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The Fifth Season is, among other things, a post-apocalyptic narrative. This is certainly true of Essun’s storyline, which opens after Alabaster opens a massive rift in the Stillness, but even Damaya and Syen’s storylines take place in a world marked by the regular environmental and societal breakdown that a Fifth Season entails. Notably, however, these cataclysms never seem to mark the complete cessation of life in general or even of humanity in particular. Although specific societies may die out, some form of civilization always emerges from out the other side of a Season, as Jemisin notes in the Prologue: “This is what you must remember: the ending of one story is just the beginning of another. […] People die. Old orders pass. New societies are born” (14). In fact, the idea that apocalypse isn’t necessarily final is central to the novel’s very structure, which sees the protagonist surviving multiple “personal endings” (1), building a new—if dramatically different—life and identity for herself in the aftermath of each.
The apocalypse with which the novel begins is ostensibly different from all of these other crises, in that the world now truly is ending “[f]or the last time” (14). Late in the novel, however, Jemisin reveals that there actually was another apocalypse on the same scale as the one The Fifth Season depicts. What’s more, it occurred under circumstances of societal oppression and environmental exploitation very similar to those that characterize modern-day Sanze: According to Sanzed mythology, an ancient and advanced civilization incited the first Fifth Season through its abuse of the earth’s resources (and, the rest of the trilogy reveals, its enslavement of an entire class of people). The result was an eruption on par with the one at the beginning of the novel: “Father Earth’s surface cracked like an eggshell. Nearly every living thing died as his fury became manifest in the first and most terrible of the Fifth Seasons: the Shattering Season” (380).
The fact that human society nevertheless managed to survive this cataclysm opens up a more hopeful reading of Jemisin’s assertion that the apocalypse detailed in The Fifth Season is the last of its kind: perhaps the world is ending “for the last time” not because all life will finally cease, but because the society that emerges from the events Alabaster sets in motion will finally be a just one.
Broadly speaking, then, the apocalypse motif is one of the most important ways Jemisin develops her ideas about survival and societal injustice. The novel suggests that apocalypse can be a good thing when the world that’s ending is fundamentally unjust; any society that relies on exploitation to ensure its survival needs to “end”—whether literally or through the complete transformation of its structure and values—in order for there to be any hope of a better future. As Alabaster tells Syen, “The world is what it is. Unless you destroy it and start all over again, there’s no changing it” (371).
Orogenes’ ability to control seismic activity is clearly central to the premise and plot of The Fifth Season, but it also holds hold figurative significance as a motif. For one, orogenic power, like the ability of all humans to “sess” movements in the earth, is an adaptation to life on an extremely volatile continent. As Schaffa says, “It is a thing of instinct, orogeny, born of the need to survive mortal threat. That’s the danger. Fear of a bully, fear of a volcano; the power within you does not distinguish” (96). Orogeny, in other words, underscores the novel’s interest both in survival and in its costs: For an orogene, an act of instinctive self-preservation can inadvertently harm others.
The form orogenes’ power takes is also significant in the context of Jemisin’s depiction of political power. In Sanzed society, stability and oppression tend to go hand in hand. Sanze’s rigid social hierarchy is a form of social control, but the idea of orderliness also serves as a justification for that control: Because the threats posed by the natural world are so pervasive and extreme, survival is only possible if every person performs their prescribed role exactly and unquestioningly. However, the very fact that Sanzed power relies so heavily on the promise of stability and safety means that any crack in the social order could potentially bring down the entire system. Orogenes’ ability to literally break things apart is a reminder that even the most oppressed members of society have the power to destabilize the existing hierarchy.
Like orogeny in general, the floating obelisks scattered throughout the Stillness play an important role in the novel’s plot while also serving a symbolic function. More specifically, the obelisks—considered unimportant by the people of Sanze—represent the Stillness’s forgotten history:
The obelisks had other names once, back when they were first built and deployed and used, but no one remembers those names or the great devices’ purpose. Memories are fragile as slate in the Stillness (8).
Likewise, the fact that the obelisks ultimately provide Alabaster with the power he needs to open a continental rift illustrates the dangers of ignoring or suppressing historical knowledge. In fact, by the end of the Broken Earth trilogy it emerges that the obelisks were a product of exploitation similar to that which currently exists in Sanze, and that they played a parallel role in the destruction of that civilization; the implication is that when humans ignore the past, history endlessly repeats itself.
Most chapters of The Fifth Season conclude with a quotation either from one of the tablets that comprise Sanzed “stonelore,” or with a quotation from some other form of historical text (proverbs, famous speeches, etc.). Characters repeatedly reference stonelore within the narrative itself; because stonelore theoretically contains the knowledge humanity has collectively amassed across millennia, it’s viewed as something of a blueprint for surviving on an inhospitable planet. As its name suggests, it’s also viewed as reliable and unchanging: its teachings on the nature of orogeny, the Seasons, Father Earth, etc. seem as permanent as if they were set in stone.
In fact, Alabaster says, this is how stonelore originally earned its name: “Did you know […] that the first stonelore was actually written in stone? So that it couldn’t be changed to suit fashion or politics. So it wouldn’t wear away” (4). By the time the story takes place, however, this is no longer the case; as Alabaster tells Syen, stonelore changes constantly to suit the needs of whoever is in power at the time. In this way, it symbolizes the ways in which those who are in control use language and storytelling to legitimize their authority: for instance, the stonelore depicts orogenes as “born evil […] agents of Father Earth, monsters that barely qualify as human” not because it’s true (124), but because doing so provides a rationale for keeping them enslaved. In fact, the very perception that stonelore is eternal and objective itself serves to maintain the status quo, because it implies that no other forms of society are possible. Likewise, the idea that anything absent from stonelore is not worth knowing reinforces Sanzed myths about their cultural superiority: According to this line of thought, the very fact that something appears in the stonelore proves that it’s more useful and accurate than whatever was left out.
Names are central to Sanzed society, and the fact that The Fifth Season’s main character has no fewer than three is an indication of how important they are to the novel as a whole. Broadly speaking, names reflect and reinforce Sanzed social hierarchy: In addition to their given name, most people also possess a use-name (designating the kind of work their ancestors historically performed, and inherited from whichever parent shares the child’s sex) and a comm name—which “indicat[es] that a person has been deemed a valuable member of the community” (459). Orogenes’ names, meanwhile, reflect their affinity with the earth and minerals; even those born outside the Fulcrum, like Damaya, adopt the name of a stone or gemstone during their training.
Because Sanzed names convey so much information about the societal role an individual is supposed to fill, it’s especially significant when their name in some way deviates from convention. Essun is shocked, for instance, when she learns that Ykka uses the slur “rogga” as her use-name; the decision, however, is presumably a conscious refutation of the idea that being an orogene is something of which to be ashamed. Similarly, when Syen tells Schaffa that, “[Syenite]’s not [her] rusting name!” (441), she’s rejecting not just the name she adopted when she passed her first ring test, but also the entire system that abuses and exploits orogenes. Finally, the ease and frequency with which Essun changes her name indicates not only her ability to adapt to changing circumstances, but too that the challenge this ability poses to a system that depends on people adhering to a single, fixed social identity.
Within the context of Fulcrum life, rings represent the level of mastery an orogene has over their power. Young orogenes (“grits”) pass a test to earn their first ring, and are then awarded new rings as they ascend through the ranks; they can ultimately earn as many as 10 rings, although at the time the novel takes place, Alabaster is the only orogene to have done so.
However, rings often say more about an orogene’s willingness to obey orders and comply with Fulcrum politics than they do about their skill level. Syenite reflects, “It’s bullshit that this has anything to do with orogenic mastery; if a Guardian has doubts about an orogene’s willingness to follow the rules, that orogene doesn’t make it to the first ring, let alone the fifth” (63-64). In this sense, rings are a symbol not of orogenes’ power, but rather of power the Fulcrum and Guardians have over them. This is why Syen initially objects when Alabaster tries to give her two more rings for quelling the volcano in Allia’s harbor, reminding him they no longer have to wear rings or other symbols of their own subjugation:
We don’t need to wear any rings anymore. Or black uniforms. I haven’t put my hair in a bun in months. You don’t have to service every woman they send you, like some kind of stud animal. Let the Fulcrum go (415).
She does, however, eventually agree to wear them out of respect not for the Fulcrum but for Alabaster: “[W]ho would know whether she merits these rings better than a man who’s earned ten? And for shit’s sake she stilled a rusting volcano made by a broken obelisk with a stone eater inside” (426). Like the slur “rogga,” then, rings are a symbol of oppression that some orogenes reclaim as a symbol of self-worth and empowerment.
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By N. K. Jemisin