Books Reviewed: Our Medieval Futures
Imagining a post-apocalypse world has long been fodder for Sci-Fi stories. From Mad Max and The Terminator to Children of Men and The Road, filmmakers and authors have explored a variety of unsettling dystopian futures.
One genre I’m calling ‘Medieval Futurism’ imagines a world where something nasty (nuclear war, pandemic, rampant infertility – take your pick) has found survivors clinging to existence in a reconstituted medieval world. They go back to the future with a vengeance. People live by candlelight, wear handwoven clothes, raise crops, and, most significantly, embrace the beliefs and superstitions of Medieval Christianity. Monks rule the barely literate and safeguard relics of the ‘ancient civilization’ that we live in today.
There’s plenty of dramatic leverage in the theme of intolerant religious orthodoxy that suppresses knowledge of the long-dead preceding civilization. One that left precious few artifacts for survivors to interpret many hundreds of years into the future. Whether these are scraps of plastic, shards of glass, or the mysteries hidden in underground shelters, there are those in a medieval future world who are curious and eager to learn more, and those in the church hierarchy who are intent on suppressing (or preserving) heretical knowledge. Such knowledge might lead to the resurrection of the technology that destroyed the world. Think of the response to Galileo by the inquisitors of the Roman church, who condemned the heresy of his heliocentrism. Think of the fascination we have for artifacts such as the Vindolanda tablets: that remarkable collection of ancient Roman letters and documents unearthed near Hadrian’s Wall in England, offering rare insights into the mysteries of daily life two millennia ago.
What artifacts will our age leave? Some rebar-reinforced concrete structures, mounds of indestructible plastic? And what will have disappeared without a trace? The digital records we invest so much energy in creating. No Facebook posts, emails, blogs (including this one!), or digital photos will remain when the last data center darkens. Will a future civilization even understand what ‘the cloud” was?
Three science fiction novels examine these questions, all set in what is clearly a ‘medieval’ landscape.
A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller Jr.
An original volume of this genre. There’s a through-line from this 1959 trilogy to the later works it inspired.
The book opens in a post-nuclear world, where monks in scattered monasteries live solitary lives. Miller traces the history of one of these monasteries over several hundred years.
We begin 600 years after the ‘Flame Deluge’ — a nuclear war that left much of the planet uninhabitable desert. It was followed by a ‘Simplification’ where survivors destroyed all vestiges of the science and industry that led to the apocalypse. The populists of that era were descendants of the French Revolution’s Reign of Terror:
Let us make a great simplification, and then the world shall begin again … After the Deluge, the Fallout, the plagues, the madness, the confusion of tongues, the rage, there began the bloodletting of the Simplification, when the remnants of mankind had torn other remnants limb from limb, killing rulers, scientists, leaders, technicians, teachers, and whatever the leaders of the maddened mobs said deserved death for having helped to make the Earth what it had become.
— A Canticle for Leibowitz, p. 63-64
The monks create illuminated parchments of 20th-century circuit diagrams and engineering blueprints, treating them as holy relics. They are members of the Albertian Order of Leibowitz, founded by 20th-century scientist Isaac Leibowitz. This is full-on monasticism. Latin phrases are liberally scattered throughout. The Order tracks down and smuggles memorabilia into the abbey while trying to avoid being killed by the Simpletons roaming the wastelands.
Parts II and III of the trilogy anticipate a resurrection of science and technology as the world emerges from the long medieval sleep.
The Second Sleep, by Robert Harris
Harris fools readers for the first 30 pages of this compelling, fast-paced novel into thinking they are firmly in 15th-century England. A young priest makes his way on horseback through the remote region of Wessex on a winter’s day. This is the era when, as has been documented, people went to bed as night fell, but then woke in the middle of the night to move about, and had a ‘second sleep’ before rising at dawn.
After the first 30 pages, Harris is explicit about the artifacts left from the civilization that perished eight hundred years before, when the young priest discovers:
…one of the devices used by the ancients to communicate…It was thinner than his little finger, smaller than his hand. ..He wondered who had owned it … What images might it once have conveyed? What sounds might have emerged from it? … He turned it over. On the back was the ultimate symbol of the ancients’ hubris and blasphemy — an apple with a bite taken out of it.
The Second Sleep, p. 28-29
What has survived the apocalypse are the thousands of stone churches scattered across England. The resurgent clergy rule the unlettered peasants and keep jealous watch over anyone curious about the old ways. The priesthood forbids anyone to investigate the past, branding those who do heretics. Indirectly acknowledging Leibowitz, Harris notes “Latin has been revived by the Church as another bulwark against scientism” (p. 99).
Likewise, as with Leibowitz, “An entire generations’ correspondence and memories had vanished into this mysterious entity the antiquarians called ‘The Cloud’.” (p. 100)
The novel is a fast-paced romp around a small village, complete with a murder mystery, the seductively aristocratic Lady Durston, the autocratic mill owner Captain Hancock, a duplicitous bishop, and a curious pair of gay antiquarians named Shadwell and Quycke. Agatha Christie lives on after the Apocalypse!
It all ends in subterranean splendor and a final sleep.
Radio Life, by Derek B. Miller
Miller acknowledges the influence of his namesake’s book:
This book owes a debt to Walter Miller Jr.’s A Canticle For Leibowitz (1959) … I consider Radio Life … to be in direct conversation with that 1959 novel on whether or not we are doomed to repeat our own mistakes.
– Radio Life, Acknowledgements, p 481
Indeed, reading Radio Life inspired me to read Leibowitz and Second Sleep.
However, it’s only in the last 70 pages of a 480-page book that Radio Life joins the mainstream of monastic life that the earlier two books were fully occupied with. Prior to that, it dramatizes the conflict between those who would investigate the past and those who would suppress that knowledge in a battle between the members of a tribe named ‘The Commonwealth’ and their enemies, ‘The Keepers’. The story’s leading actors are powerful women with a hipster vibe.
As before, the quest culminates beneath the blighted surface of the survivor’s world. There are cliff hangers and courageous acts, poignant moments of parental love, political insights and heartfelt feelings.
To the extent this book is a dialogue with Leibowitz, it situates the conversation in the modern world. An archive of web-based information lies waiting to be discovered. Understanding what was lost and how it ceased to be is revealed.
Stylistically, the author plays with language along the same lines as cyberpunk author William Gibson, whose novel The Peripheral is filled with cryptic terms and turns of phrase that the reader is left to puzzle over and piece together — terms like Easy Ice, The Jackpot, Polt, and Peripheral. So, Radio Life introduces us to terms such as the Gone World, the Unspeakable Years, Indies and Deps. There’s also an amusing series of asides where characters use terms that they have no framework of understanding for:
- ‘Your kids will be happy as clams.’ ‘What’s a clam?’ asks the man. (p. 43)
- ‘Well, you look fit as a fiddle…’ ‘What’s a fiddle?’ (p. 48)
- ‘One of those books was about wine. Have you heard of that? He shakes his head. ‘It’s a dizzy drink made from grapes.’ (p. 62)
- ‘I’m not going nuts.’ Saavni frowned. ‘What are nuts?’ (p. 167)
- ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ the woman said. ‘What’s a cat?’ (p. 193)
Sublime prose
Radio Life engages the reader both at the level of the plot and in the crisp writing and sublime prose it employs from start to finish:
Night comes. The riders and their mounts are silhouetted: blackened against a sky that is alive with colour. They cover their faces with scarves as the wind picks up and the shimmering green streaks of night appear above the remaining line of day. (p. 3)
…the sand piled at the base of the towers in the Gone World — a place where the urbanscape glowed so brightly with Big Electricity that the lights would reflect from the clouds at night. (p. 155)
Comedy wants intimacy, not distance. The sky here is too big to fill with laughter. (p. 272)
…time slips away like rain from oiled leather. (p. 286)
Story archetypes
There are elements of the classic Greek myths of Orpheus and Eurydice in each of these three novels: the discovery of an underworld containing forbidden, long-lost secrets from which escape is difficult, if not impossible. The heroes end up in underground bomb shelters, where they discover clues to lost civilizations. There are elements of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Lord of the Rings, and similar quests in which adversity impedes the main characters. These are the archetypes of the basic plots that have guided storytellers for millennia.
Employing the conceit of a pre-modern, Medieval mindset to understand possible futures that might await our industrial and scientifically sophisticated age, each of these three novels, in different ways, casts light on the fault lines of our time that might fracture humanity and cast us into the Dark Ages once more.
A time when a mother might share fairy tale bedtime stories with her daughter on some far-off distant, future evening, imagining the past we live in:
‘The people there,’ said Rachael, her hand on Lilly’s chest at bedtime, Lilly smiling at the dreamy possibility of it all, ‘numbered in millions and millions and when they wanted to leave they traveled in flying ships that zipped through the air faster than birds. And oh, the food there!’ Rachael would roll her eyes in ecstasy, which always made Lilly giggle. ‘It was so plentiful they would only eat half of what they were given and then just . . . throw it away! And then take a nap on the table and snore.’
And they would laugh and laugh and laugh.
– Radio Life, p. 155


























