Chevalier and Gawayn

Phillip Mann

Quentin Wilson Publishing

Otago Daily Times, December 17th 2022

The news of Phillip Mann’s death reached me at the same time as Chevalier and Gawayn, but the novel itself, a synthesis of historical mythology and science fiction, reveals a writer still at the peak of his powers.

The setting is a world ravaged by climate change and plague, where people are forced to live isolated from the world and, in most instances, each other. Daily health checks are compulsory, hermetically sealed body suits must be worn in external and public spaces, and unauthorised travel beyond the City is forbidden; rules strictly enforced by Healthfriends and Wayfriends (doublespeak for officers from the Departments of Public Hygiene and Security, respectively). The titular Chevalier, meanwhile, is a Taxfriend, an investigative officer employed by the third arm of government, Tax Web Central. In his downtime, he dabbles as a clandestine taxidermist or immerses himself in one of the online dreams that enable people to experience the otherwise unavailable pleasures of travel, adventure and intimacy. Chevalier himself uses an experimental VR interface, CIRCE, which forms a direct neural connection with the user to create a fully personalised and unique experience. In his case he is transformed into the Arthurian hero, Sir Gawayn, and transported to a world populated by characters from Britannic and Classical legend. But it is not long before the boundaries between real and virtual, personal and professional, tax inspection and taxidermy break down, and he finds himself on a (presumably) real-world quest to escape the repression and inequity of the City-state with his fellow CIRCE users.

The story starts slowly, the first few chapters dominated down by scene-setting and the introduction of a bewildering array of government acronyms, albeit deployed with a sly humour (Chevalier works for Dof-HAT – the Department of Heritage and Taxation – and law-breaking can result in offenders being dispatched to the Open Rehab, Welfare and Eugenics Lyceum). It soon picks up pace, however, as Chevalier finds himself at the centre of intrigue and counter-intrigue, and his inner Gawayn comes increasingly to the fore.

Mann’s prowess as a storyteller is on full display throughout the book. The narrator draws the reader into his world by occasionally breaking the fourth wall, switching from the close third person to the intimate first-person plural to posit counterfactuals or provide commentary. Chevalier’s hero’s quest is familiar and beguiling, and the madcap cast of characters adds a splash of humour and colour to the fun (my favourite being the gloriously named Ziga Wardle). My one reservation is that the narrative is tinged with elements of Covid-conspiracy (“government regulations had little effect on the spread of disease. If anything, new and more repressive regulations made the situation worse”), but I prefer to interpret the vision of Chevalier and his fellow escapees sailing away from the city, their faces bare and unobscured, as a triumph of hope against adversity. Not an end but a new beginning, a movement towards an unknown future, and a fitting send-off for one of this county’s great SciFi writers.