Flint and Mirror
John Crowley’s Flint and Mirror brims with fascinating, well-crafted history. Sadly, the accompanying magic feels less essential.
The story is primarily set in 16th-century Ireland following Queen Elizabeth’s ascension to the English throne. Her father, Henry VIII, had already begun England’s shift to Protestantism and conquest of Ireland. Much of its population remained staunchly Catholic, however, and Elizabeth sought to finish bringing the isle to heel.
Crowley’s protagonist is Hugh O’Neill, heir to a line of Irish royalty. Flint and Mirror tells the tale of O’Neill’s long life in a short span of pages, chronicling his early days as an English ward—brought to London under the premise that “like an eyas [nestling] falcon, a young Irish lord if taken early enough might later come more willingly to the English wrist”—his rise to power in Ireland, and his eventual rebellion against his former colonial benefactors.
There’s much to admire here, especially the prose. Yet Crowley casts Flint and Mirror as a historical fantasy without making the fantasy consequential. The two objects in the title are magical artifacts given to O’Neill during his youth. One is of Irish origin; the other, English. But despite suggestions that they might allow him to summon mythical allies to his aid or spy on his enemies, we never see him wield these powers in meaningful fashion. Mostly, the magic in Flint and Mirror serves the symbolic function of explaining O’Neill’s conflicting loyalties (and perhaps doubles as a larger metaphor for Ireland’s fraught relationship with England).
To repeat, though, Crowley’s writing is beautiful—more than good enough to keep me going through the sections where I wondered whether Flint and Mirror should have been straight historical fiction. Genre quibbles aside, this is a book worth reading in full.
