From a distance, it looks like any other valley. A long green bowl, flanked by hills, stitched with paths that do not show up on official maps. In Sheldon Greene’s novels, such valleys are never just scenery. They are arguments.
In Tamar, the Binyan valley holds a mixed Jewish and Native American community in the nineteenth-century American West. It is cultivated and remembered. Orchards are tended, water is diverted, homes are built and rebuilt. Festivals return with the seasons. The dead are buried in the valley’s hills, in places everyone in the community can locate by feel. For Tamar and her people, the valley is not “land” in the abstract. It is the place where their history has taken root.
In After the Parch, the Glade is a forested bowl tucked inside a future California Republic damaged by drought, epidemic and political fracture. Forty families live there as deliberate outlaws, living around an old mine and growing food according to rules they have worked out for themselves. They know every trail, spring and blind corner. Children in the Glade learn the contours of the valley at the same pace as they learn to read.
In both books, the valley is an anchor rather than the whole cargo. It holds together stories that range well beyond questions of land law. The people who live in the valley do not ask themselves whether they own it. Ownership takes the form of daily work and intimate knowledge. The question arrives from outside, with a survey crew or a letter on official paper. At that moment, Greene sets the story of law against the stories people tell about a place.
Courts and land offices tend to talk about valleys in lines and numbers. Parcels are drawn on maps. Boundaries are described in bearings and distances. Names are written into registers next to statute references and filing dates. In this register, a valley is a shape that can be granted, taxed, mortgaged or seized.
Popular imagination prefers something louder. Westerns and frontier tales promise range wars, barbed wire feuds and last stands at the edge of a ranch. In those stories, land is claimed with rifles first and legalized afterwards.
Greene’s experience in public interest law gives him a different perspective. He has seen ownership and security shift because a tax bill went unpaid, a notice was missed, a technical deadline passed or an obscure regulation was invoked in a distant office. There are no dramatic gunfights in those cases. A family simply discovers that a home is no longer theirs.
Tamar** and After the Parch translate that quieter reality into fiction. The key moments are not only when soldiers arrive or trucks roll down a road. They are when survey stakes appear in a familiar field, or when a mining concession is granted on the basis of records that do not mention the people already living there. Law, in these books, is not neutral. It is a story told in a language that many communities do not speak.
Tamar Binyan leads a community that does not fit neatly into the categories of the nineteenth-century American state. Jews and Native people have built a shared life in the valley under her care and under the memory of those who came before her. Their law and custom blend traditions. Their sense of peoplehood owes as much to the land as it does to text.
The valley is the physical expression of that blend. Trees are planted in patterns that reflect both ritual and practical knowledge. Water flows through channels shaped by generations of trial and error. Story and landscape are locked together. To ask Tamar “who owns this valley” in a legal sense is almost to ask the wrong question. Her people farm it, defend it and bury their dead in it. Their title is embodied in covenants, habits and graves rather than in signed documents.
The state’s view is different. Railroads and telegraphs push west. Surveyors arrive with instruments. Soldiers and settlers follow with charters and orders that refer to land as if it were empty. On their maps, the Binyan valley is a point on a line to be crossed by tracks. The people already living there are, at best, an administrative complication.
Tamar and her community are forced into a language they did not choose. They must appear as a “tribe,” a “settlement,” a negotiable unit. The problem is simple to describe and hard to solve: a shared life that has grown around covenant and custom does not line up with the categories of a government that recognizes grants, patents and eminent domain.
In After the Parch, the situation is reversed in time but not in structure. The California Republic still has ministries, courts and clerks, but their reach is uneven. The Glade has survived partly by falling between the cracks. Its people farm, keep animals and govern themselves, pooling what they produce and settling disputes without official judges.
For years, this arrangement has worked. The Republic has more urgent concerns than a distant valley that appears on no budget line. Then the Glade learns, via a letter, that a company has applied for a concession on the mine and the land around it. On some official map the valley exists, not as a home, but as a resource.
The letter explains, in neutral language, that if the Glade can file for a patent by a certain date, its claim will take precedence. If not, the concession will proceed. In that moment, the people of the Glade discover that in the eyes of the law, their valley has been, in a crucial sense, unclaimed all along.
They decide to enter the system they have avoided. Bran, a teenager who has barely left the valley before, is chosen to carry cash to the capital and stand in line for a document that will record the Glade in the Republic’s books. His journey takes him through church compounds, corporate enclaves and fractured jurisdictions that all have their own rules about who belongs. By the time he reaches the office he needs, he understands that the valley’s apparent independence has always depended on other people’s inattention.
The pivotal scene is not a pitched battle. It is Bran at a counter, asking a clerk behind glass to accept his application and money. The future of the valley narrows down to whether the Republic is prepared to notice, in writing, a community it has long ignored.
Reading the books only through the valley risks making them sound narrower than they are. Tamar is also a coming-of-age story and a political novel. Tamar Binyan leads while negotiating settlers, the Army, an impulsive husband, a complicated romance, childbirth and the relocation of some of her people. A foolish cousin squanders wealth. Steel rails and telegraph wires reach into the valley, bringing both opportunity and the industrial appetite for land. Questions of survival, identity, colonialism and leadership run alongside the land dispute rather than underneath it.
After the Parch is likewise more than a contest over a patent. It is a road story through a quarantined California Republic after years of drought, disease and political collapse. Bran travels with a feral child, an African American musician with a revolutionary agenda and a girl with a complex institutional history, moving through slums, corporate enclaves, church-run tunnels and underground democratic networks. The novel ties climate crisis, exile, corporate power and the fragile possibilities of democracy into the same arc as the fight for the Glade. The valley is the anchor for that wider journey, not its whole content.
Given these setups, another kind of novel might naturally move toward a last stand. Tamar’s people could fortify a pass and fire on an advancing Army. The Glade could sabotage machinery and ambush the company’s agents. Greene never entirely removes the possibility of violence. There are fights, threats and guns in his work. Yet again and again he pushes his characters toward offices and meetings first.
Tamar argues before she reaches for weapons. She tells the story of her people in rooms where the officials listening do not quite know what to do with her. She fights within her own community over how much compromise they can accept. Testimony and memory are her main tools.
Bran’s most important act is to master the logic of a system he dislikes. He reads the instructions, keeps track of the money, endures being ignored and patronized, and insists on completing the process that will give the Glade a legal foothold. When confrontation does come, his authority rests not only on force but on the fact that he can produce a piece of paper that says the valley exists.
That pattern reflects Greene’s sense of what change often looks like in the real world. Years in law and advocacy have shown him that decisions made in hearings and at counters shape lives as decisively as anything that happens in a moment of open conflict. He does not romanticize bureaucracy, but he refuses to pretend it is unimportant.
Courtrooms and registries are limited in what they can recognize. They look for chains of title, tax records, survey data and proof of use. They may take long possession into account, but only within defined rules. They do not have a clear way to weigh the importance of a hill where grandparents are buried or a festival that has always taken place in a particular meadow.
Greene’s valleys allow those elements to stand at the center of the story rather than at the edges. In Tamar, the graves in the valley matter at least as much as any field. It ties the community to the valley in a way that would never appear in a legal description. In After the Parch, the Glade’s claim rests not simply on productivity, but on the fact that without this particular place the community’s experiment in self-government would unravel.
Fiction can also show how law looks from below. A surveyor’s stake in Tamar’s valley is not just a marker. It is a visible sign that someone elsewhere has plans for the land. A patent deadline in the Glade is not just an administrative date. It is the point at which people must either submit to a system or be swept aside by it. These are the kinds of facts that rarely make it into legal reasoning but dominate the experience of those who live through the process.
Greene does not try to smuggle these considerations into doctrine. He lets them live where they belong, in narrative. The novels become a way of thinking about claims that are morally intelligible but legally awkward.
By the time Tamar and After the Parch reach their conclusions, neither valley is quite where it started. Some forms of recognition have been won. Some losses have been absorbed. Tracks may cross where they once stopped. Trucks may come closer to the forest edge. On some shelf in a ministry, there is now a file that includes the valley’s name, or at least a label that points to it.
Greene does not close the argument. The question of ownership remains open. That seems to be the point. He is wary of any answer that treats a registry entry as the whole truth, or that treats feeling alone as enough.
The images that linger are not of signatures, but of people moving through land they know intimately. Tamar walking the valley and naming its features. Bran returning to the Glade after seeing what the Republic looks like from the inside. Children who can find their way home in the dark. Graves on a hillside that no one in an office has ever seen.
Who owns such a place. The person whose name appears in the book at the land office. The institution that wrote the rules. The company that can bring in machines. Or the people who have arranged their lives around the valley to the point where leaving would mean becoming someone else.
Greene does not supply a formula. His fiction suggests instead that ownership is always more than a document. It is a mix of memory, use, recognition and power. If no one remembers who lived in a valley, who worked it and who is buried there, those who come later will assume it was always theirs. Law will usually follow that assumption. As long as someone keeps telling the story, the question remains open, whatever the map says. As long as someone keeps telling the story, the question remains open, whatever the map says, and those stories still have room to carry the journeys, loves, betrayals and political experiments that reach far beyond a single patch of ground.
More of Sheldon Greene’s reflections on law, history and fiction can be found on his Substack: https://sheldongreenee.substack.com/