Death Be Not Proud: THE DOOR ON HALF-BALD HILL

You’d think that a book about a dying land would be the last place to turn for encouragement in the midst of a global pandemic. And in fact, I did put off reading The Door on Half-Bald Hill — for a little while. At the beginning of this summer, my heart was so heavy that I didn’t feel I could handle weighty reading. It was fun, for a few weeks, to turn to some light middle-grade reads like Ella Enchanted.

But I’d heard Helena Sorensen read an excerpt of her new book at last year’s Hutchmoot conference in Nashville, and I’d soaked up her razor-sharp, insightful words in her workshop “Meeting God Through the Imagination.” Somewhere deep down, I knew that The Door on Half-Bald Hill was exactly the story I needed to hear this summer.

It was.

The Door on Half-Bald Hill is set in a fictional world that draws deeply from the landscape, customs and lore of ancient Ireland. As in Tolkien’s Middle Earth, Sorensen’s land of Baileléan is haunted by echoes of an even more distant past, as well as occasional glimpses into other worlds beyond.

The people of Baileléan mark their days by the phases of the moon and sun, and hold fast to the traditions handed down to them by bards, druids and seers. But their land, once lovely and fertile, is dying. The water is poisoned. Crops fail. Villages sink into the spreading bogs. The banshee and puka lure despairing men and women to their doom. The once-flourishing culture has dwindled to a few handfuls of people who eke out a living as best they can. The shadow of the Crone, Mistress of Death, grows in reach and power.

 Zinerva, healer and seer of the village of Blackthorn, exhorts the people to surrender to their destiny of death. But Idris, the young Bard of Blackthorn, is determined to find another way. He journeys through the haunted hills to the eastern edge of their island nation. There, he discovers an oak made of iron on Half-Bald Hill. Its roots have cracked open the gate to the Underworld, leaching death into the River Adder. The Crone has made this hill the seat of her power, and no one can defeat death. Or can they? Is there a way that Death itself can die?

The pacing of The Door on Half-Bald Hill is steady and purposeful. You won’t find a lot of breakneck action here, or wisecrack humor. Instead, Sorensen invites us to live alongside this courageous people for awhile, participating in their daily life with all our senses, and feeling the full weight of their struggle.

At first, I found this difficult. I felt like a stranger in a strange land as I pieced together the scraps of history that Idris told, and learned the personalities and back stories of the villagers. But as I settled into the ensuing chapters, the land of Baileléan soon felt as much a part of me as my own skin. Sorensen’s vivid prose cast a powerful spell: I could smell the briny ocean, taste the hot porridge and hedgerow wine, feel the rough fieldstones and the smooth white bark of the birch trees. I experienced Idris’ pain and questions as my own.

The result was transformative.

Until I read The Door on Half-Bald Hill, I thought my heavy heart needed books that would entertain and distract me. I didn’t realize how much I needed a story that would tackle hard questions head-on—and move towards answers. Although there’s pain in this book, the characters don’t wallow in a slough of despond. They look out for each other, sharing freely what they have. They’re faithful in their daily tasks. They hang onto hope, even when everything seems hopeless, looking to a time when the Crone’s power will be vanquished and the flowers will bloom again. They move through the valley of the shadow of death into a future that’s all the sweeter because of the bitterness that preceded it. As I walked their story with them, I felt my own heart growing both stronger and lighter.

If you could use some of that hope, too, I highly recommend this eloquent, enchanting tale.