Strange Horizons, October 17, 2016

“The Witch’s Knives” by Margaret Ronald

Reviewed by Seraph

I have very mixed feelings about this story. On the one hand, it is almost impossible for me not to empathize with the characters. They feel real, and the attention to even the smallest details very much stands out. The world is not so different from our own, even though there seem to be elements drawn directly from various fairy tales. New York and Chicago are both mentioned, as are trains and airplanes. Yet it is not the same world, in that no city quite like the Turning City, which revolves fully on its axis once a day, exists in our world. Nor does such magic as this curse exist in our world, as much as I may fervently wish it did. The time-period seems relatively modern, but there is more an impression that you have stepped out of time to witness this meeting between a witch and a forlorn woman, or have at least followed the young woman to a place where time has far less of an iron grip. It is not hard to feel what they feel given the level of description, and I’m always fascinated by the psychology of characters. It is not only a window into the world the author describes, but also a window into the mind of the author, and I will never tire of such opportunities to learn. On the other hand, the story didn’t offer much else. For all intents and purposes, this is a post-modernist retelling of Beauty and the Beast. I am all for fairy tales, especially those involving personal discovery, and readily accept the journey being just as important, or more so, than the destination. Usually, such a journey results in some piece of wisdom found, or the overcoming of some great obstacle, and the lesson enriches the reader’s life. This story, however, leaves me with just one bitter lesson: All that is good in this world is but an illusion, that love is but a comforting lie we tell ourselves. I enjoyed the insight into the characters, and the story was well-crafted. I just can’t get past the seemingly hopeless and discouraging tone, which culminates in a somehow empowered young woman, headed home with a knife and a smile, no bitterness toward the woman who cursed her husband, but instead “realizing” that her husband has been a burden to her the whole time, how much happier she is without having to care for him. It is the rankest hypocrisy to blame the afflicted for the affliction, then turn and admire the afflicter, somehow empowered by the ideological perversion of love and commitment. This may pass for popular literature in what is increasingly a post-modernist landscape, but as for me, I’ll just pass.