The Skrayling Tree: The Albino in America (Eternal Champion Series #5) [NOOK Book]

Overview

The second book in "A Tale of the Albino." When his beloved wife Oona is abducted by a band of albino Native Americans, Ulrik von Bek trails the group by using the Skrayling Oak. Soon he finds himself in the multiverse, where he is reconnected with his alternate self, Elric of Melnibone.
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The Skrayling Tree: The Albino in America (Eternal Champion Series #5)

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Overview

The second book in "A Tale of the Albino." When his beloved wife Oona is abducted by a band of albino Native Americans, Ulrik von Bek trails the group by using the Skrayling Oak. Soon he finds himself in the multiverse, where he is reconnected with his alternate self, Elric of Melnibone.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
In 1972, Michael Moorcock wrote: "It is the colour of a bleached skull, his flesh; and the long hair which flows below his shoulders is milk-white." Thus begins one of the most popular fantasy sagas of the last century, featuring one of the most memorable and groundbreaking fantasy characters of all time: Elric, the albino sorcerer, the last emperor of Melniboné. At a time when musclebound heroes like Conan the Barbarian, Tarzan, and John Carter of Mars proliferated in popular fantasy, Moorcock's Elric was the antithesis of the archetype -- a weak, treacherous albino aristocrat concerned more with his conscience than the hundreds of unlucky souls he has killed with his demon blade.

Nearly four decades and more than a dozen novels, anthologies, and graphic novels later, the Elric sequence is still going strong and still continuing to redefine the genre. The Skrayling Tree, the second of three proposed novels in a new Elric subseries (the first was The Dreamthief's Daughter), focuses on Elric's daughter Oona and her husband Count Ulric von Bek. While vacationing in early-20th-century Nova Scotia, Ulric is kidnapped by a band of mysterious Native American warriors who transport him to the realm of the Kakatanawa, the guardians of the Skrayling Oak, a gigantic tree that holds the entire Multiverse in its branches. Oona follows the moonbeam path through the realms in a desperate attempt to relocate her lost husband.

The novel is actually three different stories told from the points of view of Oona, Elric, and Ulric. While all the narratives chronicle a unique adventure, they all eventually lead to the center of the Multiverse and the Skrayling Oak. Add to the plot Gaynor, Elric and Ulric's archnemesis; a shaman riding a woolly mammoth; the legendary Mohawk leader Hiawatha; a towering city of gold; and a healthy dose of Native American mythology, and you've got yourself a great novel that succeeds in breathing new life into the much-fabled Elric mythos.

There's nothing more that I can say about this classic fantasy series except, "Read it!" Paul Goat Allen

Publishers Weekly
In this engrossing sequel to The Dreamthief's Daughter (2001), Moorcock weaves history, myth and alternate realities into a seamless whole. In 1951, Oona, the Dreamthief's daughter, and her albino husband, Ulrik von Bek, are enjoying a much needed vacation in Nova Scotia when Indian warriors kidnap Ulrik and drag him into the sea. Oona's search for Ulrik leads her through a maelstrom and into an America nearly 1,000 years in the past. At the same time, Oona's father, the albino Elrik of Melnibon , who is soul bonded to Ulrik, faces disaster. In a desperate attempt to save himself, Elrik dreams himself into the same mythic past in search of the beings who forged his black sword. Ulrik, meanwhile, learns that he was not so much kidnapped as recruited to save the multiverse. The tale's power stems largely from the astounding lyricism of the author's prose, the only flaw being the sometimes stilted and overly expository dialogue about the nature of the multiverse. Yet without these explanations, the complexity and mechanics of Moorcock's creation would confuse many readers, particularly those new to the series. An epilogue promises another installment, which should make fans of well-written and highly original fantasy extremely happy. (Feb. 19) FYI: Moorcock has won World Fantasy and Nebula awards. Copyright 2003 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
When her husband, the albino Ulric von Bek, is snatched by members of the lost Kakatanawa tribe, Oona, daughter of a union between Elric of Melnibon and the Dreamthief, enters the world of mythic America, where she forms an alliance with a shaman named White Crow to rescue her husband. In a parallel story, Elric journeys to the land of the Vikings and joins an expedition to Vinland in pursuit of a giant named White Crow. Continuing his tales of the Eternal Champion, Moorcock brings together three of his heroes in an adventure of sword and sorcery that spans time and space and adds another chapter to the ongoing struggle to preserve the balance between law and chaos. Most libraries will welcome this addition to a growing body of work by one of England's premier fantasists. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780446571210
  • Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
  • Publication date: 11/29/2009
  • Series: Eternal Champion Series , #5
  • Sold by: Hachette Digital, Inc.
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 1,288,847
  • File size: 771 KB

Read an Excerpt

The Skrayling Tree

The Albino in America
By Michael Moorcock

Aspect

Copyright © 2003 Michael Moorcock and Linda Moorcock
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0446531049


Chapter One

The House on the Island

Hearing I ask from the Holy Races, From Heimdall's sons, both high and low; Thou wilt know, Valfather, how well I relate Old tales I remember of men long ago.

I remember yet the giants of yore, Who gave me bread in the days gone by; Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree With mighty roots beneath the mold.

THE POETIC EDDA, "The Wise Woman's Prophecy"

I am Oona, the shape-taker, Grafin von Bek, daughter of Oon the Dreamthief and Elric, Sorcerer Emperor of Melniboné. When my husband was kidnapped by Kakatanawa warriors, in pursuit of him I descended into the maelstrom and discovered an impossible America. This is that story.

With the Second World War over at last and peace of sorts returned to Europe, I closed our family cottage on the edge of the Grey Fees, and settled in Kensington, West London, with my husband Ulric, Count Bek. Although I am an expert archer and trained mistress of illusory arts, I had no wish to follow my mother's calling. For a year or two in the late 1940s I lacked a focus for my skills until I found a vocation in my husband's sphere. The unity of shared terror and grief following the Nazi defeat gave us all the strength we needed to rebuild,to rediscover our idealism and try to ensure that we would never again slide into aggressive bigotry and authoritarianism.

Knowing that every action taken in one realm of the multiverse is echoed in the others, we devoted ourselves confidently to the UN and the implementation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which H. G. Wells had drafted, in direct reference to Paine and the U.S. Founding Fathers, just before the War. The U.S.A.'s own Eleanor Roosevelt had helped the momentum. Our hope was that we could spread the values of liberal humanism and popular government across a world yearning for peace. Needless to say, our task was not proving an easy one. As the Greeks and Iroquois, who fathered those ideas, discovered, there is always more immediate profit to be gained from crisis than from tranquillity.

By September 1951, Ulric and I had both been working too hard, and because I traveled so much in my job, we had chosen to educate our children at boarding school in England. Michael Hall in rural Sussex was a wonderful school, run on the Steiner Waldorf system, but I still felt a certain guilt about being absent so often. In previous months Ulric had been sleeping badly, his dreams troubled by what he sometimes called "the intervention," when Elric's soul, permanently bonded to his, experienced some appalling stress. For this reason, among others, we were enjoying a long break at the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed summer house of Nova Scotian friends currently working in Trinidad. They were employed by the West Indies Independence Commission. When they returned to Cap Breton we would then leave their airy home to visit some of Ulric's relatives in New England before taking the Queen Elizabeth back to Southampton.

We had the loveliest weather. There was already a strong hint of autumn in the coastal breezes and a distinct chill to the water we shared with the seals, who had established a small colony on one of the many wooded islands of the Sound. These islands were permanently fascinating. The comings and goings of the wildlife provided just the right relaxation after a busy year. While Ulric and I enjoyed our work, it involved a great deal of diplomacy, and sometimes our faces ached from smiling! Now we could laze, read, frown if we felt like it and stop to enjoy some of nature's most exquisite scenery.

We were thoroughly relaxed by the second Saturday after we arrived. Brought by the local taxi from Englishtown, we had become wonderfully isolated, with no car and no public transport. I must admit I was so used to activity that after a few days I was a trifle bored, but I refused to become busy. I continued to take a keen interest in the local wildlife and history.

That Saturday we were sitting on the widow's walk of our roof, looking out over Cabot Creek and its many small, wooded islands. One of these, little more than a rock, was submerged at high tide. There, it was said, the local Kakatanawa Indians had staked enemies to drown.

Our binoculars were Russian and of excellent quality, bought on our final visit to Ulric's ancestral estate in the days before the Berlin Wall went up. That afternoon I was able to spot clear details of the individual seals. They were always either there or about to appear, and I had fallen in love with their joyous souls. But, as I watched the tide wash over Drowning Rock, the water suddenly became agitated and erratic. I felt some vague alarm. The swirl of the sea had a new quality I couldn't identify.

There was even a different note to a light wind from the west. I mentioned it to Ulric. Half asleep, enjoying his brandy and soda, he smiled. It was the action of Auld Strom, the avenging hag, he said. Hadn't I read the guide? The Old Woman was the local English name for the unpredictable bore, a twisting, vicious current which ran between the dozens of little islands in the Sound and could sometimes turn into a dangerous whirlpool. The French called her Le Chaudron Noir, the black cauldron. Small whaling ships had been dragged down in the nineteenth century, and only a year or two before three vacationing schoolgirls in a canoe had disappeared into the maelstrom. Neither they nor their canoe had ever been recovered.

A harder gust of wind brushed against my left cheek. The surrounding trees whispered and bustled like excited nuns. Then they were still again.

"It's probably unwise to take a dip tomorrow." Ulric cast thoughtful eyes over the water. He sometimes seemed, like so many survivors of those times, profoundly sad. His high-boned, tapering face was as thrillingly handsome as when I had first seen it, all those years ago in the grounds of his house during the early Nazi years. Knowing I had planned some activity for the next day he smiled at me. "Though sailing won't be a problem, if we go the other way. We'd have to be right out there, almost at the horizon, to be in real danger. See?" He pointed, and I focused on the distant water which was dark, veined like living marble and swirling rapidly. "The Old Woman is definitely back in full fury!" He put his arm around my shoulders. As always I was amused and comforted by this gesture.

I had already studied the Kakatanawa legend. Le Chaudron was for them the spirit of all the old women who had ever been murdered by their enemies. Most Kakatanawa had been driven from their original New York homeland by the Haudenosaunee, a people famous for their arrogance, puritanism and efficient organization, whose women not only determined which wars would be fought and who would lead them, but which prisoners would live and who would be tortured and eaten. So Auld Strom was a righteously angry creature, especially hard on females. The Kakatanawa called the conquering Haudenosaunee 'Erekoseh', their word for rattlesnake, and avoided the warriors as conscientiously as they did their namesakes, for the Erekoseh, or Iroquois as the French rendered their name, had been the Normans of North America, masters of a superb new idea, an effective social engine, as pious and self-demanding in spirit as they were savage in war. Like the vital Romans and Normans, they respected the law above their own immediate interests. Normans employed sophisticated feudalism as their engine; the Iroquois, a shade more egalitarian, employed the notion of mutuality and common law but were just as ruthless in establishing it. I felt very close to the past that day as I romantically scanned the shore, fancying I glimpsed one of those legendary warriors, with his shaven head, scalp lock, war paint and breechclout, but of course there was no one.

I was about to put the glasses away when I caught a movement and a spot of color on one of the near islands among the thick clusters of birch, oak and pine which found unlikely purchase in what soil there was. A little mist clung to the afternoon water, and for a moment my vision was obscured. Expecting to glimpse a deer or perhaps a fisherman, I brought the island into focus and was very surprised. In my lens was an oak-timbered wattle-and-daub manor house similar to those I had seen in Iceland, the design dating back to the eleventh century. Surely this house had to be the nostalgic folly of some very early settler?

There were legends of Viking exploration here, but the many-windowed house was not quite that ancient! Wisteria and ivy showed how many years the two-storied house had stood with its black beams rooted among old trees and thick moss, yet the place had a well-kept but abandoned look, as if its owner rarely lived there. I asked Ulric his opinion. He frowned as he raised the binoculars. "I don't think it's in the guide." He adjusted the lens. "My God! You're right. An old manor! Great heavens!" We were both intrigued. "I wonder if it was ever an inn or hotel?" Ulric, like me, was now more alert. His lean, muscular body sprang from its chair. I loved him in this mood, when he consciously jolted himself out of his natural reserve. "It's not too late yet for a quick preliminary exploration!" he said. "And it's close enough to be safe. Want to look at it? It'll only take an hour to go there and back in the canoe."

Exploring an old house was just enough adventure for my mood. I wanted to go now, while Ulric was in the same state of mind. Thus, we were soon paddling out from the little jetty, finding it surprisingly easy going against the fast-running tide. We both knew canoes and worked well in unison, driving rapidly towards the mysterious island. Of course, for the children's sake, we would take no risks if the pull of Le Chaudron became stronger. Though it was very difficult to see from the shore through the thick trees, I was surprised we had not noticed the house earlier. Our friends had said nothing about an old building. In those days the heritage industry was in its infancy, so it was possible the local guides had failed to mention it, especially if the house was still privately owned. However, I did wonder if we might be trespassing.

To be safe we had to avoid the pull of the maelstrom at all costs, so we paddled to the west before we headed directly for the island, where the gentle tug actually aided our progress. Typically rocky, the island offered no obvious place to land. We were both still capable of getting under the earthy tree roots and hauling ourselves and canoe up bodily, but it seemed an unnecessary exercise, especially when we rounded the island and found a perfect sloping slab of rock rising out of the sea like a slipway. Beside it was a few feet of shingle.

We beached easily enough on the weedy strip of pebbles, then tramped up the slab. At last we saw the white sides and stained black oak beams of the house through the autumn greenery. The manor was equally well kept at the back, but we still saw no evidence of occupation. Something about the place reminded me of Bek when I had first seen it, neatly maintained but organic.

This place had no whiff of preservation about it. This was a warm, living building whose moss and ivy threatened the walls themselves. The windows were not glass but woven willow lattice. It could have been there for centuries. The only strange thing was that the wild wood went almost up to its walls. There was no sign of surrounding cultivation-no hedges, fences, lawns, herb gardens, no topiary or flower beds. The tangled old bracken stopped less than an inch from the walls and windows and made it hard going as our tweeds caught on brambles and dense shrubbery. For all its substance, the house gave the impression of not quite belonging here. That, coupled with the age of the architecture, began to alert me that we might be dealing with some supernatural agency. I put this to my husband, whose aquiline features were unusually troubled.

As if realizing the impression he gave, Ulric's handsome mouth curved in a broad, dismissive smile. Just as I took the magical as my norm, he took the natural as his. He could not imagine what I meant. In spite of all his experience he retained his skepticism of the supernatural. Admittedly, I was inclined to come up with explanations considered bizarre by most of our friends, so I dropped the subject.

As we advanced through the sweet, rooty mold and leafy undergrowth I had no sense that the place was sinister. Nonetheless, I tended to go a little more cautiously than Ulric. He pushed on until he had brought us to the green-painted back door under a slate porch. As he raised his fist to knock I noticed a movement in the open upper window. I was sure I glimpsed a human figure. When I pointed to the window, we saw nothing.

"Probably a bird flying over," said Ulric. Getting no response from the house, we made our way around the walls until we reached the big double doors at the front. They were oak and heavy with iron. Ulric grinned at me. "Since we are, after all, neighbors"-he took a piece of ivory pasteboard from his waist-coat-" the least we can do is leave our card." He pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord. A perfectly normal bell sounded within. We waited, but there was no answer. Ulric scribbled a note, stuck the card into the bell-pull, and we stepped back. Then, behind the looser weaving of the downstairs window, a face appeared, staring into mine. The shock staggered me. For a moment I thought I looked into my own reflection! Was there glass behind the lattice?

But it was not me. It was a youth. A youth who mouthed urgently through the gaps in the weaving and gestured as if for help, flapping his arms against the window. I could only think of a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.

I am no dreamthief. I can't equate the craft with my own conscience, though I judge none who fairly practice it. Consequently I have never had the doubtful pleasure of encountering myself in another's dream. This had some of that reported frisson. The youth glared not at me but at my husband, who gasped as one bright ruby eye met another. At that moment, I could tell, blood spoke to blood.

Then it was as if a hand had gripped my hair and pulled it. Another hand slapped against my face. From nowhere the wind had begun to blow, cold and hard. Beginning as a deep soughing, its note now rose to an aggressive howl.

I thought the young albino said something in German. He was gesticulating to emphasize his words. But the wind kept taking them away. I could make out only one repeated sound. "Werner" was it? A name? The youth looked as if he had stepped from the European Dark Ages. His unstirring white hair fell in long braids. He wore a simple deerskin jacket, and his face was smeared with what might have been white clay. His eyes were desperate.

Continues...


Excerpted from The Skrayling Tree by Michael Moorcock Copyright © 2003 by Michael Moorcock and Linda Moorcock
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Interviews & Essays

An Interview with Michael Moorcock
Barnes & Noble.com had the opportunity to ask Michael Moorcock a few questions about what the future holds for him and the legendary albino prince.

Paul Goat Allen: Reading the Elric novels as a kid in the 1970s set an incredibly high standard for every fantasy I've read since. Of the hundreds -- maybe thousands -- of books I've read as a reviewer for Barnes & Noble, very few have made an impression like the Elric saga has. The Encyclopedia of Fantasy calls you "the most important U.K. fantasy author of the 1960s and 1970s, and altogether the most significant U.K. author of Sword and Sorcery…" How surreal does it feel to not only have created an icon but to be one yourself?

Michael Moorcock: The biggest impact on me was during the '60s, when I was living in Notting Hill, essentially the home of the U.K. counterculture. One of the strangest experiences was being chased by T. Rex's Mark Bolan in his white Rolls-Royce when I was on my bicycle. He had a project he wanted to talk to me about. He was a great Elric fan. Bernie Taupin claimed that reading my stuff influenced his lyrics for Elton John, and there were at least two rock 'n' roll albums called Stormbringer, one by Deep Purple. I knew a lot of rock and roll people. By the early '70s, of course, I was working with the rock band Hawkwind, whose own name was derived from my Hawkmoon series. So I sort of got used to it after a while. Living a fairly normal life, raising my kids, running New Worlds, and so on meant that I had to keep my feet fairly firmly on the ground. After the rock 'n' roll experience, being a literary icon was fairly tame. At least I wasn't mobbed when I visited my publisher!

The odd thing is that when I started writing heroic fantasy there was very little of it about -- each writer was regarded as a kind of literary "sport," and there wasn't really a name for what we were doing. So I chose a form which initially came with few genre expectations. By the 1980s, of course, adventure fantasy had turned into a genre, and I found myself oddly swamped by concepts which I'd originally invented and thought just mine. What happens then is that you start feeling pressured to find new territories which haven't been overexplored. That was why I started writing books like Gloriana and The Warhound and The World's Pain in the '70s and '80s and have tried to write Elric books which don't just offer the mixture as before. You start off on the margins, on the frontier, if you like, where there are few rules but those you make for yourself, and you find yourself somehow at the center where the rules are getting more fixed by the day. That said, I don't think many "living icons" ever really think of themselves in that way, unless they are nuts!

PGA: You've examined in-depth the Multiverse in The Dreamthief's Daughter and The Skrayling Tree, and in doing so tied several Eternal Champion sequences together. Was one of the motivations behind this sequence of novels a type of closure?

MM: Absolutely right. I had explored the scientific and philosophical notion of the Multiverse, if you like, in a sequence beginning with Blood and ending with The War Amongst the Angels in the mid-'90s, and felt I had done pretty much all I could do in that area -- though physicists are, interestingly, doing their own thinking on those ideas nowadays. Chaos theory was a great boon to me in helping shape and rationalize these ideas. When I conceived this current sequence of Elric/Ulric novels, I wanted to bring all the themes of my Eternal Champion stories together and show perhaps a continuity between the books I wrote set in a prehistoric past and the books I write set in the present day.

PGA: As a pimply-faced teenager with a body like a pipe cleaner, I identified with Elric on many levels. (What I would've given to carry Stormbringer throughout junior high school!) A surprising number of fantasy fans have told me how much they've also connected with the character of Elric. How much were you like Elric when you started writing these novels? After almost 40 years, do you think that you're more or less like him now?

MM: Elric c'est moi! As a French magazine headlined my statement that the Elric of the first stories was in many ways myself, dealing with the sort of problems many young people deal with -- confronting the hypocrisies of those in power and so on -- making our own morality, developing our own values. And as I've matured I've had to find ways of Elric reflecting that maturity, which is another reason for putting him into the settings of The Dreamthief's Daughter and The Skrayling Tree. Given that I killed him off by the time I was 23, I've had to resurrect him and make him a little wiser. The notion of the dream quests seemed to me to be the way to do it. This also gives him access to all the other worlds of the Multiverse and enables him to tell his own story in his own words.

PGA: The image of the albino prince has been immortalized by numerous artists on book covers, in graphic novels, on fan web sites, and even in role-playing games…. As a lifelong follower of the series, I enjoy seeing how others visualize Elric. Easily my favorite images are by Michael Whelan, who did the covers for several of the DAW paperbacks in the '70s. (Whelan's cover of Stormbringer is still my all-time favorite cover, by the way.) Do you have a favorite rendering of Elric or a favorite artist?

MM: I think the Whelan covers are very effective, but my favorite depiction of Elric will always be that of Jim Cawthorn, who did the very first pictures of Elric for the magazine editions and also for the first edition of Stormbringer when it was published in England. At least one of his pictures also appears on the Live Chronicles album, an Elric rock album done by Hawkwind and put out in the U.S. by Griffin Records. Jim has since done some Elric and Hawkmoon comics in the U.K. but isn't so well known in the U.S. The current Elric artist, Robert Gould, is also one of my all-time favorites. Bob brings an intense interest in the imagery and iconography of Elric and can always be relied on to find a new angle which captures the resonances of what I'm trying to do. I must say I've been blessed with some outstandingly good artists for Elric over the years.

PGA: Can you tell the fans out there a little about the next Tale of the Albino? I've heard rumors that this may be the last Elric installment.

MM: It won't be the last tale, but it might be the last in ordinary novel form. The third book of the current sequence, provisionally called The White Wolf's Son, tells the story of Ulric and Oona's granddaughter as she seeks and then helps Elric's son Onric escape the clutches of the evil Gaynor the Damned. Her quest takes her underground, briefly to the land of the Off-Moo, the strange nonhuman denizens who dwell at the Earth's Core (or, if you like, the Center of the Multiverse!) where she meets characters introduced in The Dreamthief's Daughter, all the while trying to escape the clutches of Gaynor. The story will open with Elric descending to Storrs Common, which is just across the road from my old remote house in the Yorkshire Dales, in a balloon.... Again, I'll be using a lot of my own direct experience in the story. However, I'm currently working with Walter Simonson on a four-part graphic novel for DC which will describe young Elric's early adventures and his dream-quests and also reveal much of the origins of Melniboné. Also there's a strong chance that a movie will begin production in the near future and the stories won't be simply versions of the existing books but new stories incorporating new elements as well as old. The character and his fundamental story will remain very much the same or I wouldn't consider doing either movies or graphic novels, but I'd like to use different media to expand and develop Elric and his world, offering fans extra material rather than the mixture as before.

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Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 4, 2011

    Worth reading -- another layer of Elric is revealed

    For fans of Elric, the story might be a little more confusing than those who haven't read anything else by Moorcock. The book ties up a lot of loose threads that we didn't even know were loose in the first place. To understand some of the names dropped and some of the main characters, it helps to have read The Dreamthief's Daughter, the Warhound and the World's Pain, and the City in the Autumn Stars.

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  • Posted January 1, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    The Skrayling Tree, the Elric Saga, Book 10

    Coming soon.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    fascinating Elric tale

    The multiverse consists of multiple realms each linked in such a way that an impact on any world affects all in some manner. Oona was a person a person who walked through the realms until she met Baron von Bek and decided to stay in his world where they marry and have children. One day on vacation her husband is kidnapped by Native Americans and taken to their realm Kakatanawa, a pyramid of gold, which lies on a lake of ice. Elric, sorcerer and emperor of Melnibone must find his magical sword Stormbringer or he, his friend Moonglum and perhaps Melnibone will be destroyed. He enters a dream, which is another person¿s reality where he learns that his sword is in Kakatanawa. He temporarily joins forces with the Pukawathers (pygmy) tribe who claim the sword is theirs stolen by White Crow. He enters the realm just as Oona has turned into a magical Buffalo who must fight one of the elementals. Ulric von Bek is brought by the people of Nihrain (they made Stormbringer) because they desperately need his help. The Nihrain tend the tree of the multiverse and they want Ulric to deliver a certain sword to Elric. All three warriors are working to keeping the tree of the multiverse healthy and free of poison so the multiverse doesn¿t perish. Michael Moorcock has never written a book this reviewer doesn¿t like. His point of view of the multiverse, the interconnection of the worlds within it, the people who travel between the realms performing daring feats of bravery make his novels totally enthralling. In THE SKRAYLING TREE, the connection between von Bek and Elric, who are both linked through Oona, makes for a fascinating tale. Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2010

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