The first of Alex Bledsoe’s Tufa books, The Hum and the Shiver, feels closer to Southern Discomfort than I would have expected: a closed-off community, elves in the south. But not so close that I feel I unwittingly followed in Bledsoe’s footsteps, thank goodness. Caution, spoilers ahead.
The book opens with Chloe Hyatt, one of the Tufa of Cloud County TN, discovering a death omen for her family, and a ghost that wants to speak to Chloe’s daughter, Bronwyn. Who, conveniently, is returning from a tour of duty in Iraq as a decorated hero. A hellion who rebelled against the roles required of a pureblood Tufa woman, Brownwyn ran wild as a teen, then left the county completely. The Tufa, by the way, are dark-skinned and raven-haired, known to be a completely separate race — not white, not Native American, not black.
The “Bronwynator’s” return triggers all sorts of trouble. The older Tufa women want her to do her duty: marry and give birth to a Tufa daughter to whom she can pass on the songs Bronwyn will eventually inherit from her mother (Tufa are magical, and a lot of the magic is tied to music). A bigoted state trooper who thinks the Tufa are mixed-race and passing would love any excuse to bust her. Two men are in love with her. The old fart who runs one of the Tufa factions hates and resents her. And so on.
This started well but didn’t hold my interest. A lot of that, I think, is that it’s a story about the setting — Cloud County and the Tufa culture. The first scene introduces us to a world of magic, then Bronwyn re-enters her community. The last scene shows two new additions to the community learning the truth of the Tufa: it’s a corruption of Tuatha and they’re descended from Irish fairies (to the point of growing gossamer wings when they need to fly). It’s well-executed and certainly has plot and character arcs, but it wasn’t what I needed when I was reading.
Plus Bronwyn’s arc is all about going home, reconnecting with her Tufa community and apparently never leaving again. That rarely works for me. It’s the 1939 Wizard of Oz message, that if you can’t find happiness at home, you can’t find it anywhere, also popular with a lot of small-town romances (and even time-travel small-town romances). That this is literally true for Tufa — those who leave rarely have good luck — doesn’t make me like it any better.
Beyond that, I did have some problems with the book. It’s very white and very straight; for all that we’re told the Tufa are not 
white, they seem to have white privilege. I mean yeah, they’re poor whites like the folk of Windmaster’s Bane but there’s no sign or reference to them being systemically discriminated against [UPDATE: the sequel Wisp of a Thing spells out that yes, they were. Review will be forthcoming]
But why not? America historically hasn’t been subtle in its racial classifications: if you’re not white, you’re a person of color. Maybe the state trooper’s just a lone-wolf bigot but given the Tufa are dark-skinned, I’d think there’d be plenty of others who think they’re non-white, or at best an inferior class of white as the Irish and Italians were once perceived to be (I’m surprised they’ve never come up with a cover story, like claiming to be descended from Portuguese sailors, a popular hand-wave of dark skin in times past). And we’re told early on that they’ve intermarried with the local non-Tufa a lot; if they’re not seen as white, intermarriage would seem to raise issues. Or was it only post Loving v. Virginia that this started?
Some readers have raised the question of where the Native Americans in the county went after the Tufa arrived. It’s a valid point too.
Another problem is that the Tufa have their own racial issues. Despite all that intermarriage, they make a big deal about whether someone is a pureblood or not. Women are supposed to marry and carry on the important bloodlines. Bronwyn finally realizes this is her destiny: sleep with one Tufa who loves her, bear their daughter, but marry the guy she loves best. Given he’s a minister who draws the line at premarital sex, this seems … impractical. In some ways it reminds me of the emphasis on clan and bloodlines in small-town witch romances.
This does make me hopeful that a lot of what I’m doing in Southern Discomfort — writing it with heavy emphasis on setting — will work for readers, though there’s no guarantee of that: one writer can often pull off what writer B can’t. It also has me wondering if I should cite it as a comp for my book — “If you like The Hum and the Shiver, you’ll love this!” They have enough in common it might be true but it feels slightly insulting to latch on to a book when I’ve discussed how I think it falls short.
I’ll figure it out.
#SFWApro. Cover by Valentino Sani/Trevillion Images/Marilyn Angel Wynn; bottom cover by Tim White, all rights remain with current holders.
