienated him from both Catholics and Lutherans of his day, was his belief in “the opposition between ‘living voice’ and ‘dead word’, present and past. This opposition was the most basic dialectic in Müntzer’s thought, and from it can be traced much of his other philosophy. He argues that the work of God did not stop when Jesus died, but that it continued and continues in the spirits of true Christians. These Christians perpetuate the ‘living Gospel’ in themselves, as people predestined to execute the will of God on earth.”

Or as he put it, “Where the seed falls on good ground, that is in the heart which is full of the fear of God, that is then the paper and parchment upon which God writes the real spiritual word, not with ink, but with His living finger”. It followed that he disagreed fundamentally with those who felt that the common man’s role in church was to listen to what his betters told him and leave doctrinal points to be argued between scholars – “the scholars should read beautiful books, and the peasant should just listen, for faith comes through listening. Ah yes, they’ve found a nice trick there.” Hence his insistence on services in the vernacular.

Luther too had of course advocated for using the vernacular, and for other reforms, but around 1522 he rowed back quite considerably from this position, even reinstating Latin services on the somewhat ludicrous ground that this would encourage people to learn Latin. The truth was that in his quarrel with the Church he relied heavily on the support of the German aristocracy and would do or say more or less anything to avoid offending them. It is one of Müntzer’s major quarrels with him: “The fact that you were able to stand before the Empire at Worms is all thanks to the German nobility, whose mouth you have smeared well with honey”. The language of debate at the time was vitriolic and Müntzer is a match for Luther in this respect, but the difference between them is that Luther punched down while Müntzer punched up. Luther could be downright scatological about people he disliked who were below or on a level with him, but his language to the gentry – “To the most shining, high-born princes and lords, Lord Friedrich, Elector of the Roman Empire, and Johann, Duke of Saxony, Landgrave of Thuringia, and Margrave of Meissen, my dear lords…” could not be further from Müntzer addressing Count Albrecht, “Do you really think that God has less interest in his people than in you tyrants?”, or Count Ernst: “Now tell us, you miserable, wretched sack of maggots – who made you into a prince over the people whom God redeemed with his own precious blood?” Müntzer and tact never had even a nodding acquaintance.

And Müntzer, who lived among working people, could not share Luther’s contempt for them, or the Wittenbergers’ insistence that they owed total obedience to their feudal lords. Hence his presence on the Schlachtberg, while Luther was fulminating, “The peasants […] are so disloyal, false, disobedient and wanton, and plunder, rob and remove what they can, like barefaced highwaymen and murderers”. In fact Müntzer’s peasants killed very few, in comparison with the nobility. Drummond remarks of 15 May: “It is estimated that between 5,000 and 7,000 rebels died that day – the figure is understandably approximate, but surprisingly consistent over several reports – with a further 600 taken prisoner. Half of the adult male population of Frankenhausen was put to the sword. For the nobles and their troops, the affair was treated almost as a sport: two minor aristocrats sent to the campaign by Prince Joachim von Brandenburg had been commissioned by their sponsor to bring home the ear of a peasant; in a letter, they regretted that this had proved impractical.” (Luther’s comment was “Yes, it is to be regretted. But what else could one do? It is essential that the people be frightened and cowed”.)

Though the Revolt, and Müntzer’s part in it, are put down among the “failures” of history, Drummond convincingly shows how his influence survived and inspired later campaigners. And as usual, he does not feel that writing “serious” history obliges him to abandon his dry humour, which enlivens many a page: “His [Luther’s] letter also discussed infant baptism and the vexed question of whether faith can be sprinkled upon babies, coming down firmly on the fence”. I was particularly taken with the eclectic shopping list of one Glitzsch, a curate in an isolated country parish: “a selection of the latest books by reformers, various vegetable and herb seeds – beetroot, marjoram, hyssop – a measure of saffron, some assorted nails and screws and, of course, two sows and one uncastrated boar – the latter reflecting Glitzsch’s pressing need to get to grips with husbandry.”

Apparently Müntzer used his final words “not to make a full confession, as was traditional, but to warn the princes not to punish the poor any further and to take heed of the biblical Book of Kings, in which it was explained how pious rulers should act”. I am left remembering his words in yet another tactless letter to some noble or other: “And you should know that I do not fear you or anyone in the whole world in these great and just matters.”

“To make the fisheries work profitably and effectively, better transportation options were needed. And better transportation options meant investing in more and improved railways. As a strategy it made complete sense.
 And so we now turn our attention to the complete foul-up, by government and private enterprise alike, of this laudable endeavour.”

It may seem odd to write a history book specifically about things that didn’t happen, in this case railways that were never built in the West Highlands. But then this history is written by Andrew Drummond, eccentric novelist and historian, and it deals with more than railways. It concerns, in fact, the long-term neglect and abuse of a region and its community by a small class of people, namely landowners, who happened to have managed to grab ownership of most of it. It begins with an overview of the dire state of the region in 1883, when the Napier Commission sallied forth to inquire into the condition of crofters and cottars. It was the first time such a commission had really sought the views of ordinary people, and they may have been surprised by the vehemence of some of the testimony they heard, for instance the Rev Roderick Morison’s fiery denunciation of the way local people were cleared out to make way for deer hunting:
 

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In all Drummond's novels so far, the narrative voice has been key. He tends to choose eccentric, sardonic character-narrators who observe events from the sidelines or get caught up in them in ways they cannot control. They have, however, all been recognisably human… so far. This one calls herself the Cherub of Desire, and though she can take human form she seems to be a spirit who sails, in a globe-shaped sphere, around her assigned dominion of the Hebrides in the year 1739:

To the GOOD LORD the whole of the earth encompass'd so on so forth to each Cherub a Dominion for to watch o'er in which to seek out men to exact tribute and to punish as she sees fit to the Cherub of Desire all that is desirable in the Hebridean Sea.

And here we come to the feature that may put some readers off: the Cherub's manner of forming sentences is not conventional; not only has she, understandably, an 18th-century cadence, she has little time for punctuation. Personally I found I could adjust to it fairly easily, possibly because I have long been a fan of Don Marquis's archy, the poetic cockroach whose inability to work the caps key of a typewriter had a somewhat similar effect. But it's undeniable that some readers cannot handle unconventional use of language and that the novel may be less commercially attractive as a result. I don't know if this is why this novel has been brought out by a self-publishing platform rather than by Polygon, who published his first four books for adults (he writes for children too). If Polygon did turn it down on those grounds, I would urge them to reconsider, and remember that Riddley Walker's unconventional spelling didn't stop it becoming a cult.

Shipwrecked on St Kilda, the Cherub finds her affairs becoming embroiled with those of Rachel Chiesley Erskine, Lady Grange, kidnapped from Edinburgh and marooned on the distant island for being an embarrassment to her husband. All Drummond's novels so far have some basis in Scottish history (even the one set in Russia) and the Lady Grange strand is factual, as are the two letters she wrote from St Kilda, though they were smuggled to her lawyer in Edinburgh by human agency rather than, as here, by the Cherub, who agrees to take them and have a holiday on the mainland at the same time. Thus begins a picaresque which, since she does not exactly go by the most direct route, takes in quite a lot of 18th-century Scotland:

At Allt-coire-uchdachan we stop for the sun is at her highest in the sky the red grouse cackles in the heather there is a fine bridge o'er the road where we may sit take our ease breathe in the parfums of the mountain of the bog of the heather taste the very air upon our tongue heaven upon the lids of our eyes then we mount ever higher. From each turn of the road we gaze down upon the deepest lochs of Loch-aber the vast landskip of Scotland stretched out before us there are distant peaks huge hills fertile glens the precipices drop all around us into terrible foaming cascades truly this is a prospect so magnificent none could with-stand it. We pause at the very heights of the mountain for to take our fill of the wideness of Scotland

The Cherub is just as forcibly impressed, though in a different way, by 18th-century Edinburgh with its mix of opulence and urban squalor, and by the far bleaker poverty of St Kilda. What makes her an intriguing narrator is her blend of caustic wit and a certain outsider perspective which comes of not being human and hence not always understanding what she sees as a human narrator would.

I am not, yet, 100% sure what to make of this novel (I am tempted to quote its end, which is unexpectedly moving, but shall refrain because I don't think that would be fair to the new reader). If I had to, I would theorise that the notion of "incarceration" in something other than a cell, and not necessarily even a physical space, is central to it – Lady Grange, for one, is imprisoned as much by her own nature as anything else. But I shall have to re-read it, and the one thing I am sure of is that I will, as I have all his other novels, several times.

Here beginneth a heartfelt plea to publishers. The man is unclassifiable: his novels are by turns satire, picaresque, realist, fantasy, historical, and I suspect this may make him harder to market. What they always are is unusually well written, thought-provoking, entertaining and above all original. He says himself that he began writing because he couldn't find the kind of book he wanted to read, and it's a fact that his novels are not quite like anything else out there. They are what I want to read, but unlike him I don't feel equipped to write it and the reason I read more history books than novels is that most contemporary novels are bloody dull and predictable. It worries me that he appears to be self-publishing, because he's worth better and will never attain the readership he deserves without someone to do the marketing. If you're thinking short-term, Mr Publisher, please remember that Dr Johnson, for once, made an awful howler when he said "Nothing odd will do; Tristram Shandy did not last". Anyone considering awards for Scottish writers would do well to bear it in mind, too.

Innkeeper Voronov regrets losing touch with his sons:

        "What have they done," he concluded nervously, "but run off with the maids?  What young man would not do the same, if he was kept in the same house with them […]?"
       Mrs Voronova saw the justice of this observation and dried her eyes. "It is only natural," she admitted.
       Her husband continued on this romantic vein of thought: "Until that night when, all being quiet, he slips on his boots and coat and-"
       "A young man will always follow his-" judged the wife.
       "-breeches," finished her husband, continuing to paint a simple picture of elopement, "and set off into the world with nothing but a knife in his-"
       "-heart," she concluded.
       "-pocket and a girl on his arm," Voronov sighed.

This conversation, its two tracks occasionally crossing, more often running alongside each other, is typical of a novel in which communication is constantly hampered by the fact that people are better at talking than listening. Even Horatio, infatuated with Ksenia, finds it hard, when she is telling him her story, to stop his mind wandering to inconsequential mental arithmetic. Most people in this novel have a story to tell, and since each is more interested in his or her own story than in any other, there are several of these two-track dialogues. Indeed there are two tracks to the novel itself; one concerning Horatio, who may be a merchant, and Ksenia, who may be a widow, who spend a night together in 1833 at the bedside of a dying man in Novgorod, and the other concerning the adventures of the Cochrane family, one of whom, the traveller John Dundas Cochrane, had been married to Ksenia, while his father Andrew had been a friend of the dying man, Major Sinclair.  The novel's two strands, therefore, cross and interact from time to time; indeed Andrew's ghost occasionally turns up at Sinclair's bedside, along with a bookseller who appears to be a werewolf and a soldier who is an imerach (a human mirror, forced to reflect everything others say or do). The structure of the novel itself is reminiscent of the imerach:  John Cochrane's fascination with arcane facts and measurements reflects Horatio's, while the way in which Ksenia mirrors the Major's dead love Amélie causes another conversation to go off at cross-purposes.

It will be seen, then, that as in Drummond's two earlier books An Abridged History (reviewed here) and A Hand-Book of Volapük (reviewed here), this one contains rich potential for comedy, and this does exist, not least in chapter headings such as "He took the only course open to an honourable man  and fled to Europe" and "Degeneracy, rhubarb and millions of squirrels". But this strikes me as his most serious novel so far: its leitmotiv is a rhetorical question that keeps being asked, and variously answered, "What is Love but…."  There are as many answers as there are questioners, and I don't think any one is meant to be definitive: the implication is more that the question needs to be constantly asked and considered. 

Most of the main characters are historical personages, but while there is much in print by and about the Cochranes, far less has been written about Ksenia and Horatio. Strangely enough, it does seem to me that they and their strand of the novel come more alive than the Cochranes do, perhaps because their creator felt he had a freer hand with them.

Drummond has been quoted as saying that he writes novels because nobody else writes the kind of novel he wants to read. I can believe that, because he doesn't really write or sound quite like anyone else. I found his first novel in a cut-price Aberdeen bookshop and have been hunting down others ever since.  I'm off now to read the one novel by him that I haven't caught up with yet.

Actually the title is "An Abridged History of the Construction of the RAILWAY LINE Between Garve, Ullapool and Lochinver; And other pertinent matters: Being the Professional JOURNAL and Regular Chronicle of ALEXANDER AUCHMUTY SETH KININMONTH". Apparently some bookshops mis-shelved it under History, which says little for their acumen, as the words "A novel by Andrew Drummond" also appear on the front cover. But he may well have intended them to be misled, for a major theme of this book is the divide between truth and fiction, and how far we can be sure that what we think fact actually is so.

The story indeed is a melange of "real" history, fictionalised history and downright invention which is near-impossible to disentangle. There really was a projected Garve-Ullapool railway, which was partly built but abandoned for lack of funds. And there was a Melchior Rinck, a German Anabaptist, though he lived some three centuries before the events in which he is here concerned. The Kerguelen islands exist, but were never home to a colony of Scots abandoned there by a heartless captain – though, of course, plenty of Scots during the clearances were duped into sailing for promised lands that turned out to be places of desolation. The revolutionary events of 1897 in Ullapool are pure invention… probably, for as our narrator observes, "it seems likely to be in the interests of Government not to report such events as I believe took place in Ullapool, for fear that similar sedition might be sown in other parts of the land […] This would not be the first time that historical events have been concealed from an en-thralled Nation."

This narrator of ours, Kininmonth, is a railway engineer, a rationalist who ends up embroiled in a religious revival in which he never believes, and a basically conventional, respectable man whose politics, by the end of the book, are on the revolutionary side of socialist. He's a loner with a great curiosity, a certain primness and a dry wit, and he can be, both intentionally and unintentionally, very funny. His story begins in the reality of constructing the line from Garve, hampered by weather, midges and a fancy for one of the navvies' wives: "Wicked thoughts cross my mind, which I can attribute only to the increasing temperature and the scents on the breezes of April". But with the advent of the hedge-preacher Rinck and his friends the Irvines, refugees from the community on Kerguelen, events begin to take a surreal turn. The Kerguelen Scots had stayed two generations on their desolate island, because passing whalers, who stopped to revictual there, constantly told them of dire events in the outside world- the Great Whaling War between Finland and Paraguay, tidal waves in Paris and Rome, plague in Spain. To Kininmonth, hearing their narrative, the truth seems plain: "it was to the advantage of the Norwegians that the poor emigrants stayed on Kerguelen, to stock the whaling ships [..] and for this reason alone, the Norwegians had fabricated such sagas and tales. My spirit grew heavy with thoughts of the wickedness of men against men."

Later, however, he has a surprise. He and James Irvine meet an Icelandic widow in the wilds of Scotland and Irvine condoles with her on the "war" between her country and Turkey. Kininmonth, naturally taking this for another tall tale told by the whalers, is astonished when the woman confirms its truth. This is in fact a reference to the raid on Heimaey in 1627 by Barbary pirates, who kidnapped and enslaved 234 Icelanders. All the Barbary pirates were known in the West as "Turks", and to this day the Icelandic liturgy includes a prayer for protection against the wrath of the Turk. The whalers, presumably, had based some of their tales loosely on real events, but it leaves Kininmonth disoriented: "what if all the other stories told to the people of Kerguelen also had some basis in truth? What if there were wars and campaigns indeed between the most unlikely opponents […] What if the stories we read in newspapers were undiluted invention, as much a fiction as this History is fact?" From this point on, Kininmonth is never entirely sure if any person is speaking the truth, and nor can we be.

This sets up an ending with a device whose use in any novel is very daring, because it has been much discredited. In this case I think it works, because of the kind of novel this is. Even after the end, the writer has not done playing with our sense of what is real, for there are pages of the kind of publishers' advertisements that books of Kininmonth's era used to include. Some are straight spoofs on the improving and juvenile books of the day – "Dick and His Donkey: by the author of Hugh and His Husky", but some are allegedly by characters in the book and would, if real, necessarily subvert the facts as we now think we know them. Some have reviewers' endorsements, like this, allegedly from The Midlothian Advertiser; "A Most Interesting and Clever Book. I was startled at how little I understood".

That made me laugh, as this novel often did, but I suspect Drummond may mean it seriously and indeed it would serve to describe this book – not at all in the sense that it is a difficult read; it's anything but that, never forgetting its entertainment function, but in the sense that having read it, we realise that it may be saying far more than first appeared, and that we shall need to read it again to be sure. Luckily, this is no hardship. I found this in a cut-price Aberdeen bookshop; if you have to look in AbeBooks, be assured it'll be worth the trouble.