For many of us, having a garden helps to ground us, to keep us feeling connected to the natural world. Green spaces are widely proven to have a beneficial effect on our mental health and general wellbeing. It’s perhaps not surprising, then, that this is one aspect of our world that many fantasy writers - myself included - draw on to help us relate to our creations.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Unlike the city, there were no bitter undertones to the fragrance of the market, with the surrounding greenery providing a complementary fresh pine and crisp woody balminess. I felt an unexpected smile tug at my lips. I had missed the organised chaos of the city, but I instantly felt at home here.
A Quartz Storm, Work In Progress
Gardens, in particular, are an important setting in many fantasy novels. They provide a space away from formal supervision for illicit liaisons and dastardly goings-on. In Kenley Davidson’s Legends of Abreia series, a folly in an untended section of the otherwise immaculate garden provides a convenient point for meetings and revelations. Gardens can also provide an emotional connection for the reader to understand a character’s state of mind, something done to good effect in Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses series: one character uses gardening as a coping mechanism; whilst the state of the gardens in the Spring Court reflect the changing mindset of the Lord of that region.
The absence of the beauty that comes from living gardens can be jarring, and used as stark contrast to demonstrate difference within the alternate worlds we find ourselves whisked off to during our reading adventures. In Mark Lawrence’s The Book That Wouldn’t Burn, we are introduced to characters who have lived their entire lives in a chamber:
“Save for the crop circle around the pool, the entirety of the chamber’s floor space, some two and a half thousand acres, lay covered with stacks of books. A forest in which, even now, it was easy to become lost.”
A world in which the very idea of plants is a utilitarian one. Never for joy, but solely as a dystopian basic provision for needs. Yet, such a library by its very nature must rely on some plant form for the creation of the books contained within its expansive walls - and thus Lawrence’s words draw us in, wanting to know more, connecting to us via the medium of gardens - or lack thereof.
In fantasy, plants are used as weapons and tools for protection nearly as often as they are for sources of food and world-building richness. As far back as the evil/enchanted/cursed forest surrounding the early iterations of Sleeping Beauty,* storytellers have latched onto the idea of the danger and poisons of the natural world as a source of tension and horror. The fascination with plants that harm is widespread - as I wrote in an earlier newsletter about Poison Gardens. It’s not surprising then that fantasy writers often take this even further with a magical connection. Plant mages manipulate their connection with the growing world to increase crop yields. Hedge witches use their knowledge of plants to act as healers to villages and towns. Particularly talented mages might be able to use root systems to communicate or to encourage rapid growth of use in a battle. Wherever they appear, plants shape the written world. Green spaces - or lack thereof - show us at a glance the priorities, the status, the prosperity, and the oddities of the nation that the writer has created. Gardens provide not just a setting, but a glimpse into the state of mind of the characters. And as time spent connecting with nature can bring us a sense of peace, so too can escapism into a world of magic and mystery - aided, of course, by the connections that only plants can provide.
*the original Sleeping Beauty inspiration is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a lot darker and more rapey than recent adaptations