As a tepid reader of science fiction, I’ve remained undecided for some time on whether I was ready to read something by Kim Stanley Robinson, whose world building has been described as “detailed” and “meticulous.” Only recently did I discover Shaman (Orbit), Robinson’s eighteenth novel, a standalone work that follows the life of a trainee shaman during the paleolithic age; it seemed like it might be an off-centre introduction to the author’s writing. And to this end Shaman meets the reader’s expectations: within, we encounter themes of humanity’s nascent spiritualism, the role of oral history before written language, and the forms our humanity might take when removed from everything we would consider familiar. I was surprised, however, to find that the strongest emotion elicited in me by Robinson and his protagonist, Loon, was the desire to help, perhaps the most primordial of our feelings: I wished that I could aid in the keeping of the seasons, and count provisions for a harsh winter, to weave and chase and gather for the sole purpose of a collective well-being. In Robinson’s writing I could see that this flickering flame of humanity, always on the brink of being extinguished, is held there safely by only the bonds between its caretakers, their interpersonal trust, and the acknowledgement that we are nothing but helpless when pitted against the harshness of the environment in which we are placed. These structures on which we rely, our indulgences and our comforts, exist only through the labours of others, others who rely on our participation in society so that we are all elevated. The details of this world, meticulous as they may be, are only ancillary to what is really being shared.

—Jonathan Heggen