With two novels published in 2021, Portland area writer Catherynne Valente has had a productive pandemic. Both books blend science fiction and fantasy, both are compellingly readable, and both are, surprisingly, more than a bit biblical. Also, both are at their core angry – though angry about things that her audience will find deserve it. Beyond these, the two novels are as different as Froot Loops and fine dining.

“The Past is Red” is a near-future tale of global warming. After a Noachian flood, what’s left of humankind is living on islands of the lost world’s flotsam. The survivors have named their refuge Garbagetown, and sorted the trash into heaps that define neighborhoods like Pill Hill, Shoeshire and Screen Lake.

Tetley Abednego was born here, was cast out from Garbagetown society, and is trying to make the best of it in a future that Valente emphasizes is not post-apocalyptic to its inhabitants. It’s just home.

Longtime fans of literary science fiction will find a good bit of Denis Johnson’s “Fiskadoro” to admire here. There’s the Candide-like protagonist in a ruined world, a mythical Eden that people speak longingly of, and throughout it all, the detritus of a past that was unspeakably rich in things but poor in foresight.

Valente doesn’t hide her anger about our society’s failure to look ahead. “If (beforetimes) culture was a bird, it would be a seagull. Ravenous, stupid, vicious … nice feathers.”

But Tetley lightens the darkness with jolts of wry humor. “I regret my choices, I yearn for the past. I have a very full schedule.” Or “I could already feel my sunburn getting a sunburn.” She listens to a Garbagetown performer in green fishnet stockings read old foodie menus describing duck confit, Dauphinoise potatoes, and “passionfruit soufflé topped with orbs of pistachio ice cream.” And locals will smile when a matchbook from Becky’s Diner or a quilt featuring the Portland Head Light appear amid the debris.

If “The Past is Red” is a parable, “Comfort Me With Apples” is the feminist allegory par excellence. It’s told from the point of view of Sophia, a Stepford Wife-style character “in whom the organ of dissatisfaction was somehow absent from birth.” Sophia lives in a grand house in an upscale gated community called Arcadia Gardens. Her husband has outfitted the place with all the things she could possibly want, her neighbors only want to see her happy, and the rules and restrictions of the homeowners association are only there to keep things orderly and nice. This isn’t just existence, it’s ambrosia.

Throughout her tale, Valente signals ‘allegory’ in every way she can. Her chapters are titled as varieties of apples: red, golden, green, and delicious. Matching that litany of crisp, tart and sweet, Sophia’s neighbors have names like Lyon, Baer, Hart and Palfrey. It’s easy to imagine a blonde mane, thick overcoat, doe-like eyes and graceful stride.

Be alert, too, to roots of words, meanings in other languages and mythical references. There’s a lot hidden here, from both the reader and from Sophia, and it’s up to us both to discover what’s going on. Valente gives plenty of clues, but there’s a good bit of misdirection as well.

The theme here, of a woman sensing something amiss in her world and trying to uncover the mystery, is familiar. It features in lots of fiction as well as in science fiction novels like Sarah Gailey’s “The Echo Wife.” And as with most such books, the problematic figure is the man. So from the very first page, we know that our task is to figure out the truth about Sophia’s doting husband.

Beyond the mystery, beyond spotting the clues and assembling them into an unexpected resolution, the pleasure of this book lies in the writing – the phrasings, rhythms, images and mood. “Sophia is on her feet and in his arms in the same fluid unfurling movement as the heron’s ascent.” “Comfort Me With Apples” is like the best kind of travel – there’s as much to enjoy in the journey as there is in reaching its end.

John R. Alden, who lives in Portland, has written about science fiction and fantasy for more than three decades, primarily in a column for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

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