“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.” A famous quote by Sarah Williams in her poem “The Old Astronomer,” the lack of fear of the night is Miguel’s standard in Mary Morris’ stellar historic fiction novel Gateway to the Moon. But a love for the stars and no fear of the night does not erase the day and the realities that seep through Miguel’s life in his little town of Entrada de Luna. His reality of the vicious cycle of the town’s hold on its inhabitants is the real fear, not the night. He retreats to the stars, finding relief in the skies above. Escape. From what? Reality. Oneself. Trauma. Oppression. Frustration.

Many characters in the novel are tied to this theme in one way or another. Miguel, a young boy whose decision to take a job as a babysitter for a Jewish family shakes up his world, wants to escape into the night skies to forget his impending future of possibly never leaving Entrada. Luis de Torres, a Jew fleeing the horrific Spanish Inquisition on Christopher Columbus’ initial voyage in 1492, escapes from Spain to avoid his impending persecution and death. His evasion from the Inquisition was additionally an attempt to protect his family from the dishonor and financial burden of being outed as a secret Jew with a public Christian conversion, an individual identified as a converso. Rachel Rothstein, the mother of the two boys Miguel begins to babysit, seeks out New Mexico as a new source of artistic inspiration as a change to her New York lifestyle. Through the stories of Miguel and Rachel with the backdrop of Luis’ lineage, the book itself becomes a brilliant escape from our own reality into the journeys of generations struggling to survive.

I remember feeling intrigued by the concept of the novel during Morris’ presentation of the book. She jumped around from topic to topic, making it seem as though she had no rhyme or reason in creating the book. I could not have been more wrong. Morris told the story of her experience collecting stories and inspiration for over a decade. She started with the hiring of a young Hispanic boy in the Southwest to babysit her children. She recalled that he asked her if they lit candles on Friday, to which she confirms. From there, the boy says he lights candles on Friday, his family lights candles on Friday, and even his whole town lights candles on Friday. Such an odd connection stuck with Morris. She continued to speak about unusual occurrences, including her trip to Europe where she had a lamb dish in Morocco that was the same as her grandmother’s recipe, one she believed to be lost when her grandmother died. She spoke about the curious absence of history and documentation of the Spanish Inquisition in a museum in Spain. The string of oddities and connections left her with an opportunity to spin the story into a fascinating tale that works to explain these peculiarities through the lens of a horrific historical movement.

Morris’ writing is immersive, simplistic in nature but deep enough to drown you in her subtle philosophical commentary. I was shocked by the way she speaks of her writing and how she writes. She is a storyteller, which was blatantly apparent in her reading at OSU, and is committed to connecting with the reader. She refuses complex language, yet it doesn’t feel childish. Her performance of writing is what engulfs you, swallows you whole, just as the waves of the ocean and of generational struggle engulf the de Torres family. She addresses the complicated struggles of humanity without confusion but packed with power. A statement later in the book encompasses the entirety of all the characters’ struggles in a single sentence: “Because we all need to know where we’ve come from.” Morris consistently chooses simple language to face internal conflicts head-on, and each time she draws them further into the murky depths of a story with more questions than answers.

Morris mentioned in her talk that the book started as nearly thirty individual parts with no particular order. That fact stuck with me, popping up in my mind as each chapter produced a new piece of the puzzle. Her process of writing allowed for an unconventional approach to structure. With the choice of present tense and an omniscient third-person narrator, she prompts for our confusion to create our own threads and realizations. A chapter may include a character that is consistently followed or only worthy of a few pages. Despite the varying lengths of time we learn about each character, they are all vital to understanding the question of where Miguel and those of Entrada de Luna come from. The focus on this question leads us to ponder our personal histories, to wonder how generations and histories have made us who we are.

Morris also plays with the theme of silence, an ironic act of both action and inaction that parallels with the psychological trends of trauma. Patterns of betrayal, grief, and heartbreak shackle the characters into remaining silent about their own identities. So deep is the trauma that entire generations have forgotten who they are for the sake of survival. A converso girl whose father becomes targeted due to his private practice as a Jew, Inez is consistently a character associated with silence. Her active choice to not speak, despite the horrors she endures physically and emotionally, provides her with an outlet of power and personal agency. The dichotomy of silence, either as a coping mechanism for survival in hiding one's identity or as a choice for personal control, adds a layer of mystery to the weaving of Miguel, Rachel, and the de Torres’ family stories. Miguel’s Aunt Elena chooses limited contact with him as she travels the world, and in return, Miguel decides to avoid the questions that surround her choices to leave Entrada. The mutual silence between the two furthers the dichotomy.

Beyond the discussions of trauma, escape, and silence that Morris presents, she displays concerning representations of sexuality and sexual expressions. While her choices in portraying sexual experiences may be rooted in historical facts, numerous cases of both incest and sexual attraction between adults and children are problematic. A particular instance of one of these issues is Miguel’s father’s sexual attraction to his sister when they were younger, Miguel’s Aunt Elena. His attraction is incestuous, cringe-worthy, sickening even: “He’d had so many girls clinging to his arm, but when he was young, it was Elena who set him on fire….His sister was his first wet dream.” Morris’ choice to include such uncomfortable and unnatural sexual attractions is dangerous, teetering on the tightrope between shocking and uncalled for.

From multiple cases of rape to familial sexual attractions, from extortion through sex to even an instance or two of sexual attraction between Miguel and Rachel Rothstein, Morris’ negative sexual representations nearly outway the positives. Perhaps it was a tactic meant to shock you into paying attention. Maybe it was simply the “adult” side of an adult novel. I didn’t expect it, yet it made me critical of both her intentions and impact. Whether or not the sexual portrayals were necessary, Morris’ descriptive writing pulled me in. Rape victims felt such deep sorrow and pain that I was overwhelmed with emotions. Incestuous desires are described from both sides for Elena and Roberto--Miguel’s father--and the consequences of the one-sided lust are painful but necessary in addressing the bigger question of where we come from.

The complexities of a story exploring religious history, community, family, and struggle are attributed to Morris’ skillful and artistic writing. And yet the story still remains against the backdrop of escape. Roberto reflects on Elena leaving Entrada with “He can’t blame her. She got away, didn’t she? After all she had the talent.” Talent also connects to Miguel’s potential to getting out of Entrada. Rachel’s desire for new inspiration brings her to New Mexico; her escape is an attempt to find the path to fresh artistic ideas. The cause for some characters’ attempts to escape varies, including the necessity for change or survival. But what makes escape possible is just as varied. Morris explores how her characters find new lives and new opportunities. Talent. Drive. Curiosity. Creativity. Hope.

Gateway to the Moon may be categorized as historical fiction, but placing it within one genre is a disservice to the power of Morris’ writing. Instead, it is a novel that approaches the impacts of destructive religious movements with the themes of escape, silence, victory, and survival beyond history. The fact alone that the novel spans more than four centuries up until recent years even prompts the question of singularly defining it as “history.” Exploring the minds and experiences of one family throughout generations with its parallel to Rachel Rothstein is captivating. In the journey of finding who they are, the de Torres family looks to the past and the stars. Miguel finds his solace in the skies and even finds answers through his obsession with the stars, all centered around the parallels with Rachel’s story and identity. Miguel’s questions are relieved in the sky, just with his ancestors, who find, “Suddenly there is less to fear. It is as if they are reading an ancient text, their fingers moving together across the page.”

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