In time, only the bards knew the truth of it.

I’ll post a link to a news item as soon as I can get hold of one, but according to an e-mail I’ve received from a reputable source, author Lloyd Alexander has died.

Alexander was highly prolific, and yet, I have only read a small portion of his work. But the portion that I have read? The Chronicles of Prydain? The Westmark trilogy? Sheer magic. I must read more of him.

In my reading life, Alexander came before Tolkien, before CS Lewis, before Guy Gavriel Kay, before Stephen R. Donaldson, before George RR Martin…before all of them. I came to Alexander, as I did so many of my childhood authors, by way of my mother who would stick a book in my hand whenever I misbehaved, always with orders that I couldn’t watch any TV until I read the whole thing. (And, more often than not, the books she handed me as “punishment” turned out to be first books in series.) I’d finished fourth grade, and we were getting ready to move from Hillsboro, OR to Western New York, and I did something I shouldn’t have done — no, I don’t remember what — and suddenly, in my hands is a copy of The Book of Three.

This was my first entry into epic fantasy, complete with maps of the make-believe realms, innocent and unknown farmboys who turn out to be Kings, wars against Dark Lords who would destroy all…yes, my fantasy life began with Lloyd Alexander. (Well, almost. Before Alexander, of course, was George Lucas.) Alexander gave me Prydain, and so doing, gave me Narnia and Middle Earth and The Land and Hogwarts and Al-Rassan and Fionavar and Westeros.

Alexander was apparently preceded in death two weeks ago by his wife of over sixty years. This man spent his entire life studying the folklore of the world and channeling that folklore into beloved books for children, books which, like the best of works for children, also carry incredible rewards for adults. Isn’t that the kind of life we should celebrate and sing about for the ages? And what does it say about our world that Jerry Falwell changed it more than Lloyd Alexander?

Thus Taran rode from Merin with Gurgi at his side.

And as he did, it seemed he could hear voices calling to him. “Remember us! Remember us!” He turned once, but Merin was far behind and out of sight. From the hills a wind had risen, driving the scattered leaves before it, bearing homeward to Caer Dallben. Taran followed it.

Farewell, friend I never met.

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