Is It a Tale or a Reality? Reflections on Helen of Wyndhorn by Tom King
When I stumbled upon Helen of Wyndhorn, I was in a particularly nostalgic mood, prompted by some online conversations about comics with friends. The thought struck me: "I should dive back into some more Tom King." His storytelling always promises a blend of depth and introspection, and I was excited to see what he brought this time.
At the heart of this narrative is Helen, a character whose tumultuous legacy is painted against a backdrop of pulp fantasy reminiscent of Robert E. Howard. The premise kicks off rather dramatically—Helen’s father, a tormented writer and an alcoholic, has died by suicide. He leaves behind a tangled web of family history for Helen to unravel with the help of a governess tasked with bringing her back to the estate of her grandfather, Wyndhorn. Herein lies a twist: the grandfather is actually Othan, a character much like Conan, who escapes to another world for treasure and closure. This rich tapestry of fantasy and family dynamics sets the stage for a tale that feels both familiar and otherworldly.
However, despite the compelling elements, my experience with Helen of Wyndhorn left me feeling somewhat numb. Though the art by Evely is undeniably stunning—seriously, I echo my friend’s sentiments about the beautiful hair; it’s a wonder to behold—the narrative fell flat for me. The story felt like a patchwork quilt with some pieces missing. I found myself questioning the motivations and arcs of the characters. The governess, who often oscillates between being hard as nails and a shrinking violet, ultimately undermines her own growth. The moments that should land, especially Helen’s emotional breakdown, seem unmotivated. It’s as if King intentionally left us hanging on the precipice of these arcs, inviting interpretation but ultimately leaving the reader yearning for more substantial drama.
Moreover, the storytelling frame—the biographer listening to the governess—aids in building a meditative atmosphere around the tales being told. Yet, it sometimes felt more like a philosophical musing on the power of storytelling rather than a fulfilling narrative. I often found myself stepping back, considering if the insights about the characters and their struggles were enough to square with the emotional payoff.
Lines throughout the book hint at larger themes. The governess’s observation, “we are stories our parents tell and we are stories our children tell,” captures a poignant truth, yet feels almost orphaned from the surrounding context. It’s a powerful statement that, much like the story itself, yearns for a deeper exploration than what’s provided.
In conclusion, Helen of Wyndhorn possesses qualities that will undoubtedly attract fans of fantasy and introspective narratives. Those who appreciate striking artwork may find solace in Evely’s illustrations, even if the story doesn’t resonate as profoundly as one hopes. It’s a book that poses more questions than it answers, leaving me wondering who truly gets our stories and whether we can ever escape our inherited legacies. For readers who enjoy the intricacies of comic storytelling woven with familial complexities, this one might just be worthwhile. But for those seeking a journey with clear emotional stakes, you might leave with a sense of longing, much like Helen herself.