Behind The Scene: Exclusive Author Commentary on Simul by Andrew Caldecott

Hello and welcome to this Behind the Scene post, in which I’m delighted to present an excerpt from Simul by Andrew Caldecott, accompanied by an exclusive commentary by Andrew himself. Out now from Jo Fletcher Books, Simul is the second volume of the Momenticon duology, following on from 2023’s Momenticon, which has been described as “a perplexing and brilliant story full of literary and artistic rabbit holes and quirky characters.” The idea behind my Behind the Scene series is to ask authors to talk a bit about a scene or a chapter from their book and give an insight into their thought processes as they wrote it. Here Andrew has more than fulfilled that brief, with a fascinating commentary exploring the concept and purpose of Simul’s opening chapter.

So read on for Andrew’s brilliant comments, followed by the first two chapters of Simul for your reading pleasure! I’ve arranged things in this order because that’s what makes sense to me, but feel free to skip ahead to the excerpt and come back to read Andrew’s commentary afterwards, if you’d prefer. First though, the synopsis:

‘Remember Simul’ – the last words of a dying man, and the key to mankind’s survival.

Words which take Morag, Fogg and their friends on a wild ride through caverns and over mountains, into old paintings, to a university unlike any other and up the lethal Tower of No Return. A ride where mythical beasts, legendary monster-hunters and a corrupt establishment lie in wait . . . while the weather-watchers look on and bide their time.

It’s a race against extinction too . . . for nature herself is bent on vengeance.

***

Andrew Caldecott: At school, many years ago now, the English teacher would set ‘gobbets’, meaning a short extract from a novel which had to be read and analysed for style, thrust, characters and what might be deduced of the plot. It’s a pleasure to be asked by the editor of Track of Words to conduct this exercise on the opening chapter of Simul, the concluding sequel to Momenticon, by way of explaining what I hope the reader might take from it.

Some context is required. An Author’s Note at the front carries a warning and an explanation:

Simul is a sequel, and its story will make little sense unless the first volume, Momenticon, has been read first… Part I of Simul is retrospective and ends roughly where Momenticon begins. Parts II to IV take the story to its conclusion.

So, to first impressions. The chapter records a stunt with a humorous coating over a serious message. A hologram, who calls herself Triv, invades a cabinet meeting with an imminent end-of-the-world warning, minutes after the Prime Minister has paid no more than glib lip-service to the destruction of the world’s rainforest. Two facts suggest the warning is serious: the reference to a ‘yellowish mist’ clinging to the windowpanes and the mention of the extinction of three bird species with exotic names. If the reader troubles to look them up, he or she will discover they are real species, recently lost, to be contrasted with the equally real examples of mankind’s trivial preference for light entertainment.

The chapter tells us more. The stunt has been orchestrated by a Lord Vane, a sufficient mover and shaker to have been given a peerage and to have the technology to organise the stunt and an earlier one in the White House. The name of his business, Tempestas, hints at an ability to control the weather and raises a deeper question. How can this Lord Vane know that Armageddon is ‘coming soon’, unless he has the wherewithal to track it or even inflict it? On which of these two grounds is his hologram offering a last chance? And note the relish with which Triv delivers her ultimatum. Lord Vane does not sound like a man who would hesitate to use his powers. His contempt for mankind’s current model shines through, and the punitive reference to Gomorrah is graphic.

Readers of Momenticon will know that the yellowish mist foreshadows the murk which will destroy not only most of mankind but Nature too, and that although the murk may not have been created by Tempestas, Lord Vane can control its progress. In the event it corrodes and destroys whatever it meets.

The reader may ponder another question. It seems unlikely that this Lord Vane and his workforce intend to share mankind’s fate. The jauntiness of the hologram idea suggests Lord Vane is a man of vitality and vision. In the event we know from Momenticon that Tempestas has a headquarters which is immune from the murk, and that other scientifically alert forces, including a rival business focussed on genetic engineering, have prepared for the impending disaster by building murk-resistant domes and developing new science. There is more than one Noah in play, and what are their respective visions for a brave new world?

The opening section of Simul is entitled ORIGINS and comprises a seventh of the whole book. As that heading suggests, these chapters precede the first book in time while the rest follows it. Momenticon opens with a single man, Fogg, alone in a dome which contains mankind’s most famous paintings and artefacts. He thinks (wrongly, no surprise there) that he is the last man standing. The plot and cast expand from there into a weird dystopian world, where nutrition comes from matter rearrangement and towns are based on famous paintings: a mix of scientific advance and self-indulgence on the part of the new leaders who soon exhibit the faults of the old world. Having started the first book with this stranded Robinson Crusoe figure, I wanted to start the second with a scene which encapsulated the original failure of political will.

This connects with a feature of both books. From its infancy to modern blockbusters, from eighteenth century women with no prospects to hobbits, novels cast ordinary folk as heroic figures. All the characters, save Triv who is not truly a character at all, in the opening chapter of Simul, are persons of power and influence, the kind of people Fogg and his friends will soon be up against. This is more than pitching light against dark. These ordinary people lack experience in the ways of the world, and their exposure to such forces allows for evolution of character, and a canvas on which moral conflicts can be played out.

Before you reach the opening chapter, you pass the end papers which illustrate an academic establishment: the College of Novelties. Its motto – The Truth in Black and White – reflects its vast library of mankind’s inventions with white volumes recording their good effects and black the bad, in the hope that these judgments will prevent similar errors in the future. Like the opening chapter, the end papers look both forward and back.

In one sense the first and last chapters of Simul are end papers. Both concern the consequences of the despoliation of the Amazon rainforest which will destroy the old world and in quite a different way threaten the new. Both raise the question echoed by Triv: what should we do, and what would we do, in the last chance saloon?

***

How about that for a commentary?! If that’s whetted your appetite for Simul, read on for the first two chapters of the book!

***

1

An Unwanted Message

Every seat is taken at the long oval table. Cards, perfectly aligned on the green baize cloth, declare the ministerial post of each chair’s occupant. Outside, a yellowish mist clings to the windowpanes. The Prime Minister glares at the Secretary of State for the Environment.

‘Logging in the Amazon! Since when are we Brazilians? What the hell is it doing here?’

‘It’s the UN’s Rainforest Day; we can say we discussed it.’

‘Right. Discussed. Next: Chancellor?’

At that moment, a semi-transparent young woman in a short skirt appears in the centre of the Cabinet table.

‘Hi! I’m Triv. As a minor royal grabs the headlines for wearing the same dress twice, and I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! starts its fortieth series in the Amazon jungle, the following birds of brilliance are lost forever to Brazil and the world: Spix’s macaw, the Alagoas foliage-gleaner, the cryptic treehunter—’

The Prime Minister’s fist slams the tabletop. Water glasses dance.

‘Get that woman out of here!’

Some, mostly men, leer and fantasise; others stare at their shoes. Security steps into the breach.

‘I’m afraid she’s virtual, Prime Minister.’

‘Who’s doing this?’

‘Tempestas, Prime Minister. You may recall a similar stunt in the Oval office last month.’

‘Get the Attorney General. I want an injunction now. And find us another room.’

One junior minister whispers to another, ‘To think he gave Lord Vane his peerage.’

With a suggestive swing of the hips, Triv moves from her liturgy for the vanished to a farewell song as the Cabinet file out:

‘In the Final Chance Saloon
Mere survival is a boon,
So ready for the horror
Which undid poor Gomorrah:
For, baby, she’s coming soon.’

2

Audiences

Down the passage in Tiriel’s Tower, men and women on plastic chairs and the Tempestas payroll map the progress of the corrosive storms sweeping away the last remnants of the old world, but here in Lord Vane’s study, news arrives, and orders leave, on paper. He is deeply radical and yet deeply conservative. One such order has brought his only son’s young governess, Nancy Baldwin, to the door. She knocks.

‘In!’ bellows Lord Vane, who does not wait for the door to close before delivering his diatribe: ‘Why is that boy simpering over art books?’

‘I was asked to give him an education,’ replies Miss Baldwin gamely. Stocky in build, with a plain but resolute face, she stands her ground physically as she does in argument.

‘He is heir to the world’s last kingdom, not a student of daubs and scribblings.’

The boy, thirteen today, stands awkwardly to one side of his father’s large, ornate desk, hands behind his back. ‘It’s only two hours a week,’ he interjects quietly.

‘You speak when you’re spoken to,’ snaps Lord Vane in a voice which cows most opposition.

But the boy has learnt courage from Miss Baldwin.

‘She teaches me Machiavelli too,’ he says.

‘Does she, now? It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both. Do you teach that, Miss Baldwin?’

The boy interrupts a second time.

‘Two impulses drive us: love or fear. Isn’t that the choice we rulers have to make?’

Lord Vane rises from his equally ornate chair. He approaches his son, as if to strike him. Instead, he spins round to face Miss Baldwin once more.

‘From now on, he’ll be taught by the Master of the Weather-Watchers.’

The boy’s head sinks low to his chest.

‘Mr Jaggard is no teacher,’ says Miss Baldwin.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He is not a man who shares.’

‘He will if I tell him to.’

‘And he revels in our tragedy.’

‘Our tragedy? You mean theirs! If the world had listened, if the world had acted, most could – would – have survived. More to the point, Jaggard has a clever son about the same age. They’ll get on famously.’

Clever, indeed, she thinks, but slippery as an eel and not her idea of a good influence.

Lord Vane softens, and that is his reputation: generous, once he has had his way. ‘I’m not dismissing you, of course. You can help young Potts with the library databases.’ He turns back to his son. ‘But no art books for you, now or ever.’

Next in is a fresh-faced Peregrine Mander.

‘Ah, young Mander! Is the art of the old world logged and recorded?’ asks Lord Vane, sitting down again at his magnificent pedestal desk.

‘Hardly all of it, my Lord, but what I hope is the crème de la crème.’

‘Your postcard idea was genius. No galleries to turn people soft, but a space-efficient record of our wasted craftsmanship.’

‘I’m pleased you approve, my Lord.’

‘Just keep my son away from them. Arty-farties are unfit to govern.’

‘I have limited experience on that topic,’ replies Mander cautiously.

‘Miss Baldwin says you’ve mastered the Matter-Rearranger.’

‘You never master the culinary arts, you merely develop them.’

Lord Vane smiles rarely these days, but he does now.

‘I have to say, Mander, you speak like a man in his sixties.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, my Lord.’

‘Good, because I’ve a proposal. I need a fetcher and carrier. Someone to make mealtimes a pleasure. Someone trustworthy, to keep an eye. Are you up for it?’

Mander nods gently as Lord Vane encourages him.

‘I want you to stand out and be respected. So, how about the traditional kit?’

‘Which tradition is that, my Lord?’

‘Personal service.’

‘Ah, the gentleman’s gentleman.’ Mander mulls, but briefly. ‘I shall visit the Tempestas’ tailor this very afternoon.’

In Mander’s complex mind, it is rare for an offer to seem instantly right, but this one does. He will be inside the citadel of power, yet will pose no threat in his white tie and tails. The dress and deferential language of the butler will make him near invisible, but, boy, he will listen. And, in his own way, he will act. Lord Vane has no idea what a promotion this is.

‘So, you’re game?’

Game he is, and game is the word.

‘I trust I’ll not disappoint, my Lord.’

‘That’s settled, then. I feel this will be a long and fruitful relationship. Keep an eye on my son, too. We can’t have a wimp for an heir.’

Two satisfactory audiences, from Lord Vane’s perspective: objectives accomplished without conflict. But the next may be more testing.

A young outlier waltzes in, no respectful pause at the threshold like the others. She looks a maverick too: one eyebrow higher than the other, a nose which tilts slightly to the right, a quizzical lopsided smile. At least the eyes are the same colour. They say she is a sponge for detail and mistress of the colourful phrase.

‘I trust you are pleased with your appointment, Miss Crike?’

‘Tickled pink.’

Tickled pink is not how his patronage is usually greeted. I’m very grateful, your Lordship would be a start.

He gives her a prompt: ‘The Official History of Tempestas. That’s quite a subject and quite a privilege. The library has a whole shelf set aside.’

Crike eyes the old fox. She could write the official version right now. Tempestas warned like an Old Testament prophet. Humanity closed its ears and paid in fire and brimstone. Think Sodom and Gomorrah.

‘What is an official history?’ she asks.

‘A narrative provided by those who know. Mr Venbar and Mr Jaggard will give you whatever time you need. As will I, of course.’

‘An excellent start,’ replies Miss Crike, lingering over the last syllable.

‘The best historian in your year, I’m told.’

‘My university had spires, meadows, quads laid to grass and a river. All dust now. Nothing like loss to strengthen your sense of history.’

Lord Vane softens, though less sure, this time, that he has got his way. ‘I went to a university like yours. I know how you feel. I’ve even remembered my college in my will.’

Hilda Crike bobs, more an acknowledgement than a curtsey, and withdraws.

So, Crike the spy and Crike the actress are born, for history is about what truly happened: a task for stealth and subterfuge. She might even get a chance to remedy whatever faults the truth reveals. She is ambitious to shape history as well as record it.

On reaching the library, an oddity strikes her. How can Lord Vane donate to a college which no longer exists?

***

Thanks so much to Andrew for agreeing to this Behind the Scene post, and for writing such an interesting, in-depth commentary. I love this sort of detail, it’s just fascinating to get this kind of thoughtful glimpse behind the curtain! Between that and the excerpt, I’m definitely intrigued by this duology…

Simul is out now in the UK from Jo Fletcher Books (and on the 6th Feb in the US) – check out the links below to order* your copy:

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