Bill Kerwin's Reviews > The Sandman, Vol. 4: Season of Mists

Neil Gaiman is at his best when his imagination is peopled with gods and demons—magnificent, outsize personalities, ranging from the eerily transcendent to the surprisingly human—and the tale he chooses to tell in “Season of Mists” gives him ample room to create a godly and superior fantasy.

The plot is simple. Lucifer abdicates the throne of Hell, sending the damned back to earth, and turns the keys over to Dream. Dream doesn’t really want the property—too vast, too hard to keep up—but a lot of other beings do, including demons, angels, fairies, and (yes, of course) gods): Odin, Thor, Loki, Anubis, Bes, Bast, the Shinto storm god Susano-o-no-Mikoto, and the personifications of Order (a cardboard box carried by a genie) and Chaos (a little girl dressed like a clown). The delightful center of the tale is a grand banquet in the house of Dream, where these beings offer their bids and bribes for the prize of an empty Hell. One of these offers interests Dream greatly: a chance to rescue his lover Queen Nada from the consequences of his youthful anger.

The central story is handled expertly, and the major digression—about dead schoolboys and masters returning to their boarding school during vacation—is very good too.

Gaiman's inspiration for Season of Mists was a remark of Jesuit theologian and anthropologist Teilhard de Chardin: “You have told me, O God, to believe in hell. But you have forbidden me to think...of any man as damned.” An easily resolved paradox, Gaiman thought to himself, provided you empty Hell. The title is derived from Keat’s “Autumn”: “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.” Although the association of “mellow fruitfulness” with Hell may seem ironic, I believe its message is straightforward. In Season of Mists, Dream does become more "mellow'" dying to unwelcome burdens and ancient rages, and gaining the fruits—a small portion, at least—of peace, reconciliation and love.

Finally, I would like to share with you my favorite part of Season of Mists. Isn’t it funny how often a minor character may fascinate you so much he almost blots out the rest? For me, that character is Breschau of Livonia. This imaginary Eastern European noble (I know he’s imaginary, having looked him up in vain) proudly insists he remain in Hell because of the enormity of his deeds, which he relates in detail, proclaiming “I am Breschau of Livonia.” Lucifer dismisses him with these words: “But no one today remembers Breschau. No one. I doubt one living mortal in a hundred thousand could even point to where Livonia used to be, on a map. The world has forgotten you.”

Not I, Lord Breschau, not I.