Gradually, I met more friends and family—“the daughter,” as the Irish say, Georgeanne (Gigi) and her brothers, Todd and, eventually, Alec. Anne’s widowed sister-in-law (once removed), Sara Virginia Brooks Johnson, came to live with her shortly afterward, and Geoff Kennedy, a friend of Gigi’s from earlier days, was a frequent visitor. Fast forward to Geoff and Gigi’s gorgeous wedding in the little parish church of St. Patrick in Glencullen, and then Todd’s wedding, his daughter’s baptism, and two funerals. By then you might say I had become the unofficial weyr chaplain of Dragonhold.
Somewhere along the way, “Anne” became “Annie.” Over the next thirty years, we engaged in a mainly epistolary exchange but at times worked together on projects of mutual interest. When I was able to visit, we plotted and schemed story ideas, went to movies, and enjoyed bodacious family feasts at Christmas and whenever the occasion might be made to arise. Part of the fun of working with Annie was that the “brilliant ideas” we concocted over these sessions served mainly to stimulate her imagination and rarely glimmered even faintly between the lines of print. But that’s why we did it.
Once in a while religion came up, but it was hardly a topic of everyday interest despite the wonderfully flinty observations of the redoubtably Protestant Sara Virginia. She, however, was Methodist, like my grandpa. We had that and gardening in common (she was an expert gardener), and she had been a nurse. We got on.
Teaching at Oxford half the academic year during the 1990s gave me a good opportunity to ferret out odd bits of information for Anne, perhaps most usefully in regard to the development of horseshoes in sixth-century Britain, which she used to good effect in her young-adult Arthurian novel, Black Horses for the King. She put more “religion” in that than any other of her books, which was historically appropriate. She ran a few of the scenes past me to make sure she got details right. She did.
As we were otherwise separated by the Irish Sea, the wide Atlantic, and half the United States, we initially exchanged real letters every few weeks, but with the advent of email, the dialogue quickened prodigiously. I archived most of the messages, and fortunately so because they have a way of clarifying events that might otherwise pass unremarked or misunderstood in other biographies and interviews, including the matter of religion on Pern.
McCaffrey, Religion, and a Planet Called Pern
Though religious matters never occupied much line space in the hundreds of letters and emails we exchanged, scattered clues and asides illuminate some of the more obscure zones in accounts of the development of the saga. In February 1998, she wrote, not without a touch of gentle irony, “As I said the other day, I do not like organized religions but that doesn’t mean I am not religious in my own way and form.”
On a number of occasions—accidents, the injuries and illness of friends, sudden deaths, and similar challenges—she would briefly request that I put in a word with the Lord. And I believe she did as well, in her own fashion. No doubt more a polite suggestion than a plea, but the Lord did not seem to mind. However, churchgoing was reserved for Very Special Occasions, especially weddings, baptisms, and funerals.
If organized religion was an unobtrusive and very infrequent guest at Dragonhold, it was totally lacking on Pern, an absence that hardly went unnoticed. Many science fiction writers and fans are vehemently skeptical, but others range from the spiritually curious to outright Bible-thumping evangelical. So for one reason or another, Annie found herself constrained on occasion to render an account of the apparent vacancy in her best-selling series.
When asked by one interviewer why the people of Pern were not overtly religious, Anne explained,
As you probably realize, during a terrible war situation people either cling as their last hope to the religion of their choice, or they become agnostic, losing their belief in a Good, Kindly [and] Wise Deity who has allowed such atrocities to happen to innocent people.
The colonists who went with Admiral Benden and Governor Boll were of the second type, especially from groups who had suffered from atrocities committed BECAUSE of religion: notice what’s happening in Kosovo and Iran. What happened to the Mormons in the USA? So no ORGANIZED religion was brought to Pern and none was set up. There is, however, a strong ethical code among the colonists and by this they govern their lives and interactions. Not even Thread was allowed to alter these precepts.3
Anne was well aware of the role “organized” religion played in bloody strife, not least in Northern Ireland, as well as in other global hotspots. She—along with her Pern colonists—deliberately precluded that from marring what was planned to be a permanently peaceful new world, at least in that respect. There would be plenty of malice, greed, hate, and violence, of course—what would fiction be without them?—but not as the result of religious conflict. Not on her planet! I suppose it could be argued from this that Anne’s evaluation of what religion ought to be was, in fact, too lofty. She was hardly a Utopian, but she had high ideals.
As we learn from Emily Boll’s speech in Dragonsdawn, eliminating organized religion from Pern had been deliberate from the earliest phases of the colonists’ planning:
“We may not be religious in the archaic meaning of the word, but it makes good sense to give worker and beast one day’s rest,” Emily stated in the second of the mass meetings. “The old Judean Bible used by some of the old religious sects on Earth contained a great many commonsensible suggestions for an agricultural society, and some moral and ethical traditions which are worthy of retention”—she held up a hand, smiling benignly—”but without any hint of fanatic adherence! We left that back on Earth along with war!”
Though admittedly smug, Emily’s statement effectively summarized the colonists’ rationale. Anne’s own explanation (supplied after the fat hit the fire following the publication of “Beyond Between” in 2003) provided some personally meaningful detail:
I figured—since there were four holy wars going on at the time of writing—that religion was one problem Pern didn’t need. However, if one listens to childhood teachings, God is everywhere so there should be no question in any mind that he is also on Pern. Thus, there is a heaven to which worthy souls go. So, without mentioning any denomination of organized religion, I figured that both Moreta and Leri deserved respite after their trials . . . and that’s where “Beyond Between” is.4
Personal comments from earlier emails cast a bit more light on her attitude, such as this revealing aside from September 1996:
Actually, I usually do counter the lack of religion by the presence of a high tone of spirituality on Pern—when pushed by Baptists to do so. I’m currently reading a Dave Duncan which has a veritable pantheon of gods/esses for all sorts of purposes, each with a color and a creed and an ability to interfere with mortals similar to the games that went on at Mt. Olympus. Well, it makes a nice change from galleying McCaffrey.
(Anne spent considerable time proofing galleys of her prodigious output.)
One of the more exasperating aspects of deliberately eliminating organized religion from Pern was the reaction from people Annie sometimes referred to charitably enough as “nuts,” but with whom she often undertook a dialogue, sometimes a spirited one, so to speak. A few correspondents were content to denounce her for promoting atheism. She didn’t, of course. She ignored religion and simply left God out of the discussion (so did J. R. R. Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings, of course, but I don’t recall readers accusing him of atheism).
One of the more strenuous objections came from a fellow with some cultural anthropology background who maintained that every human culture and society on Earth had evolved some kind of religion. It is intrinsic to human civilization. Ergo, over the centuries, some kind religion would have evolved on Pern. So where was it?
Didn’t exist, Annie said. Had to, said he. The dialogue became heated, and Annie finally called in the weyr chaplain (me) to see if I could get this fellow off her case. Eventually, we had to invite him to go elsewhere with his rants.
I had some id
eas of my own, based on accepted notions of religious development, which I had run by Annie’s watchful eye back as early as 1986. They did not convince her, and I didn’t expect them to, but we enjoyed the repartee:
what with persons bugging you about Religion on Pern, I would LOVE to sit and chat, since that is my area. (Not Religion on Pern, but Religious Studies. About which, also cf. below, as they say . . . ) Don’t fall for the stuff about the Primal Egg. Neither culture (nor religion) on Pern [would have] evolved from scratch (so to speak), but would be a descended (but transformed) version of whatever religion(s) or religious feelings the first colonists had. I.e., much more likely a historical religion (e.g., like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) than a nature religion, dragons notwithstanding. It is also likely that the holders would have a religious code different from and in some respects hostile to that of the Dragonriders—more mercantile/agrarian (a la later Judaism) than nomadic/herder/warrior (a la Islam). But they would be shoots from the same stem. And in each case there would be some vestige of built-in demythologization from the Olden Days, probably in the form of a pervasive skepticism. The Dragonriders would probably have a more developed notion of luck/fate/grace because of the precariousness of their work, while the holders would be more complacent and, in good times, downright atheistic. In any event, the Pernese would not worship mythical dragons or Eggs. They’re too smart. I doubt if there would be a formal priesthood, either, although a kind of Zen-Buddhist monasticism might have sprouted among the Riders, just as Zen was cultivated by the Samurai. Something also worth pondering re: the Dragonriders would be the Shintoist-Zen cult of the Japanese pilots of WW II, including the suicide ethic. In short, a modified form of ancestor worship in which figures like Moreta would function like hero-saints and martyrs along with their dragons. A kind of semi-polytheism under the umbrella of a vague monotheism (sounds a bit like some forms of Catholicism!). . . . (I could go on for a long time, but mercifully won’t. But someday let’s do.)
We did, on occasion. In 1996, she provided another telling comment after I reported on a chatroom debate I had with a particularly truculent correspondent (who was eventually cut off by the monitor):
Glad you survived the CHAT—they can be fun and there’re usually a couple of awkward ones—I get them, too—and usually have to repeat what I’ve said earlier online . . . glad the electro cops could step in. Didn’t the ass know that the Dragons ARE the religion on Pern?
Cussing
Absent organized religion on Pern, the matter of profanity also posed something of a problem, if one more literary than political. For reasons deep and dark, religion (next only to sex) seems always to have provided humankind matter for its most outrageous and, therefore, useful expletives, frequently curses involving the inappropriate use of the Lord’s name or ingenious (and obscene) references to sacred body parts. The retrospective volume Dragonsdawn does find the original colonists swearing colorfully, if not frequently, including some vocabulary that would have seemed out of place in the original Pern stories. But even these hardy pioneers seem temperate in employing the usual religious epithets, giving the more heated exchanges a kind of Victorian hue. But it is cumbersome even to be mildly profane when there is no fanum to be outside of.
I did make a few lame suggestions in a note from 1997: “Shards! Okay, so your Pernese are a pretty nice lot. They are still human, right? By the Burning Thread of Firstfall! By the First Egg!” Annie came up with some alternatives, but “scorch it!” and “fardling” just don’t carry the conviction that one might expect from sweaty, battle-hardened Dragonriders just in from a tough bout of flaming Thread. Did I mention that although Annie had her tougher side, she was a genuinely gentle, kind, and caring person?
On February 27, 2000, she wrote,
Have thought of one idea—with many of the “common herd” a bit dubious of Aivas and the good he’s already done/will do/has files on—suspicions arise. Of course, because Aivas helped save the planet from the fireball, ‘By Aivas, he helped’ becomes a vouchsafe for surety. So, whether he wants to or not, Aivas becomes a talisman . . . better than the ‘By First Egg.’ Do I know what I mean by all that?
Speaking of Aivas, the Artificial Intelligence Voice Activated System buried by the first colonists and recovered thousands of years later by Jaxom and Piemur in Renegades of Pern, the computer got the best line when it came to religion or at least the Bible. Toward the end of All the Weyrs of Pern, Aivas cites the Book of Ecclesiastes (or do you say Qoheleth?) to ease Master Robinton’s final moments of life in one of the finest scenes of the whole series:
“‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,’ Master Robinton.”
“That is poetic, Aivas.”
There was one of those pauses that Robinton always thought was the Aivas equivalent of a smile.
“From the greatest book ever written by Mankind, Master Robinton.”
Of course it’s possible to read more into this passage than Anne intended. A number of readers have cited it as evidence of an underlying spiritual, if not religious, conviction. Considering previous offhand statements, this would not be too far off the mark. It at least shows that while organized religion had been precluded from Pern from the earliest phases of planning, the colonists had not entirely forgotten the positive religious heritage of humanity. Annie had her Bible at hand. She knew where to find things.
Going Beyond Between
Anne’s deeper spiritual inklings came more strongly forward in her final solo work, a short story that launched a number of heated reactions.
It started off innocuously enough. Although she had handled the religious references and chapel scenes in her earlier historical novel Black Horses for the King well enough to pass muster, and her allusion in All the Weyrs of Pern is evidential of her positive attitude toward the spiritual aspect of religious tradition, she came closest to tackling a genuinely religious, or at least metaphysical, theme in “Beyond Between.” We exchanged a folder full of email about this short story, which she referred to originally as “Moreta’s Ghost.” Its genesis provides a literally haunting glimpse into her attitude toward matters religious and spiritual.
Late in 2001, she had been invited by Robert Silverberg to submit a ghost story for his forthcoming anthology Legends II, which was originally to be entitled Shadows, Gods, and Demons. Dutifully, she set out to write a genuine ghost story, and for characters and theme she went back to one of the most deeply felt and successful of her Pern novels, Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern (1983). Anne worked on the story for over a year, but when “Beyond Between” appeared, it proved to be arguably the least well received of all her stories. Even some of the trade reviews were surprisingly abrasive.
Moreta’s weary disappearance “between” at the end of the novel admittedly came as a shock to readers at the time, although Anne had long since established that if dragonriders failed to envision a point of emergence from the spatial-temporal dimension through which dragons could pass, they would be trapped there and inevitably perish. Still, the surprise loss of a powerful and engaging heroine was deeply disturbing to many readers and to her editors as well.
In an interview with Lynne Jamneck published online in 2004, Annie commented:
When I wrote Dragonlady and allowed Moreta to go between and not come out, there was quite an outcry, including one from Judy-Lynn del Rey, my editor. She thought Moreta could have mistakenly gone to the future, or the past but that she was still alive.5
But Anne’s decision to follow up on Moreta’s fate, as well as that of other riders who had disappeared “between,” gave her the opportunity to explore both personal and fictional issues regarding life, death, and immortality that mattered deeply to her. The losses of relatives and friends over the years weighed on her, especially those of her elder brother Mac and her friend Johnny Greene of the Foreign Legion (recalled in several novels by characters with J.G. in their names), as well as those of neighbors, clients of Dragonhold S
tables, and her own household staff. Her favorite and supportive Aunt Gladdie had died years earlier, and Annie’s crusty companion and expert gardener, Sara Virginia Brooks Johnson, “Sis,” went to her rest in 2001 as did her friend and fellow author Gordon Dickson. She didn’t talk about these losses a great deal, but they clearly remained with her as a challenge to her sense of destiny and the place of friendship in this world and beyond.
Still, surfacing these concerns in a published story, even indirectly, was bold, a move perpendicular to the customary tone of the Pern canon, and perhaps surprising given her general reticence about religious themes in previous works. Over the months of its gestation, we exchanged dozens of messages about the story as Anne struggled to express her sense of the indestructibility of the human spirit. As the canon was jealously guarded by ardent battalions of self-appointed sentries, departures could prove hazardous. And such divergence was even more flagrant than getting the color of a dragon’s (or dragon-rider’s) eyes wrong.
On January 13, 2002, she wrote, “Bob Silverberg was, for him, ecstatic about me doing a Pernese ghost story so I’m taking that one past both Todd and Gigi for input.” And three days later, “Did 6,000 words on the ghost story yesterday and will reread to see how I like it now it’s cooled off a bit.” Two days later, the tally was up to 16,000, but some health setbacks and plot problems began to slow the pace.
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