The aliens in science fiction tend to be humans with pointy ears or extra appendages or some kind of super power. With certain notable exceptions (Stanislaw Lem's Fiasco, for example, which satirizes the whole notion of First Contact), that's fine because the aliens are frequently supposed to be representative of human beings anyway. Their ears or appendages or super power provide the means of contemplating the human condition from an "alien" perspective. More recently, advancements in biotechnology and cybernetics have allowed humans to become the aliens they once could only imagine, and fictional depictions of people who are bio-enhanced, genetically sculpted, or resurrected by cloning aren't all that far away from what's technically feasible.

While not science fiction, Jo Walton's Tooth and Claw is about another alien perspective -- the views of social class, manners, and propriety commonly depicted in Victorian novels -- which contemporary readers could easily find a bit silly, if not wholly alien. Indeed, Walton maintains she wanted to write a comedy of manners in the style of Anthony Trollope that would correct what she terms "core axioms" of the genre that are wrongheaded. "People aren't like that. Women, especially, aren't like that. This novel is the result of wondering what a world would be like if they were, if the axioms of the sentimental Victorian novel were inescapable laws of biology."

The biology in question is that of dragons. If social rank in Victorian society sometimes was a metaphorical case of "eat or be eaten," Walton's version takes this notion quite literally. Right from the opening chapter.

Bon Agornin is on his deathbed (in this case, a cave with pieces of gold serving as a mattress), attended by his parson son Penn, officially the Blessed Penn Agornin. Bon Agornin implores his son to hear his confession of a youthful indiscretion (he ate his sister and brother, albeit for good reason). Penn is reluctant to condone an heretical practice of the Old Religion, but finally agrees, since indulging his dying father's last request is unobserved and easily kept secret. However, when Penn's pompously self-centered brother-in-law Daverak eats more than his fair share of Bon Agornin's bodily remains, the youngest brother Avon files a lawsuit to obtain his just desserts. Though Penn refuses to join the lawsuit, he will be called to testify and compelled to recount his transgression in explaining his father's true wishes for the disposition of his body to his heir. Ruin and disgrace for Penn and his family seemingly await.

Eating the deceased is more than just an issue of rightful disposition of property, it is the means to gain size and strength and, with that, ascend the societal ladder. Consumption of an esteemed dragon is one way to quickly attain bulk and, with it, status; in lieu of that, eating inept servants or their children helps work your way up.

There is, as you would expect in a novel modeled on Victorian mores, a right and wrong way to devour those less fortunate than the privileged few. Daverak's bending of those rules for his selfish purposes makes him the villain of the story, whose comeuppance not only saves Penn from disesteem but also results in several happy marriages among Penn's sisters, and enables his younger brother to make an honest dragon of his seemingly disgraced lover. This is, after all, a Victorian novel, and, as in Shakespearean comedy, an appropriate marriage restores a disrupted social order. Which, in this case, are the pettier, and therefore harmless, hypocrisies that, if you think about it, are what allow the notion of "pleasant society" to exist in the first place.

As an example of how Walton makes the Victorian axioms work, there is the clever device of a virgin dragon's scale coloring. While an attractive maiden dragon's scales are a burnished gold, physical proximity of a suitor turns her scales a blushing red. A problem arises if an unwanted suitor, in an accidentally unchaperoned situation, barges into a maiden's personal space and causes her to blush unwillingly (a rather mild metaphor for rape or other dishonor; a scarlet mark that cannot be hid). This very misfortune befalls Penn's sister Selendra. The family at first insists on a marriage to the buffoonish Blessed Felt. A potion provided by a loyal servant restores Selandra's maidenly coloration, but it is feared that she may never again be able to blush naturally. This becomes a pressing issue when Selendra is wooed by the heretofore boyishly irresponsible Sher, who, of course, stands to gain a considerably inheritance once he settles down. If Selandra can no longer blush, she cannot marry.

Okay, so even though we know where this is going -- whether with Walton or Trollope -- it makes for an entertaining read because of how well the characters are drawn, even as they represent certain cliches -- the bumbling fool, the scoundrel, the wayward hero who finds his way. In his obituary of Trollope, Henry James wrote, "His great, his inestimable merit was a complete appreciation of the usual . . . Trollope's great apprehension of the real, which was what made him so interesting, came to him through his desire to satisfy us on this point -- to tell us what certain people were and what they did in consequence of people being so" (quoted in The Oxford Companion to English Literature, ed. Margaret Drabble).

Walton's achievement here is that her "great apprehension of the real" is the "real" of dragons. Despite their many anthropomorphic traits, it's hard to think of the characters as anything other than dragons, if but for the eating habits alone. Oh, there's a certain concern for social justice, some things that could be taken as critical of women's subservient and dangerous role as childbearing machines, and some satire of religious practice. But I don't think there's anything seriously intended here other than a good-natured romp that ultimately honors, rather than ridicules, the source of her inspiration. On her website, Walton explains how she got the idea for the novel's conceit:

It's all Emmet's fault, that's my husband, Dr. Emmet O'Brien. I was reading two books at once, one fantasy novel and Trollope's The Small House at Allington. I complained that the fantasy novel didn't really understand dragons, and he misheard and thought that I meant that Trollope didn't. Naturally, this led me to the revelation that Trollope did understand dragons extremely well, and that in fact the rather peculiar nature of the women in Trollope can be explained by the facts of dragon biology.

Makes perfect sense to me. As it will to anyone who picks up this delightful read.

David Soyka is a former journalist and college teacher who writes the occasional short story and freelance article. He makes a living writing corporate marketing communications, which is a kind of fiction without the art. To contact him, email prosenet@att.net.