While this database lists only those titles published before 2000 (given the apparently exponential increase in the production of children's and YA literature) I have (not surprisingly) reviewed a number of books written in the 21st century. I have included those reviews here.
Molly’s Cue fills a niche in children’s literature similar to the one Jane Austen’s Emma (1815) fills for adults. Like Emma, Molly has it all: she is confident, talented, and sure of her future. Like Emma, Molly needs to learn to respect others for their abilities—more, less, or just different from her own—and to understand how she can best contribute to the world around her. For Molly, this learning is painful, and takes most of her first year of high school, the time-frame of the novel. The superficial issue is drama, and its connection with Molly’s recently deceased grandmother, “Grand.” When Molly learns the truth about Grand’s relationship to theatre and the stage, her belief in her legacy of dramatic ability dissolves. Her confidence shattered, she almost drops out of drama class. With the help of her teacher, her best friend, Candace, and Candace’s new boyfriend, Molly rediscovers her artistic voice, and begins a journey into her future that readers will not only appreciate but possibly emulate.
Entwined with Molly’s negotiation of stagecraft, Acheson weaves the story of the adults in Molly’s life: her friend Candace’s pregnant, unmarried mother; Grand, who worshipped the stage but never performed on it; Molly’s widowed mother, supportive but strained by the demands of those around her; and Molly’s immature uncle “Early,” whose own need to grow up is instrumental in Molly’s budding recognition of her place in her family and her community. The characters are heart-warmingly real; their troubles are expressed sympathetically, in a manner that is not overwhelmingly angst-inducing. The balance Acheson has developed between affectionate emotional attachment and interpersonal conflict strongly resembled one of my favourite authors, Glen Huser; Molly’s Cue can sit beside Huser’s Touch of the Clown (1999) with pride in achieving a positive and strong voice for the artistic child reader to hear.
Back to topA modern fable, set in Toronto and Hungary. Young Ingrid’s family lives in semi-poverty—both parents work as servants to richer Torontonians—but when she turns 11, she is contacted by her grandmother, a countess who wants Ingrid to come “home” to her. Within the realism of familial discord, Ingrid’s own story is archetypal: she must pass three challenges, as all Balazs children have in the past, to prove she is of their “noble” bloodlines, and worthy to inherit the family legacy. The third challenge involves a labyrinth with a wolf in lieu of the minotaur, beneath the castle foundations. Ingrid’s simplicity and honour—two characteristics she has inherited from her egalitarian father as well as imbibed from the more humble Canadian setting—help her to not only navigate the maze, but ultimately to release the wolf, who becomes her life-long protector. In bringing Gabor the wolf home to Canada, caring for him, and learning how to function in society so that he does not threaten those around her, Ingrid grows into a mature, self-assured young woman. This is truly a coming-of-age story with a difference; would that we all had a castle in Hungary to inherit, noble blood to support us, and a wolf-guard to protect and love us throughout our lives. But the lessons Ingrid learns are the same as any young girl entering adolescence, and readers will love the blend of fairy tale and realism that Alexis gives us.
Back to topThe Tales of Ti-Jean travelled from France to North America with the first explorers, and have grown into the French Canadian stories Jan Andrews here presents us with, The first story, “Ti-Jean and the Princess of Tomboso,” was in fact translated back from “Ojibwa tellers who, presumably, had heard it from the voyageurs” (Note on Sources). As Andrews points out in the introduction, “Ti-Jean” stories are legion: “many, many people have created stories about him over the years” (11). When Apples Grew Noses and White Horses Flew presents three, all of which are lively and delightful. Lovers of folktale will especially appreciate the seeming newness of the tales; they are completely different from the more well-known folktale plots, despite a full complement of folktale characteristics: objects and events in groups of three; magic as part of everyday life; trickery triumphed over by the simple, “everyman” hero, Ti-Jean.<.p>
In “Ti-Jean and the Princess of Tomboso,” Ti-Jean is initially duped by the Princess, but eventually gets his wits together to triumph over her. In “Ti-Jean the Marble Player,” his self-assurance leads him to seek the magical Bonnet Rouge, whom he must outwit to save his life. This he can only do with the help of Bonnet Rouge’s sisters and youngest daughter. In “How Ti-Jean Became a Fiddler,” his humility is contrasted with the self-assurance of his older brothers, whom he must save from prison with magical gifts given to him for his hard work and honesty. In all three tales, basic human values are lauded; arrogance and dishonesty are punished; and the simple hero, Ti-Jean, triumphs through his hard work, honesty, and simple approach to life.
An added benefit in the text is the inclusion of “A Word about Ti-Jean” and “A Note on Sources,” which situate the tales within a larger folkloric tradition and reveal their importance in the history of North American folklore.
Back to top“Jinkies, it’s Cousin Wilber!” or rather, “Oy vey, it’s Mr. Katzenblum!” Sammy and the Headless Horseman is a fun version of the standard Scooby Doo-like plot, wherein a disgruntled relative re-enacts the legend of the Headless Horseman in order to frighten the owners of a family inn into selling. Set in a Jewish immigrant community in the Catskill Mountains, the novel is more complex than the children’s cartoon, in that it touches on how prejudice exists on a number of levels: racial, cultural, financial. The strength of the story lies in the author’s exploration of the Jewish culture, which is presented in a way that non-Jewish readers can fully engage with.
Sammy, a first-generation Polish Jewish immigrant, accompanies his Aunt Pearl and annoying cousin Joshua, and his cousin Leah (who plays little role in the novel) for their summer vacation at the Pine Grove Hotel. Aunt Pearl and Joshua condescendingly treat Sammy as little more than a servant; in fact, Aunt Pearl functionally offers Sammy as free labour at the inn. While his relatives have a “large, airy room” (10), Sammy is left to bunk with Adam, a summer employee. Sammy is actually pleased with this arrangement, as it permits him to mostly avoid Joshua, and to conspire with Adam and Shayna, daughter of the inn owners, in their “ghost hunting” (17).
A sense of the supernatural is established by Mrs. Leibman, inn-keeper, who believes her grandmother is haunting her. Her grandmother, Mrs. Leibman tells the children, always liked her brother best, and her ghost wants him to have the hotel. When things break and lights go out, Mrs. Leibman’s superstitions seem supported. Combined with the mysterious Headless Horseman’s harassment of The Hermit, a reclusive ex-slave who suffers discrimination at the hands of the less-educated of the community, the “hauntings” provide ample scope for a ghost-hunting adventure.
For the younger readers, the simple plot will still entertain, and the end may be satisfying: Sammy’s father comes and stands up for him against Aunt Pearl; the Headless Horseman is unmasked; and the Hermit returns to his reclusive existence. For those who have read more broadly, the plot will seem derivative and the end far too predictable.
Back to topI've promised to fill in a questionnaire about Kelley Armstrong's The Summoning for a friend's research project, so I set myself to reread the series (the questionnaire rather requires it). I remembered reviewing The Reckoning (2010) when it came out, and being gratifyingly surprised at how much I enjoyed the series, but I guess time had mellowed my recollections. Picking up The Summoning for a second time, I was again immediately sucked in to the powerful world of Chloe and her friends. Fortunately, I have a horrible memory for plot (hence the need to reread), so it was (mostly) all new the second time around. But equally enthralling. I read it through in one sitting, only rising for a Skype meeting in the afternoon and to make dinner in the evening. Almost reneged on that responsibility, actually.
All that I said about The Reckoning remains true (and please read it so I don't have to repeat myself). Chloe and her friends and associates are very realistically drawn—for teens who have paranormal abilities—and their struggles translate easily into the lives of less "special" teens in the general North American population (even better, I would hazard to guess, for otherly-"special" teens in the general North American population).
We meet Chloe as a young child afraid to go down into the basement: not an unusual childhood fear. Chloe, though, is afraid because there really are ghosts, and they speak to her. Sometimes they are benign, but sometimes they are evil and malicious. Her trauma causes her parents to move, and she settles into a normal life. We meet her again as a teen on the cusp of adolescence. Her repressed memories come back as she crosses over that cusp (gets her period) and the ghost of a dead custodian at her school reaches out to her. Things go downhill from there, and Chloe ends up in a group home for a two-week diagnostic and therapeutic visit. She finds herself in a classic situation of emotional and psychological tension: is she crazy, schizophrenic, as she is told? Are the other teens crazy? Why are they here, and is she in danger from them? Who can she trust? By the end of the book, she still hasn't answered that last question, although the answers to the first two have become clearer. She is not crazy: she is a necromancer; the ghosts cannot actually hurt her, despite her fear. This is a powerful realization, but not sufficient to keep her safe. She learns the stories of some of the other teens, but not all. And she really doesn't know who to trust. And she gets it wrong.
Cue the end of the book.
This would be troubling if the second novel in the series (yes, thankfully, series, not trilogy, as stated on the cover of The Reckoning) were not available, but at this point, one can just read on (if Book #2, The Awakening (2010), weren't out of the library as usual even now). And this time around, I will be able to carry on immediately reading the second series, Darkness Rising: The Gathering (2012), The Calling (2013), and The Rising (2014). In rereading my own earlier review I note that The Reckoning leaves the teens set up to take on the world as they know it. I can't wait to see how that goes for them.
This book is deceiving. The cover illustration, the title, and the cover blurb all suggest another lame vampire–werewolf–powerless-female triad, so wrapped up in their teenaged angst and hormones that they leave no room for plot or character development. Not so. The Reckoning is the third in a series (I hope a series, not a trilogy, although the jacket descriptions use both terms) that is stay-up-to-all-hours gripping.
My one criticism is that the author does not seem to know how to end a story. Book One, The Summoning (2008) leaves the protagonists separated, captured by their enemies, with no general plan; Book Two, The Awakening (2009), reunites the protagonists then leaves them preparing to infiltrate their enemies’ secret lab; Book Three, The Reckoning (with which we are most concerned) leaves the protagonists more stable in their relationships with one another, and now—finally—aware of who is really on which side, but nonetheless begs for another sequel: the last lines are “We had a lot of work ahead of us, but a lot of adventures, too. I was sure of that” (389). I understand how readers, once they become involved in the characters’ lives, are loath to part from a friend, but I really miss a well-structured novel, one like Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird (1960), or Margaret Craven’s I Heard the Owl Call My Name (1967): novels that have something to say, and say it within the confines of a narrative progression that provides closure, leaving the reader satisfied that life goes on, but this story has been told. This, it seems, is not the way of the future…
Narrative overflow aside, the characters in Armstrong’s novels seem honest and authentic representations of teens with difficulties that they are only beginning to understand. The level of sexual attraction is minimal—as befits early teenagers—and grows during the course of the narrative. The lessons they learn, however accentuated by the severity of their situation, can easily be translated into young adults’ lives: be careful who you trust; the most friendly person is not always the most honest; know your strengths and weaknesses; take responsibility for your own actions and decisions; exercise your agency, bystanders can get hurt as well. These are general lessons about navigating the world, wrapped up in a mystical fantasy set in contemporary North America. Armstrong writes well, and balances the real with the surreal admirably. I do hope I am right about that sequel…
Back to topThe premise of this book is sound: the young protagonist is restricted by her mother because of a hereditary heart condition, but eventually learns that the restrictions are unnecessary and the result of her mother’s traumatized response to her husband’s death. The events, too, are believable as are the protagonist’s emotional responses, voiced through limited omniscient narration—but only if the protagonist is a six-year-old, not the ten-year-old Grade 6 student she is presented as. The author’s narrative voice is as annoying as the TV cartoon character Caillou, who is supposed to be four but behaves (as my four- and five-year-old children pointed out immediately) like a two-year old. Children are very attuned to the emotional and intellectual ages of their literary counterparts, and while I would recommend this text, it would only be for the lower grades: Grade 1 through 3.
Back to topKaren Autio’s Kah-Lan has recently been short-listed for the Green Earth Book Award, which seems completely appropriate, given the verisimilitude of Autio’s depiction of the interaction between the young seal pup, Kah-Lan, and his natural environment.
I think what drew me first to Kah-Lan, though, was Sheena Lott’s peaceful watercolour on the cover. Also, I love sea otters. And the BC coast. I was truly delighted when the content of the book lived up to the expectations aroused by the delightful cover. Kah-Lan opens with a lively description of two sea otter pups in a kelp forest, weaving and leaping through the kelp, nipping each other in play. The fluid motion of sea otters is captured perfectly; Kah-Lan and Yamka are real sea otters, with just enough anthropomorphism to satisfy young human readers. When his mother calls him to safety, Kah-Lan is “tired of obeying … he figures he has plenty of time to escape” (11), but then he watches as an orca stuns then consumes an Elder from his raft. The world of Autio’s fictional sea otter contains real-life dangers.
The sea otter pups must balance their play with a necessary obedience to the parental members of the raft and the constant need to feed. Ostensibly just searching for food (as any teen would rationalize disobedience), Kah-Lan gets caught in a riptide and pulled far from his familiar hunting grounds. Once he discovers a greater abundance of food in this new location, he still has to find a way to return to his raft, a daunting challenge given the currents and dangers of the tumultuous waters off the BC coast. Presenting Kah-Lan’s choices as consistent with his sea-otter nature, Autio is able to create a narrative that is exciting, and an animal character that nonetheless replicates human children’s need for both belonging and individuation.
I’ve been waiting for this book for a while now: ever since I read and loved Karen Autio’s Kah-Lan: The Adventurous Sea Otter (2015). Responding to my review, the author told me of her new project, a history of the Okanagan for young readers, that she was working on with illustrator Loraine Kemp. I have to admit that my interest is not only because Kah-Lan is so marvellous, but also largely because I was born in the Okanagan and raised in the Similkameen, and was excited by the prospect of a history of my home. And now, here it is, in my hand.
First, something about the illustrations: Karen Autio chooses her artist-colleagues well. Sheena Lott’s playful watercolours of sea otter pups first drew me to Kah-Lan, reminding me how much I love the ocean. Loraine Kemp’s paintings bring forth memories of dust and sage and pine in the air, and I can almost feel the blistering Okanagan sun on my skin. (Well, except for the winter scenes, which cause me to shiver in a similar but less-welcome nostalgic response.) The illustrations pair perfectly with the narrative, each painting adding subtly to the reader’s understanding of the historical moment.
As for the text, the opening is auspicious: the book is “Dedicated to the syilx people, on whose lands this story unfolds.” Sqilxw (skay-lo-heh), we are told in the glossary that begins the book, means simply “the people”—the original inhabitants of the Okanagan Valley and Wild Horse Canyon—and it is with them that the story begins.
The protagonist of Growing Up in Wild Horse Canyon—the character who grows up—is not human, but a ponderosa pine tree, planted in 1780 by happenstance just as a young Okanagan boy paints his message on the rock wall of the canyon. As the tree grows through the decades, we watch the Okanagan people’s lives in the canyon and the valley, the coming of European fur traders along the Okanagan Brigade Trail that runs from Fort Okanagan on the Columbia River north to Kamloops, the capture and sale and culling of the wild horses that were the wealth of the Okanagan people, the settling of the valley by non-Indigenous people, two world wars, and the devastating forest fire in 2003 that kills the 223-year-old tree that has lived through so much.
Despite that this is a history rather than a gripping narrative of personal endeavour, when the fire hits, we really do feel the loss, not only of our tree, but of so much else. Perhaps I feel this more personally than some: I remember watching the news in 2003, praying that my grandparents’ cabin—the old CPR bunkhouse at Chute Lake, now restored and owned by my cousins—would survive. We were fortunate: it did, while the forest and trestle and other homes were destroyed. The reprieve we felt is echoed in Growing Up in Wild Horse Canyon in the description of the aftermath of the fire:
Seeds from many plants have been waiting for decades to sprout and now begin to grow. … A seedling sheltered by the giant fallen tree in the canyon is a new ponderosa pine.
The firestorm cleared areas of the park, which then returned to rocky grassland. Bighorn sheep once lived in the park and can now live there again [and] in the Okanagan Valley south and west of Wild Horse Canyon, mostly on reserve land, several hundred wild horses survive and still roam free. (25-26)
This celebration of the cycle of life, as expressed in the slow growth and quick destruction of the ponderosa pine, and the ebb and flow of lives lived in its shade, is deeply satisfying. I hope young readers will feel at the end, as I did, that it is worth continuing, for the real history lesson lies in the pages that follow.
In addition to a timeline (which is almost as satisfying to my hyper-organized mind as the map that opens the book), “More About Wild Horse Canyon and Area” includes more factual descriptions of the history and ideas touched on in the narrative. The combination of narrative and historical fact renders Growing Up in Wild Horse Canyon not only fascinating for any young reader interested in our history, but even more appropriate as an addition to school and classroom libraries throughout BC and Canada.
I love time-slip novels, and was excited about the premise of The Wolves of Woden, which brings together two fascinating periods in history and legend: World War II Newfoundland and Arthurian England. Alison Baird weaves a tapestry in her settings; her descriptions both depict and suggest the strangeness of Jean’s seeming temporal disruptions, the uncanny sense of each world being more real than the other. Her characters are well-drawn, too, and her plot tight and interesting.
So why, I ask myself, did I not enjoy the book more? The problem lies, I think, in exactly that sense of neither world having obvious primacy over the other. Jean’s life in Annwn seems more important while she is there, and the reader can engage most easily in the fantasy nature of the narrative, but yet the text suggests that Jean’s role in Annwn is actually an important quest not only for Annwn, but for Newfoundland as well.
Baird has created parallel universes, not different temporal situations, for her protagonist to move between. In Annwn, where magic is known exist, they understand that their world is real, our world the shadow; in Newfoundland, Jean cannot discuss Annwn, for no one would believe her. The connection between the two worlds, too, is posited as real: what happens in Annwn is not only reflective of, but also causal in what happens on the battlefields of France. The suggestion—voiced by the Shade of King Arthur, no less—is that through her pivotal role in overcoming Woden in Annwn, Jean is responsible for the hope that comes into our world: in The Wolves of Woden, our “hope” lies explicitly in the Americans entering the war in 1941, which enabled the ultimate defeat of Germany. While the concept of a causal connection between the medieval, magical battle in Annwn and the very real carnage of World War II is interesting, the linkage is rather complicated and thus less effective than it might be. Sacred weapons are transported into our world, and then back, changing magical properties in their journeys; despite her magical abilities, Jean has no control over her passage between worlds, but is taken from Newfoundland when she is needed in Annwn; people we care about die in both worlds, as the Nazis and the Lochlannach violently invade the lands they would conquer. I am never sure—even in the end—what Jean’s real role in Annwn was or will be: the premise for her involvement is not sufficient. Jean is taken into Annwn on a number of occasions, and returned to Newfoundland once Woden’s forces are vanquished. That battle over, and with the Americans entering the war in Europe, the text suggests, all will be fine and ultimately return to normal. While it seems possible to accept the trope of “the return to normal life” in the fictional setting, familiarity with World War II history does not permit such as simple view regarding our world. Despite the ultimate defeat of Nazism, four full years of horrific war seem to be trivialized somewhat by Baird’s comparatively short fantasy battle. Perhaps for younger readers, historical knowledge will not impinge upon a sense of hopeful closure for Jean… but is the lack of historicity required doing them a disservice?
Back to topA lovely and refreshing story of life on an island with an eccentric grandmother. Deirdre Baker’s descriptions rival L. M. Montgomery’s, without being so saccharine. The story is simple and episodic, but true to the feelings of a young girl about to have a new baby brother or sister, who is shunted off to her grandmother, whom she loves but at times does not get along with. It is a fabulous portrayal of how we can both love and be upset with our family, and how our fluctuating superficial feelings do not infringe upon our deeper appreciation of family.
Back to topA Year of Borrowed Men tells a story from World War Two that will be unfamiliar to many readers, but is nonetheless a moving part of the history of the German-Canadian community. The author writes from her mother Gerta’s recollections, bringing to life the engaging voice of the younger Gerta, whose family hosted three French prisoners-of-war on their German farm in 1944.
World War Two from the German perspective remains somewhat problematic: how do we reconcile decades of erroneous equation of “German” with evil, with the real experiences of many Germans during the war? While the topic is dealt with effectively in some texts—Roberto Innocenti’s Rose Blanche (1985), Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief (2005), John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas (2006), among others—it will take so many more stories for truth to overcome the stereotypes. A Year of Borrowed Men contributes positively and significantly to our understanding of the compassion of some of the German populace, placed themselves in an almost untenable psychological and ideological situation.
Gerta’s father was “borrowed” by the German army, and in his place the government sent three French prisoners—Gabriel, Fermaine, and Albert—to work the land. Gerta’s innocent narrative perspective ensures that the dark reality of Germany’s forced labour policy is not brought out. With the egalitarianism of young children, Gerta cannot understand why the three must live with the animals, and eat in the “pig’s kitchen,” where the slops were prepared. That was the rule though: these men were prisoners and were to be treated as such. Inviting them in to dinner one night almost sent Gerta’s mother to prison herself, yet the family could not deny their fundamental humanity. Despite regulations, in the face of threats, Gerta and her mother find little ways of making the Frenchmen’s lives more tolerable: extra butter on their bread, catalogues to cut into elicit decorations at Christmas, sneaking treats for them to eat. The men reciprocated with affection for their little German freunde: “I couldn’t keep the borrowed men here,” Gerta observes at the end of the war, “but we were friends—and I could keep that forever.” The story is made more powerful by the fact that Gerta did indeed keep that friendship alive: enough that her daughter has retold their story for her grandchildren’s generation to learn.
Back to topWhen I was young, I saw the 1978 movie version of Bette Greene’s Summer of My German Soldier (1973). Until then, I hadn’t thought about what “our side” did with prisoners of war. It was more obvious with Allied prisoners in the European or Asian theatre: the prisoners were held there, where the battles were being waged. (Hogan’s Heroes, the comic TV series that ran from 1965 to 1971, was also a popular entertainment of my youth.) Less traumatic than the American Summer of My German Soldier, Uncertain Soldier tells the story of Erich Hofmeyer, a German prisoner of war held in Alberta in the winter of 1943-44.
The story begins, though, in the voice of young Max Schmidt, a Canadian lad born of German parents, who is persecuted for his heritage and understandably struggles with his identity as a result. His father is almost violently insistent that Max remain proud of and stand up for himself and his German heritage. What Max is subjected to is impossible to stand against, though: a systematic, targetted bullying that readers will recognize as being a pervasive response to otherness, not just the product of war-time Canadian prejudice. When the bullying becomes life threatening, Max runs away. Max’s flight is the impetus for an act of bravery by Erich on both a physical and an emotional level, a distillation of the uncertainty that has been tearing at Erich throughout the novel.
Erich’s uncertainty regarding his conflicted national and cultural identities gives rise to the novel’s title. While Max’s struggle is the weft of the fabric of Bass’s narrative, Erich’s is the warp. Max is persecuted by his classmates; Erich’s very life is threatened by his complex position as a German national with British relatives, who speaks English perfectly and who silently rejects Hitler’s insistence on the superiority of the Aryan “race.” In the prison camp outside of Lethbridge where Erich is initially held, the Nazi party members rule as strongly as within the German army. Beaten close to death by those in power, Erich is granted a transfer to a work camp for prisoners deemed to be less of an ideological threat. Here, too, though, the dynamics among the prisoners is infused with mistrust of each other and of the Canadians the men work with. Some of the Canadians are generous and kind; others are resentful; and at least one person is filled with a hatred that leads to murderous intent. As both linguistic and cultural interpreter between the German prisoners and their English-speaking boss and fellow lumberjacks, Erich sees both honour and mistrust on both sides, and his honest, empathetic perspective makes him an ideal negotiator but also puts him in an almost untenable situation.
Uncertain Soldier is a solid, intelligent interpretation of the politics of the time and the effect of opinion on morale. Through the richness of its characters, the novel gives voice to a gamut of attitudes, revealing the complexity of life during the 1940s far more thoroughly and effectively than what is taught in history classes. In contrast to the Canadian Sam’s violent insistence that “a few firing squads last war would’ve fixed it,” Erich’s British grandfather astutely notes that “more mercy by the Great War’s victors might have prevented the fight that loomed” (103). The parallel with history is made more powerful by its subtlty; most readers will not hear Sam’s vehemance as an echo of French military politician Ferndinand Foch, who noted at the time that the Treaty of Versailles was “not peace [but] an Armastice for twenty years,” asking for harsher restrictions to be place on the defeated Germany. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Erich’s grandfather’s position is reminiscent of John Maynard Keynes’s insistence that the conditions were too harsh, that the Treaty was a “Carthaginian peace,” a peace ensured by the complete anhililation of the vanquished, such as Rome’s conquering of Carthage. Historians still debate the political “what ifs” of the first half of the twentieth century, and this uncertainty, manifested at all levels of society, is brilliantly woven into the fabric of Bass’s text.
Back to topIn her earlier young adult historical novels—The Way Lies North (2007), Broken Trail (2011), and Freedom Bound (2012)—Jean Baxter explores the lives of the United Empire Loyalists, Native Americans, and African-American slaves during and shortly after the American Revolution. We follow the history of the Cobham family—among others—as they flee persecution in the United States, separated by the turmoil of the conflict. John Cobham and the eldest son, Elijah, left to fight for the British; the second son, Silas, later followed them; the youngest son, Moses, ran away and was found and adopted by an Oneida community; the only girl, Hope was a babe in arms as the family fell apart.
The White Oneida follows this exploration into the aftermath of political decisions made at the time, specifically those regarding the First Nations and land rights. The White Oneida is Moses Cobham, raised from the age of ten as Broken Trail. As the story opens, Broken Trail has been sent by Thayendanegea—known in history books as Joseph Brant—to Sedgewick School in Vermont, where promising young Native youths were being taught the White Man’s ways ostensibly to prepare them to “go forth to preach the Gospel in many tongues” (13). This, however, is neither Thayendanegea’s nor Broken Trail’s intent. Broken Trail is being educated explicitly to help forge aliences between the various First Nations, to gain a “gentleman’s education that will help prepare [him] to assist [Thayendanegea] in negotiations with white diplomats as well as with his plans to make a better future for native people” (5), and Broken Trail approaches his commission very earnestly.
In a twist on the Muscular Christianity “school novel” tradition, lacrosse plays a role in honing Broken Trail’s leadership abilities, but in the interest of promoting unity amongst the native peoples, not in the promulgation of Christian doctrine. This plot element draws also on historical allusion. The story, roughly told, is that at the outset of the Pontiac Rebellion of 1763, lacrosse functioned as a Trojan Horse: the First Nation warriors played lacrosse in the fields outside Fort Michilimackinac so often that the activity was considered harmless. When a ball was sent over the fort walls in a particular match between the Ojibwas and the Sauks, the British opened the door to return it; the natives surged through, decimating the fort. In The White Oneida, the metaphor of lacrosse as “the little brother of war” (49) functions on a deeper level. At Sedgewick School, the game, in traditional fashion, pits the Algonkian Shooting Stars (populated by students from the Mississaugas, Potawatomis, Ottawas, Shawnee, and Mohican nations) against the Six Nations Eagles (with students from the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) nations: the the Oneida, Mohawk, Seneca, Cayugas, Onondaga, and Tuscarora). Recognizing the politically divisive nature of this recreational rivalry, Broken Trail asserts that he will only play if he plays for the Shooting Stars; he is supported by Lean Horse–Abraham, a Mohican who crosses the floor to the Eagles’ team (109). This is Broken Trail’s first success as a leader: despite initial opposition, not only the students but two of the teachers are converted to his position that “with mixed teams we’ll feel more like brothers than rivals … that’s what we need if we’re ever going to stand shoulder to shoulder to defend our lands” (111).
Broken Trail comes to Sedgewick School as a firm acolyte of Thayendanegea, but his hero-worship is disturbed by his teacher, half-Mohawk Mr. Johnson, whose opinion of Brant is less idealized. Thayendanegea, Mr. Johnson tells Broken Trail, means “places-two-bets”: a fitting name for Captain Joseph Brant, who “gambled to become a fine gentleman in the white man’s world and a war chief in ours. He won both bets” (67). In 1784, Brant “won” for the Six Nations the Haldimand Tract: a grant of land stretching 6 miles either side of the Grand River for its entire length, 950 000 acres, give or take, in total. When Broken Trail comments that “the Haldimand Tract doesn’t belong to Captain Brant. It belongs to the people of the Six Nations,” Mr. Johnson derisively asks “Does Brant know that?” (67). Mr. Johnson further tells Broken Trail that Brant has been “selling off Six Nations land as if it were his own property” (139); it is historical fact that Brant did sell parts of the Haldimand Tract to white settlers. Later in the novel, Brant is given his own voice to respond to such accusations. Brant disillusions Broken Trail of his belief that the Haldimand Tract was granted to the Iroquois in recognition of their loyalty, explaining the military rationale behind the grant (220). He goes on to explain that the grant was “both too small and too large”: “too small for the SixNations to live in the old way [but] more than what we require for farms. So why not sell land we don’t need in order to raise money for the things we do?” (221). By this point, we are willing to believe that Brant’s rationale is what he believes to be true, but it is to Baxter’s great credit that—like Broken Trail—we are not really sure that any of the versions we are given are actually truth.
In the context of the novel, the cynical Mr. Johnson has a valid perspective. This is another of the strengths of Baxter’s historicity: her fictional characters are constructed such that their knowledge and opinions are justified and believable. Brant, as a historical figure carries his own credibility, but the fictional characters seem equally “real.” Mr. Johnson, for example, is presented as “one of Sir William Johnson’s sons” (27) from his union with Molly Brant, Joseph Brant’s sister. The Dictionary of National Biography verifies Baxter’s information about the Johnson family, should a reader choose to check. They likely wouldn’t: so much of Baxter’s information reads as historical truth.
An interesting tangential note is that Canadian poet-performer, E. Pauline Johnson (1861-1913), who adopted her great-grandfather’s native name of “Tekahionwake,” or “Double-Wampum,” was decended from Sir William. Twice- widowed, in 1759 Sir William “married” Molly Brant, who bore him eight children. Johnson had three children by his first wife, Mary Wisenburgh, and an unspecified number by his second long-term liaison with a Dutch woman whom he married on her death-bed—hence Broken Trail’s classmate’s comment about Johnson making “good provision for all his children, whether their mothers were native or white” (27). In his will, Johnson calls Molly’s children his “natural children” (Sir Leslie Stephen, ed., Dictionary of National Biography, 1921–1922. Volumes 1–20, 22 (London, England: Oxford UP, 1921–1922) p. 939). Broken Trail’s fictional teacher, Mr. Johnson, was one of these children, as was E. Pauline Johnson’s entirely non-fictional great-grandfather, Jacob George “Tekahionwake” Johnson.
It is not the well-constructed plot of The White Oneida that renders it such a successful historical novel so much as the weaving together of the threads of political machinations surrounding the history of the Iroquois nations in Canada and the creation of the Six Nations Reserve in what is now Brant County. The objective history of negotiations and decisions is complex; through Broken Trail’s growing insight and ethical interpretations of what he learns, readers can begin to understand the motivations driving those decisions. More politically aware than Broken Trail, Margaret–Yellowbird tells him that she “doesn’t trust” the American tolerance of the Oneida rebuilding the villages destroyed in the Revolution: “Whenever they seem to be treating us better, they’re just softening us up so they can take more of our land. I think their plan is to push us into little reservations surrounded by white settlements, so each band will be cut off from the rest. That way, we’ll lose our power to act as a single nation” (43). This concern underies Brant’s intent in sending Broken Trail to Sedgewick School. Broken Trail begins his educational journey believing that Brant’s vision is right, his motivations pure and just. As we leave him, we see that Broken Trail’s belief in the vision is just as strong, but he has a far more balanced and realistic view of the complexities of and contradictions in Brant’s—and others’—attitudes and actions. He has seen that too often “the bannock was buttered and spread with strawberry jam” (223), and he moves ever forward in his desire to negotiate the disperate yet entangled worlds he inhabits.
Back to topA young boy and his new girlfriend discover the secret of the past of their Ontario community, once a final stop on the Underground Railroad. This is a great book—full of emotion and mystery and alternative characterizations of boys and girls and parents… a successful text for the young teen reader.
Back to topThe premise is that four highschool students who have met online in a chatroom devoted to teen suicide decide to travel across the USA visiting the graves of famous suicide victims, then drive to Death Valley and kill themselves. Not the most auspicious of beginnings. The characters are well constructed, and knowledge of the narrator judicially presented, so that in the end, the plot twist that helps us understand the narrator’s history and thus psyche is extremely artfully delivered. The ending, so carefully and successfully orchestrated, is the best part of the book, however; I never fully engaged with any of the characters or their problems. Perhaps there was too much “me, me, me,” even for a teen angst novel. The exclusion of any other perspectives did not permit for a balanced consideration of their positions, even when they were continually commenting on one another’s perspectives on reality. Overall, I felt the book too focused inward, both in terms of characters and overall tone. The fabulously crafted ending almost redeems the preceding story, but not quite.
Back to topAway Running begins and ends with running away. The opening scene presents Matt (Mathieu Dumas from Montreal) and Free (Freeman Omonwole Behanzin from San Antonio, Texas) and some of their teammates on the American football team, the Diables Rouges, in Villeneuve, France. Villeneuve is a suburb of Paris noted for its mainly poor, immigrant population, and a concomitantly high level of racial tension. Taking a short-cut through a construction zone, the boys are stopped—unfairly accosted—by the police. Immediately, readers are immersed in the fear these teens face: they have done nothing wrong, but they know that doesn’t matter. They will be arrested. Their parents will be called. They will not be able to play in the under-20s championship final in four days. They run.
Matt, too, is running. His mother is an editor for a Canadian women’s magazine; his brother and sister have both been successful in business; Matt is similarly slated to attend Orford College—an excellent business school with no sports: no football. Stealing from his college funds, Matt runs to his football friend in Paris.
Free is in Paris on a summer-school study-abroad trip, on scholarship and feeling ostracized from his white classmates. When he meets Matt, and is given the opportunity to stay and play for the Diables Rouges, he jumps at the chance. But Free, too, is running from the reality of his life in the United States.
Much of the novel is taken up with the relationships among Matt and Free; Moussa (Moose), their closest teammate; the volatile Sidi and his sister Aïda; and the other teammates, who both respect the ’Ricains for their playing abilities and resent them for their privilege. Away Running demands not only that readers consider issues of privilege and race, but also that they understand how deeply embedded our cultural ethos lies, and how complicated intercultural and interracial interactions really are. The prejudice the Diables Rouges players and their community experience is not ultimately about race, pure and simple, as Matt learns. Despite being African-American, Free is not persecuted with Moose and Sidi and the other non-White players. Being foreign, regardless of colour, sets him outside of the cultural dynamics at play in the lower-income Paris suburbs at the same time as his race—as well as being from a similarly low-income, oppressed “hood” in San Antonio—allows him to understand those dynamics more than Matt can.
Issues of race, of cultural understanding, of teens’ social relations are set against the American football season in Paris. The Diables Rouges are a middle-of-the-pack team, and much of the boys’ growth in understanding results from their involvement in the team as they develop to meet their potential. What makes this more than a “there is no I in team” story is the true human messages that the authors impart through the carefully and very successfully developed characters. We really get to know not only Matt and Free, but Moose and Aïda, and the full cast of narrative support. We become fully invested in their lives long before the final scenes are played, before Away Running stops being about football at all, and becomes entirely about race, culture, politics, and police brutality. It was not surprising to learn from the Authors’ Notes at the back of the book that the final scenes are based on a real incident in France in 2005. It is to the authors’ great credit that the violence of the final scenes, the gross unfairness of the situation, flows seamlessly out of the entirely fictional characters and storyline they have created.
Away Running is a book about football, best suited for teenaged boys who will engage with the mentality and language of these fictional teenaged boys from the disadvantaged spaces of their cities. But it is far more than that: at its heart, it is a book about what it means to be human, regardless of class, race, or ethnicity. A football book that moved me to tears; I never thought I’d see that.
Back to topBowman’s Torn from Troy does for Homer’s Odyssey what Karleen Bradford’s There Will Be Wolves (1992) does for the history of the People’s Crusade: it brings to life the legendary event from the perspective of a commoner caught up in a monumental, history-shaping moment. To see what is so often presented in terms of politics and ideologies reflected in the human responses of Bradford’s Ursula or Bowman’s Alexias brings a powerful human component to the narrative, allowing the young reader to begin to appreciate the lives of the people in ancient times.
We meet Alexias as the Greeks finally succeed in sacking Troy. Although Alexias never really understands how the Greeks managed to breach the wall, the reader is given a clue in “something huge and wooden […that] looked like part of a giant wooden bull. Or a horse” (36-7). Subtle allusions to the legends of the Trojan war and Homer’s Odyssey (like “Crazy Cassie” [19], who prophesizes “the city of Priam, aflame and dying” [21], while nobody heeds her) are sprinkled throughout the text, but readers unfamiliar with the story might read Torn from Troy and never make the connection, so skillfully does Bowman weave his own narrative through Homer’s plotline. To facilitate a deeper understanding, the publisher has helpfully (and truthfully) noted on the back cover that the novel is “a gritty, realistic retelling of the classic Greek legend of the Odyssey.” Readers who want to learn more will know exactly where to go; the Odyssey is available in a myriad of forms. But none will tell us of Alexias, son of a healer, who travels towards Ithaca with Lopex, more formally known as Odysseus—and we early on become invested in Alexias’s fate.
Young readers will love Alexias’s spirit, and his sharp wit and quick tongue, which get him into trouble often, but help him also to survive the challenges he encounters: the sack of Troy itself; slavery on a Greek bireme; the competition for food and water, even amongst the Trojan slaves. Seconded as a healer to the enemy soldiers, he experiences first-hand the major events in Odysseus’s tale: the raid on the Cicones; the storm at sea; the Lotus-eaters; and the besting of the Cyclops, which culminates in the boasting of Lopex’s real name. This revelation foreshadows trouble (and the next novel), as Alexias tells us: “Odysseus […] wiliest of the Greeks. For someone that clever, giving the Cyclops his name had been foolish. To curse someone, you had to know their name” (196). As expected, the Cyclops calls on Poseidon to wreak vengeance on Odysseus. The book ends with this curse lying heavily over the reader, but presents at the same time a stability in Alexias’s relation with the people around him. While we eagerly await the next book in the trilogy, Torn from Troy does not leave us dissatisfied; it is complete in itself.
Back to topI have been waiting for the next installment of Patrick Bowman’s Odyssey of a Slave ever since I finished the first book, Torn from Troy. Cursed by a Sea God did not in any way disappoint. Torn from Troy is a retelling of Book 9 of Homer’s Odyssey, in which Odysseus begins to recount the ten years since his departure from Troy after its conquest: the tells of their encounters with the Cicones, the Lotus-eaters, and the Cyclops. In Cursed by the Sea God, the Trojan protagonist, Alexias, commonly known as Alexi, continues his journey as a slave on Odysseus’s boat, the Pelagios. After their dramatic escape from the Cyclops at the end of Torn from Troy, the Greek soldiers and sailors, and their Trojan slaves, find themselves in a land where the king has harnessed the winds—he thinks… but the winds have become powerful, and his erstwhile reasonable punishments have been resulting in his peoples’ deaths. Alexi’s outspoken nature again serves him well; with his help, Odysseus reveals the truth to the King, who grants them the powers of the wind to sail to their home in Ithaca. Bowman’s subtle humour comes into play, when King Aeolus insists that instead of “Your Majesty,” they call him “Your Inclemency.” When the sailors inadvertently release the winds, Alexi is blamed, and it takes all his wit and verbal abilities—as well as most of the novel—to regain Odysseus’s trust.
The story from Homer that readers will most likely recognize is that of Circe, who turns the crew into pigs. Alexi, a pig himself, has no part in this rescue, but learns from Odysseus’s behaviour that all is not black and white. While Circe is a wicked enchantress, she is also the source of information that helps Odysseus and his crew to survive on their journey, which includes a decent into—and return from—Hades. Through it all, we are shown the complex mixture of compassion and ruthlessness that Alexi recognizes—and resents—in Odysseus: he knows that Odysseus treats him well, but knows also that he is still a slave, and a pawn in Odysseus’s clever manipulations of his crew. We are shown the depths of Alexi’s internal turmoil, and care greatly for his success and happiness. Once again, Bowman has created for young readers a faithful representation of Homer’s plot, presented in a narrative that is fantastical, fast-paced, and sure to captivate young readers.
Back to topHaving read one or two volumes from girls’ pseudo-historical series such the Dear America series, or the British My Diary series, I did not expect great things from Dear Canada; I didn’t want to see my own history similarly fictionalized beyond any claims to historical authenticity. Then I looked at the authors contributing to the Dear Canada series. The list is extensive, and each author there is a familiar name to young Canadian readers; each author there is respected for his or her authorial integrity. Karleen Bradford’s Confederation Diary of Rosie Dunn is a welcome addition to the well-researched and well-written Dear Canada library.
It is 1866, and young Rosie Dunn has had to take her older sister’s place in service with a politician’s family destined to move to Ottawa, the capital of the new Dominion of Canada. Rosie’s father is keen on politics, so she is used to hearing the news, but not always understanding what it means. Her keen interest and intelligence, but lack of raw information, make Rosie the perfect vessel for bringing political knowledge to the young reader.
On 31 December 1857, Queen Victoria chose Ottawa as the new capital of the Province of Canada; by 1866, when Rosie Dunn arrives, Ottawa is still little more than a back-woods community, with mud instead of sidewalks and small wood houses instead of the attractively designed and solidly constructed homes of Toronto, Kingston, Montreal, or Quebec City. The “hardships” Rosie’s employers have to endure make her an admirable servant: she is industrious, honest, clever, and used to working in less-than-luxurious conditions. Rosie’s story is a rich combination of life in 1860s Ottawa and a lay-person’s understanding of the political events that accompanied the birth of our nation. We learn much of what the common people might have thought about the politics of the time, of the relations between the British ruling class and the Irish and French Canadian working classes, and of the day-to-day activities of the working people in each community. The feeling Bradford creates in her story—the characters, the setting, the honest human emotions—remind me strongly of one of my favourite novels for young Canadian readers, Lyn Cook’s much earlier The Secret of Willow Castle (1966). Both books take a significant moment in Canadian history and bring it to life for young readers. What better way to engage with our history than through the eyes and ears and minds of well-constructed fictional counterparts?
Back to topIn the vein of Monique Polak’s excellent Middle of Everywhere (2009), Sigmund Brouwer’s Devil’s Pass takes a young urban Torontonian on an adventure of a lifetime in Canada’s wild north. Both novels are poignant investigations into how culture shock and isolation can be powerful motivators in identity formation, but where Polak’s protagonist learns a lot about himself and his place in the world, about cultural values and what really matters, there is a sense of security in his life that is noticeably absent from 17-year-old Webb’s experiences in Devil’s Pass.
Webb is a street kid—by choice. He has run away from an abusive step-father and a mother he loves but who remains in ignorance of Webb’s reality, an ignorance Webb painfully perpetuates to protect her from her borderline psychotic husband. Upon the death of his beloved grandfather, Webb is thrust into an adventure—orchestrated by his grandfather as part of his legacy—that takes him to the Canol Heritage Trail in the Northwest Territories in search of answers to a mystery from his grandfather’s youth. The quest itself is interesting enough to engage the reader immediately and consistently: Brouwer feeds us clues little by little, artfully reeling us in to the tension that Webb feels both within himself and in the world around him. Webb’s street-smarts come into play when he runs foul of a local troublemaker in Norman Wells, where the hiking portion of his quest begins. The combination of the social problems Webb must deal with (poverty, homelessness, abuse, police harassment), the grief he struggles with at the loss of both his mother and his grandfather, and his need to complete the task his grandfather has set for him, drive Webb forward with a determination that readers will not only admire, but understand. Webb is not a strong, self-assured hero; rather, he is a troubled, angry young man, sometimes scared, and certainly seeking for a home and security in an unfriendly world. In the end, we are not know certain he will manage the road he has chosen, but we applaud the choices that he ultimately makes.
Devil’s Pass is one of seven novels written by seven separate authors, about the seven grandsons of David McLean, each of whom is sent on a quest as part of his inheritance: Webb’s journey will certainly inspire readers to seek out the other novels in the series, in the hope that they are as satisfying in term of both intrigue and emotional veracity. Back to top
Sigmund Brouwer certainly knows how to weave an intriguing mystery, and protagonist Jim Webb’s blend of hard-earned cynicism and innate compassion stand him in good stead as he unravels the secrets of his grandfather’s past. Tin Soldier is part of the second Seven series, which takes Webb and his six cousins on further adventures, this time self-imposed, to defend the reputation of the grandfather they all loved.
Spending the week between Christmas and New Years at their grandfather’s cabin, five of the seven cousins discover a World War II pistol, a hidden cash of fake identities and money in the wall of the cabin. The discovery sets wheels in motion, and Jim finds himself in Alabama talking to Ruby Gavin, who he met as part of his first adventure, Devil’s Pass (2012).
Tin Soldier, though, is only superficially about the mystery Webb solves; its most poignant impact comes from the lessons Webb learns. This may sound trite and clichéd, but Bouwer’s message of tolerance is not only apropos to our current sociopolitical situation, but a truth that each generation needs to learn for itself. Webb is introduced by Ruby to Vietnam War veteran Lee Knox who, she says, will be able to help determine why Webb’s grandfather had hidden two veterans’ ID cards; or, rather, two veteran’s ID cards, for while the names are different, the pictures are the same. Lee’s questions, weaving upwards through his personal contacts from the war, soon result in drastic consequences, and the two unlikely associates set out to find answers.
Webb carries serious anti-military baggage from abuse at the hands of his ex-step-father; Lee harbours deep racial anger from his experience as an activist in the Civil Rights movement. Their common purpose only mostly overcomes their seeming antipathy, but they both recognize the similarities that bind them together more than their prejudices hold them apart. Webb’s previous abuse and subsequent life on the streets of Toronto help him to empathize with the trauma Lee has experienced through the upheavals of the 1960s and 70s. His growing respect for Lee fosters a belief in Lee’s opinion that Webb’s generation have the power—like Lee’s in their time—to make a positive statement in the world: “Guy like you,” Lee asserted, “maybe you could come up with another song like 'One Tin Soldier'.” Make a difference, not just make money” (109). Brouwer provides a few lines of the song by the Canadian folk group Original Caste for his readers, and I wonder how many will seek out song—will get past the very 1970s folk feel and really listen to the meaningful words. Reading Tin Soldier I was struck with the similar pertinence of “The Fiddle and the Drum,” by a more well-known Canadian artist, Joni Mitchell. “Fiddle and the Drum,” though, is a cappella, and would not lend itself to Webb’s transposing of the song from major to minor key, reinventing it for his own generation. Brouwer takes the issues of Webb’s parents’ generation and builds an analogy that readers will not only understand but feel. Webb—and in a lesser way Lee—learns that self-respect and forgiveness are key to letting go of anger. Racism, tolerance, compassion, self-respect, and the power of song resonate through the novel. In the end, as he performs his adaptation in a small club, we cheer for Webb as much as does his audience.
Back to topI first met Jim Webb in Sigmund Brouwer’s contributions to Orca publisher’s Seven series (The Devil’s Pass) and the Seven Sequels (Tin Soldier). Of all of the Seven protagonists, I liked Webb the best; Brouwer brings the troubled Webb to life in a way that grabs the reader and pulls them in. As a teenager, Webb has a deep affinity for music and a guitar gifted to him by his dead father. He explores this musical talent not only in the Seven books, but in two of Orca’s Limelight novels: shorter novels incorporating teens’ experiences of the performing arts. Brouwer, himself a musician and lecturer on the power of music as an educational tool, includes on his website a music video of an older Webb busking on the streets; the actor in the video is remarkably well-cast for Webb as we know him in The Devil’s Pass and Tin Soldier. An accompanying webpage devoted to Barracuda is promised; hopefully it will be live by the time Barracuda is released.
In Barracuda, a prequel to the other novels, we get a glimpse of Webb at thirteen, vacationing with his grandfather in the Florida keys. Webb, as a character, is almost as engaging in Barracuda as in the novels for older readers, and it is enriching to be privy to his relationship with a living David McLean, the grandfather he loved, and who left him the legacy of mystery explored in the two later books.
Barracuda melds the song by the 1970’s group Heart with Webb’s experience in the Keys, where he meets his grandfather’s dying friend and an entrancing young musician named Kristie. Needless to say, Kristie turns out to be the metaphoric barracuda, pumping Webb about the fortune in diamonds David’s friend had apparently hidden in his past. The Florida Keys, pirate treasure, fellow young musicians, Webb’s first kiss, all combine to allure; in contrast, Webb has to visit a dying man—reminding him of his father’s death—and be coerced unwillingly into deep discussions with his grandfather. “I didn’t know this trip was about getting me alone so you could grill me about my life,” Webb complains (19), but David’s obvious affection and Webb’s love and respect for him open the channels of communication. Spring Break for Webb isn’t feeling much like a vacation—there is too much going on, emotionally and socially—but the mystery of the lost diamonds provides a respite from the tensions for both Webb and the reader.
While some of the narration seems a bit trite (unlike Brouwer’s writing for older teens), the balance between the development of Webb’s newfound maturity and the dangers of the more quickly paced mystery is finely crafted. Webb’s discussions with David—and the context for such discussions—are genuine, as are the mixed feelings Webb has for the ultimately deceptive Kristie. You can see from Webb and David in Barracuda the foundation of Webb’s sorrow at David’s death, and the source of the loving memories he has of his grandfather.
Back to topOut of Focus is not for the weak at heart. It is also not only for YA readers. Margaret Buffie has nailed her characters perfectly. Again. As an adult reading this novel, I learned as much about my own mistaken interpretation of the world as we could ever hope that a younger reader might. It is true, too, what she says about black & white photography: “if you really wanted to catch the essence of people—see what was really going on inside them—you had to use black-and-white film. … Color shots are like sunglasses, reflecting back social masks” (20). Buffie’s text is like a black-and-white photo: she doesn’t pull her punches, but presents us with a concentrated version of her protagonist’s emotional turmoil: pure, unmitigated adolescence.
Bernie (Bernice Dodd) is in charge of her life. She has to be: her father has deserted them, and her mother is an alcoholic who takes off on binges and doesn’t return for days. For four years—since she was 12—Bernie has had to be mother to herself, her younger brother and sister, and even her own mother, Celia. At the opening of the book, she has had enough. The level of anger Bernie feels at first seems not only completely reasonable, but even productive. Her threats to call in Social Services force her mother to take the family to a property in the north-western Ontario woods, leaving behind the lure of Winnipeg, its bars, and its enabling associations. Once they reach their old family home, bequeathed to Celia by her mother’s sister Charlotte, Bernie’s plan to establish a sense of security and purpose within the family begins to work. Why, then, does Bernie become progressively more angry? Why can she not allow herself to heal?
In a less realistic novel, the woods and the lake, and the fresh misty morning air would cause a healing to seep up and catch Bernie unaware; we would peacefully watch the process, comfortable in knowing what must happen in a children’s book. But life does not always work according to narrative expectations, not even Bernie’s. She is powerless to affect her own transformation: “Happy? I wanted me to be happy, too. But it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. … I was fighting a war here. If no one understood that, then tough” (192). Our own angst growing with hers, we watch Bernie slipping towards the edge of a recognized social and emotional chasm that is hard to climb out of. Our own anger builds as we watch her making mistakes, when we can so clearly see—as do some of the adults around her—what is happening in her life. Like those around her, we are no longer sure we even like Bernie. Buffie reveals her remarkable narrative abilities in showing us only enough to understand her characters’ emotions, never enough to fully anticipate the plot. In the end, even when what we wanted to happen comes to pass, we are exhausted by the emotional roller-coaster we have just been on with Bernie. But like Bernie—and hopefully the adolescent reader—we have learned a powerful lesson: no matter how wrong we are, no matter how far off track, it is always possible to start over, sometimes even to mend the rents in our emotional world.
Back to topA perfect book to read right now, when shadows are lengthening so early in the day: the air is crisp, our hands thawed by warm breath that hangs in a cloud before dissipating. These days, I can easily imagine Beatrice, “huddled under a pile of buffalo robes” (1) as we first meet her. I have never lived in the prairies, being from the mountains of BC, but Buffie’s descriptions are so vivid that I can see Beatrice’s world, and Cassandra’s more modern version, and feel the difference between the two eras they lived in. I am not by nature adept at creating images from descriptive texts; I generally get a strong feeling for characters in books, but have a problem visualizing their settings. I recognize this as a failing in my role as reader, and am thus overjoyed when an author’s descriptions are effective enough for me to really see the world she creates.
I recently reviewed two adult novels by an early Canadian author—Mabel Broughton Billett—that are set in interior British Columbia: for me, her words bring her world to life, but that is because I recognize in her imagery that which is already familiar. In Winter Shadows, Buffie creates the strength of feelings in her descriptions of winter, of early darkness, of the eeriness linking winter shadows with the paranormal… her power is undeniable, in that none of what she describes is familiar to me, yet it is so easily imagined in her narrative creation.
Buffie’s setting carries her carefully designed plot along with it; her ability to intertwine her modern realist stories with the paranormal connections that are the vehicle for growth and learning does not seem to wane. As in her other stories, in Winter Shadows emotional support comes to Cassandra through discovering the truth of Beatrice’s life. Cass is facing the first Christmas with a new step-mother and annoying younger step-sister; she feels betrayed by her father, abandoned by her dead mother, righteous in her anger, and justified in her acting out. While we do not necessarily agree with her—from an adult perspective—we can see why she feels and does what she does… Teen readers would undoubtedly not only sympathize, but empathize with her position, her attitude, and her behaviour. Buffie contrasts Cass’s modern familial problems with those of a young Métis girl, Beatrice, in 1856. Beatrice has returned from school in the East to St. Cuthbert’s, Manitoba, to live with her father and his new wife, Ivy. Ivy, like Cass’s new stepmother, Jean, does not share a culture with her new husband. Beatrice calls her “puritanical” (20), and certainly she has no love of—let alone respect for—Native cultures, including Métis. Beatrice’s story is presented as a combination of conflicts: she suffers both as a daughter with a new step-mother, and as a Métis who loves her grandmother and her culture, yet sees it denigrated by many in her community, including her step-mother. Cass, living in her ancestral home that was also Beatrice’s, begins to see visions of Beatrice’s life, as Beatrice does of Cass. The connection between the two young women causes both of them to doubt not only their sanity, at some level, but also their instinctive emotional responses to their world. Learning of the cultural and social prejudices with which Beatrice suffers helps Cass to put her own problems into perspective; seeing visions of the comparatively strong and emancipated Cass helps Beatrice to stand strong in the choices she has to make.
Layered beneath her plot, Buffie has created a narrative of mid-nineteenth-century Métis culture that is part of a resurgence of and thus growing interest in the Métis historical narrative. Another admirable author in this vein is Jacqueline Guest, whose Belle of Batoche (2004) and Outcasts of River Falls (2012) are more straight-forward historical narratives of Canadian Métis life. I’m not sure if there are others, but these three novels speak strongly to the need for the Métis narrative to be told, to be reconstructed in a way that provides ready access for modern young readers. Winter Shadows, with its combination of carefully researched history and language, and Buffie’s as-always insightful interpretation of modern youth and the issues they face, is for me the perfect combination of reality and metaphor, modernity and paranormal history. While I do not love (understand? identify with? appreciate?) Cass as much as I do Frances Rain, I believe Cass speaks as strongly to young girls today as Frances Rain did almost 25 years ago.
Back to topI had the honour of spending the day with Kristin Butcher this past weekend (we’ve been Facebook “friends” but never met). She kindly gave me a copy of her first novel (The Runaways, 1997) and her first book for the Orca Current series, The Hemingway Tradition. I immediately began reading…
The Hemingway Tradition, like all Orca Current novels, is short, yet Butcher manages to pack a number of interwoven issues into it. We meet Shaw as he and his mother are driving from Vancouver to their new life in Winnipeg; Shaw’s mind is filled with the contemplation of various methods of suicide. “Well, that’s a bit of a downer,” a reader might think, “starting in medias res of a story of a suicidal teenager.” It doesn’t take long, though, for us to begin to feel for Shaw in his pain: his thoughts stem from his memory of finding his father, who had shot himself through the head. The rest of the story—not surprisingly—revolves around Shaw coming to terms with his father’s suicide, his apparent desertion of his family, but more importantly his betrayal of the image Shaw had of their relationship as father and son. For Shaw, that relationship had been ideal, almost idyllic. (This is, in fact, the only obvious flaw in the text: Shaw’s parents are too ideal, his mother too understanding and aware of his needs. It would be asking too much, though, to have all of the characters as fully developed as Shaw himself: he is, after all, the focal point.) The idealized Dylan Sebring, a well-respected Canadian mystery author, had supported and taken pride in Shaw’s a love of and ability in writing. They had shared moments of beauty and joy, shared with readers through Butcher’s powerful, poetic prose. A particularly poignant example is when the image of his dead father batters against Shaw’s mind…
the blood-soaked bedroom began to dissolve. It slid like down the walls of my mind as if it were being hosed into the storm sewer I watched with fascination. I felt the tension in my body drain away with the dirty water.
Gradually I became aware of a gentle rocking. And then the lapping of water on the hull of a small boat. My body melted deeper into the molded seat of the runabout and I squinted at the sunlight winking on the water. Dad … was stretched out on the seat across from me with his feet propped on the gunwale. His eyes were closed, and his long, lean body was swaying with the rhythm of the boat. (32-33)
Shaw’s confusion about the degree of honesty in his father’s—their—life is complicated by racial and homophobic slurs students at his new school hurl at his new locker-mate and friend, Jai Dhillon. Finally, Shaw can take no more: after a physical altercation with a group of racist bullies, he realizes that his power against such bigotry lies in his ability to communicate both the ills of prejudice and ways to overcome the ignorance that gives rise to it.
The parallel Shaw draws between the overt bigotry he battles against, and the inner complications of his own emotional situation, is carefully balanced. For Butcher to have successfully woven three important themes together in such a short novel is impressive; in only 107 pages, she gives us a meaningful explication of the anguish Shaw feels, and how exorcising his inner demons not only frees him but makes him powerful on behalf of others.
Back to topI found this book on my shelf. I have no idea where it came from, but I suspect my friend Rob, who also reviews YA literature, being far more active in the children’s and YA academic literary scene than I am. If so, I will have to thank him, as it was a fascinating novel.
Set in Victoria, BC, Return to Bone Tree Hill appeals through the careful and affectionate descriptions of places that any local and even most visitors would recognize. Yet neither the title place—Bone Tree Hill—nor the opening scenes of the novel smack of local colour. In the opening lines, we are plunged into 18-year-old Jessica’s recurring dream: nightmare, in fact. Through her first-person description of the sleeplessness and trauma it is causing, we come to know Jess as a clever, caring girl, recently returned from six years with her family in Australia. Their emigration had been delayed for a number of weeks due to Jess’s contracting meningitis, which has left her with days of blankness in her childhood memories. In this memory chasm lie the clues to Jess’s dream, a dream of murder and betrayed affection, emotions swirling together—inseparable—in Jess’s faulty, feverish memories. With the help of her pragmatic best friend Jilly, Jess struggles to regain the memories that she feels point to her murder of a childhood friend; given the strength of her dream, she can believe no other explanation.
Kristin Butcher presents her readers with clues carefully delivered to Jess’s increasingly troubled psyche in a way that is natural and believable. While one could anticipate paranormal elements at the outset, vision and reality slowly coalesce in Jess’s world until she and Jilly—and the readers—fully understand what happened on that fateful evening six years earlier. There is nothing paranormal in Jess’s recovered memory: only horror and fear and sadness.
Young readers who want a mystery with a solution that cannot easily be divined will really enjoy Return to Bone Tree Hill; it has all the right elements: protagonists who do not step out of believable activities for teens; a crime that is plausible and practicable; a solution that arises through natural processes. All is explained, and explained well; but that does not mean you will guess the end before you get there.
Back to topOrca Press’s Currents series is a well conceived and executed enterprise, creating fast-paced, age-appropriate texts for teens who—for whatever reason—have problems engaging with reading. Kristin Butcher’s Caching In is another excellent addition to the series.
Eric and his clever and hyperactive (and I don’t mean that in any clinical sense) friend Chris have discovered geocaching, an activity that satisfies their need for intellectual challenge and for the freedom to break boundaries. When a set of geographical coordinates leads them to a wedding in a cemetery, they know that something strange is afoot. They are doubly sure when the cache contains no logbook to sign (a required item according to geocaching rules), but only a clue to a second cache. Even more mysterious is when the coordinates disappear from the online list later the same day. How can two teenaged boys resist?
The search for the final cache challenges the boys’ understanding of language in a New York Times-crossword sort of way, and they rise to the challenge. Local knowledge and having paid attention to current events help them to decipher the complex clues. The message is subtle: engagement in the world around you can be highly rewarding.
The boys bring complementary abilities to the quest: Chris (who doesn’t share Eric’s fear of heights) can climb out over a cliff-edge, while the smaller Eric can climb up one of the city lampposts. Despite their friendship and ability to work well together intellectually, a conflict of wills sometimes threatens the endeavour. This adrenalin-induced strive will be well recognized by most teen readers—especially boys. The conclusion is predictable, but the end result only solidifies the feeling of reward the readers will share with Eric and Chris, who have together succeeded where either alone would likely have failed. Being an adventurous teen has its advantages: “someone is actually going to reward [them] for doing what [they] like to do” (102), and “all [they] needed was a GPS” (3).
Back to topHaving really enjoyed Kristin Butcher's Return to Bone Tree Hill (2009), I was excited to receive Truths I Learned from Sam to review. It was with a bit of trepidation that I began, though, having read the back cover, which informed me that “[i]n a story story about relationships [good] and about how bad things happen to good people [a bit disconcerting], Dani discovers that sometimes the only villain is life itself [ouch].” I wasn’t sure I was ready for another emotional rollercoaster of YA angst. I need not have been worried: my concerns were misplaced, where my excited expectations certainly were not.
Butcher’s depiction of life in rural BC shows a remarkable acumen, if not lived experience. Webb’s River is like so many small interior towns—Spuzzum, Malakwa, Yank, Moyer: little on the road but a gas station, but teaming with life in the woods and hills around them. Dani learns to ride; she learns to drive an old standard transmission clunker. We can smell the sage in the air she breathes, feel the dust in our throats at the rodeo.
The foundation of Butcher’s novel, though, is her adeptness at character construction and development. Dani is a typical teen in a not-so-typical situation. Her mother is getting married. Again. For the fifth time, actually. We shouldn’t like her mother, and we can understand why Dani might have problems with the relationship. Throughout the novel, though, Dani’s mother shows her love for Dani—however self-centred she may be in some ways—and Dani relies on her mother’s affection and support, which she receives—albeit over her cell phone. Theirs is a sometimes-awkward understanding, but they do understand and love one another. So when Dani’s mother and her new husband go off on a honeymoon to Europe, and Dani is sent off to the Cariboo to her mother’s brother—the “black sheep” of the family whom Dani had never heard of—Dani is more worried about her six weeks in a strange place than she is upset by her mother’s seeming desertion.
Sam, Dani’s uncle, turns out to be one of the salt-of-the-earth individuals without whom the world (and YA fiction) could not survive. Sam’s obvious pride in Dani, his affection, and his hand’s-off parenting attitude help her to grow in a number of ways important to a teenaged girl. He treats her like a young adult, not a young girl, and she responds with the respect and maturity he takes for granted; it is obvious that he has never had a teenager before. When he finds Dani and her new boyfriend Micah kissing, for example, he merely asks “You kids having a good time?” (92): perhaps slightly protectively, but certainly not facetiously. Although he watches over her, he knows Dani is in a safe place, in safe hands, and he leaves her free to enjoy her youth.
We watch Dani grow into her place in this new community without the sense of dread that the back cover suggests… almost. There are just enough subtle clues for the reader to anticipate the emotional crisis that comes near the end—which I will not spoil the story by revealing. I knew what was coming, and was saddened by the inevitability. What I did not expect was the heart-wrenching yet beautiful twist Butcher throws in, causing tears of both joy and sorrow. Through the sadness, Dani is left in a calm and accepting emotional space, considering her future with hope and anticipation. While Truths I Learned from Sam provides a strong and satisfying sense of closure, I really want to know what happens in Dani and Micah’s future…
Back to topOnce again, Kristin Butcher has created a protagonist teen readers will readily identify with. Christine is curious, attentive, and logical, but still sometimes can misinterpret her world. When she visits her Great-aunt Maude in the fictional Witcombe, BC, and learns of a spate of petty robberies in the area, her interest—and imagination—are piqued. At first she suspects Simon, an amateur magician who is working his way west to Vancouver from Calgary. When his alibi is established, she has to dig past the obvious to find clues to the real identity of the thief—or thieves. Other suspects’ alibis complicate Christine’s investigations, but with Simon’s help she narrows the field until a trap can be set to catch the thief in the act.
Underlying this simple story—part of the Orca Currents series of high-interest novels aimed at reluctant readers—is a truth we all (one hopes) learn at some point: as Simon tells Christine, “the first law of magic [and life] is that things are not what they seem” (92). Christine, like most teens, is troubled by “the realization that [she] can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys” (58). We’d most of us like our world to be easier to interpret: none more than teens who are learning to negotiate the complications of the adult world. Alibi provides the necessary (if somewhat stereotypic) elements of a narrative of teen-enablement: the eccentric (read: non-parental) adult who nonetheless provides security; the somewhat mysterious outsider, a narrative foil who provides companionship; a threat presented by the adult world; and the internal means (awareness, psychological strength, intelligence) to face the threat successfully. Christine doesn’t learn an important “life lesson,” but she grows in self-awareness and understanding of the word around her, both necessary qualities on the road to adulthood. Back to top
I really have to stop reviewing Kristin Butcher’s novels for the Orca Soundings and Currents series. How many ways can I find to say “Kristin Butcher shows yet again that effective character development and interesting, non-trivial plots can be created in the scope of a short novel written for reluctant readers”? In Cabin Girl, Butcher (yet again) tells an engaging story that will attract readers from the target demographic: teenagers who struggle with reading, for whatever reason.
Like most 16 year olds, Bailey wants to prove to her parents that she is capable of making her own decisions about her life. She talks them into letting her work at a fly-in resort owned by her godfather, Gabe: “They’re counting on him to keep an eye on me,” she tells her 19-year-old cabin-mate, April. The work is harder than she expected; she is less adept that she would like; her boss “could out-sour lemons” (15); and mornings come earlier at Witch Lake than they ever did at home… All in all, Bailey’s summer work experience starts out rocky. April befriends her, though, and the tentative friendship she builds with the waitress develops a slight tinge of hero worship. (“She smart. She’s good at her job, and she’s tough. Did you know she’s been on her own since she was fourteen?”) Her listener, the long-time employee Ed, provides a subtle foreshadowing of where Butcher will take her story: “Are you the president of her fan club, or what?” “Now you’re making fun of me.” “Sorry, I don’t mean to. You’re actually a breath of fresh air around here. So I’d hate—” Then April reappears, stifling any explanation (29).
The plot threads winding about each other involve Bailey’s developing but complicated relationship with April; the mysterious activities of Dennis Savoy, a soft, middle-aged guest who is neither a fisherman nor a photographer, although he brings gear for both; and the local legend of Witch Lake, a ghost story frightening enough to give any teenaged girl the heebie-geebies. When Meira, the second waitress, is taken to hospital with a badly burned arm, and April and Bailey are given her duties to split, the friendship becomes strained. Bailey is puzzled by April’s “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (61) personality change, and by the number of slip-ups in her work that she can neither remember nor explain. The reader can perhaps see what is coming, but Bailey’s innocent trust in the friendship she has worked hard to develop blinds her to April’s inexplicable, malicious behaviour. Bailey is not the weak “princess” April assumes her to be, though. Her eyes opened, Bailey quickly learns to rely on herself, and let April rue the consequences of her own actions.
“Things have a way of working out,” Ed tells Bailey, and for Bailey they do. In the end, April is held responsible for her decisions in the adult world, and Bailey learns a valuable second-hand lesson—or rather, has her moral position validated: April “has had a hard go of it, but … that doesn’t make it okay to abuse the rules and other people” (118). In Cabin Girl, Butcher resists the temptation to over-dramatize her characters or their situation: Bailey’s experience does not result in drastic changes in her life, or her world view, but rather provides a moment of growth in confidence in both herself and the adult world around her.
Back to topThat the basic plot of Isobel’s Stanley Cup is predictable does not take away from the rush of happiness we experience when Isobel helps save the day. So what is it, then, that raises this common story of girl-impersonates-boy-and-succeeds to a new level? I’m going to go with Kristin Butcher’s ability with character. I have always loved her young adult fiction, especially Truths I Learned from Sam (2013), and without exception it is her characters who pull me into the stories and hold me there, caught up in their lives until the end of the novel, often longer. With a chapter book such as Isobel’s Stanley Cup, of course, we do not have as long an engagement with the story, yet even with only 84 pages to build the connection, we cheer as loudly as any hockey fans when nine-year-old Isobel Harkness helps her brothers win against the team of local hockey bullies.
The story is set in 1893, the year after Lord Stanley, Governor-General of Canada, created the Dominion Hockey Challenge Cup award, now the famous Stanley Cup. The award was created, we are told, at the instigation of his children—including his own daughter Isobel—who were all avid hockey fans. Isobel Harkness idolizes Isobel Stanley as an example of girls who have broken through the ice ceiling, and promises herself and her family that times are changing and that she will be a part of it. In a brief meeting with her hero, our Isobel learns a basic truth of life for smaller people: if you can’t be physically large and strong, be fast, or smart, or agile, or … whatever it takes. In hockey, Isobel is told, fast is the way to go.
In imitation of Lord Stanley’s award, the Harkness siblings—Isobel and her five older brothers—plan their own challenge amongst the local teams, hoping adult-referred games will discourage cheating and bullying. Isobel, who cannot contribute on the ice, is tasked with finding the prize, which turns out to be an old silver bowl that mother attaches to a base of wooden blocks: Isobel’s Stanley Cup. Faithful to the trope, two players are injured out of the final game, and for her brothers to have a chance, Isobel must play, dressed in her brother Billy’s clothes. Her speed, agility, and deep understanding of hockey techniques—gained through weeks of “coaching” her brothers in their practices—enable her to make the final assist, her brother Freddie the final goal, to win the challenge.
At first the Harkness family appears to be the stereotypic, patriarchal Victorian family, with father laying down the law regarding his daughter’s activities, mother supporting him, and the boys living an entitled life of masculine freedom. This is belied, though, by the obvious fairness and affection amongst the family members; by Isobel’s brothers’ willingness to help her circumvent parental authority and join them on the ice; by her mother’s encouragement of skating—if not hockey; and finally by her father’s ability to admit when he is wrong. These very believably drawn characters work together to give us a story that highlights the strength of a young Victorian girl making the smallest of cracks in that ceiling of discrimination. Although Isobel’s individual triumph is played out on a small, flooded field, her determination to follow in the footsteps of Isobel Stanley and other women who were creating a space for women in sports, transcends her historical moment: young readers of all genders will identify fully with her need to prove herself and her inner strength to do so.
Concerned that my opinion of Adrian Chamberlain’s Facespace was biased by my age and gender, I gave the novel to my daughter’s grade 8 classmate—let’s call him Lucas—to read. Lucas, a remarkably articulate critical thinker for a twelve year old, not only validated my position, but shared his own opinions regarding the actions of the novel’s protagonist, Danny.
I begin by not liking stories that are based on dishonesty, unless they are handled extremely well and to good purpose. While Chamberlain’s intent is obviously not only valid but important—to teach readers the necessity for honesty and integrity in their social media interactions—I felt that the delivery was lacking to such an extent that young readers would not engage with the message. To begin with, there is no legal reason, as far as I know, for not calling “FaceSpace” either MySpace or Facebook, which it is obviously based on. Young readers like veracity in their novels; they like to see what they know to be real, not a fictional representation of something as central to their lives as social media sites, when there is no reason to avoid that verisimilitude. And—as Lucas points out—such social media sites, regardless of what one titles them—are international. Danny’s British “friend” James would have had numerous British FaceSpace friends, had he been real, and no high school student would miss that oversight… but that is getting into the plot, which I have not explained.
The premise is that young Danny is unpopular, and longs—as many young teens do—to belong. He invents a British “friend” on his social media site, one who is as popular as he wants to be himself. His experiment is a success, until he is discovered. There is a subplot in which Danny takes images of his popular best friend and alters them in Photoshop into unattractive and even grotesque images, reposting them anonymously. His friend is extremely upset, but Danny never owns up to his authorship of the images, which is a problem, as this situation is never resolved. The most significant obstacle to enjoyment of this novel—for me—lay in the character of Danny, who is implausibly naïve and more, well, stupid, than readers would believe themselves or any of their friends to be. Lucas agreed, noting that Danny “seemed to jump into trouble almost willingly,” and that his actions “seemed like a sequence of convenient and unconnected events rather than a narrative flow” (his words: honestly). Even as part of the Orca Currents series, which is designed to have an easier reading level, I feel that FaceSpace fails to engage: it feels far too much like a character like Danny would not exist, and if he did, we would have little sympathy for him.
Back to topUnlike My Heart is on the Ground (part of the Dear America series), An Ocean Apart seems to have been researched and written with keen consideration of racial and social issues. The author is married to a Chinese-Canadian, and so has insight into both White and Chinese culture in contemporary Canada. Mei-ling’s voice is convincing, her attitudes a believable balance between traditional behaviour and her interest in her new culture. The book won the Red Cedar Award for 2004; this award is judged by children, not adults.
Back to topNora will never be happy again. Her mother has recently died, and her father has moved her to Vancouver to be closer to her older sisters, who are studying nursing at St. Paul’s Hospital. The year is 1960, and Rie Charles has nailed the historical moment. My mother graduated from Pen High in 1957, and from St. Paul’s nursing program in 1960. She taught me the “special tight corners and pulling the bottom sheet so hard your fingers almost fall off” (18) that St. Paul’s demanded of their students (my husband still teases me about them…). Like Nora, I was condemned to wear “saddle shoes,” and hated every minute of it, standing out from other students who had more graceful shoes or cooler runners. The foods Nora’s family eats, the clothes they wear, the names of classes at school, the level or responsibility 12-year-old Nora is given babysitting: these all bring back vivid memories. Adults will recognize the historical accuracy, but it is harder to convey the 1960s ethos to young readers today. Charles does a fairly good job, but occasionally over-explains things to the reader. For example, Nora’s cousin Lizzy - in Vancouver for open heart surgery - gushes to Nora when they wake up one morning: “I bet that’s Mum making her special applesauce to go with her usual at-home Sunday morning pancakes” (112). The girls have grown up together in Penticton, and are best friends as well as cousins: Nora would already know intimately her Aunt Mary’s special Sunday breakfast. Nora’s father tells her that he and Nora’s mother “both grew up just up the road from Penticton, in Summerland” (98), but anyone from the Okanagan (which Nora of course was) would know where Summerland is. Other things, too, like the complete elision of the Catholicism of St. Paul’s, or Nora checking the front step for milk in the evening rather than the morning, sit awkwardly with Charles’s poignant presentation of the internal struggles Nora goes through as her family grieves for their mother and worries about Lizzie’s upcoming surgery for Tetralogy of Fallot (“blue baby” syndrome), an experimental procedure at the time.
In the late 1950s, St. Paul’s was a significant player in the nascent field of pulmonary surgery research, one of the few non-university hospitals with a cardiac catheterization lab. As such, St. Paul’s was the site of a number of successful open-heart surgeries, the first performed in 1960 on a 12-year-old girl from Kelowna. It is not clear whether or not this historical moment was the impetus for Charles’s plot. Being able to link such an emotionally successful story with an actual historical incident would increase the power of the narrative, but there are almost certainly social or legal implications in telling the story of someone who is still living… Still, the parallels are real (for example, Lizzie is not the first such patient) and lend veracity to the overall narrative. Nora and Lizzie share a special bond, a friendship that helps them both to weather the uncertainty of Lizzie’s operation at a time when there was a real recognition that she could as easily die as live. This is the strength of Hole in My Heart: the human players in this drama are honestly drawn and emotionally consistent. Despite the uneven historicity, the difficulties and ultimate success of Nora’s navigating her challenging, constantly changing adolescence make this novel well worth reading.
Back to topMy thirteen-year-old son tried to read this book, but gave up because it was “too sad.” And certainly at the outset it is. The protagonist, “Joseph … Joe. Sometimes Joey” (1) is telling the story of his new life, having found himself in an adoptive home after the death of his parents, from which he is still traumatized. Not the most cheerful of beginnings, but through the mechanism of Joe’s “digital diary,” we follow him on the road towards healing. Nothing much happens, but it doesn’t happen to great effect. We meet his friends—Gloria and Dean—and we are given insight into the workings of at least this fictional teenage boy’s mind. It is an interesting and fertile narrative landscape, and Choyce tends it carefully and draws it well. There is a sensitivity in Joe’s character that made me initially think the author was a woman—which he is not—and then gave me hope that the character he creates does resemble a real teenage boy. If so, there is hope for our children, for Joe is a good friend, a caring boyfriend, and a considerate and loving son (to both sets of parents). Through Joe’s relationships and his descriptions of his home and school life, we are exposed to issues of bullying, sex, and death, and subjects as disparate as Joe Dimaggio, naturopathy, heavy metal, and Aristolean philosophy. Almost stream-of-consciousness, Joe’s digital diary reveals the wanderings of a clever young mind through the hallways of adolescence. Sometimes he seems perhaps a bit too well-read for a teen, but that is a minor flaw in an otherwise marvellously constructed character.
Despite its catch-phrase—“ If you think life makes sense, do not read this book”—Random makes sense. More, I think, for the teen reader who will relate well to the randomness of the style and the non sequiturs of Joe’s commentary than for those who only remember hazily our days at 16. As such, a very successful teen novel.
Back to topGhost Ride is a gripping mixture of realism and the paranormal. Sam McLean’s experiences when he moves to the archaic rural “Sleepy Hollow” of his father’s youth blends the angst of teens’ need for social acceptance with inexplicable experiences connected with his father’s increasingly bizarre behaviour. Needing to be accepted in his new town and school—where he was loath to move in the first place—Sam ingratiates himself with two rebel pranksters, self-dubbed “Maniac” and “J-Man.” His inclusion in a prank has seemingly drastic results, and he must choose to face the consequences of his decisions.
What renders this oft-told plot more powerful in Cohen’s novel is the incorporation of three paranormal elements in the text: ghosts, visions, and witches. The obvious, but not heavy-handed, association with Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” prepare the reader for the psychic connection between Sam and his father’s past; the clues we receive are sufficiently subtle, the incidents sufficiently believable, to help us suspend our disbelief. Sam’s experiencing of his father’s past helps him—not to avoid the mistakes his father made, but to take responsibility for his actions in a way his father had not done as a teen. The seriousness of both characters’ experiences finally builds a bond between father and son, shared crisis leading to a shared understanding.
Back to topThere seem to be a number of novels lately about children losing one of their parents, but as it has recently happened in my immediate circle, I understand the need for novels that express the various forms that grieving can take. In Somewhere in Blue, Sandy feels her father’s death deeply, but her mother does not seem to. Her problems are parallelled by her best friend Lennie’s dysfunctional family, and her neighbour Dan’s growing affection for her.
The descriptions of Sandy’s experience resonate with realism; we feel her loss, her angst, her solace in Dan’s affection, her confusion in trying to press forward with her life. Through helping her friend deal with her own family troubles, Sandy finally comes to terms with her own troubles; friendship is not always exclusively supportive, but it is always both necessary and empowering. This is the lesson Sandy learns, as she matures through the pain of loss into the strength of adulthood. Somewhere in Blue is an excellent text to help readers understand the different forms of grieving, and how the grieving process plays out.
Back to topThe Mask that Sang opens with Cass running from bullies, only to come home to learn that her mother had been fired from her sketchy job at a diner for standing up for another girl against the bullying boss. While suggests a message about bullying being endemic, the story is really about how Cass discovers her Native heritage.
Cass’s mother, Denise, has “been in over twenty foster homes” since she was given up by her mother at birth (10); as teen mother herself, she chose not to make that decision, and has raised Cass in a loving emotional security that transcends their poverty. When her dead mother’s lawyers track Denise down, she is adamant that she will have nothing to do with the house and money she has been left. Cass, however, does not carry the same emotional baggage, and talks her mother into accepting the legacy: the home and financial security Cass has always dreamed of. Wrapped in tissue in one of the drawers in her new home, Cass finds an Iroquios false-face mask, the source of the soft voices Cass has been hearing, humming with a “mischievous purr”: “The hum was more like a song now … Maybe it was a voice in the wind, maybe it was several voices” (22) telling her how happy she will be in the house, coaxing her towards the drawer to be discovered.
The mask sings to her; it hums in approval when she stands up for a Native classmate, Degan Hill; it “vibrated with regret, with sorrow” (56) when she inadvertently hurts him; it gives her strength to stand up for what she knows is right. Befriending Degan brings Cass into the lives of his Native family, where she learns the stories of false face masks, and their power. When her mother unknowingly sells it with other unwanted household items, Cass and Degan struggle to retrieve it, first from a pawn shop, then from its purchaser, and ultimately from the school bully, Ellis, who turns out (stereotypically) to be dealing with issues of his own.
Despite the trope of the privileged-yet-bullied bully, the ingenuity of Cass and Degan, and their strength in standing up to Ellis’s father racism and illogical position vis-à-vis the mask, gives readers a sense both of the powerlessness of the child against unreasonable adults and the need to stand for what you believe in regardless. In a rather simplistic and idealized dénouement, their strength gives the abused Ellis strength; he returns the mask to its rightful home, and “generations of voices sang that it was home at last” (185).
Its rightful home, of course, is with someone from the Cayuga Nation, where it was created. That the mask sings to Cass is the first obvious clue. The method of delivery of the truth of Cass’s heritage, rather like Denise’s fortuitous inheritance, is rather contrived. A letter that had been left to Denise—which she threw out but Cass rescued—tells the story of Denise’s mother, a Cayuga girl, neglected by her widowed father and sent to Residential school, who (like Denise) chose better for her infant daughter. The letter itself is little more than a narrative list of all possible injuries experienced by Native children in care of the government, and reads more like an outline from a history lesson than a letter from a caring nurse. After she gives up her baby, Denise’s mother “traveled in search of answers, working as she went … she visited other countries and sought out quiet, holy places. She learned to meditate. She studied about great religions, and explored what it felt like to practice them. When she finally came home, she was ready to look at her own traditions…” (174). This passage, especially, rang false for me. I could not reconcile the previous description of her treatment with the resources necessary for such travel and learning, “working as she went” notwithstanding.
What I find troubling is that the Turtle Island Healing Centre that Denise’s fictional mother founded does possibly exist. There is a Turtle Island Healing Center in Flagstaff, Arizona (although that seems an unlikely candidate), and Turtle Island Healing and Wellness, part of the Turtle Island Native Network online, is a Canadian organization. As “Turtle Island” is a term for the world in some First Nations’ creation myths (significantly, for this story, Iroquois), it is also possible that the author has created a generic title for a Native healing centre. If the story of Denise’s mother is based on the founder of the Canadian program, on the other hand, a more careful description of her past—and perhaps an afterword explaining the historical reality—would be greatly helpful. As it stands, the lecturing tone of the historical information overshadows the delightful story of Cass’s life, and we are left wanting.
The title Homecoming brings up images of The Waltons, and nostalgic Christmases surrounded by love and family. This is not 15-year-old Fiona Gardener’s experience of life. Far from it. The homecoming in her story is something she dreads: her father has just been released from prison, having been incarcerated for the rape of one of Fiona’s classmates, Morgan. Fiona is fairly certain he is innocent, but struggles to deal with her uncertainty, especially when validated by the behaviours of those around her. Deemed a social pariah when her father was first charged, then again during his trial, Fiona dreads his return and the accompanying notoriety it brings.
Diane Dakers deals sensitively with the complicated emotional space that Fiona finds herself in, but also the awkwardness of those around her: her mother, her aunts and uncles, her father’s friends… people who tell her that “your father didn’t do what he was accused of doing” (20), but nonetheless walk on eggshells in his presence. Her friend Lauren is forbidden to come over; the bullies at school warn her that her father “will be looking for another playmate” (27); and the school social worker is explicit in telling Fiona what to do if she “ever feel[s] scared or threatened” by her father (35). It’s therefore not surprising that Fiona accepts the dubious friendship of Charley, a grade-twelve girl from the “hard-core crowd” (50). This friendship, again unsurprisingly, leads Fiona somewhat astray, but Dakers does not let her slip out of character: she knows what she is doing is wrong, that her parents will not approve, and yet she goes: rebellious, but also guilty and conflicted. When she is asked to trick a host’s step-father into giving them some alcohol, and resists the request, her “friends” tell her it is easy: if he is being difficult, just “pull a Morgan” (101). The pieces of the puzzle fall into place; her suspicions are confirmed. Her doubts dissolve and her new-found certainty gives her the strength to stand up and speak out. The fall-out is as expected: Fiona is “seriously grounded” (104), but content at having released her father from the social stigma that hounded him.
Back to topThe premise of Somebody’s Girl is admirable and Maggie de Vries manages to bring in a number of important issues that would trouble an adopted child whose parents are having their own, long-desired but unexpected baby. Also well presented are the interactions between the teacher and children. The first few pages of the novel are certainly eye opening in de Vries ability to present the angst that a young child might feel when placed in what she considers an “unfair” situation in the classroom; these pages made me stop and think about how often I, as an adult, completely fail to appreciate the child’s perspective.
Martha is an angry child: she feels insecure within her family; she resents her birthmother (with whom she is in sporadic contact); and she is dismissive of other children with problems, such as Chance, a child in foster care who has ADHD. When she is partnered with Chance, whose foster mother is her mother’s best friend, she not only thinks uncharitable thoughts, but behaves inappropriately. The teacher diffuses the situation effectively, and she learns from her time with Chance that “different” does not equate with “lesser.” The other adults in the text, however, miss a number of opportunities of disciplining Martha effectively, at times when her behaviour and attitudes are not only inappropriate, but hurtful to those around her. Martha as a character is too angry; as an adult reader, I could only wish that the adults in her life would give her more guidance, stronger boundaries, and listen more to what she was not saying explicitly. In the end, while she does smooth over the difficulties with her girlfriends, and comes to value the intelligence and empathy Chance exhibits, she remains an unlikeable child. We do not see enough of the positive development that begins, and far too much of the negative behaviour that necessitates her change in attitude.
Back to topOrca Currents has once again hit the mark with K. L. Denman’s Stuff We All Get. The mandate of the series is to provide interesting, mature content in a simple writing style, to engage older yet less-advanced readers. Stuff We All Get succeeds in this respect admirably.
Zack, the protagonist, has sound-colour synethsesia, a rare but fascinating condition that causes him to see colours when he hears sounds. Geocaching with his mother (in lieu of staying home while grounded), he finds a home-made CD of music that moves him both emotionally and visually. The conflict in the narrative centres on his struggling to find the artist on the CD (while still grounded) and the emotional growth involved in learning that expectation is not always satisfied by reality.
The conflicts Zack encounters are not earth-shattering or dramatic, but the real day-to-day struggles a teen recently moved to the small city of Penticton, British Columbia, might face (or in Zack’s case, create for himself). A suspension of disbelief is required in one pivotal scene, wherein Zack is fog-bound on the hillside above Skaha Lake at noon; once we get past this meteorological anomaly, the setting and plot come together in a very satisfying way. The most powerful element in the text, however, is undoubtedly the emotional honesty of the characters Denman creates. Despite the simplicity of the narrative, Zack could be a real person, and his responses to the situations he finds himself in resonate with authenticity. Back to top
… or better yet: Destination Human; or, The Death of a Mosquito. What fun! Rather corny, but fun for all that. Welkin is a Universal: a highly developed life-form that is nonetheless schooled in a fashion similar to readers in our world. Its assignment: to infiltrate a human host on Earth as part of its bioethics class—which it has already failed a number of times. It’s obviously not very good at this. Welkin is a stereotypic teen: uninterested in school and tuned out when its teacher describes the assignment. As a result, Welkin’s entrance into his teen host (high school society has been deemed an excellent site for exploration of the human race) is compromised and it is unable to completely control its host. Its negotiations with Chloe are the source of humour in the novel; their two voices, while different, both scream “teen attitude.”
The plot is relatively non-existent; the focus is on Welkin’s learning about human (teen) society, and comparing it to the textbook information it has been given about the human race. What captures our attention, and makes us think there might be something a little deeper in the novel, is a teeny moment on page 10. Welkin inadvertently enters a mosquito and, through its sting, enters Chloe’s body: but “All bodies occupied by Universals die when we depart. So as I leave the mosquito behind, its body dies. And just like that, I am inside the human.” Chloe remains oblivious to this aspect of their relationship, but readers remain conscious the entire time that the growing mutual respect between host and parasite is not destined to end well.
Despite this possibility of trauma, the tone of the novels never really slips out of the lightheartedness brought about by the interplay of the two narrative voices. The somewhat contrived denouement is thus in keeping with some of the other groan-worthy moments in the book—and by that I mean those groans that escape when something is so corny as to be funny, like when a pun is both so obvious and so unexpected that we hide our faces in our hands—as we groan—for missing it. This was my response to Destination Human; I am not sure it is what the author intended, but I hope so. As a simple, chuckle-worthy story that nonetheless says something about what it is to be a friend, Destination Human succeeds admirably.
Back to topLittle Brother plays to one of my worst fears, even a phobia: the abuse of power by petty officials. Border crossings are particularly troubling for me, as for years I was exactly the sort of person into whose backpack less-reputable individuals might slip something, to be reclaimed on the other side. I am not usually paranoid, but I must admit to repeated anxiety every time we approached a border or airport security in our years travelling around Europe and Asia. So imagine my response to the opening scenes of Little Brother, in which Marcus and his friends are arrested as terrorists, merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cory Doctorow’s intent of causing the reader to question the balance of power in post-9/11 America was thus particularly effective for me. I almost put the book down, so worried was I of where the novel might take me. Then I remembered I have read all of Robert Cormier’s novels (one after another—do that and try to avoid depression and trauma), how bad could it get? I am so glad I persevered, as Doctorow’s protagonist is a brilliantly constructed example of my favourite type of teen geek, one who understands his own ability with technology—the power of the future—and yet is young and naïve enough not to understand the political powers that control his reality. He is a combination of so many real teens and the rarer breed: young hot-shot techno-geeks. His type—and thus his character—fascinates me.
Marcus (aka M1K3Y in 1337-speak) takes on the American Department of Homeland Security and wins: a situation that should not be possible and in most narrative instances would not be plausible. Doctorow, however, constructs his plot carefully, and we believe in Marcus’s ability to orchestrate the pranks he does, as well as the governmental responses to them. Power in the novel shifts back and forth between the teen rebels and the DHS until finally Marcus realizes the severity of what he has started, the degree to which others are suffering for his cause. The ideological aspects of his decisions are not glossed over; he has to seriously consider his own motivations, what he is asking of those around him as well as supporters he has never met. In the end, he does what I always want teen protagonists to do at such times, but so few: he goes to sympathetic adults for advice and assistance. Little Brother is thus not merely about teenaged power wielded against the adult world, as so many YA novels are, but about the conscious activism of individuals with integrity against corruption and the abuse of power. By making Marcus’s situation a part of a greater ideological battle, Doctorow raised the bar for YA literature. I’m not saying Little Brother is unique in this—Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games series, Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies series, and Cheryl Rainfield’s Hunted spring to mind—but it seems that YA literature tends toward the self-absorbed teen perspective in a way that is both present and yet transcended in Little Brother.
Back to topt isn’t so often any more that when I finish a book, my mind stays in the story, but Lois Donovan’s The Journal pulled me in completely and kept me there. The power of the story over me might be because I am so interested in the historical moment that young Kami Anderson slips into, but I think that Donovan’s attention to historical detail and balanced inclusion of social issues have more to do with it…
It is hard to describe this book without revealing the plot, which I usually avoid, so please bear with me; there are spoilers here, unfortunately.
Japanese-Canadian Kami Anderson is holding up rather well to having her life turned upside-down. She hasn’t seen her father for over two years, but her mother—renowned urban designer, Keiko Kishida—is now moving her back to her father’s family Edmonton, where the whole family had lived when Kami was younger. When 13-year-old Kami finds a dusty journal at the bottom of one of her father’s boxes of papers, she is transported back to a New Year’s Eve party in 1929 Edmonton. Her experience seems a lucid dream: she sneaks down the staircase to watch the revellers, and overhears a comment about “diphtheria up north at the Little River Settlement” (26), and a man with the unlikely name of “Wop” who is going to fly serum up to the afflicted. Kami recognizes the unique name from a photo she found in her father’s box, but she—like most readers, I would guess—knows nothing about this fascinating character in Canadian history.
Returned abruptly to her present, Kami heads to the library, and finds the newspaper article that had been taped into young Helen Mitchell’s journal: the article that triggered her slipping through time. Naturally, she begins to read…
She finds herself again in the Mitchell house, but this time Helen is home: “Mom!” [she] yelled. “There’s a Chinese in our house!” (35). Kami immediately realizes that 1929 Edmonton is not only different in regards to clothing and cars. Her ethnicity, more than her jeans and hoodie and her ability to stand up for herself, mark her as alien. Not really knowing what to do with this strange creature, the relatively progressive Mrs. Mitchell sends Kami to school with Helen. Things do not go well. Kami ends up in front of the magistrate, and is shocked to find—in this obviously patriarchal society—that the magistrate is a woman: “The Emily Murphy” (66). Here is a name Kami recognizes from her schooling, and Magistrate Murphy is surprised and amazed when Kami rattles off details about her life. Kami find herself caught up in the political attitudes of the time, and is troubled by Emily Murphy’s complicated position as both a feminist and (by our standards) a racist.
For those who don’t know—including, I would hazard to guess, most middle-school readers—Emily Murphy was one of the “Famous Five,” a group of five Alberta female activists and authors who pushed through changes to the BNA Act pertaining to women. The political battle began when Emily Murphy became the first female magistrate in the British Empire in 1916; many of her rulings were challenged because only men were legally “persons” by Canadian law. On 18 October 1929, the battle was won; the legal definition of “persons” was amended to include women. But political equality was not extended to the Japanese. Or Chinese. Or South Asians. Or…
Kami’s story moves back and forth between these fascinating moments in Canada’s history and her own complicated life in 2004 Edmonton. In both periods, she contends with issues that readers will recognize: racism, patriarchy, school bullying, teen social insecurities, and complicated family dynamics. Donovan’s palimpsest of Kami’s modern life over the historical background of her society is beautifully constructed. Kami’s insecurities and strengths help readers to identify with her, and agree with her final understanding that “”No one is perfect. Not even the great Emily Murphy of the famous Keiko Kishida” (186).
But what of Wop May? The his story reminds readers of how different the world was in 1929, and of how many unassumingly heroic men and women helped to create our country’s ethos. The selflessness and bravery he exhibited are as much a part of who we are as Canadians as are the battles for equal rights that began with activists such as Emily Murphy. There is so much for our students to learn these days, that some of what is important slips out of the lessons. Emily Murphy and the monumental achievements of the Famous Five are likely to remain a part of our cultural story (the “Persons Case” is taught in high school), but we need to remember the Wop Mays as well: books like The Journal will go a long way to ensuring that the important stories are told.
Back to topPhilippa Dowding has followed The Gargoyle in my Yard (2009) with a gripping tale of suspense, perfectly moulded for the 8–12 year-old-reader. The story incorporates magic delightfully into a well-constructed, realist presentation of modern Toronto. Unfortunately, in this book, we do not learn why these gargoyles are alive while others are not, and for readers who have not had the privilege of reading The Gargoyle in my Yard, the rightful “ownership” of Gargoth, the gargoyle of the title, becomes a question towards the end. Readers will look past these small omissions easily, however, for the joy of following Dowding’s engaging tale.
Dowding’s protagonists are genuine and interesting, and the balance of autonomy and dependence she gives young Katherine will satisfy both parents and young readers. Gargoth and his best friend, Ambergine, are both well-rounded characters in the their own rights, and readers will fall in love with both of them. I would love to see an illustrated edition, as the body language of Dowding’s gargoyles is so much a part of their characterization. Dowding’s plot moves quickly, despite the flashbacks to Ambergine and Gargoth’s years together and apart since the 1660s in France. European and American history is blended artfully into Gargoth’s story, heightening the sense of the gargoyles’ magical existence, and of their loneliness during 148 years apart. The ending of the novel, while not precluding further tales, leaves the two gargoyles free agents in their lives: a happy ending, but certainly not what the reader will expect. Overall, I would highly recommend this story to young independent readers with an interest in magic and magical creatures.
Back to topIn Shade & Sorceress, Catherine Egan presents us with Eliza Tok, a young protagonist who exhibits all the frailties of her twelve years. She embodies also the unshakable love that a daughter can have for the father who has raised her single-handedly, travelling from one place to another, running from something that she does not understand. Unbeknownst to her, Eliza is the daughter of the Shang Sorceress, who had preferred a Sorma man—one of a race of “nomadic desert people” (8)—to an arranged marriage intended to increase her offsprings’ magical powers. Eliza is thus “darker than the island children … with hair that would neither lie down flat nor curl nicely, but whose disorderly tendrils sprouted from her head in total defiance of both fashion and gravity” (9). The picture on the cover, too, shows a dark young girl, with tight dishevelled curls: a refreshing departure from covers in the past, often showing white models despite authors’ explicit descriptions.
The first page of Shade & Sorceress gave me pause, though: the author, I thought, must like Castle, or (better) be a Firefly aficionado. Our heroine, Eliza, and her best friend are daring each other to jump off a cliff into the ocean (always a good start: a protagonist with spirit), and Eliza comments that she “seriously doubt[s] that Nat Fillion really jumped off here” (1). I pictured Malcolm Reynolds in any of a number of adventurous scenes… But then Nat disappears from the book, and Eliza is taken from her home, and the story goes on… [Catherine Egan later admitted to me that, an avid Firefly fan, she just couldn't resist…] Apart from this momentary jolt (which would have passed less obtrusively later in the narrative), the story moves quickly forward, introducing us to the Mancers, dragon-riding wizards from the Republic’s capitol. Eliza learns that she is special: heir to her sorceress mother’s magical powers. The problem is, Eliza herself has no magical powers. Taken away by the Mancers to live under their protection and study magic, Eliza is homesick and troubled. Her only friend is the son of a servant, Charlie, until her friend Nell is allowed to come for a visit. While Charlie, Eliza, and Nell get into mischief and become fast friends, the Mancers become more and more sure that Eliza has no magic. And they need her to have magic, for the Xia Sorceress—whom they had imprisoned years earlier—is somehow becoming more powerful.
Eliza does not seem to be a sorceress; Charlie is not actually a servant’s young son; the Mancers are not necessarily all benevolent: Eliza does not know who to trust, or who to turn to when her father is kidnapped and the Mancers refuse to help. Encouraged by Charlie—who by now they should know better than to trust—Eliza and Nell set off to rescue Eliza’s father.
Narrative expectations have conditioned us to anticipate in our protagonists a maturity above their actual years. Eliza’s decisions thus struck me as rather poor choices, until it was brought home to me that Eliza is only twelve years old: so of course finding her father is going to weigh more heavily in her considerations than rules she has been told but does not understand, or even her own safety. She is also more likely to trust a creature who has shown his friendship when no one else did, even if the adults have told her he is—well—not Charlie. Throughout their adventures, Eliza and Nell must rely on their own interpretations of the places and people around them. Those they think are their friends try to kill them; those who would seem to be enemies help them to escape… readers will be caught and tossed on waves of thought and emotion along with Eliza. There is only one constant in her mind: she must find and save her father, even if she dies in the attempt. In her struggles to stand up to those stronger and more magical than she, Eliza learns her limitations and begins to learn her powers as well. We are left in the end with her safe with her family: for now.
Back to topIn Shade & Sorceress, we are introduced to Eliza Tok: taken from her family and friends, powerless, confused, and yet nominally a sorceress; in The Unmaking, Eliza learns and grows into her powers and truly becomes who she was born to be: the Shang Sorceress.
I struggled with reviewing Shade & Sorceress, as there is so much in it to discuss: elements that continue in The Unmaking. I didn’t mention how engaging the characters’ are, nor how distinctive Egan has made their voices, their characteristics, their cultures. I didn’t mention the deep complexity of the world Egan has created: I hoped that was inherent in my comments about the confusion Eliza faces—never knowing who to trust, who not to, where to go, what to do. In The Unmaking, the complexities deepen: we are shown more of Eliza’s world and begin to understand—like Eliza—the political machinations that underlie the delicate balance between the two worlds, Tian Xia and Di Shang. The mandate of the Shang Sorceress is to guard the Crossings, to prevent creatures from Tian Xia from crossing into our world and reeking havoc. In the beginning, though, Eliza cannot even command the Boatman, and has to pay—like any other semi-magical creature—to cross into Tian Xia; by the end of the novel, Eliza commanded the Boatman and he came.
“Lah,’ said Charlie, impressed, ‘How about that!” (262)
The Unmaking opens with the unlikely scene of a ninja-Eliza kidnapping a corrupt official, and handing him over to the Mancers for trial. Readers will wonder where Egan is leading us (and thinking, “astray?”), but the ethos of the story has not really changed: Di Shang is still a world where magic and human knowledge coexist, and Eliza is still a rebellious young girl, not sure where her loyalties truly lie. The choices she makes, though, have become more imperative, for the Xia Sorceress, Nia, has escaped the prison the Mancers had constructed, and is seeking her revenge. Like Shade & Sorceress, The Unmaking defies distillation. Its complexities—narrative and psychological—position it firmly in the realm of fantasy series such as Patricia A. McKillip’s Riddle of Stars, or Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising: the powers that Eliza commands are not simple spells and trickery—even in the sophisticated way the Mancers use them—but a deeper magic, rooted in the Earth, that Eliza’s dual ethnicity has access to. As the daughter of her Shang Socceress mother and her Sorma father, Eliza has more power—and more innate wisdom—than any Shang Sorceress before her. In the Last Days of Tian Di, Eliza is a shining light of humanity melded with power; I can’t wait to see where her strength and compassion lead her. Ms. Egan: please write quickly.
Back to topI have been really almost frightened to read Bone, Fog, Ash & Star, the last of Catherine Egan’s The Last Days of Tian Di trilogy: what if it didn’t live up to the expectations set by the first two books? What if the author lets me down? What if there are loose ends, or manipulations to tie up those ends, or gratuitous character alterations to accommodate necessary plot developments… what if… what if… The more I like a series (or in this case trilogy), the more invested I am in the author’s narrative success; hence the trauma. I need not have worried.
Egan opens her second book, The Unmaking (2013), with the unlikely (but explicable) scene of ninja-Eliza in total stealth mode. The opening of Bone, Fog, Ash & Star similarly gives the reader pause: Eliza is flying through the air on the back of a great bird: “And then she let go” (1). We hope it is a dream sequence, but after the ninja, we are not so sure… The great bird turns out to be Eliza’s shape-shifting friend, Charlie, in gryphon form; Eliza is trying to see if her dreams are true, and she herself can transform into a raven. And so the reader is brought back, how ever long away, into the world of Tian Di and all that has happened to Eliza, the Shang Sorceress, in the previous few years (and two books). Just as we become comfortably reacquainted with Eliza and her world, inexplicably, Egan kills off one of her central characters: Charlie has become a target of the Thanatosi, a breed of assassin creature who, once commanded, will not rest until their prey is dead. The emotional impact on the reader parallels Eliza’s response (not surprisingly), and we read with bated breath as Eliza travels into Death’s domain and pulls Charlie back into the world of the living.
The social and emotional relationships between the characters lie at the heart of the plot, but are not the plot. The Mancers (in charge of magic in Di Shang) recognize Eliza’s affection for Charlie, but want to marry her to a Mancer, thus not diluting her bloodline further (Eliza herself is of mixed race due to her mother’s headstrong actions in this regard). So to stop the Thanatosi, Eliza must return to the Citadel of the Mancers… which sets the plot in motion.
Ultimately, the only thing that might stop the Thanatosi are the gathering of the four Gehemmis—bone, fog, ash, and star—gifts of the Ancients that are prophesized to bestow ultimate power on the one who rejoins them. So Eliza’s quest begins: she is off after the Gehemmis; Charlie and their friend Nell are taken to the Realm of the Faeries, where he might be safe; Eliza’s only Mancer ally, Foss, is banished with her from the Citadel and is slowly dying, away from the source of his life-energy. The three plots are woven together like a loose but intricately patterned fabric: we are following one narrative thread with great interest when all of a sudden we reach the end of that pattern, and find ourselves at the beginning of another. Egan has honed this technique admirably to leave readers gripped by all three plots at once: regardless of which we are following at the moment, we do not feel abandoned by the author, nor do we lose sight of the other characters’ positions. Tricky narrative weaving, well executed.
Far more than the first two novels of the trilogy, Bone, Fog, Ash & Star alludes subtly to the eschatology of the mythological underworld: in the ferryman who conveys travellers between Di Shang and Tian Xia; in the raging river that forms the barrier between Tian Di and the underworld; in the power relations that develop between the worlds and those who live in them. These power structures feed into the political machinations that Eliza has become increasingly embroiled in as the trilogy progresses; now, in the Last Days of Tian Di, she is forced to make very mature decisions… but she is still only a 17-year-old girl. The conflict between her child-like desired to save those she loves and the more altruistic space she should inhabit as the Shang Sorceress ultimately lies at the heart of the novel. There are intimations of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy in both the imagery and the conclusion to Egan’s trilogy, but without Pullman’s rather negative perspective on belief, free will, and human agency. I wept copiously at the end of Pullman’s trilogy, but I also felt betrayed, as if the author were presenting a vision of humanity that was missing some of what I know to be true. The Last Days if Tian Di is written for a younger audience, but even as an adult reader, I feel that the choices Eliza makes reveal a real human response to her world, at both the individual and the global level. Well done, Ms. Egan. What’s next?
True Blue is a truly disturbing novel. Deborah Ellis has again delved into the psychological depths of youth and produced a story that will force readers to look inside themselves and ask—really consider—what they would do in Jess’s situation.
Jess and her best friend Casey are inseparable, but when Casey is arrested for the murder of a camper at the summer camp where they were both counsellors, Jess’s behaviour seems odd. Readers would like to tell themselves that—unlike Jess—they would never turn their back on a friend, that they would always stick up for what they knew to be right… but Jess’s situation and responses are both psychologically valid and troubling. She turns her back on her friend; she becomes part of the abhorred “in” crowd, “the Cactus gang,” who use her to publish damaging rumours about Casey; she refuses to speak to those people in her community who try—however superficially—to help her. As an adult reader, my question was strongly: where are the concerned adults in this case? Why are the parents, the teachers, the student counsellors not helping Jess, not recognizing what is going on in her mind and emotions? The entire novel is a litany of Jess’s internal cries for help, her running from a situation that is just too much for her although—it turns out—largely of her own making.
In the end, Casey is vindicated and released, but the friendship has dissolved. An added component in its dissolution is Jess’s knowledge that Casey’s “weirdness” protects her from any pain associated with Jess’s betrayal as much as it does from the slander of the Cactus gang. Casey’s character is a carefully borderline depiction of an Asperger’s child, or someone with a similarly distanced yet obsessive response to her world. All she cares about are her bugs, her plans to become an entomologist, and Jess repeatedly comments on Casey’s emotional distance as well as her seeming perfection in the eyes of the adult world. There is a marked tone of jealousy in Jess’s comments about Casey that further complicates their relationship, and Jess’s dysfunctional relationship with her bi-polar mother does not help, especially in light of her mother’s almost-worshipping opinion of Casey.
Ultimately, we are left with a protagonist who has learned the depths of her own weakness, and has run from her troubles. The novel opens with her narrating the past events to a customer of a seedy highway diner where she is waitressing at four in the morning: this is the life Jess has left after the novel closes. As an adult reader, I was left wondering how a teen would respond to the text, with absolutely no way to guess. I was troubled by my inability to discern what would be most powerful for the adolescent reader, distinct from the narrative weaknesses that the text also exhibits: Jess’s summer-camp diary is written in the present tense, which is both unlikely and structurally problematic; adults who should be more sympathetic or understanding turn on Jess in a way that seems improbable; the one teacher who stands up for truth is taken away by the police in a narratively contrived scene at school… These small weaknesses, balanced against the powerful intent and impact of Jess’s story, make me hesitant to recommend the novel unreservedly, but I would certainly hand it out to mature young readers, partially in the hope of soliciting their critical opinions.
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Millhouse tells the story of a naked guinea pig, caught in a life he did not choose, unappreciated by those around him, teased for being a misfit. Millhouse used to have a warm and welcoming home with a celebrated actor, but after Sir Roderick’s death, he ended up in a dusty, dreary pet shop. He yearned to return to his old life, to satisfy his thespian aspirations, to be appreciated again. The premise seems promising to those who appreciate stories of anthropomorphized animals, and can sympathize with Millhouse’s situation. Millhouse is an interesting character, and his over-dramatizing of his life is highly entertaining and appropriate to his self-conception as an actor. He is certainly the strongest character in the story; the other characters (even the assortment of animals in the shop) are similarly hyperbolic, and thus overtly stereotypic. There are the other, beautiful guinea pigs who deride Millhouse for his appearance, the crafty ferret who considers him (but not apparently the other animals) as a potential meal, the constantly reproduced baby wild mice who come to listen to Millhouse perform Shakespeare. The usual antics occur, with the escape-artist ferret attacking Millhouse, with Millhouse becoming depressed by the insinuation that the is intended only for scientific experiments, by Millhouse’s attempted escape to see Sir Peter Ustinov perform, and the final heart-warming conclusion that finally places him is a home. One problem I see is that Millhouse (like the ferret, but not the other animals) can easily escape his cage, yet doesn’t think to leave until the end. Another troubling element is that Millhouse is the only character with a name, rather like Franklin in the children’s cartoon (equally problematic in terms of children’s ability to identify with any of the supporting cast). Overall, the characters and story seem to limp along, either predictably or irrelevantly.
By far the best aspect of Millhouse is the author’s own illustrations, which in and of themselves justify the creation of a story to accompany them. Millhouse’s dramatic expressions, the ferret’s malicious sneers, the wild mouse Sargent’s military nobility, the adorable mice babies… Perhaps Natale Ghent’s unquestionable artistic ability would be better used in producing graphic novels for young readers; in Millhouse, she has created an almost-sufficient story in just the illustrations.
Back to topI have recently given a guest lecture on Children’s Literature of the South Asian diaspora, and I closed with a discussion of Rachna Gilmore’s The Sower of Tales. The class I spoke to was about to begin an investigation of Salmon Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories (1990), focusing on its metafictive elements, and Sower of Tales seemed to me to be a perfect text to launch them into the more complex metaphors that Rushdie employs.
The Sower of Tales presents a similar concept—the need for stories in our lives, the death of the imagination equated with the death of happiness—but to a younger, less intellectually mature readership. By this I do not intend to denigrate Sower of Tales; there is absolutely a place for both expressions of this theme within the corpus.
The metaphor that Sower of Tales presents is that of stories as a gift from the Sower, grown bi-weekly on plants scattered about the land. The Gatherer is responsible for choosing an appropriate “story pod” for the evening Talemeet for his or her village. The ripe pods give off a hum, and a talented Gatherer can tell from the hum what tone of story is therein contained. Our protagonist, Calantha, shows great promise as a Gatherer, but is too young yet to apprentice. Nonetheless, when tragedy strikes and new story pods no longer sprout, Calantha is chosen to make the dangerous journey to seek the Sower of Tales, to help right the imbalance in the world that has caused the blight.
When she reaches her destination, she is harrowed to find that the answers are not readily available. The Sower of Tales is losing her power, and can no longer heal herself: she needs Calantha to make another, more dangerous, journey. Calantha learns that an evil sorcerer has twisted the Essences, knotted the winds so that the new seeds that rise out of opened pods, up to the Sower of Tales, are diverted to the neighbouring kingdom. The significance of this is that in Gilmore’s fantasy world, the stories are power, as much as they are a life-force, and the source of culture and tradition.
The Healer Theora tells Calantha that “the Essence of the story pods is tied to the very fabric of our beings” (136), and the Sower of Tales, telling her how story pods first came into being, tells her:
Tales grow, with a life of their own. Words and ideas are like seeds. … the Essence of the story pods comes from the oldest and most powerful of all Essences—the life-spark, the Essence of creation itself. … And so, over time, the Essence of the tales enmeshed and interwove with all the other Essences linked to that life-spark, strengthening them, too—strengthening unity and love, joy and creativity and hope. (231-33).
The corollary is that without the story pods, the world will be blanketed in despair, like the poisoning of the Rushdie’s Sea of Stories… In the final scenes, in a flash of insight, Calantha understands:
The Plainsfolk must, they must learn to tell the tales. Tales from the story pods, yes, but more—they must also learn to tell their own tales. Mend their own hope, stoke their own strength. Oh, they must learn to tell their own tales to fuel their own joy and delight … And when the story pods returned—if the story pods returned—they must still keep telling their tales. That was how the tales would be saved. It was the only way the tales would be saved. (416)
The Sower of Tales can be seen as representing the birth of an oral tradition: stories are no longer given to the people by magical beings, but now must be created by the people, for the people: humanity in Gilmore’s fantasy world has now taken responsibility for its own happiness or despair, its own future narrative.
Back to top“Anne of Green Gables for boys” is how many people would describe Rachna Gilmour’s latest novel, and to some extent they would be right. That Boy Red is an engaging, nostalgic depiction of rural life in 1930s Prince Edward Island, with a red-headed protagonist: but there the similarities end. “Red” is not an orphan in search of a “kindred spirit” but a mischievous young boy, one of five siblings. One of the early scenes—when Red and his brother play war with—and ruin—an heirloom lock of their grandmother’s hair, reminds me far more of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy (1933). When Wilder’s Almanzo ruins his mother’s best parlor wallpaper by throwing a blacking-brush at his sister, Eliza Jane, she patches the wallpaper to prevent their parents discovering the crime. It is this solidarity between siblings—even amidst rivalries and conflict—that resonates so strongly in That Boy Red and renders it a marvelous portrayal of family dynamics at a time when families had to pull together in order to survive.
The episodic nature of That Boy Red works very well with its target audience of 8-12 year olds. After the incident with the lock of Granny’s hair, Red continues to revel in childish pranks: he tricks his younger sister, who ends up getting lost; he interferes in his older sister’s romance; and he ends up taking refuge from a storm in the local bully’s outhouse. But when his father’s hand is seriously injured, Red demonstrates a level of maturity previously unseen by taking charge and finishing a carpentry contract in order to maintain his father’s reputation for high-quality, conscientious work. In the final scene, Red helps a grounded airplane pilot repair his plane, earning himself a ride. The reader will glory in what Red realizes, flying high, as he sees how all the parts of his world connect: having strong roots gives him the freedom to grow.
Back to topIt’s really hard to like Maddie, the protagonist of The Big Apple Effect, but one can understand her somewhat, given her rather flakey mother, who works as “Lady Venus,” a New Age psychic charlatan. Maddie is awarded a trip to New York, to an art opening for young artists (Maddie included) whose paintings have won an award. Her friend Anna, from a guest-farm in the BC Interior, accompanies her.
Anna is everything Maddie is not: laid-back, reasonable, and grounded in reality. Maggie is obsessive-compulsive and socially unaware. Their time in New York before the art opening is spent fulfilling Maddie’s dreams—her list of 134 “things to see in New York” recorded on a colour-coded map. When Maddie’s mother shows up as a surprise—Maddie’s birthday falls on the second day of their visit—Maddie feels cheated: her only chance at escaping her mother’s over-the-top, mollycoddling weirdness has been taken away. But Maddie actually has very little chance of escaping her upbringing: like all of us, she lives it.
She develops a crush on Anna’s older brother, Thomas, which she almost subdues after meeting his girlfriend, and she revels in her experience of New York, seen through the rose-coloured glasses of her dream of what New York should be. In this, Maddie is well characterized. Young girls like her doubtless exist: star-struck, naïve, thoughtless, and self-centred. Maddie’s epiphany comes when she overhears two women deriding her piece at the gallery, and she begins to recognize her real place in the universe. Her ego is saved by Timber, the son of the great artist, Louise Bergville—keynote of the opening—who had cancelled at the last moment. Called away by her distraught mother who is “lost” in the city, Maddie despairs of seeing Timber again. But it all works out in the end: Maddie learns that she needs to think of others as well as herself; her mother realizes that she needs to give Maddie her space; Timber—who will be visiting Vancouver—contrives to reconnect with Maddie; and Louise Bergville wants to buy her cow-art. It’s too bad we can’t believe in the dénouement.
Back to topGiven the intent of the Orca Soundings series to provide “short high-interest novels with contemporary themes, written expressly for teens reading below grade level” (Orcabooks.com), this novel ostensibly serves its purpose. But in many ways, it misses its mark. The premise is sound: Ria’s privileged world is shattered when her father is determined to be guilty of financial fraud, and many members of her community are effected. Her almost-too-good-to-be-true boyfriend, Colin, is one of the victims, and (reasonably) has a problem associating with Ria afterwards. But the character development in the story—given its short length—fails to present the complexities of the psychology that must be functioning in such a situation. We do not know what Colin s thinking or feeling, how Ria really feels towards her father, nor why she makes the assumptions and decisions she does. Taking her younger brother and running away from the situation on the spur of the moment (without sufficient clothing, money, or medicine) seems both thoughtless and improbable, as does her father’s turning himself in when the children are posted as missing. Over all, the story does not supply sufficient character motivation in the crises presented, nor does it provide closure for the reader; we know that Ria and Colin speak at the end, but the relationship between the two remains indeterminable in the face of all the other questions left open in Ria’s life.
Back to topI knew Betsy Wickwire. She was at least three of my high school friends. I myself was Dolores Morris, minus the theft. I knew Murdock, too; he was my brother’s best friend. And everyone knows a number of Carlys and Nicks; they plague the teenaged world.
Young adult readers of all ages, and I believe both genders, will love this novel. Vicky Grant’s characters are completely believable; her plot is interesting and well structured; the emotional aspects of Becky’s life are firmly within the realm of teenage possibility. Having teen readers able to both identify with the characters and recognize the validity of the plot is important, too, because Grant is doing more with this novel than just exploring teen relationships and life.
Betsy is clinically depressed after finding her best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her complete breakdown at this event is justified in the narrative, and will ring true to teen readers. What is essential is that her self-guided recovery is equally believable. Grant has done an excellent job of showing the painfully slow road to recovery that Betsy takes, peppering the serious look at a troubled young girl with moments of fun and humour that are a part of teen life. Through this all, we have Betsy’s self-reflective narrative reminding us of the relationship between her internalized self-conception and her narrative world—and thus, the reader will extrapolate, the real world outside the text.
The plot breaks down a bit towards the end, with Betsy’s refusal to force Dolores to pay for her own mistakes; and the last few pages left me wondering, really, where the characters ended up in relation to one another. There is a synopsis, but it is not tied sufficiently to the preceding narrative to satisfy a desire to envision the characters’ futures. But with this very small caveat, I must say that I could not put Besty Wickwire’s Dirty Secret down. As soon as it is released, I will run out and purchase copies for my young teen daughter and all her friends.
Back to topThe premise of Secrets is that seven self-proclaimed “sisters”—orphans in the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls in Hope, Ontario—are sent out into the world when the orphanage burns down. Each of the “sisters” is given $138 by their beloved headmistress, Mrs. Hazelton, along with often-vague information tenuously linking their present to their pasts, providing indeterminate paths for them to take towards their futures.
In Small Bones, timid, highly imaginative Dot feels like she has been abandoned by Mrs. Hazelton, sent out into a harsh, unwelcoming world when she would rather stay in the comfort of their familiar small town, however socially dead an end that might be. Dot’s insecurity is somewhat assuaged by the seeming simplicity of the clue to her identity, for the new-born Dot had “arrived wrapped in an expensive coat complete with the store label and the initials of the man who owned it” (20), along with an engraved silver mustard spoon hidden in its pocket. Dot travels down to the fictional Buckminster by train, only to discover—unsurprisingly, or we would have little plot—that the store, Howell’s of Buckminster, closed in 1944, three years before Dot had been born. Dot has a birth date: July 8th, 1947, but not even verification of the place.
After a brief prologue set in 1947, the story begins in media res, with Dot on the train, intimidated by a young man who winks at her: “A real wink. Not a there’s-a-little-something-in-my-eye type of flutter … a genuine hey-baby-how’s-it-going wink” (6). The whys and the wherefores of Dot being on the train are revealed in flashback. Again unsurprisingly, Eddie turns out to be the love interest in the story, insinuating himself effortlessly into Dot’s life. Small Bones, more than any of the other of the Secrets series (Innocence perhaps excepted), is centred on the romance; the search for Dot’s parentage slips into the background of her desire to help Eddie produce a good story for the newspaper. As she builds her knowledge of what happened in Buckminster on July 8th, 1947, Dot admits
I wanted to find my parents. I wanted to find out who I was, where I came from, all that stuff. But that was only part of it now and not even the best part.
I was in it now mostly for other reasons. The way Eddie’s face kind of lit up when I mentioned something he hadn’t thought of yet. The way we didn’t even have to look at each other to know we were both thinking the same thing. The way we could sit happily for hours… (168)
Initially in her own interests, Dot maneuvers Eddie into researching the local legend behind the “Bye-Bye Baby party” held every July 8th in the woods near the resort where Dot has found work. There is no question to the reader, once the legend is revealed, that it is real and that Dot is the baby who was spirited away that night. Part of the problem is that the reader really doesn't’ change focus away from Dot’s mystery the way that she herself does. It’s rather difficult, then, to have patience with Dot continually failing to tell Eddie her own place in the story. Perhaps it is a little of a personal hang-up, but I really do not appreciate narratives founded on either intentional duplicitousness or characters making decisions that have no logical validity; Small Bones contains both. Eddie sees Dot dropped off at the train by Mrs. Welsh, her rich employer, whom he assumes is Dot’s mother. While we can understand why Dot initially sees no reason to dissuade him of this illusion, once she begins to establish a relationship with him, there seems to be no reason for the continued subterfuge. And once they start to try to determine the truth, and Dot’s overcoat and silver spoon become important evidence, her choices become not only ethically questionable but a narratively untenable weakness. This failure to reveal results in Dot’s outright lies to Eddie at the climax of the narrative. That is all works out in the end (again unsurprisingly) does not mitigate the annoyance the reader feels towards Dot’s choices throughout the story.
[spoiler follows]
Small Bones gives us is an almost unmitigatedly happy ending: Dot and Eddie’s relationship recovers from the lies and omissions; Dot’s father is discovered to not be Eddie’s father; and Dot’s mother sends a beautiful letter and meets her new-found daughter with hugs and tears at the end of the book. All in all, I think I prefer any of the other endings (again, Innocent excepted), where the secrets the seven sisters discover lead them into adulthood with a greater maturity and understanding, rather than just the security of love and family that Dot finds.
“A Cautionary Tale for Young Divas” is how I would subtitle Wren Handman’s Last Cut. The protagonist—16-year-old Caitlin—is carefully crafted as a self-interested aspiring actress with talent, and serious attitude. Initially, I wondered whether young readers would continue with the book; there are perhaps too many subtle clues of Caitlin’s real nature for readers to like her. Maybe that’s not necessary, though, for all readers. Those who persevere with the novel will be rewarded with an intimate glimpse into the dangerous and damaging problems into which naïve hubris can lead one.
Overly sure of her acting ability, Caitlin tries out for—and lands—a role in a “professional” movie. To take part, she has to skip school, which requires lying to her parents. She also has to be 18, which requires lying on her contract… which she doesn’t read anyhow. In telling her friends about the audition, she lies that “they totally loved me … they even asked me to stay for, like, a second audition afterwards that they only give to the people they really want to see” (31). My patience with Caitlin by this point was growing thin, but my respect for Handman’s authorial abilities was increasing. I may not like Caitlin, but I have to admit that she and her friends seem very much like high school girls I know, with the same relationships, the same catty games, the same petty jealousies, well expressed. When Caitlin surfaces from her work to attend a party, her friends Hannah and Suzanne are overjoyed to see her; her response is telling: “they’re overdoing it just enough that I can tell they don’t mean it. I mean, it isn’t that they’re not happy to see me. It’s just that they know they hurt my feelings on Wednesday, so now they’re overcompensating to try to make me feel good. They’re acting so excited to see me that it really feels fake, and I have a hard time mustering any enthusiasm” (89). The relationship between honesty, sincerity, acting, and artifice finally comes home to Caitlin, but it is too late: in the end she learns a hard lesson, and has gambled away most of what she thought she had for a dream of stardom that was doomed at the outset by her own dishonesty.
My one real reservation about the novel lies in where we are left. Topless photos of a Caitlin, aged 16, are circulated by the movie’s publicity people before her age is discovered. The severity of this situation is earlier alluded to by the casting director—before we know any photos have been released—but we are left with no indication of what this ultimately will mean for Caitlin, for her family, or for the movie producers. Child pornography is a very serious issue, and it feels like Last Cut trivializes the situation by leaving it unresolved. The final scene exacerbates the problem; Caitlin’s boyfriend is angry enough to leave her, telling her that her concerns are pointless, that “the whole world doesn’t revolve around you” (141), when in fact her concern is at least partially founded on the fact that her stupidity has caused considerable legal problems—perhaps criminal prosecution—for the movie producers who gave her a chance. Perhaps the teen reader will not care, but personally prefer to have real-world legal problems not left hanging. The criminal justice system within Handman—as a realist author—is writing provides many possible answers: it would be nice if we were told which Handman envisions for her characters.
Back to topAnother modern interpretation of the Cinderella story, Broken presents us with Ash Perrault, whose refreshing adolescent voice teenage readers will be certain to identify with. Ash is being saddled with the requisite step-mother and two step-sisters, but ultimately learns that “step-” is not invariably preceded by “evil.” In fact, the “perfect” step-sister is not only socially supportive of Ash, but has issues of her own. Nonetheless, combined with normal adolescent angst fostered by Ash’s crush on the most popular boy in school, his ex-girlfriend’s antagonism, Ash’s best-friend’s lack of understanding, Ash’s life has become too complicated. On top of all this, glass has a nasty habit of shattering when she is around (hence the title…). If you can get past the marked similarities between Ash’s affliction and Roald Dahl’s Matilda’s power, and the parallel between her relationship with Mouse, her best friend, and Mia’s with Lily in the movie version of The Princess Diaries, the plot is sufficiently captivating. While there is no single element that stands out as earth-shatteringly original, Alyxandra Fitzhenry manages to combine aspects of many young, teenaged girls’ lives into a unique situation, lived by a unique character. She also manages to have an obvious amount of fun in creating her tale, lacing her insight into adolescents’ troubles with subtle and not-so-subtle intertextual allusions (the protagonist’s name, for example) to keep reader’s thinking of more than just the plot.
Back to topThe Boy from Left Field is a fast-paced mystery aimed at intermediate school readers. The issues that arise are an integral part of the narrative, with none taking precedent over the others.
The most significantly problem Hawk faces is negotiating his Native culture as expressed by his Scottish-heritage mother, who has taken on a Native persona, and his Ojibway-Cree father, who is an advocate for Native rights. His mother’s oppositional personality is what has caused the break-up of the family and kept Hawk from attending Grade 4 at the local school. This blends seamlessly into a depiction of the treatment meted out to disadvantaged students—even when they are gifted—by the mainstream educational system. With the help of her more reasonable husband, Hawk’s mother ultimately succeeds in having his giftedness recognized and accommodated in a Gifted class. The ideology of the Gifted program Hawk ends up in is real and admirable, and it is gratifying to see educators portrayed in such a positive light in children’s literature, balanced by the equally authentic depiction of those teachers who see only the behavioural problems, not their sources, in what are sometimes called “twice-exceptional” learners. While the level of giftedness of the Grade 4 students Hawk joins is unbelievable, all else about his educational experience rings true. But this is a parental opinion; the child reader will not be focusing on Hawk’s school placement, but on the life he leads in relation to his peers, inside and outside of the school.
Hawk is no stranger to bullying, both in his new class and on the streets, where he lives in an abandoned taxi with his street-vendor mother. He initially feels alone against the Rippers, the street gang who beats him up and steals his baseball equipment. He is equally alone against the bully at school who demands payment for amnesty against aggression. In both cases, through small steps forward and the making and trusting of new friends, Hawk begins to trust the inner strength his father tells him is always there. Ultimately, both situations are resolved in believable ways.
Multiple plotlines coalesce in the final scenes. Babe Ruth’s first home run ball, lost in Lake Ontario, that Hawk and his neighbour Mr. Rizzuto were trying to locate, turns out to be the target of a crime perpetrated by an Asian Triad, who are getting the Rippers to do their dirty work. The one problem with the novel lies in Hawk and his friends planning and carrying out a sting on the Rippers as they are robbing the warehouse where the baseball is stored. The inclusion of “Mr. Big,” the children’s name for the Asian Triad leader who is behind the theft, brings a fun and interesting child-detective tale too much into the real world without the seriousness of tone that should accompany it. The Rippers are called to account, and no further mention is made of the larger criminal activities associated with the situation. While the Rippers are a generic street gang the children (and a police cousin) can handle, organized crime and gang involvement is too real a problem in too many young people’s lives to be named explicitly then brushed aside in this way.
Back to topI don’t know much about football, but the opening scene of Eric Howling’s Red Zone Rivals seems to carry the excitement fans—and players—must feel during tense moments in the game. It certainly engages the reader sufficiently to carry us through meeting Quinn Brown, who doesn’t start out with a very attractive attitude. His hubris loses him the affection of his girlfriend, Emma, and we can see that he has some learning to do both on and off the field. Fortunately, Howling craftily leads Quinn into and through situations that ring true; the lessons he learns are solid and in keeping with the psychological space a high-school football star might find himself in.
Slightly stereotypically, Quinn is a great quarterback, but a lousy math student. When he finally accepts his need for a tutor, he is assigned to Walker, a new student with a limp and a brilliant mind. Quinn had previously taunted Walker for his limp but, conforming to narrative expectations, learns the truth of Walker’s injury as they bond over their math books. When Quinn gets in trouble for throwing the first punch in defending Walker against bullying by his rival quarterback, Luke, we begin to see the changes that losing Emma and knowing Walker have set in motion. And we begin to really like Quinn.
It is not easy to accept punishment for an action you know to be morally right, but Quinn must: and he does so respectfully. His ability to accept the consequence of his action—even when it seems unfair—opens him to accept the guidance their new coach gives and the self-discipline demanded of Walker’s tutoring. The lessons he learns are part of what we all hope our children will learn in high school, and one of the reasons some parents encourage their children in team sports: the adage “there is no ‘i’ in team,” of course; but more than that, lesson in maturity, ethical principles, and honourable behaviour. Quinn is rewarded not only by his rekindled relationship with Emma, and a growing friendship with Walker, but by knowing himself to have grown in the ways that matter.
Back to topIn Howl, Karen Hood-Caddy has created a story that will resonate strongly with many young readers, populated as it is with psychologically realistic characters whom everyone will recognize. The protagonist, Robin, is both strong and insecure, having recently lost her mother; Robin’s older sister is a typical teen, dealing with loss by acting out, and her younger brother, “Squirm,” is both annoying and loveable. Her father, a veterinary, is struggling to provide support for his children and hold his own life together after the loss of his wife. The crucial aspect of his own grieving is that he moves his family from Winnipeg, Manitoba, to northern Ontario where his mother lives on a large property beside a lake. Combine the complicated (and successfully portrayed) dynamics of a grieving family with bullying neighbours and growing (and not quite legal) wild-life rescue operation, and we have a novel rich with possibilities. It may sound like there is too much going on, but Hood-Caddy balances the different, equally important, aspects of Robin’s new rural life perfectly: we see life from Robin’s young perspective, glossed by sparse and effective wisdom from her “eccentric” grandmother, Griff.
Through her involvement in a school project on ecological consciousness, and her activities helping to heal injured wild animals, Robin eventually learns to trust in happiness again. The threats she encounters—both socially and legally—are dealt with in ways that readers will perceive as possible in their own lives. More than just an engaging story of a young girl growing back into strength after trauma, Howl presents the reader with a map—both psychologically and logistically—of how young people can grow towards maturity and efficacy within their world.
Back to top“How does a guy go about paying back a life debt anyway? And what if it involves a transmission tower, an ice-cream truck, and a few sticks of dynamite?” How could any young reader resist a book whose back cover asks this question? I Owe You One lives up to expectations, providing a fun-filled “house-that-jack-built” story of connections, both logistical and emotional. Wes, the protagonist, builds on his dead father’s lessons of respect and honour, and learns the value of community and giving. The sacrifice he makes to help the old woman—once an adventurous ski-racer—who saved his life, and to whom he feels he owes a “life debt,” ultimately is about love and respect, not the “one” he feels he “owes” her.
It is seldom that a text written simply, for younger readers, makes me both giggle and tear up. Natalie Hyde has created characters with humourous traits, realistic flaws, and yet a sense of integrity and community that restore one’s faith in people. There is sufficient suspense, and juvenile pranks, to grip young readers’ imaginations, yet the ethical and moral code that Wes is striving to adhere to does not come across as didactic or incongruous. The balance is effective, resulting in a text that is as rewarding to give to a child as it will be for the child to read.
Back to topUnnaturally for a Canadian, perhaps, I don’t like hockey. I did, however, really like Nathalie Hyde’s Hockey Girl. While it does focus on the sport sufficiently to engage die-hard fans, underneath the excitement of the sport, this novel is more about equity, integrity, and solidarity in all aspects of life.
The story opens with our protagonist, Tara, in the middle of a play: her determination borders on aggression, and her sense of fair play is offended by both the other team’s behaviour and the referee’s bad call. As she sits in the penalty box unjustly, we are introduced to her team’s real antagonists: members of the boys’ hockey league who had goaded the girls into a bet, that whoever comes out higher in their own standings at the end of the season has to play cheerleader to the other team the entire next season. Both the boys and the girls picture the result—the skimpy, over-sexualized outfits—should the girls lose. This is a challenge worth winning, certainly.
The real drama of the story lies, however, in the girls’ fight to keep their team together in a highly patriarchal, hockey-mad town. The boys get all the ice time, and their coach only stays around until the scouts come… then he moves on to coach a more prestigious (male) team. The girls ultimately find the help they need from unsuspected sources, including in Tara’s case from Kit, one of the boys’ team’s best players. The story thus contains an amount of romance appropriate to junior high readers, and the way that Kit and Tara relate to one another is both honest and heartwarming. Both young adults have to contend with unfairness, from both their community and their hockey-obsessed fathers, and Tara learns that not only girls suffer from the worship of machismo endemic in the males of her society. The lessons she learns have an obvious extrapolation to issues in the world at large, and Hyde creates an effective parallel in how portions of the community rally to the girls’ side when their ice-time is taken. While the battle is simplified, the issues are not: Hockey Girl scores a goal for women’s rights specifically and for an increased sense of justice and solidarity in general.
Back to topThis is a poignant look at the life of a young boy growing up in small-town Alberta. His best friend is a girl; he loves to sew puppets for plays; he lives with his over-weight aunt and her abusive husband. In his society, his lifestyle makes him a target for the school bullies. Stitches reveals how he comes to terms with who he is, and learns the value of following his dreams.
Jude Isabella’s The Red Bicycle shares some of what is best in another picture book about bicycles: Pedal It! (Orca, 2013). While the award-winning Pedal It! is a non-fiction look at a myriad of uses bicycles are put to around the world, The Red Bicycle is a fictional account of one bike, and how its owner passes his affection for his bike forward.
Leo saves his money for months to buy the bike he names “Big Red,” and Big Red becomes not only a method of transportation, but an inanimate best friend (a sentiment I am sure many readers will identify with). When he outgrows Big Red, Leo is told about a system designed to give old bikes new life. Big Red thus ends up en route to Africa, courtesy of an unnamed charitable organization. Once in Burkina Faso, Big Red helps a family rise out of poverty sufficiently that they can afford a second bike. Big Red later becomes a bicycle ambulance, helping save lives in an area where there are no cars, and few roads to drive on.
Leo’s story, though, is told in a narrative voice that is stilted and uninteresting: just that little bit too “Run, Spot! Run.” for the target audience. While the illustrations are fun, and fit with the story well, the font chosen seems too mundane, sapping energy from the illustrations.
One of the strongest points of the book is not the story, but the message of charity, supported by informative notes at the end (“What You Can Do To Help”) outlining various organizations that put old bikes to good use, as well “A Note for Parents and Teachers” with ideas about how to further engage readers in a cycling culture.
The Orca Currents series, high-interest books with a simpler reading level aimed at teens, address issues as diverse as geo-caching (Kristin Butcher’s Caching In), archeological mysteries at the Royal Tyrrell Museum (John Wilson’s Bones), and normal teenage antics gone wrong (for example, Deb Loughead’s Caught in the Act). Sometimes, though, we get a seemingly simple mystery, such as Melanie Jackson’s Death Drop. Protagonist Zeke’s legitimate concern about being late to practice, and thus losing a scholarship, is set against his worry about a little girl lost at Playland and his desire to unravel what turns out to be an increasingly interesting mystery. The newest ride at the fair—Death Drop—is based on the myth of Persephone’s time in Hades—including “a famous painting of Persephone, on loan from England” (3). Zeke’s classmate Dieter, the “class bookworm” (7), who is writing a report on the financial situation at the ride, has read classical mythology, and is familiar with the pre-Raphaelite painters, fills Zeke in on the juicier details of the myth and the intrigue surrounding the ride. Readers are thus shown a teen world in which learning plays a positive role in the success of the characters.
Approached by a little blonde girl as he queues for Death Drop, Zeke is stereotypically loath to help her: “I was a boy. Kids with problems needed a nice lady. A middle-aged, motherly type” (4). His attitude softens as she points to his LA Angels t-shirt: “Angels help people.” Faced with the uninterested, disengaged staff at the ride, Zeke takes on the task of finding her aunt and in the process discovers the illegal activities that lie beneath the fun of the fair.
A lost girl, a death-defying thrill ride, financial fraud involving a stolen painting, international intrigue: all bound together in a plot that works. Death Drop does not have Zeke and Dieter learning deep life lessons so much as employing their inherent compassion and generosity to counter the ill effects of adult greed. A short novel, certainly, but containing a fast-paced story centered on protagonists whose integrity and intelligence is essential in a satisfying narrative resolution.
Back to topThe Bury Road is “loosely based on [the author’s] own childhood experiences growing up on the Bruce Peninsula in a family with seven girls” (back cover), which does provide a satisfying degree of verisimilitude to the story. Sadly, though, there isn’t much actual story to be had. What we have, rather, is a series of vignettes loosely held together by characters and setting (Debbie’s family and the Bury road community) that present for the reader some aspects of life in a rural Ontario community in the 1960s.
Jansen tells an Owen Sound SunTimes reporter that it was her grandchildren’s love of her stories that prompted her to write the book, and I can see how the tales of a by-gone era would be engaging both to her own family and modern urban readers, who could well be fascinated learning about girls doing boys’ farmwork, haying and threshing and driving the tractor, and a time when getting the strap was still part of school discipline. I remember those days well; rural BC communities were obviously not all that different from those in Ontario.
As a text, The Bury Road falls properly under the genre of the short-story cycle: neither a collection of distinct short stories nor a novel with plot or intertwined plot-lines running start to finish through the course of the single narrative. What is required of the short-story cycle, though, is some form of overarching cohesion that ties the vignettes or stories together into a whole. The Bury Road does try to present this: the concluding paragraph has Debbie revisiting the main points of each incident, searching for the Big Dipper up in the sky (another iconic rural childhood activity), because “finding it made her feel safe.” This safety, the protection and camaraderie of the family unit, is perhaps the glue that holds the narrative together, but it is sufficiently well crafted to cause the narrative to glow. The narrative voice is simple and enjoyable, and the images of rural life that we are given are true-to-life and interesting, but I can envision a more engaging way of delivering the vicarious experience.
Back to topThis book begins as if it were a realist novel of the hardship of a young orphan forced to work in a logging camp in the mountains. But when the protagonist, Dusty, plants some seeds in the woods and wishes on them, magic begins. Eventually, she and a number of other children escape from the horrors of camp life. The first half of the novel builds the relationships and characterizations of the children and those around them; the second half tells of their flight, and the adventures that force the children to choose their own paths in a threatening world. I have this as an ARC, but I believe it is now in publication (New York: Hyperion, 2006). It is certainly a text I would recommend to young adult readers.
Back to topIn 2012, Orca Publishers released the Seven series, a set of seven novels by seven different authors, featuring seven male cousins each set on a quest to accomplish in order to claim their portion of their grandfather’s inheritance. Now, in 2015, Orca has released Secrets, a parallel series with female protagonists.
The foundation of this series is the destruction of an orphanage by (we assume) accidental fire. Set in 1964, at a time when national regulations governing child welfare were in flux, the series follows the lives of the seven oldest girls in the orphanage. At eighteen, the girls would have been sent out on their own; the fire merely precipitates their setting out into the world. Each of the seventeen-year-old self-proclaimed “sisters” is given an envelope by their beloved headmistress, Mrs. Hazelton; the envelopes contain information about their pasts, providing paths for them to take towards their futures.
A Big Dose of Lucky is the story of African-Canadian Malou, who has been protected from the blatant racism of the time by her almost-seclusion in the nurturing environment of the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls in Hope, Ontario. The information in Malou’s envelope leads her eventually to Parry Sound, where she begins to unravel the secrets of her parentage. Malou’s life is woven through with new discoveries at both the personal and societal levels; adept at historical research, Marthe Jocelyn brings into her story issues of racism, homosexuality, and the advancement of modern medicine in the 1960s, or—more significantly—in 1947 when Malou was conceived.
The first modern instances of artificial insemination were recorded in a study in 1943, followed by studies in 1948 and 1953; Jocelyn makes such important medical experiments the linchpin of her mystery. Malou’s discoveries unearth the truth about a number of young people her age in Parry Sound. Parry Sound in the 1960s had only about 6000 residents; not surprising, then, with Malou actively looking, that the obviously non-Caucasian youth would find each other. And help each other. And learn the secret of how they are connected despite their families’ different ethnicities. Malou’s quest began with only a hospital bracelet labelled “Baby Fox.” It ends with not only a mother, but also an extended family of half-siblings, and Malou rediscovers the security she lost when the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls burned down.
Back to topI was introduced to The Warlocks of Talverdin when I was sent The Shadow Road (2010), fourth in the series, to review for Resource Links magazine. I was so impressed by that novel— not even having read the first three—that I immediately bought the series. I have since read all four three times, and thus was perhaps lying to myself when I told myself that I had to reread them all to review them for my blog.
Rereading Nightwalker, I was once again impressed by K.V. Johansen’s narrative abilities. Certainly, she has created a world that is internally consistent, as all good fantasy worlds must be; more than that, though, she has created a unique world that harks back to fantasy classics such as Lord of the Rings only in that narrative ability, not in content, nor in characterization.
At first, Nightwalker seems a traditional medieval-style fantasy, with young orphaned Maurey (although we do not know his name, as the text is presented in the first person) caught as less than a servant at the royal university in Dunmorra. Slowly, artfully revealed, we learn his tale: betrayed by the corrupt and power-hungry chancellor and his brother, when Maurey’s self-appointed guardian died, his tuition and legacy were stolen, and he was reduced to the nothingness we find him in. His economic ostracization is compounded by his physical appearance: he is neither fair nor dark, as most humans, but white skinned with black hair and eyes… physical characteristics of the race of Talverdin, the “warlocks” from whom the land was wrested by force centuries earlier. This dynamic is one of the primary powers of Johansen’s series, for her world both is and is not our own.
The geography of Johansen’s fantasy world resembles Europe and England far too closely to be accidental. Eswiland is England, invaded by the fair-haired Northerners long since; the Ronish Empire is the Iberian peninsula, still peopled by darker-skinned inhabitants; Berbarany is North Africa… But the comparison is never explicit, and the cultures only loosely parallelled; nonetheless, racial and cultural prejudices motivate many of the characters in Johansen’s world, as in ours. In the initial invasion, the Talverdin people were overcome and pushed west, beyond the mountains, where they now live protected by spells to prevent humans from entering what are left of their lands. An emissary of peace just before Maurey’s birth solidified the political antagonism, when the Queen of Dumorra, married as a child to a much older King, abandoned her station to become the lover of the Talverdin prince. The racial antagonisms, the political intrigues, the balance between personal desire and royal obligation are all handled extremely deftly; never so much as when Annot abandons her birthright to defend Maurey against the blatant and deadly prejudices of her relatives, or when Maurey, realizing his own position within the greater political mechanism, must choose between his noble obligation and the life of a new friend. Johansen does not succumb to the popular tendency to create a happy ending where expediency demands a different choice. That the novel ends well does not feel like authorial manipulation so much as the natural result of strong characters making the right personal and political choices. In such writing lies the greatness that we remember of Aragorn, of Faramir (in the book, not the movie!), of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth… Some novels inspire the reader to aspire to ethical nobility: Nightwalker is one of these.
Back to topTreason in Eswy begins shortly after Nightwalker’s conclusion, not surprisingly, but it immediately introduces new central characters and a narrative technique that Johansen uses effectively throughout the remainder of the series: first-person alternating narration. The story opens with Korby, a “barbarian” Fenlander, telling his “account of the treason in Eswy” (1); the second section is “the account of Eleanor of Eswy” (9) of the same situation, but different places and incidents. The tale is thus presented in retrospect, which helps the young or nervous reader to know that ultimately all turns out well. Once again, there is little other narrative certainty of a positive outcome, which adds effectively to the suspense and discomfiture caused by the political intrigues described.
Johansen’s carefully constructed world is not expanding, so much as we are being shown more of it; reading Treason in Eswy, we are once more under the strong impression that her world exists fait accompli, with a intricate history and myriad cultures that we have yet to be introduced to. Slowly as we read, we learn the relationships between the players: Korby and Eleanor we have just met, and Robin and Fuallia of the Westwood we meet later. But it is the characters we already know well—Maurey, Annot, and Romner—who work ceaselessly towards their multiple goals, all aimed at solidifying the tenuous peace and goodwill that exists between Dunmorra and the Nightwalkers’ Talverdin.
Korby’s opening scene introduces a serious threat to that peace: a mysterious group? person? called Yehillon, and humans who can enter the half-world. The secrets of the Yehillon are ultimately revealed over the course of this book and the next, Warden of Greyrock (2009), through the visions of the Fen-witch Korby, Maurey and Korby’s espionage, Romner’s alchemical experiments, and Annot’s historical and anthropological research. This effective combination of magic, military prowess, and intellectual ability is a powerful tool in the creation of an alternate-world fantasy with such a strong sense of realism. The successful historicity is also doubtless a result of Johansen’s Masters degree in Medieval History, but it takes both knowledge and narrative skill to create such a coherent and fascinating world.
In the second plotline of the tale, Eleanor, the princess of Eswy, betrothed to King Dugald of Dunmorra, is a pawn in a battle of power played out between her parents: her mother belongs to a joyless “Penitent” sect, and has no qualms about using her daughter to further her own religious and political agenda; her father is acting in her best interests, and those of his country, but counter to the plans of a corrupt baron, who wants both Eleanor and the crown for his own. When Eleanor’s narration begins, her brother, Lovell, heir to the throne, has just been murdered, setting in motion a sequence of events that further threatens the unstable peace of Eswiland. Three different powers vie for Eleanor’s hand, resulting in her functional kidnapping by her mother; Eleanor, more intelligent and capable than any believe, has other plans. Korby and Maurey’s activities as spies for Dunmorra naturally intersect with Eleanor’s escape and flight, and the two plots—the two narrative perspectives—are given equal weight until they coalesce in the safe arrival of Eleanor in Dugald’s realm. While this is the denouement of one of the plotlines, the Yehillon remain both a mystery and a threat, and the book ends with Korby leaving, again acting as a spy, for foreign lands. Where Nightwalker presents a satisfactory sense of closure, Treason in Eswy does not: thank goodness Warden of Greyrock was already published when I read the series, as I would really have resented waiting for the necessary continuation of the story.
Back to topThe Warlocks of Talverdin, as a series, is a little uneven, not in writing style or level of interest, but in the narrative structure of the individual texts. Nightwalker (2007) and The Shadow Road (2010) stand alone quite effectively, but Treason in Eswy (2008) and Warden of Greyrock must be read as one longer narrative. Warden continues the search to discover the meaning of the Yehillon cult: its history, its impetus, its diabolical plans to annihilate all Nightwalkers from the world… and further. But that is in The Shadow Road.
The story opens with a flashback to a flashback initially given us in Treason in Eswy: the death of Robin and Fuallia’s grandfather near the Kanifglin Pass. This sets the stage for the continuation of the previous story, and the action then switches back to Korby’s activities as a spy on the mainland (remember? Treason also opened with Korby’s cloak-and-dagger search of a library on the mainland). The parallel is effective, returning us to the central plot that was rendered peripheral in Treason by the escape and eventual marriage of Eleanor of Eswy.
The most serious incident in Warden is the kidnapping of Annot, Baroness Oakhold, who is still not married to Maurey’lana, as his Queen and Aunt has not given her blessing, hoping that he will ultimately marry another Nightwalker and thus strengthen his hereditary ability as a Maker. In the chapters focused on Annot, Johansen slips from her usual first-person staggered narration. At first, I wondered at this, until reminded of what Annot experienced in her captivity. Annot is severely beaten in her abduction, and suffers significant, permanent, but not completely debilitating brain damage, but also awaking her latent witch-powers, related to those that manifest so strongly in her cousin Korby. For this reason—Annots lack of reason much of the time—her chapters are related in limited-omniscient third-person. This gives us the opportunity, too, of learning more of the thoughts and motivations of Katerina, erstwhile lady’s-maid to Eleanor, now wife of Alberick, the chosen lord of the Yehillon, sent in disgrace by her lord to serve the despised captive Annot.
The plot is complicated, yet woven carefully and concisely. Not strings are left untied in the end; no questions in the readers mind stand out strongly as unanswered. Which is not to ay that there are no unanswered questions: only that we feel, at the end of the novel, that the issues of import at the moment, have been resolved. As at the end of Nightwalker, and moreso at the end of Treason in Eswy, the immediate resolved concerns leave the reader with only enough sense of closure to sustain until the next installment: the real history is still slowly being revealed.
Back to topI feel like an ancient explorer: I have discovered a new land, and it is mine! This world was created by K.V. Johansen in the first book of her Warlocks of Talverdin series, Nightwalker (Orca, 2007). The Shadow Road is the fourth in the series, and thus seems a little confusing at first, but the author manages to integrate sufficient reference to past events to help the new reader learn her world, without obviously re-telling the plot of previous books. In The Shadow Road, we are plunged into mystery in the opening pages, wherein young Nethin is trapped inside a coffin, his magical powers impotent. It is slowly and artfully revealed that Nethin is the son of Lord Romner and Lady Fuallia, minor protagonists of earlier tales, and a powerful warlock in his own right… usually. His powers overcome by potions, his enemies use him to open a gateway onto the mythical “shadow road” that connects their world with others. The adventures that ensue are complex and carefully constructed; Johansen is adept at presenting intricate political and social intrigue, supported by strong characterization. On her website, she admits having been influenced by Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings—what author of high fantasy since the 1950s was not—but the influence lies more in Johansen’s narrative craft than in any plot or character similarities. She has created a fascinating, original fantasy world, one which readers will want to enter in to dwell. As with Middle Earth, we imagine the shadowy spaces outside of the narrative, peopled by characters we have yet to meet, partaking of incidents that have yet to happen, and we fervently hope that K. V. Johansen will continue to tell their tales for years to come.
The first three times I finished The Shadow Road, I immediately wanted another text, a sequel, so that I could continue to dwell in K.V. Johansen’s mesmerizing world. This time, however, I read the series more critically, thinking more deeply about the narrative structure of the series, rather than merely revelling in the enjoyment of the story as expressed in each individual text. In the end, The Shadow Road leaves us in a place that does not actually require further narrative, however much we might want it. The denouement both presents us with effective closure and yet leaves the possibility—should the author so desire—of further stories: notably not further illumination of the questions that have run through the series to date, the secrets of the Yehillon.
Nethin’s experiences in The Shadow Road are presented as a retrospective report of dubious authenticity. Rather like the frame narrative of Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale (1985), the two short descriptive paragraphs that frame Nethin’s story inform us that years—if not decades or centuries—have passed between the action of the novel and the moment of our reading. The scope for further tales within this period is vast and encouraging, and we can only hope that Johansen sees fit to populate those years with recorded narrative. Apparently (she tells me in an email communication) she has plans for a fifth book, temporally placed between Nightwalker and Treason in Eswy, but Orca Publishers is not yet convinced. I suggest that anyone reading this review, who appreciates The Warlocks of Talverdin even a quarter as much as I do, write to Orca Publishers (orca@orcabook.com) and let them know how much we want to see that fifth—and sixth, and seventh—installment.
There is something about K. V. Johansen’s writing that grips me and pulls me in. The Cassandra Virus novels are written for a younger readership than her Warlocks of Talverdin series, and focused more on plot than character, but they captivate in a similar way… after reading what I though was merely an interesting but not profound novel, I found myself thinking of the story and characters for days afterwards. This revelation requires a far more in-depth analysis; suffice it at this juncture to say that The Black Box is surprising in more than just plot. And the plot is good.
Best friends Jordan and Helen, the “two Igors,” as they call themselves, are the precocious children of scientists: Helen’s mom is head of a university Computer Science department, and Jordan’s parents are archeologists, while his sister works in AI for the government. The Cassandra of the title is a sentient AI that Jordan has developed, an AI that has become the children’s friend, but creates a sufficient sense of the uncanny to keep at least this adult reader wondering where Cassandra’s continually developing mental abilities will lead the plot. When the two discover a strange black “stone” in their uncle’s archeological dig (yes, he shares in the family obsession), strange things begin to happen around town. Significantly, electronic signals fail: as the cover says: “phones don't’ work. There’s no radio, no TV. No internet.” For the child reader today, the disconnectedness—the horror—of this situation will resonate. To make matters worse, strangers posing as bird watchers are snooping around. With the help of two teenagers from the local historical reenactment society, Jordan and Helen (and Cassandra when she is online) help solve the mystery of the black box, the mysterious object that cannot be fully understood without destroying it.
Johansen has again constructed a cleverly woven tale, with no loose ends or inconsistencies. Her characters are interesting and true to life; Jordan and Helen are just reaching that age when “the whole boy-girl thing” (11) begins to surface, but their focus remains on friendship and science, something many middle-school readers will identify with fully.
The first two books in the series are The Cassandra Virus (2006) and The Drone War (2007), neither of which I have read.
Back to topSusan Juby’s kind of cowboy is rather fine. Alex Ford has always been obsessed with horses, especially the structured control and exactness of dressage, which as a child he called “corsage” until corrected by his aunt, Grace. Like Grace, Alex’s father, Brian, understands but distinctly does not share the obsession. Nonetheless, when Alex is eleven, his father wins an old nag in a poker game and brings him home to Alex, and Alex’s real life begins. The horse, Colonel Turnipseed, “Turnip” for short, is trained Western and comes with Western tack, so Alex’s father arranges for Western lessons: he “loved having a cowboy for a son” (15). The degree of vicarious machismo Brian Ford felt watching his son compete—and win—in the “performance-based” competitions was not lost on his son, who nonetheless still dreamed of dressage. Eventually, circumstances conspire to present him with the opportunity to begin again: in dressage rather than Western. Alex’s strength of personality—a strength he possesses but does not believe in—coupled with his determination and natural riding ability set him on a new path, no less troubled but certainly more rewarding than his life to date.
Juby creates a community for Alex that will ring true, I think, for readers from all demographics. He is relatively poor, from a disorganized, broken home, but with drive and a dream. His fellow student is a spoilt rich girl sent to a private, girls-only riding school on Vancouver Island as “punishment” for her naïve lack of judgment concerning the family chauffeur. Alex’s twin sisters and aunt are the perfect foils for his up-tight insecurities, made worse by his alcoholic father. The dynamic within the family is a brilliant balance of sibling intolerance, teen anger and angst, and embarrassment, underscored by compassion and understanding that is revealed in small glimmers throughout the novel. While we unequivocally like Alex, we also come to like and appreciate the people who surround him. There is no bully to contend with, no individual antagonist to stand up against; Alex’s life is complicated, troubled, and rewarding. Juby presents his conflicting concerns—continuing with dressage without a horse, and coming out to his family and friends—as similarly weighted in Alex’s mind, and I think this is one of the most refreshing elements in the book. Alex is gay; he knows that; he is highly insecure about letting his overly macho father know it. Alex loves dressage; he has worked hard to be in the ring; the horse he is using is taken away from him. Both to young Alex are monumental crises, and it is to Juby’s credit that Alex is permitted to find the strength within himself to own who he is, and his father is permitted to show his real love of his son by helping to solve the real problems: despite his own initial homophobic feelings, Brian Ford comes through, and both Alex’s worries are sufficiently alleviated.
That sounds, I think, like the relationship between Alex and his father is paramount in the text: it is not. It is a deep current underlying so much more going on. It is, however, for me, the most poignant relationship. If “it takes a village to raise a child,” Alex Ford lives in the right family and community. They are not perfect—none of them—but together they create (well, Juby creates) a community that while (like all the world) built of damaged, flawed human beings is nonetheless supportive and real.
Back to topNormandy (“Norm”) Page lives in the shadow of her almost-megalomaniac sister, Keira, author of a popular and successful graphic novel series… based on their home life. Norm has never revealed how deeply her sister’s biting commentary—positioned as humour—has hurt her. Her pain remains hidden; she has never dared to probe into the truth of her feelings towards her dysfunctional family, always on edge to ensure that the sensibilities of Keira, artistic prodigy, remain undisturbed.
Enter the Truth Commission, organized by Norm and her two best friends, Neil and Dusk, in an attempt to reveal truths hidden in the lives around them. The dynamic between these three friends is so real; the way they communicate, the way they respond to their world, rings true. Like many teens, their youthful focus on what seems important (for them, the revealing of objective truth) misses a greater fundamental understanding of human nature and society. But that’s okay; they get there in the end. This is essentially what The Truth Commission is about: Norm and her friends growing into a deeper—if painful—understanding of the relationship between objective and functional truth. This understanding has been explored in a multitude of fictional forms (Ibsen’s 1884 Wild Duck springs to mind, as does a particularly poignant set of panels from Berkeley Breathed’s 1980s comic, Bloom County… ). The Truth Commission stays true to the message in these representations: knowing the truth does not always increase human happiness, or as Norm puts it, “The truth … is like an onion. You don’t want to peel that sucker all at once or you might never stop crying” (308).
The Truth Commission is presented as Norm’s Grade 11 “Spring Special Project” at Green Pastures Academy of Art and Applied Design, a fictional fine-art school set in Nanaimo, BC. The school-epistolary narrative structure may seem somewhat derivative, but Susan Juby raises the bar in the subgenre, avoiding the expected clichés and self-indulgent narration. Norm exhibits both the insecurities of a 16-year-old following in the footsteps of an excessively successful older sibling and the sardonic voice of a verbally precocious, intelligent young woman exploring her own artistic and psychological space. Norm’s project is a creative non-fiction writing assignment, suggested by and written for her creative writing teacher, Ms. Fowler, whom she addresses in numerous footnotes. The project-based nature of the novel allows Norm (and Juby) to play with notions of genre, voice, structure, and selection of detail in a way that forces readers to think about the metanarrative: the story is not only about Norm, but about Norm writing her own story and in so doing learning what that story really is.
While at times the footnotes seem a little more like Juby talking to the reader than Norm talking to her teacher, one of the most successfully aspects of The Truth Commission remains Norm’s narrative voice: intelligent, humourous, mildly approval-seeking, self-aware and self-deprecating, both deferential and cheeky. Norm is naïve about her effect on others at the same time as she actively strives to understand the complexities of her own life and the motivations of those around her; this combination of confusion and self-assurance are revealed subtly in the way she tells her story.
Norm learns a number of truths—some good, some bad, some painful. In retrospect, Norm tells her readers, knowing the truth didn’t obviously set her free: “that’s kind of the thing about the truth. It’s never complete and it’s never simple” (309), a lesson Norm learns to both her benefit and detriment.
Dani has been given an amazing opportunity: she has been invited to accompany her best friend, Kat, on a trip to Greece, Kat’s family’s homeland. The conditions of Dani’s travelling are to heed Kat’s mother, Mrs. Papadakis, and to actively engage in learning about Greek history and culture. Dani’s responses to her mother’s rules are those of a rebellious teen: more interested in her own enjoyment, she actively engages in swimming, flaunting Mrs. Papadoakis’s rules, and trying to find a boy for her more-innocent friend to kiss. The girls’ experiences overlay a superficial, even stereotypical portrayal of Greek culture: the leering young Greek Lothario, the maternal Aunt, the reticent but strong Uncle, and the American-Greek boy, Nick, who becomes Dani’s love interest.
Dani seems to be plagued with a run of bad luck, which Kat—stereotypically superstitious—attributes to the Evil Eye. When Dani’s bad luck follows the girls home to Toronto, she begins to believe Kat’s concerns, and appeals to Mrs. Papadakis for folkloric cures to the curse. The plot is complicated by Dani’s attraction to Nick, and her concern that Kat—who is distancing herself from Dani—is jealous.
Of course it all works out in the end. The problem with this novel for me—other than its reliance on so many cultural stereotypes—is the portrayal of teen sexuality. Dani and Kat are thirteen, but precocious for their years, obsessed with boys and little else. Or rather, Dani is obsessed with boys. Kat, it turns out, is obsessed with Dani. For me, the inclusion of Kat’s lesbianism as little more than a plot device belittles the experience of teens who are struggling with their sexuality. While Kerbel foreshadows the event in Kat’s seeming jealousy of Nick, there are no other clues. Kat kisses Dani on page 161, nine-tenths of the way through the narrative, which leaves the girls—and readers—very little space in which to explore the psychosocial issues that must arise from such a revelation. While it is reassuring that Kat’s kiss does not interfere with their friendship, the eliding of the emotions such a revelation must call forth is problematic. In the end, Dani does explain how she was flattered more than otherwise, and will support Kat in any decisions she has to make, but Kat’s lesbianism is not a sufficiently well-integrated part of her character.
Back to topOn the dust-jacket of Lower the Trap, we read that it is “the first book in The Lobster Chronicles, a trilogy about how life changes for three boys in a small coastal town when a giant lobster is caught in a trap.” What is most intriguing for the adult reader here is how the author will sustain interest in this seemingly small incident over three entire books, especially if—as is suggested earlier in the blurb, “the right thing would be to set the lobster free.” The description does not give the skeptical reader much hope, but this skeptical reader was surprised on every count.
Jessica Scott Kerrin has managed to take the smallest incidents of life in a Maritime village and give them an importance that young readers will not only understand, but identify with. Her child protagonists are carefully and artfully constructed. Their language, thoughts, and actions are simple and straightforward, both reflecting primary school children’s more simple modes of expression and allowing the young reader access to their thought and feelings through simple language. At the same time, the narration of the story includes sophisticated vocabulary that will ask young readers to stretch their knowledge: words such as “reverberation” (12), “behemoth” (21), “imperative” (62), “manically” (71), and “crustacean” (79). That she also includes local-knowledge vocabulary such as “mummichogs” (9) and “shoal” (75) adds to the depth of the setting, either as familiar or exotic, depending upon the reader.
The plot is equally simple and effective. There is the requisite conflict between the cannery owner who does not know or understand the community, or care to, and the fishermen who toil daily to survive. This conflict extends to the cannery owner’s son, Norris, and our protagonist, Graeme. When Graeme’s father traps the biggest lobster the town has seen in 50 years, the mystery of its history and its fate is tied up in a more straightforward mystery that Norris has tricked Graeme into helping him solve: who destroyed the teacher’s prize cactus. The two plots coalesce in the end, with Graeme learning a lesson in trust—of both his friends and his own instincts. More than this simple and necessary lesson, though, Graeme discovers that the despised Norris might share some of the integrity and community spirit that connects Graeme with his other friends. Even more than the ultimate fate of the lobster, this discovery provides ample scope for further stories of Graeme and his close-knit community.
Back to topSuccessfully following the profound footsteps of Jean Little, Anna Kerz has produced a sympathetic character in Jeremy, troubled by his self-imposed guilt over the death of his father, and struggling to fit in to his new, urban school. His internalized angst manifests itself in nightmares and bedwetting. The social implications of Jeremy’s secrets are staged realistically; the interactions at home, in the classroom, and on the playground ring true to any parent, teacher, or child reader. While the resolution comes perhaps a little too simply for the adult reader, this is not a flaw in a text aimed at Grades 4-6 readers; any plot short-comings are is alleviated by the sound and effective character development. We watch Jeremy regain the humour and mischievousness common to many young boys, and we rejoice in his final ability to tease his mother again, “Just like Dad.” Back to top
In 1994, the title of Canada’s National Sport was divided into Canada’s National Summer Sport (still lacrosse) and Canada’s National Winter Sport (now hockey). It is surprising that it took so long: for decades before that, hockey dominated the sport scene from early autumn until late spring in most communities in Canada. An easy-read, high-interest novel about the dynamics between hockey teams and players is thus fitting for its Canadian audience. The message in Trevor Kew’s Bench Brawl is admirably one of tolerance and the benefits of teamwork, but the delivery fails to hit the goal.
Luke plays for the Upper Great River “Helmets,” firm rivals of the Lower Great River “Gloves,” and Luke is our spokesman for the aggression he and his teammates feel towards the only opponents in their small-town junior league. When the town is given the opportunity to participate in the Vancouver Invitational Hockey Tournament, the coaches determine that their only chance is to amalgamate the Helmets and Gloves into one larger team with the manpower to perhaps succeed. The players are irate, and Luke is one of the most vocal against the decision.
While team rivalry and even antagonism is perhaps common in team sports, the attitudes presented by almost all of the characters in this book leave a bitter taste. Some of the players refuse to play; some of the parents refuse to let their sons play. Few characters (the coaches, and Luke’s best friend, Cubby) articulate a balanced understanding of the situation, and their voices are not sufficiently loud. Luke’s responses, even to Cubby, are excessive: “I don't’ care if Cubby is my best friend. Right now, I feel like grabbing him and shaking him and shouting, Not a big deal? What’s wrong with you? Right in to his stupid, fat face” (26). The language the boys use is often highly derogatory, and while high school students would use such language, there is little to balance against Luke’s aggressive narrative voice. Kew attempts to create this balance through Jean-Baptiste (JB), who has recently moved to Great River fro Quebec. JB lives on the Lower side of the river, but is introduced when he comes over to shoot in Luke’s drive with Luke and Cubby. He is exceptional at hockey, and incites Luke’s adversarial nature as much as he creates any bond between the rival factions.
In the end, at the tournament, the players are still at odds (Luke noting that “This team is a disaster, just like I knew it would be” [101]) until Cubby’s rich father provides a new set of hockey jerseys. All of a sudden, “something has changed [, Luke] can’t tell what it is” (108): they become a team—the Great River Vikings—working together to win a crucial game. The turnabout is too abrupt, though, too unfounded in the characterizations of Luke and his teammates. The lesson provided is valuable and one that all of us need to learn—and team sports is one of the best places to learn it—but we do not feel, at the end of Bench Brawl, that the lesson has sunk very deep.
Back to topRick Riordan opened The 39 Clues series with the gripping Maze of Bones (2008), and Gordon Korman’s second installment maintains the readers interest in both the characters and the mystery. While Riordan and Korman are both known as superlative authors for boys, The 39 Clues series is markedly ungendered: Amy and Dan Cahill are presented alternately as primary protagonist, and young readers will relate to both characters, regardless of gender. That being said, one of the more interesting elements of One False Note is its focus on the importance of Mozart’s sister, Nannerl, and less so her brother. While both the extent of the Cahill family influence and the children’s ability to travel the world accompanied only by their teenaged au pair, Nellie, seem rather far-fetched to the adult mind, sufficient justification is provided to permit the suspension of our disbelief. The history that the search for mysterious clues uncovers is both fascinating and obscure. Readers will undoubtedly come away with a better understanding of the connections between historical figures and events than any elementary history text is likely to provide. But One False Note, as part of the series, is more than just a story: it is “a multiplatform adventure series” (cinematical.com). The books come with cards for access to an online game in which the reader becomes a member of the Cahill family and attempts—like Dan and Amy—to discover the 39 clues. The online component of the story is fun and engaging; readers continue their learning experience through the mild role-playing online, as well as learning (if not already mastered) computer navigation and keyboarding skills. Despite my initial hesitancy over another “gimmicky” virtual–physical merchandising combination, the positive elements of One False Note, like The Maze of Bones before it, outweigh any reservations.
Back to topTouchdown for Gordon Korman again! At first I thought Pop would speak only to a relatively narrow audience; it is, after all, primarily about the joy football players take in the brutal contact of their sport. Or is it? While the protagonist, Marcus Jordan, is an avid quarterback for whom “even [a] dislocated shoulder hadn’t dulled his longing for the crunch of physical contact” (92), football and associated issues are merely the front behind which the more poignant drama of the novel plays out.
From a chance meeting at a local park, Marcus begins a friendship with the retired football player Charlie Popovich, who teaches him to “anticipate the contact, analyze it, and make split second adjustments” (34), bringing out a “dimension of Marcus Jordan, Football Player, that he’d never even known was there” (93). But something about this new friend is inexplicable: Charlie behaves like a teenager at times, calls Marcus “Mac” consistently, and has a teen-aged son and daughter who watch over him like parents. When Marcus discovers the truth about Charlie’s career, and his affliction, he is certain that Charlie still feels pride in his past glory—even if he can’t remember what he had for breakfast. So Marcus goes against Charlie’s family’s wishes, putting Charlie’s safety at potential risk, to bring great happiness to his new friend’s confused existence. From Charlie and his family, Marcus ultimately learns not only how to play tough, how to commit himself wholeheartedly to the play, but also how to play smart, to avoid risks that could end his career, or his life.
This novel is not just for boys; the lessons Marcus learns extend far beyond the football field. Korman’s well-constructed characters provide a source of connection for any reader interested in the emotions we feel when faced with life’s joys and troubles, justices and injustices. Pop is a powerful human drama of family life, school life, love, death, and—least of all—football.
Back to topYou've got to love a book that disses Twilight not once, but twice. That being said, there are myriad other reasons for reading Michelle Krys’s Hexed, not the least of which is Krys’s engaging characterization and willingness to subvert narrative expectations.
Indigo Blackwood is having a rotten day. Her best friend, Bianca, is being a hag (in the colloquial rather than supernatural sense); her undesirable neighbour, Paige, successfully corners her for a ride (which seriously infringes on Indigo’s cool factor); and a body lands in front of her car as she drives home. What is most disturbing, though, is that the dead man was holding a paper inscribed with Indigo’s mother’s Wicca shop address.
Enter Bishop: previously dead, seemingly stalking Indie, overflowing with sarcasm, yet apparently necessary in Indie’s quest for answers. Indie’s mother is almost paranoid about protecting her “Bible,” properly entitled The Witch Hunter’s Bible. When she is accosted, and the Bible goes missing, Indie swears she will get it back and sets out to find Bishop, whom she knows is somehow connected. Instead, he finds her, and insinuates himself into her life, revealing to her the world of magic to which he—and Indie, it turns out—belongs. Magical stuff happens. I can say no more than this without spoilers; suffice it to say that lurking within the events that ensue are moments in which the reader’s expectations are—sometimes violently—disrupted. Krys manages nonetheless to retain her readers’ loyalty; her writing inspires readers’ trust in a way that is necessary to carry us through the rough patches. The one narrative expectation that is not subverted is our desire for an at-least-somewhat-happy ending.
The dénouement, though, is the one moment that disturbed me. I felt betrayed. Hexed contains an epilogue, three pages in length, which reveals the central conflict of the as-yet-untitled sequel. Why was this necessary? It is almost as if the publisher needed a hook to lure readers into purchasing the next installment… But Hexed in and of itself contains a successful, cohesive narrative arc. There is a hint of where the story might go, and that is enough. Krys’s characters, her plot, her narrative voice all engage the reader successfully: we want to stay in her world. The attempt to trick readers into further engagement seems crass and manipulative, when the story inspires reader loyalty on its own merits.
Back to topI’ve been anxiously awaiting Michelle Krys’s, Charmed, the sequel to her gripping first novel, Hexed (2014), reviewed in Volume 20.1 of Resource Links. The end of Charmed suggests strongly that there will not be a third installation in the story, and I applaud Krys loudly for resisting the current trend towards series that go on far too long. Hexed and Charmed work together to present a cohesive and complete narrative arc; nothing more is needed. I was a bit put off by the link included at the end of Hexed, but now that readers are free to continue directly into Charmed, all is well.
The one element that rendered Charmed less powerful than Hexed is that Krys finds it necessary to have her protagonist, Indigo Blackwood, behave out of character in order to move the plot in the required direction. The climax and dénouement of the novel reveal the necessity of this plot manipulation, but it would have been more convincing if Indie had remained true to character throughout. Despite her rebellious and at times resentful nature, the Indie we know from Hexed doesn’t seem the sort to maintain a web of deceit. That she feels remorse mitigates her behaviour to an extent, but her choices still feel out of synch.
At the end of Hexed, Indie and her warlock boyfriend Bishop have vanquished a large portion of the sorcerers’ Guild, but not all. A threatening message is left on Indie’s phone, with the pleading voice of her best friend, Paige, in the background. This is where Charmed opens. From here, Indie’s life spirals into a confusion of paths and obstructions, information and lies. She feels that her Aunt Penny, guardian after the death of her mother, has betrayed her; Bishop seems to be siding with the enemy (Penny); Bishop’s old girlfriend, Jezebel (the name says it all), inexplicably solicits her help in a dangerous and ill-advised scheme; people around her are having their memories altered; and no one seems to care enough that Paige is missing. Perhaps it’s not so surprising, then, that Indie behaves somewhat irrationally in her quest for answers. She knows if she says anything to Bishop, he will side with Aunt Penny in an attempt to keep Indie safe, but Indie knows she is Paige’s only hope. Here, Indie’s responses may feel inauthentic, but the intricacies of the plot as it develops relegate this flaw to the background.
Indie’s decisions are ultimately supported by Bishop and Penny, and all three move towards the inevitable conflict knowingly, and with fear. Krys has already revealed herself as quite willing to disrupt narrative expectations, and the culmination of events does not disappoint. Indie’s independence and strength (both as a witch and as a young woman) stand her in good stead, as does the support she receives from unexpected sources. Here, in the final battle, Krys’s rich characterization and psychologically sound plot development reappear, creating a sequence of events at once terrifying and satisfying.
As an avid reader of mysteries, I was delighted to discover that S.J. Laidlaw’s The Voice Inside my Head presents as sophisticated a construction of suspense as many “adult” mystery novels. The only obvious distinction is that the protagonist of The Voice Inside my Head is a teen. This is as it should be: Laidlaw in no way writes down to her audience, and adolescent and adult readers alike will engaged with the complex web of characters and events that constitute her novel.
Seventeen-year-old Luke Carrington, whose sister Pat has been reported missing and presumed dead on the small Honduras island of Utila, refuses to believe that she is dead. He hears her voice telling him to seek her out, to come find her. Breaking away from parental bonds, he travels to Honduras to discover for himself what has happened to her. The relationships he builds with the islanders as well as the diving and research community on the island form the backdrop for his investigations. All the while, Pat gives him guidance even as he discovers how little he really knew his older sister, the responsible loving “mother” their own mother has never been.
The people who know Pat (or Tricia as she is known in the Utila community) create a welcoming if confusing circle who support Luke’s endeavours at the same time as they doubt the possibility of his success. Zach, who “worships” the “Holy Trinity… diving, drinking and drugs, my man!” (15), claims to have been Pat’s best friend, and latches onto Luke. Seemingly a dubious advantage at first, Zack’s friendship proves invaluable to Luke in his search for both his sister, and an understanding of himself and relationship to his family. Like Pat, Luke comes to appreciate the islanders and their home more than he thought possible. In exploring the world Pat ran away from home to find, Luke manages to find a way to return to his family with a more secure sense of self, and answers to many of the questions he left with.
Back to topOn September 17, 1940, the City of Benares steamship was sunk by a German U-boat while crossing the Atlantic to Canada. The 406 passengers included 90 British children who were sent by the Children’s Overseas Reception Board (CORB), the wartime evacuee program that Kit Pearson writes of so poignantly in her Guests of War trilogy (1991-94). Of those passengers, only 158 survived: only 7 of these were evacuees. This disaster ultimately led to the cessation of CORB. September 17 tells the story of the City of Benares sinking from the point of view of a number of the passengers.
I found the story difficult to engage with initially, not because of any fault in the writing, but because I already knew the fate of the ship. Like the Titanic, the City of Benares sank in less than an hour, so understandably the actual incident is not the focus of the story. In the opening chapters—titled by date, and alternating between characters—we meet a number of the evacuees, as well as a mother and her children who are paid passengers. We learn of their goals, their anxieties, the hope they have of safety in Canada, the homesickness some of the children experience. We follow them through the official process and the waiting while mines are cleared from the harbour to provide safe passage. On board, we experience the excitement of the novelty of travel on a luxury liner. Slowly, trepidation recedes into the background as our interest in the characters develops. In the end, as we know would happen, not all of the characters remain; those who do, though (adults and children) experience the horrors of shipwreck in icy waters and reveal the strength needed to survive them. The night after the attack, we are devastated by the loss of life, but relieved when the lifeboats are found: all but one. Lifeboat 12 is missed in the search; the 46 men and boys on board are finally found 8 days later, starving, dehydrated, and clinging to life; we breathe a sigh of relief when Ken waves his shirt and those in Lifeboat 12 know they have been found. While we mourn for all the lives that were lost, the fine balance of emotions in September 17 does not ultimately leave us devastated.
Amanda West Lewis has achieved what I initially thought unachievable: she has created a children’s novel that tells of harrowing loss, yet pulls readers into the heart of the event and leaves us with a feeling not only of sorrow, but also of community and love.
Back to topThis is a beautiful little story about Min, an orphan who remembers being abandoned, but by someone who was not even her mother. When her fortunes turn—as indeed they must in most children’s fiction—she learns to trust, and to love. This sounds simplistic and trite, but Jean Little crafts the story with a realism and warmth that make us love Min and understand her fears and doubts. Just before Christmas, being shuffled from her most recent foster home to the next, Min is taken in by Dr. Jess, who empathizes with Min’s suffering. Between Jess and a lost-and-now-found-dog, Min finally finds a secure place for herself.
The novel does not descend into sentimentality, nor does it dwell on the negative influences that have shaped Min’s life (although these are necessarily revealed). I would certainly recommend this text to young girls—with troubles or not—as an enjoyable glimpse into another’s world, one that could be the life of any of their classmates at school.
Back to topIt is refreshing to find a novel with a teenaged protagonist who is not overcome with angst. Claire, in Struck, deals with normal high school concerns: failing math, an unrequited crush, drama tryouts, catty classmates… When she is apparently struck by lightning while carrying a mysteriously discovered umbrella, she attributes changes in her life to the jolt she received. The author does not actually verify what happened to Claire, but leaves readers to think about the possibility of our unvoiced desires manifesting themselves in reality. “Be careful what you wish for…” springs to Claire’s mind a number of times during the week of the narrative. Ultimately, Claire’s world falls back into place, and we are left with the suggestion that it is not the paranormal that drives changes in our lives, but the power within ourselves.
Deb Loughead has created story that will resonate with middle school and early high school students; the emotions are valid and authentic, but not overpowering. The mandate of the Orca Current series is to provide “short high-interest novels with contemporary themes, written expressly for middle-school students reading below grade level” (www.orcabook.com). In Struck, they have achieved this goal admirably.
Back to topThe Orca Currents series serves a very necessary function in the literary world: adolescents who for whatever reason are not keen on reading are presented with interesting stories that speak to their real lived experiences, with characters in whom they will recognize themselves and their friends—or enemies. Deb Loughead’s Caught in the Act is a fabulous addition to the Orca Current library, with characters who speak and act like the teenagers who hang out in our upstairs TV room, or inhale all the food from our fridge as they walk out the door.
Dylan and his friends have an end-of-the-school-year ritual: they sneak out into the woods and burn all their school notes in glorious, but unfortunately careless, abandonment. You can imagine how that goes wrong. That is only the beginning of Dylan being in the wrong place at the wrong time, compounding his troubles by some of the choices he makes. Notably, he does not “rat” on the school bully, who he suspects of stealing from local summer cottages, out of fear of retaliation. Given his earlier transgressions, the police suspect him. His claim of innocence is not helped by his clothing (which disappeared while he and his friends were skinny-dipping) being found near the scene. When he discovers who the actual thief might be, he again doesn’t tell, because it might jeopardize his new job. We watch him struggle with when to tell what to whom, wondering all the time what he will decide and where it will leave him. Loughead constructs her characters carefully enough that we cannot predict Dylan’s decisions any more than adults could a real teen. Through it all, we really like Dylan, despite cringing over some of his choices, and are relieved at the end when all comes out well. It is to Loughead’s credit that while narrative expectations led us to expect a satisfactory ending, Dylan’s story in no way ensures one.
Back to topWhen I first picked up this book, I thought it was a non-fiction account of these three religious figures. The subtitle at the top of the cover dominates, despite its smaller type; the title itself blends into the image below. (It’s the colour of the sky in the picture, and the colour of the type in the title, I think…) Regardless, readers should look past any assumption about the content and be prepared for three very human stories of young people living through three formative moments in history.
Dina is a slave in the House of Weavers who makes a difficult choice in following Moses and her people; Mattan is a farmer’s son who leaves his home and whose path crosses that of Jesus and his disciples; Fallah and his older brother have left their tribe and become victims in a conspiracy against Muhammad. Their histories twine seamlessly into the historical accuracy of Lowinger’s narrative, allowing readers to feel the insecurities of life the common people of these times endured. Although from our modern perspective we believe we know the benefits and dangers associated with the choices Dina, Mattan, and Fallah make, Lowinger helps us to understand how hard it would have been for simple young men and women to leave all that they knew and follow a new path, cutting themselves off from family and community. Little details of every-day life accentuate our narrative experience of history: the broken sandals Dina is given for her excellence in weaving; the small infected scrape that - with no antibiotics to prevent infection - kills Mattan’s sister Nirit; the dried fruit, nuts, and mare’s cheese that Fallah takes on the road. The minutia and the focus on human emotions and experience combine to give us powerful images of the effect these three religious leaders had on the people around them, and thus on the history of our world.
Seeing Red incorporates the paranormal into the everyday lives of the protagonist, Frankie and his “not friend” Maura-Lee. Frankie considers himself incurably normal, but begins to suspect his dreams predict future events; Maura-Lee is accused of being able to read peoples’ minds… The reader discovers the truth long before Frankie believes it, which might be considered a short-coming in the text were it not for MacDonald’s well-developed characterization of Frankie. Frankie’s completely comprehensible fourteen-year-old-boy insecurities prevent him from easily believing the truth—about either his paranormal or his normal abilities. The plot elements reveal Frankie’s admirable characteristics as it moves us through the challenges he overcomes. He learns to ride horses, despite his horror of them, in order to support his autistic charge, Joey; he struggles—emotionally and logistically—to save a wounded petrel; ultimately he comes to understand the true value of others, as well as himself. Young readers will be able to see themselves in Frankie, and hopefully learn to value their own inner powers, which so often teens are unable to either perceive or believe.
Back to topOwen and Russell are twins, but fraternal rather than identical. Still, they are the only set of twins in the school, and that makes them special: until the “Minnesota twins” (26) arrive. Marcus and Mitchell Matthews are “real twins” (12); their interest value as identical twins, as well as their athletic coordination as a two-person team, immediately raise Owen’s ire: “So, if the perfectly coordinated new transfer students were ‘real twins,’ what did that make us? Fake?” (13). Owen is a star on the Pioneers basketball team; Russell has his own space as an important member of the Masters of the Mind team. Owen and Russell’s world is further shaken when they discover that Marcus and Mitchell are not only athletic, but also top-grade students. While Owen struggles with his jealousy on the court, Russell tries to prevent the Matthews twins from being asked to join the Masters team. Watching Marcus and Mitchell, though, Russell begins to wonder if being an identical twin is actually better than what he and Owen share. When Mitchell—the kinder, more humble of the Matthew twins—is injured out of the game, Russell recruits him for the Masters team, convincing him with difficulty that it will be good for him to have an activity he doesn’t share with his brother. Helping Mitchell to stand up to Marcus and claim some psychological space for himself shows Russell the strength in his relationship with his own twin. Owen, too, comes to realize that he has very little to be jealous about, and all four twins learn that individuality does not preclude closeness, any more than similarities ensure it.
The plot is well structured, the characters interestingly portrayed and certainly consistent. The only thing that bothered me about this book is its overtly American setting and audience. Not that there is anything wrong with books set in the States, but readers who expect to be immersed in an educational setting they are familiar with will be disappointed. The boys play on the Lewis & Clark Pioneers team (obviously Portland); talk is all about American basketball teams and players; Owen’s jealousy over the Matthews’ “letterman jackets” (11) seems a particularly American preoccupation. The numerous little details are not sufficiently generic, and could easily alienate a Canadian reader—should that reader be expecting to see their school experiences reflected back from the pages.
Back to topWhoa. What a ride! Nicholas Maes’s Transmigration is brilliant: a well-conceived fantasy with a unique premise and a gripping storyline. The novel begins with a talking bunny, but there is nothing cute or cuddly about the sinister alternative world history that Maes creates so carefully. It should perhaps have been a clue that a West Coast bunny talks with a Brooklyn accent, but I admit I found it only a bit out of place—until the plot progressed. In Maes’s history, a species of souls—bolkhs—coexists with humans as we have developed through the evolutionary process: a species that wants now to take back what was once theirs, destroying all human life. Young Simon Carpenter, of Vancouver, BC, is a tool they need for their war against humanity. When he learns this, his comfortable world is shaken to its foundations, and he must flee for his own safety and that of his family. The complicated relationships between players—different types of souls and their various connections with physical bodies—are adeptly explained to the reader through Simon’s own learning experience. I almost needed to create a rubric, but Maes brings in the terms just often enough to help the reader learn his nomenclature and the associated characteristics of his world.
The talking bunny seems an unlikely scenario for the introduction of a YA mystery-fantasy, but the bunny’s very cuteness is the first tool used against Simon by the bolkhs in their battle for supremacy. The bolkhs inhabit animals, as well as some humans, and their plan would have all bolkhs incarnate and powerful, at the expense of humankind. What ensues is a series of flights and confrontations that takes the protagonists from Vancouver to Europe—both of which the author obviously knows well—where Simon confronts the leader of the bolkhs, Tarhlo, who almost convinces him of the righteousness of the bolkh cause. Tarhlo’s logical argument is based on empirical scientific knowledge: the bolkhs argue that their ascendency now is a natural part of the evolutionary process, as right and understandable as the Cro-Magnons prevailing over the Neanderthals. So well-crafted is Maes’s story that we are honestly not sure what Simon’s choice will be.
Ultimately, Simon travels to New York and a final confrontation, after which we are left with the protagonists safe for the moment, but still threatened: the final sentence assures us that “[w]hile the first confrontation with the bolkhs was over, the war was only getting started” (244). This is the one flaw in this otherwise spectacular piece of YA fiction: the end does not present any closure; it demands—rather than merely anticipating—a sequel. Please, authors: write novels that stand alone as narrative entities; refrain from publishing what amounts to the first installment of an indeterminately long narrative cycle. It is not fair to readers to create a book-length cliffhanger: leave such commercial tactics to the pulp serials. The degree of disappointment in the inconclusive ending is proportional to the level of engagement Transmigrations elicits: if it were a less engrossing story, we wouldn’t care so much that the ending disappoints.
Back to topThis is a delightful book that makes me want to run out and read other books Perry Nodelman has written… as I know him mainly as an academic. The characters are believably drawn, and the plot fairly cohesive. There are minor issues, such as the grandfather ghost, who should have died in 1978, not knowing “pastrami,” but using the term “salted beef.” Even for a British character, that seemed strange… and his “hippy” hair and language as well… The resolution is a little too tidy and trite, as well… the suspense is not developed sufficiently and the answers the children need come too readily to hand. This makes it seem like a book you might not want to read, but it really is far from that. I look forward anxiously to the launch of the second in the series, as the larger mystery is only partially solved by the children’s discoveries in this book. Matas and Nodelman have an engaging style, one example of which is having both children be narrators, often remarking upon the same incident or memory, or using a similar reference, but in diametrically opposed ways: as Adam and Molly are chalk-and-cheese siblings, this technique works marvellously.
Back to topThis mystery is satisfying in many ways: the teenaged protagonists are allowed out on their own without adult supervision; the mystery is sufficiently real and localized that the protagonists have a chance to have solved it at their age; the crisis that evolves is one that corresponds well with the setting that the author has presented; the setting is one that readers—especially those from Ontario—will recognize as authentic.
Robyn has a new mystery presented to her when she accompanies her best friend Morgan to cottage country as an apprentice for the local newspaper. She discovers that her boyfriend Nick has mysteriously signed on at a boys’ rehabilitation centre that Robyn ends up investigating. It is a bit stereotypic that the head of police, Robyn’s father’s friend, turns out to be the “bad guy,” instead of the junior policeman Robyn suspects. Despite the predictability of the plot to an adult reader, the story holds together well and retains its interest to the juvenile reader, mainly because of the agency assigned to the protagonists, and the intelligence they use in solving their mystery.
Back to topI really enjoyed Norah McClintock’s In Too Deep (2010), and in her second graphic novel, Tru Detective, she repeats her success in creating a fast-paced narrative of teen characters involved in mystery. In this instance, Truman Tucker and his best friend “Sticky” (Woodrow Stickman) are trying to solve Tru’s girlfriend’s murder while avoiding the police, who suspect Tru. As the story unravels, Tru and “Sticky” begin to learn that Natalia’s life was not as simple as they thought. Their investigations rake them into the world of human trafficking and illegal immigration, real-life issues that provide a heightened feeling of urgency to Tru’s situation. Still, I wonder about the trope of independence in many teen mysteries, and McClintock’s is no exception. In situations of real threat—people are shooting at Tru, the people who try to help him are murdered—even the most anti-adult of teens would not likely take on the world by himself. Despite Sticky’s strong (and effectively written) remonstrance, Tru does not go to the police with evidence to clear himself. It creates tension and provides plot opportunities, but it doesn’t ring true; the story is gripping, and the narrative tight, but Tru’s actions are somewhat unconvincing.
The writing is simple, as befits the graphic novel format, in which illustrations provide much of the emotion and action. In this, though, the illustration in Tru Detective falls short. The block shading and limited tones of grey make it difficult to determine action in the panels, and a number of effective comic techniques to present motion are missing. Background objects—trees, smoke, buildings—are given as much weight as important foreground items. Characters’ emotions are difficult to parse, or even detect, and body language is often not powerful enough. Overall, the graphic part of the novel does not do its job in the creation of narrative meaning. It’s a shame, too, because McClintock’s story could make a great high-interest, low-reading level novel for teens. Its panel format might be an attempt to reach that audience, but with action and emotion impossible to wrest from the panels, it does not reach this goal.
Back to topI’m from British Columbia, where Abby McDonald’s Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots is set. More interestingly, I’m from a small town in the mountains of BC, about 2 hours from Kamloops, albeit in a different direction from McDonald’s fictional Stillwater. I think, though, that it does not take being from small-town BC to recognize some of the errors that McDonald produces, such as: Canadian teens would never call Grade 10 and 12 students “sophomores” and “seniors” (42); the text’s geography is wrong (2 hours east of Kamloops is the Shushwap lake district, not yet the Monashees, the beginning of the Rockies; in fact, you don’t drive through the Rockies—certainly not for more than four hours—to get to anywhere in BC from Vancouver), and 2 hours from Kamloops towards the mountains means that Revelstoke or Kelowna would be the “city” for an outing; even Field, BC (population 200) has its own website; and maple syrup (being from Quebec and Vermont) is more expensive in BC than in New Jersey (and therefore not really “one of the bonuses of being north of the border” [53]). There are other more subtle problems with characterization and narrative consistency, such as when the protagonist Jenna talks about her “(only) ex” on page 77, but yet rationalizes on page 212 that she’d “kissed guys before. Guys I liked, guys I didn’t, guys who attacked my mouth like their tongue was a whirlpool, and guys who just kid of smushed their lips against mine and stood there, waiting”; the contrast in levels of experience jars, even after 135 pages. The Stillwater teens are equally inconsistent, but once their beings solidify into recognizably stable characters, we begin to like them; they are typical teens: thoughtless and caring at the same time, looking for excitement, and bored with most of what surrounds them. The author, however, repeatedly attributes attitudes and knowledge to her characters that they would almost certainly not hold: no adult would lend a teen a stick-shift vehicle she couldn’t drive (56); even a thoughtless teen would not take a newbie kayaking over falls when there was a lake nearby to train on (75-81); no teen boy would wear cut-offs over board shorts to go to the lake to swim (95); international trade treaties, not environmentalists, are responsible for the shutting down of BC lumber mills (100); and not even a teen from New Jersey would need to be told that some mountains have permanent snow (188). Little details, perhaps, but the sort of little details that lend authenticity to a narrative or, in this case, fail to do so.
All of this is a shame, too, because the underlying message of the text—balance, consideration, and mindfulness in one’s attitudes—is positive and powerful. Jenna learns that her “Green Teen” almost-radical environmentalism is the one-sided perspective of a city dweller who has never experienced life in tandem with nature. The teens of Stillwater are less-than-environmentally aware, but their perspective has some validity. Beginning to recognize the reality of life in Stillwater, Jenna wonders “if all [her] talk of sustainable eco-friendliness is making [her] sound like a good Green Teen activist—or just a spoilt brat” (70): the strength of the novel lies in Jenna’s developing realization of the multitude of economic and political realities that inform the adult world she is growing into.
Back to topMaybe it’s just my maternal self over-powering my critical persona, but I prefer my protagonists—however young—to have a little respect for those around them. Addison Addley has a sarcastic humour that gleans its power from insulting others, and impressing upon the reader his own superiority, despite that his friend, Sam, is the intelligent one: “Sam was squinting at the house. I guess that made him think better. … The only good thing I could say about Trent was that his hair wasn’t as puffy as Tiffany’s. Her head looks like a lampshade, and sometimes her face gets as red and shiny as a Christmas-tree bulb. That’s why I call her The Lamp. Tiffany always tries to annoy me. She doesn’t have to try very hard, though …” (22). Granted the ideas and even the ways of expressing them seem authentic to the 11-year-old boy, but the combination of complaining tone and arrogance really did not endear the protagonist to me…
Not wanting to condemn a book without more expert appraisal, I gave it to my son (12) and daughter (11). He didn’t finish it—although he liked the main character, which rather put me in my place—because “nothing happened” in the first five chapters; she wouldn’t read it because she “didn’t like the character; he was rude.” Neither child finished the novel, which does get interesting and engaging a little later…
I rather thought that the action was moderate but engaging; my only problem was in narrative attitude… but that didn’t seem to bother the readers for whom the text was intended: young boys. I must conclude, therefore, that Addison Addley seems to hit the mark for its readers, despite my parental objection to the “attitude” its protagonist projects.
Back to top“Jelly”—Joe Alton Miles, or J.A.M.—has a problem. Well, Jelly has a collection of problems, but one in particular: stage fright. It wouldn’t be a big issue except for the school speech competition, with the amazing prize of a tablet computer with enough power for online gaming. Which brings up Jelly’s next problem: Victoria, a popular but sly and manipulative classmate.
As a character, Victoria might seem to be a bit of a stereotype, but sadly, her type is all too common in our schools. I’m pretty sure you all know her: the girl who demands adoration, the one weaker classmates strive to appease because, as Jelly’s friend Samantha affirms, “if you want any friends, you have to friends with Victoria.” (Sam, notably, feels no such compulsion: “Too much drama” (50).) Victoria is the student Jelly needs to beat to win that tablet, and Victoria excels at winning. She also plays nasty: spreading rumours about Jelly, faking injury when he pushes her slightly, making snide sotto voce comments at all his efforts. Everyone who has ever suffered under unjust adult discipline will feel Jelly’s pain: he’s smart, a good kid trying to help others, and yet the adults are duped by Victoria’s manipulations.
Supported by his developing friendship with Parker’s twin sister, Sam, Jelly navigates the social quagmire of elementary school. They manage to diffuse the effect of Victoria’s rumours, but Jelly still flounders about in a tangle of playground politics. This is perhaps what I liked best about Speechless: Jennifer Mook-Sang really gives us a sense of how daunting life can be to an eleven-year-old boy. There is a simplicity to Jelly’s thought processes that belies the importance of the complex life lessons he is learning. Standing up to bullies, both physically and intellectually; missing sleep to help others because he promised; figuring out ways to succeed in spite of his insecurities and fear: all these are big life lessons, but Speechless is in no way heavy-handed. Jelly’s cheeky narrative voice and personality, at once both clueless and self-reflective, make us both smile at his youth and cheer his growing maturity.
Back to topThis “Rapid Read” novel is light and engaging. It is about a young woman, still living with her mother, who meets a TV celebrity at a rock choir, and assists her in apprehending an “opportunity blackmailer.” The plot is simple, the characters stereotypic or at best not profound, but the story is nonetheless pleasant. For reluctant readers, an enjoyable way to spend an hour.
Back to topWhile the writing style is uneven, Out of the Box is nonetheless a successful novel for young teens and tweens. The two intertwined stories coalesce effectively in the end, helping the reader to feel content that Ellie will become a strong, balanced teenager wherever she ends up. Reaching this space is not easy, as she is caught between parents who both lean far too heavily on her for their own emotional support, needs that are fuelled by her mother’s undiagnosed mental illness. Ellie loves her parents, and wants to help them, and is thus angered at her aunt’s attempts to shield her from her family troubles. Through the process of discovering the fate of the owner of a bandonéon she inherits from her aunt’s partner, Alison, she distances herself from the conflict in her own life, giving herself the space to see her family situation more clearly. It helps that her Aunt Jeanette is a (stereo)typical West-Coast free spirit, who gives her the physical and emotional freedom to work things out on her own. In the end, the son of the bandonéon’s owner is reunited with his family heirloom, and Ellie is reunited—a stronger person—with her mother and father. There’s a lot going on in this text, but the simple first-person narration will make the story accessible to readers who want an interesting story simply presented. I am a bit surprised that this title is not part of the Orca Soundings series, which presents “teen novels for reluctant readers,” as the combination of narrative style and content work well for this demographic.
Back to topRobin Muller’s version of the Celtic folktale of Tam Lin and Janet (here Tamlynne and Elaine) is richly decorated and illustrated, wrapping the story in layers of magic and mystery. The language Muller uses lightens the depths of the folktale, rendering it accessible to younger readers, presenting it as a more classic fairy tale of elves and magic than the original Irish myth, in which young Janet’s arrogance is rewarded with an unexpected child. In Muller’s The Nightwood, Elaine’s grievance is against her father, the Earl of March, who still considers her a child; like young readers, she only wants to prove herself “grown-up.” Refused permission to dance at her father’s ball, she runs to the Nightwood to dance with the færies. The story follows the folktale fairly faithfully: she and Tamlynne fall in love; she returns to her father’s house and pines for him; she escapes and seeks him out, only to learn that he is mortal, captive to the Elfin Queen’s magic, and destined to die; she learns there is a way to save him, but only at risk of her own life; in the end, she succeeds and they marry. Overall, the beauty of Muller’s illustration and the magic of the romantic tale weave together to present a captivating and timeless tale.
Back to top“William was shaken awake and knew something bad was happening” (1). The Phantom’s Gold open dramatically, and readers might think William is having a dream. But he isn’t: his life is turned upside down when his father dies in an accident that he survives. Traumatized by the event, and his mother’s attempts to move on, he runs away to his grandparents in Nova Scotia, only to find that they, too, are dealing with the death of their beloved son. This is the set-up for a fascinating novel of family and life on the sea, of history and ghosts and mending broken ties. Eric Murphy must be an avid and knowledgeable sailor, for he introduces a number of nautical terms seamlessly into his story. His characters exude the love of the sea that tradition might demand, but that is nonetheless very real to those who live a seafaring life.
William soon becomes involved in Lunenburg activities, most notably the sailing race his grandfather usually wins. This year, however, Granddad is too wrapped up in his grief to compete. With the family sail-making business at risk, William, his great-uncle Emmett and his cousin Harley take on the challenge. Crewing for his relatives, William grows into his nautical heritage at the same time as he solves a family mystery: the location of the lost fortune of his ancestor, the “Real McCoy.” Murphy’s McCoy is entirely fictional, but intertwined with the legend of William “Bill” McCoy, the American rum-runner during Prohibition. This connection between fictional and real characters is artfully constructed; readers learn not only about sailing, but also a bit about 1920s Canadian history. There is so much right about this novel—seamanship, history, narrative—that I would highly recommend it to any young readers, regardless of gender or usual interests.
Colleen Nelson tells us in the afterward to The Fall that “as a junior high teacher, [she] watched first-hand as the students at [her] school deal with the death of a classmate.” She brings her careful sense of observation to bear on the development of her story and characters.
Ben is an average teen-aged boy, self-identifying as “a smart kid who needs to apply himself” (8), but instead spending all his time at the skate park. He—like many other students in the school—is bullied by Cory, Taz, and Taz’s younger brother Luke. When he (out of fear) does a good turn for Luke, they begin to form a friendship which ultimately results in Ben begin drawn towards the group’s unsocial behaviours. While the boys are goofing off one night, Luke falls to his death.
While the strength of the novel lies in Nelson’s careful exploration of how this affects the three other boys, there seem to be problems of representation, in the early section of the novel especially. While my daughter (who attends an inner-city high school) did find the book compelling, she felt that “no high school is like that, so blatant. And no one texts that way”). Ben’s decisions, too, seem uncharacteristically poor, given his claim to being “smart.” And his best friend, Tessa, is a shallow character, alternating ineffectively between being a voice of conscience—ignored—and an angry, self-righteous sounding board.
The novel does, however, have significant strengths: a central theme that is highly topical is the misinformation Cory spreads about Ben on Facebook following the accident. More than just his own sense of guilt and sorrow, Ben has to deal with escalating persecution from Cory and the entire school population. Given today’s media attention to such issues, teens will recognize the validity of Nelson’s representation here. Most poignant, however, are the different family dynamics that the boys have to deal with. Each comes from an either broken or dysfunctional family; two of them at least find a deeper healing though the grieving process. Their separate journeys towards rebuilding their lives reveal a sophisticated expression of emotional development that completely redeems the novel from its earlier divergence from authenticity.
Back to topConvicted yet again for lighting fires, Jess Sinclair is sentenced to 250 hours of community service, binding him to a life and a place he longs to escape.
Sara Jean lives with her morbidly obese, diabetic grandmother, the only person she loves, the person who took her in when her mother abandoned her at birth. Her grandmother needs her; her boyfriend needs her; her life is laid out before her, binding her to a place she longs to escape.
When Sara Jean meets Jess, the “firebug” (7) sent to clear out a lifetime of accumulated junk from her grandparents’ garage, she responds with the attitudes common in her white, middle-class world: slight derision, prejudice, and distrust. Jess’s attitude towards Sara Jean is no better, especially when he learns that she is dating rich-boy Rich Weins, “the worst kind of townie” (13), bigoted and full of his own self-importance. We anticipate the obvious dynamic at play here, but Colleen Nelson’s story is not about teen romance: it is about how misunderstanding and hatred manifest within families and communities, and about how looking a little bit deeper can begin to heal the scars that the years—the decades—have inflicted.
As Sara Jean goes through her dead grandfather’s boxes, and Jess works hauling the discarded items away, they slowly circle around one another: small insults, misspoken words, little pieces of truth slipping out into their tentative conversations. Both they and the reader recognize the curiosity they have for each other, and the unlikelihood of even friendship developing. In 250 Hours, as in her other books, Nelson pulls us along the path with her characters, feeling their doubts and watching them work through the fears and prejudices they have imbibed from the specific ideologies in which they are raised. Despite Jess and Sara Jean’s cultural and social differences, they find common ground. Jess is dealing with the familial fallout from the residential school program, of which his father is a survivor and his uncle a fatal victim. Sara Jean is struggling to find a way to get to university despite the constraints of family. Both are traumatized by parental desertion. Knowing Jess gives Sara Jean the strength to face the truth about her family and to take for herself what she needs, not only to give of herself what others demand. Seeing Sara Jean struggling with her own demons helps Jess stand strong for what he believes is right for his community, and ultimately for himself.
“This book is a must-read!” says the header critique on the cover… and so it is. While Ted Bell's Nick of Time (2008) purports to be written in the vein of Robert Louis Stevenson, because (the author claims) so few adventure tales are produced these days, Airborn, written four years earlier, is the leader of modern old-style adventures. Right up there with — in fact above — Philip Reeve’s Hungry Cities chronicles. Excellent characterization and plot.
Back to topI have read positive reviews of the 2nd “case” in Shane Peacock’s series, but I cannot fully commend the 3rd. While the minutæ of such detail as the railway timetables and routes is impressive, the characterization of the young Sherlock Holmes, as well as one or two historical details, render me less enamoured of the final result. Perhaps there is sufficient textual support in Conan Doyles’s stories for the social ineptitude of Peacock’s protagonist, but his indecision and logical bumbling seem too far removed from the obsessively logical character of “The Hounds of the Baskervilles.” As a teen, Sherlock Holmes would have already established those deeply seated characteristics that made him the man he became, not be stumbling in the dark, trying to learn to curb his “guessing” and his “impetuous” character (34).
The historical error that sticks out most prominently in this case is that the “vanishing girl,” Victoria Rathbone, has “just returned from school in India” (149). The tradition was very much that British citizens living in India sent their children home to be educated; the only schools in India for British children were substandard, and intended for those residents too poor to send their children back to England. One other troubling detail is the line “not much more than a hundred-weight, perhaps nine and half stone” (17), when 9½ stone is actually 133 pounds. While the demand for such critical attention to detail may seem excessive, young readers who glimpse these errors may lose faith in the author’s integrity. And so much of Peacock’s research is good. There are casual allusions to a number of fascinating historical tidbits, such as Spring-Heeled Jack, a sort of milder “Jack the Ripper” urban-myth character first appearing in 1837. Young readers who believe all that they read of the historical setting of the text will learn much, but will be unable to determine what is historical and what created by the author’s imagination—or mistakes. It is a valiant effort, but the historicity of such texts is essential; Peacock does not fail often, but sufficiently to instill doubt in the educated reader and misinformation in the learning reader.
Back to topI must admit to having read few other verse novels, so I am not sure if it is the genre or Caroline Pignat’s particularly effective use of it that renders The Gospel Truth so haunting and so captivating. Phoebe’s story is told in her voice and the voices of those around her; the several voices reflect vastly differing perspectives on slavery on an 1858 Virginia tobacco plantation. The language is not so poetic as to be hard to parse; while the narrative flows smoothly, it is rich with moments of poetic beauty, “the best words in their best order” (Coleridge).
Phoebe is owned by the Master’s daughter, Tessa. Phoebe sits in on Tessa’s lessons, and is given Tessa’s hand-me-downs (including a scribbler), and so teaches herself rudimentary reading and writing. In 1858, teaching a slave to read or write was a punishable offense, for it might lead exactly where Phoebe ends up going…
Phoebe’s life is relatively stable—she serves Tessa; helps the cook, Bea, in the kitchen; and enjoys time with Shadrach, whose attentions are obvious and not unwelcome. Enter “The Birdman,” Dr. Ross Bergman, whose character is based on the Canadian physician, naturalist, and abolitionist, Alexander Milton Ross, who also appears (as himself) in Barbara Smucker’s well-known Underground to Canada (1977). Dr. Bergman is a “watcher,” like Phoebe herself, but Phoebe is not sure why it is he is watching her, particularly. Readers, too, wonder, for the lyric minimalism of the Pignat’s narrative shows us a multitude of truths, each partially masked by the internal voices that tell their stories as if to themselves. One of the refreshing strengths of Pignat’s writing is just this: the stories are being told, but they are not told to the reader. We feel as if we are eavesdropping on the candid thoughts of the characters as they puzzle out their lives. We learn that Phoebe is learning to read to try to sneak a peek at the Master’s ledger and find out to whom her mother was sold; we learn that Shad resents his brother Will’s attempts to escape, which he sees as desertion; we learn of the Master’s concern over financial affairs, despite external appearances; we learn that Dr. Bergman does want something from Phoebe… but we are not told initially what that is. Ultimately, with his help, Phoebe learns that
It takes courage
to see truths
that we’d rather not.
It takes courage
to speak up
when the way things is,
ain’t the way they should be.
It takes courage
to go beyond what you know
to the places you don’t. (315)
We watch as Phoebe reaches inside herself for that courage, and in the end finds it.
Back to topWhile the April 1912 sinking of the Titanic has taken centre stage since the 1997 film (and was of course one of the most famous maritime disasters long before), it is salutary to realize that two years later, in the St. Lawrence River, a tragedy of almost equal magnitude occurred. In the wee hours of 29 May 1914, the Empress of Ireland collided with another boat and sank within 15 minutes. In Unspeakable, Caroline Pignat recreates “the greatest maritime disaster in the history of Canada,” through the story of Ellen Hardy, a young Irish girl sent to work as a servant on the trans-Atlantic vessel. Daughter of an Irish Lord, disgraced and rebellious, Ellen takes the name of Ellie Ryan and (under duress) begins to build a new life for herself, hoping that eventually she can find a place that is neither servitude aboard ship nor subjugation within her family.
We are catapulted into Ellie’s life on the morning of May 30th, as she stumbles through the survivors, searching for someone—anyone—she knows; the scene is one of unspeakable sorrow, mixed with the keening of joy and pain from those who find their loved ones, yet lament those still missing.
Ellie’s life unfolds for us in a series of vignettes: learning her new social position as the ship crossed the Atlantic; falling in love with another rebel, the stocker Jim Farrow; growing to appreciate the lives of others around her; sorrowing at the tragedy that took so many of those lives; struggling to makes sense of her new life back in Ireland, when everything she has known has changed. Pignat has created an elegantly complex narrative, moments in time woven together to construct an emotional, rather than temporal, arch. Ellie’s past becomes entwined with her present as she is reluctantly interviewed by an American journalist who holds a power over her: he has found Jim’s diary, her only possible connection to the man she loved and lost. The power games Wyatt Steele engages Ellie in reveal her character in a way that the narrative of her life on the Empress of Ireland does not. Her disdain for Steele, coupled with her need of what he has and knows, creates a fraught relationship that gives great pain, yet brings Ellie back to life. With no one left in her life, Ellie finds herself turning to Steele for companionship of a sort, and, with him, we learn more of Ellie’s history than just her time at sea.
One thing that shakes my faith in the author somewhat: the “Fascinating Facts” at the back of the book tell us that “more passengers died on the Empress of Ireland (840) than either the Titanic (832) or the Lusitania (791).” While we are told that the total number on the Empress of Ireland, including crew, was 1012, we are not told that the total number on the Titanic was actually 1517, and on the Lusitania 1959. These statistics make the sinking of the Empress of Ireland appear to be a more monumental but silenced disaster, the fates of the Irish immigrants overshadowed by the drama of the Titanic, sinking on her maiden voyage with so many rich and influential people on board, or of the Lusitania, torpedoed by a German U-boat in the First World War, becoming a rallying cry for British (and later American) military involvement. That the Lusitania and Titanic were peopled with the rich and politically significant, and the Empress of Ireland with Irish immigrants, should not—but did—infringe upon the latter story’s ability to resonate. 1012 people is still, after all, a major tragedy, a Canadian tragedy, and yet a story that few of us are told.
Back to topNoah is pleased to leave his bullied school life in Toronto to live for a year with his father, but moving to George River, in far northern Québec, seems to be going a bit far. It really is the middle of nowhere. Circumstances force him to engage with his father’s northern community, and he ultimately learns what it is his father loves and respects in this land and these people. For them, George River is the middle of everywhere.
Monique Polak has written a powerful novel that blends the emotional insecurities of young teenage boys with their need to be strong: socially, physically, emotionally. Noah’s internal monologue rings true; what he learns is a lesson young readers—male and female—can follow and believe in. The story itself interweaves social and familial drama with more exciting events, culminating in Noah meeting a polar bear in a blizzard while winter camping. To urban readers, this may seem overly clichéd, but Polak delivers her tale with a simplicity and realism that bring the readers into the northern world. Polak incorporates the customs and language of the Inuit seamlessly into her narrative, facilitating readers’ comfort and acceptance of her story, and helping us to feel that the world she depicts not only could be, but is, essentially true.
Back to topThe death of her beloved mother—especially in the face of her father’s insensitivity—is a hard situation for a teenaged Alice. And Alice does not deal with it well. Fortunately, Alice has her cousin Chloe, whose mother is as insensitive to her needs as Alice’s father. Together the two of them work to overcome their several problems. If “it takes a village to raise a child,” Shadow Boxing ultimately reveals the strength of community necessary to raise psychologically healthy teenagers.
Posesorski creates truly human characters: her teens are fallible and problematic, yet innocent and engaging. Her adults represent a fair and sufficiently comprehensive cross-section of urban Canadian life. The one less-realistic strain in the text is the extent to which some of the adults in Alice and Chole’s lives are willing to go to help the girls, but Posesorski works to validate their motivations… and is for the most part successful.
What is most compelling in the text is the depiction of Alice’s grieving process. Her experiences imbue the novel with bibliotherapeutic power, but the emotions are so strong, and so real, that this power should be used judiciously. Young readers having experienced such a loss recently might do well to wait before reading Shadow Boxing, but at some moment, for some people, this text could affect powerfully healing.
Back to topThe Vinyl Princess rocks! Yvonne Prinz’s new novel made me want to haul out the turntable, dust off my LPs, and return to the care and devotion that listening used to entail. I have to admit that the “shuffle” option on the iPod annoys me; it should only work on playlists, not albums. The sense of artistry that goes into making an album, or any thoughtfully produced collection of songs, comes through strongly in this text. It is a part of musical composition that few young people today would understand, let along be able to replicate. What would Dire Straits’s’ Love Over Gold be without “Telegraph Road,” or Rod Stewart’s Every Picture Tells a Story without “Maggie May”? The Vinyl Princess exposes readers to an aspect of musical appreciation that transcends eras; the music is from before I was born, from my youth, my adolescence, from my modern adulthood. Any reader who loves music—whatever music—will be able to relate to the characters in this novel.
More specifically, while I did question the authenticity of a teenaged girl today engaging with the songs of my youth in this way, once I stopped into an indy record shop on Vancouver’s Commercial Drive—our parallel to Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue—my skepticism was assuaged. The clientele was exactly as Prinz described; the aficionados were not my generation, but much younger, keen on preserving the music and the artistic integrity of the past. And Allie in the novel is not presented as mainstream youth, but as seriously alternative… a very empowering message for any young reader to take away: You might be different, but if you know yourself and are true to yourself, you will be strong enough to survive—joyfully—the vagaries of this world. Rock on, Vinyl Princess!
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I am not an expert on African politics, but have been come increasingly interested through a number of fabulous young adult novels that have come my way. First there was Cape Town (2012), by Brenda Hammond; then Walking Home (2014), by Eric Walters; and now When Morning Comes, by Arushi Raina. They just keep getting better. Raina’s complex characterization and intricate plot kept me enthralled from my first meeting of Zanele and Jack and Meena through to the devastatingly inevitable conclusion. Raina does not capitulate to simplistic narrative expectations of some current YA genres, wherein the teen protagonists rise above the socio-political powers against which they struggle and succeed; this is perhaps because the novel is based on historical events, but it is nonetheless admirably handled. Raina’s characters are young: inexperienced yet passionate, afraid yet determined. They behave immaturely under pressure. They make mistakes. They—and more importantly those around them—suffer for those mistakes. And so they learn, but that learning sometimes comes too late. The bravery of some characters seems at times almost excessive, but it is always believable.
The story is set in Johannesburg, South Africa, in 1976. We meet Zanele as she and her friends attempt to bomb a power station. The attempt fails; two of her friends are arrested; Zanele escapes. Theirs is but a small act of terrorism aimed at helping to overthrow the apartheid government. As the novel progresses, Zanele’s life becomes inextricably entwined with that of Jack, a naïve white boy who is entranced by Zanele; Meena, daughter of a South Asian shopkeeper who is being extorted by a local gang; and Thabo, one of the gang members and Zanele’s childhood friend. The intricate connections Raina constructs in her narrative all lead inexorably toward the tragedy that erupted on June 16th, 1976. The Soweto Uprising is infamous in South African history for the police brutality used against the 15,000 students in the protest that quickly became a riot. Raina’s novel traces the path from the government imposition of Afrikaans as the language of instruction, through the Soweto high school students’ growing dissatisfaction, to their cohesive plan of action. The short “historical intro”—significantly at the back of the novel—informs the reader of the real historical moment, but the novel itself is a far stronger exposition of the students’ anger and power than any historical commentary could be.
Back to topWhile I was reading Cheryl Rainfield’s Hunted, I attended a lecture by Karen Armstrong, founder of the Charter for Compassion. Listening to Armstrong, lines and scenes from Hunted repeatedly rose up in my mind, and I thought: this is more than a dystopic novel about oppression and intolerance (which it is); it is a powerful narrative example of the strength it takes, within an oppressive culture, to maintain one’s sense of humanity.
In Hunted, Caitlyn and her mother are continually running, changing names, schools, lives… because Caitlyn is a “Paranormal,” a telepathic who can read others’ thoughts and emotions: a power that frightens those without it. In Caitlyn’s world, Paranormals of all kinds must be registered, and once registered, are removed from society and tortured, sometimes forced to hunt other “Paras.” During the uprising that led to this abusive system, Caitlyn’s father was murdered and her brother Daniel taken away; she and her mother fled. After years of running, Caitlyn finally needs to stop, to rest, to blend in. Rejoining society—as much as she is able—is difficult, dangerous, and yet rewarding. Her two new “Normal” friends are similarly, if not equally outcast: Rachel is lesbian and Alex is black. While Rachel’s lesbianism is highlighted as a consideration in her relationship with Caitlyn, Alex’s race is not sufficiently apparent to the reader. When we meet him, we are told that “his skin contrasts with his crisp white shirt” (30), but that could make him Mediterranean, or even just well-tanned. Once, later, Caitlyn mentions his “springy black curls” (148), but no other mention is made until almost he end of the book, when the term “black” is finally used. In our white-washed world, a few more hints would be welcome.
The political aspects of the plot—too complicated to delineate but solidly structured and effective—lead to a crisis for which Caitlyn’s online avatar, Teen-Para, has been made the scapegoat. In the end, sacrifices are made by individuals on both sides, and readers are left with a strong message regarding blanket assumptions about good and evil. Caitlyn’s faith in the goodness, the inherent humanity, of “Normals” is justified, as is her wariness of belief in anyone merely because they are paranormal. There are hints here of Katniss’s response to the politics of Panem in the end of the Hunger Games trilogy: a group being oppressed and thus rebellious does not necessarily equate with that group being right or justified. What Caitlyn and the reader have reinforced is a message of tolerance of difference, and a wariness of all individuals who seek power at the expense of others.
The Charter for Compassion expounds that “compassion is not an option; it is the key to our survival” (Alastair Smith, Greater Vancouver Compassion Network); faithful to this humanist tenet, Caitlyn strives to create the compassionate world her father envisioned: “Dad dreamed of a world where we could live freely—but he also taught me that all life is precious, Normal or Paranormal, and that we’re all in this together” (294). The power of Hunted is that by the end of the novel, the reader is sure that she is right.
Back to topParallel Visions was available for only 99¢ on a website for ebooks, which seems rather odd, as many cheap or free ebooks are, to be candid, complete trash. I found Cheryl Rainfield’s Hunted to be a gripping story of trial and compassion, so I was interested in what I might find from a cheap ebook by the same author. While Parallel Visions is shorter, at 96 pages, it is equally imbued with a sense of the power of human connection, of how love and compassion ground us within our realities, no matter how alternative those realities may seem.
In Parallel Visions, the protagonist, Kate, is asthmatic; not only that, but every time she has an asthma attack, she sees visions. These visions sometimes reveal the past, sometimes the present, and sometimes the future. It is the future visions that disturb Kate most, because whenever she tries to prevent injury to someone else, she is scoffed at, disbelieved, or worse, ultimately blamed when the horrible predictions in her vision comes true. Kate hates being “the sick kid” at school, and pushes herself harder than she should. When she is helped in an attack by the boy she likes from afar—Gil—she has a vision of both her sister and his: both in future trouble, both safe at the moment. Unlike others, Gil believes her. Together, Gil and Kate work to save their sisters, and in so doing build a relationship founded on trust (with, of course, the requisite amount of teenage romance). Kate ultimately brings on an asthma attack to learn more about what will happen to their sisters, and readers are asked to consider the cost of helping others: at what point is it more important to look after yourself? Is it worth risking your own life, knowingly, to save another’s? While Kate ultimately answers this question unequivocally, the narrative leaves room for consideration by the reader. Kate’s relationship with her family, and with Gil and his, teach her the value of her own life as part of an organic whole that is not only family, but community, and the greater world.
Back to topOrca Soundings books are becoming increasingly more interesting and poignant. Dead Run begins in media res, with the protagonist surging forth from a stoplight, set on winning a cycling race that afternoon. Immediately, we are wrapped up in Sam’s life, his expectations, his dreams. The story is written in the first-person present tense, which contributes significantly to our feeling of involvement in Sam’s life. Sam’s life, however, is not going so very well. Despite his obvious abilities as a cyclist, he is part of a team whose leader does not give him any chance of success. When his youthful impatience causes him to be kicked off the team, his hopes are shattered. Then an apparent rival, impressed with his abilities, hands him hope in the form of an introduction to Viktor: previous Russian Olympic gold medalist, now a refugee and owner of a cycle courier business. Sam not only learns from Viktor, but ultimately becomes involved in his business in way that he suspects is not quite legitimate… but like Viktor’s pride in his business, Sam’s desire for cycling stardom gets in the way of his sense of right and wrong.
Sam’s story is one that most young people will be able to relate to. Sean Rodman has created characters and a situation that are both intriguing and yet believable. The moral lesson he learns is not specific to his situation, but an essential consideration of honour or cultivated blindness to what one knows—or at least strongly suspects—is wrong. As Viktor says, “ Sometimes you want something so badly that you make yourself blind. To reality. To the truth. You trade away your honor. Your freedom” (101). In the end, Viktor and Sam make it right, but only at significant expense to themselves. This is as it should be, Rodman is careful to portray: if you break the law, or even a moral code, you must pay a penalty. The penalty Sam pays is fitting, as is Viktor’s, and the reader comes away feeling that not only has justice been served, but that Sam has become a stronger, better person for his experience. Not all tales of youth involvement in crime are so honest and yet so ultimately hopeful; Rodman has given us a story that is powerful and effective—I hope that all young teens have an opportunity to learn the lesson he gives us.
Back to topComing Clean is more edgy than many of the Orca Soundings novels, even given their intent as “short high-interest novels with contemporary themes, written expressly for teens reading below grade level” (Orca website). The protagonist, Rob, finally lands a gig as DJ at the local club, but things go horribly wrong when a girl from his class—to whom he has been attracted but to no avail—is found dead behind the sound system at the end of his shift. His brother—with whom he has a complicate and not always positive relationship—is involved in the drug scene that caused her death, and Rob must decide what to do as an innocent yet not uninvolved party. The choices he makes are completely understandable, but not necessarily those that all young people would make. Jeff Ross provides his readers with a scenario that causes them to think “what would I do in this situation?” The answers—as both Rob and the reader soon realize—are neither obvious nor easy.
Ultimately, the choices Rob makes are the right ones… but they do not come without a cost. Readers will appreciate the ethical dilemma he has to struggle with, and his ultimate decisions, whether or not his choices are the same as they might have made. Good literature gives rise to such questioning in the readers: while short, and simply written, Coming Clean counts as extremely effective literature.
Back to topHigh Note is part of Orca Publisher’s Limelight series, each novel of which presents a teen character experiencing life in the performing arts. In High Note, Hailey and her best friend Crissy are both contenders for an important role in the production of The Marriage of Figaro being staged at the Paterson Centre for the Performing Arts, which they both attend. This sets the stage for conflict and jealousy, competition that could be handled by the two girls in a number of ways. Hailey is essentially part of the opera group because Crissy asked her to join; she has other interests, although her singing abilities and love of music make opera her dream. For Crissy, on the other hand, opera is everything; she is driven to succeed, pushed by her mother, and has focused on little else in her schooling. As these truths unfold, we can see the direction the plot will take, yet still wonder how the girls will react. The tensions are palpable; the outcome remains uncertain until the end. Caught up in the backstage drama—Crissy championed by the famous Isabel Rosetti and Hailey by the rising star Denise Cambridge—the girls are shown first-hand the drama that rages behind the curtains. In solid narrative tradition, the choices that they make reveal their true characters, and readers are satisfied with the realistic ending Jeff Ross provides us.
High Note is told in Hailey’s voice, an excellent choice for explaining to the reader the intricacies of the operatic world. Hailey tells the reader the basic plot of The Marriage of Figaro much as if the reader were a classmate who had asked. This technique does not always work, but Hailey’s character is well-constructed, her narrative voice consistent, so that we really do feel that she is talking to us, not the author. We feel more keenly, then, the betrayal Hailey struggles to come to terms with, and her mature realization that one cannot be responsible for others’ choices and behaviours. In a world of stiff competition, Hailey learns, it is difficult but necessary to retain one’s integrity and sense of self above all else.
Back to topLittle Jane and the Nameless Isle, the sequel to Little Jane Silver (2011), is a humourous, engaging story, replete with excellent historical research. It opens with short but dry relation by the narrator of how Little Jane (granddaughter of Robert Louis Stevenson’s notorious Long John Silver) came to be in her current predicament, but once the initial narration ends, and Rotstein’s characters begin to act out their lives for us, the story quickly grows into a “right riveting read.” Jane’s parents and all their crew have been kidnapped by their friend-turned-enemy Captain Madsea, and Jane and four companions commandeer a ship and set out to rescue them. Jane’s courage and determination are the driving force behind the success of their dangerous mission; her affection for her family and friends is the glue that binds the team of seeming misfits together. Characteristics that seem out of pace for pirates, like affection and compassion, are justified in both the stories the characters’ tell each other, and the narrative explanations of some of the back story (which is far more effectively woven into the narrative than the first few pages suggest). What I loved best about the book, though, was the subtle and seamless way in which the author introduces attitudes towards knowledge and learning. Jane loves books; her father loved reading, too, but—as they are pirates—books were a luxury they could ill afford, either financially or in terms of physical mobility. Jane’s discovery of the magistrate’s library is a wonderful accolade of reading that modern young readers would likely absorb without recognizing the important lesson they have imbibed. I particularly enjoyed Rotstein’s wry humour and subtle allusions to classics of English literature—a footnoted reference to Colerdige’s “Kubla Khan” (196), and uncited comments such as “It is a truth universally acknowledged” (77), or “A hit … a most palpable hit!” (138)—as well as to scientific discoveries such as antibiotics and binary numbers. Little Jane and the Nameless Isle is a must for any elementary or middle school library: such a refreshing, clever book deserves to be shared.
Back to topWay to drop us right into it, Mr. Roy.
Philip Roy’s Eco Warrior grips the reader from the beginning and holds us throughout. It is the seventh of his Submarine Outlaw series, but that doesn’t stop us from engaging completely with it as a distinct story. If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know how I feel about series that just go on and on, without any obvious overarching narrative. While the Submarine Outlaw series is episodic, Roy is not demanding that we read the next book in order either to understand the message or (worse) to reach a dénouement. Eco Warrior drops us right into the action without dropping us in media res into Alfred’s story.
“A hundred years ago,” Alfred tells us, “I would be on my way to World War I. I’d have to lie about my age and say I was eighteen as a of of boys did … Now I’m on my way to a different kind of war … I’m not sure what the weapons are, or who my allies are, or even how to fight. I only know that I can learn. This is the war of my time, the war to save the planet” (1-2). After this short ideological introduction, we plunge right into the story. Alfred is travelling across the Indian ocean, but we do not immediately know (unless we have read the other books) that he is in fact travelling alone in a small, self-constructed submarine, with only his dog, Hollie, and a seagull, Seaweed, as crew. We learn this slowly, in the midst of a crisis as he is tossed overboard by a swell while trying to fix his rudder. In the matter of a few pages, we have already grown to like him—his intelligence, his curiosity, his attitudes—enough to be fully invested. Here’s the part about dropping us right in… The terror of being a lone sailor on a submarine, and falling off, hit home strongly. What saves Alfred is a firm understanding of nautical physics—knowledge that the author is obviously well versed in himself. Alfred’s success in extricating himself from this traumatic situation establishes a firm connection with the reader; we are ready to believe in Alfred’s ability to travel as he does, despite his age. This belief is enhanced by Alfred’s somewhat tentative thought processes: he understands how his age impacts many of the decisions he has to make, and works within the real constraints a seventeen-year-old boy might experience.
This is one of the powers of the narrative: readers will see that they can contribute to the environmental cause without being radical activists themselves (although Alfred is well on his way to becoming one). In his travels to find the Sea Shepherd Society, Alfred meets a number of individuals who share a concern over the state of the oceans, and he is bombarded with a range of beliefs, from Margaret’s belief that “You can’t save the oceans now. It’s too late. Nobody can” (30), to the more destructive activities of Jewels “Brass-knuckles” Bennett, to Merwin’s analogy of ants at work: “each ant carries a tiny piece of earth,” but together they create an enormous anthill (130). Alfred does encounter the Sea Shepherd Society in their attempts to prevent oil tankers from fueling illegal whalers south of the 60th parallel. Despite his desire to help actively, Alfred knows that his tiny crew, in a tiny sub, can do little to fight against the huge tanker. Nonetheless, they assist the more able Sea Shepherd Society, as well as saving a whale calf whose mother had been slaughtered. This, Alfred knows, is meaningful and for the moment must be enough. The metaphor for the young adult reader is obvious and effective.
Alfred is a fighter, a strong individual who does not let his age get in the way of learning how he can contribute. This is a message that young readers today really need to hear. If the young do not stand up and fight for our world, our resources will continue to be depleted, our environment destroyed. Eco Warrior shows readers that every individual person’s choices can contribute positively to the battle against environmental destruction. “Are you alive?” Jewels asks Alfred (62). “Yes.” “Then it’s not too late.”
When I read the back cover of Cyndi Sand-Eveland’s Tinfoil Sky, I thought to myself “Oh dear, another story about a homeless child and parental neglect.” It seems that since Jean Little’s fabulous Willow and Twig (2000), there has been an overabundance of novels for young readers that begin with worst-case scenarios, and too often the resolution is neither believable nor empowering. And then I read on.
Tinfoil Sky succeeds where so many other novels have not. It is neither maudlin nor overly traumatic. The characters are completely believable in the effective integration of both positive and negative characteristics, as well as their ability to change.
The scene opens on 12-year-old Mel and her mother running from an abusive boyfriend. Mel’s one regret is that in their haste she has left her prized possessions—a boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia, and her journal—behind. She is sure that Craig will find them and read what she has written about him… Their life goes from bad to worse when Mel’s grandmother refuses to let her daughter into the apartment, and they end up on the street. Through not-unexpected mechanisms, Mel is eventually placed in her crotchety grandmother’s care while her mother serves out a short jail term. But this is just the set-up: the real story is how Mel copes with a grandmother she is sure hates her, conflicted emotions regarding her mother, and a burning need to discover her past in order to determine who she is in the present. The adults who help Mel on her journey share a believable combination of distance and involvement. There is no white knight who takes over and solves all Mel’s problems. Perhaps her landing a 2-hour per week student job at the library is a bit fortuitous, but it still remains within the realm of realistic possibility. Even Mel’s friendship with the librarian’s son, visiting for the summer, presents both solace and confusion: Mel is both attracted to him and embarrassed about her situation, wanting friendship but afraid that when her mother is free they will just be leaving again. In the end, Mel’s own strength allows her to hold on to the life she has made for herself, and readers will cheer her final decision.
Back to topAlthough the publishers admit that Crack Coach is “based on a situation taken directly from the headlines,” they nonetheless assert that it is an “entirely fictional story” (Children’s and Teens, Lorimer website). Given that it is unquestionably based on Toronto Mayor Rob Ford’s infamous press coverage, this claim seems highly problematic. The premise of the novel is sound: what would it be like, how would a teenage boy react, what would he do, if his football coach were, in fact, involved in drugs? The question is important, as abuse of power and adults making bad choices are issues many teens have to face as they learn how to function in the less-protective adult world. The issue lies, for me, in Steven Sandor’s using Rob Ford’s story without any explicit referencing of the real-life basis for most of the plot elements his novel.
In Crack Coach, Bob Jones, football coach and Mayor of Toronto, even looks like Rob Ford, his face “round and red, like an overripe tomato” (17); his cousin, Nick Jones, parallels Doug Ford: Nick “looked a lot like Bob Jones … [but] this man wasn’t quite as chubby as the coach, and his face was a different shade of red” (86). The most prominent media reports associated with Rob Ford—the drunken loss of temper in public; the filmed evidence of crack cocaine use; the appearance on mainstream USA television; the public debate over the effect his behaviour has had on the Canadian and Torontonian ethos; and most importantly, his activities as a football coach at a Catholic high school—all have direct parallels in Crack Coach. The most unavoidably unimaginative is the story of how Ford (allegedly) “forced his teenaged players to roll around in goose scat as he berated them with profanity after winning a big game” (Toronto Globe and Mail, 28 Aug. 2014). Crack Coach is presented explicitly as fictional, yet it is unquestionably an unauthorized biography. Rob Ford’s story is so unique and so immediate that any generalizable message gets lost in the contemporary media story. What I would prefer to see is a parallel concept fully developed to help children face the reality of adult corruption and failure.
The actual story is sound. Maurice and Vijay are grade nine students who have been places on the high school football team, but the other team members feel that Coach Jones is showing favouritism. Maurice’s older brother Fabian was drafted to the University of Michigan team, and Vijay’s cousin Ronny was shot in a drug deal gone wrong (a situation in which Bob Jones is peripherally involved). Maurice is thus seen as riding on his brother’s coattails, and Vijay as a “pity draft.” Not unsurprisingly, both Maurice and Vijay show their mettle both on and off the field. Their responses to the difficulty of trying to get adults to believe them is something readers will respond to, although the characterizations of the adults in the story are less believable. Maurice’s involved and sympathetic mother, for example, has two football-playing sons, but claims, “I don’t understand this game … but I know that if you keep running and don’t get knocked over, you are doing well” (53).
Ethnicity is also presented in questionable ways. Maurice is black, but almost no mention of this is made. Vijay is obviously South Asian, and his family stereotypically so. Given these ethnicities, it is odd that the football players on the cover are all white… No field goal here.
Back to topI was discussing Kevin Sand’s The Blackthorne Key, which won the John Spray Mystery Award for 2016, with a friend, who thought that it was a little bit predictable. No (she thought a bit about it)… it was just that perhaps the protagonist, Christopher, should have figured things out more quickly, given his purported intelligence. I had to ponder why I didn’t have this same criticism, because when she pointed out some examples, her position made sense. But I didn’t have that response: I was so immersed in the novel, so convinced by the characters and intrigued by the plot, that no criticisms had the space to rear their ugly heads. In teaching rhetoric, I tell my students: “If as an author you make a mistake, and your reader notices, you will have lost them. So don’t make a mistake.” As far as I could tell as I read The Blackthorne Key, Kevin Sands makes no mistakes: I was enthralled from start to finish.
Sands really does understand his setting. Christopher, his friend Tom, even his master Benedict Blackthorne and the other apothecaries, do not sport modern sensibilities lurking beneath the narrative trappings of the seventeenth century; their characters are, rather, consistent with a world in which the boundaries between science and faith and magic are blurred. Christopher, for all his innate intelligence, is still a young boy at the same time as he approaches manhood: his youthful exuberance hatches the (illegal but oh-so-much-fun) plan to build a cannon; his intelligence gives him the means to do so; his lack of experience results in his blowing up the stuffed bear in his master’s apothecary shop. By the end of the novel, though, as he is thrust into the adult world, he has gained a maturity far beyond either his earlier self or the middle-school readers the novel is aimed at.
In the case of the bear, as throughout the novel, Sands creates a balance between authenticity and reality: Christopher is not beaten for his exploits, but we are let know in no uncertain terms that others in his position would have been. Benedict Blackthorne is presented as a reasonable, intelligent master, who values Christopher’s sharp mind, even as he strictly controls his activities. As the novel progresses, though, and Christopher and Tom are pulled into the shady dealings of the apothecaries’ guild, we—as much as they—are uncertain where Blackthorne’s loyalties really lie. The plot is sufficiently complicated, the events sufficiently believable within Sands’s carefully constructed temporal and social setting; questions the reader might have about Christopher’s world are all ultimately answered, and we are left satisfied.
What really engaged me first as a reader, though, is Sands’s sense of humour, slightly sarcastic narrative voice, and clever word play. Christopher narrates the story with language that melds a sense of the period (1665) with a typically boyish irreverence and delight in really bad ideas. When Tom comments that “people can’t just build cannons,” Christopher responds: “But that’s where cannons come from: People build them. You think God sends cannons down from heaven?” And he later laments, “I wished God’s warnings would be a little clearer. You wouldn’t think it would be so hard for the Almighty to write STOP STEALING STICKY BUNS in the clouds or something.”
Throughout the novel, I grew more and more fond of Christopher; as he gains knowledge and maturity, he loses nothing of his boyish charm. The Blackthorne Key introduces us to Christopher; his story continues in The Blackthorne Key: The Mark of the Plague. Happily, though, The Blackthorne Key is completely self-contained; we do not need to read the second book, but I, for one, certainly will.
Back to topAs hard as he tries not to, T– stands out from his classmates. As a child, an accident resulted in extensive burn marks to his face and neck; since then, he has been bullied mercilessly by Ryan and his group of followers, whom T– and his friend Sean label “Joined at the Hip.” T–’s parents had tried all sorts of activities to help T–, but the one that stuck was photography. He sees the world through his camera lens, finding beauty in small details that others see as unimportant, or in people whom others see as useless. This is how T– meets Lucy, a homeless woman with an interesting vision of her world. T–’s growing affection for the socially ostracized Lucy is complicated by the increasingly violent bullying of Ryan and his cronies, ultimately leading to a horrific incident that changes T–’s life forever.
It is hard to know how to approach Young Man With Camera, for a number of reasons. For one, the narrative voice is inconsistent. T– speaks in metaphor, with a poetic vision of his world that plays with language and image in the way a highly intelligent young adult would; at the same time, though, 13-year-old T– does not know what irony or behoove mean, and has to ask the teacher he idolizes, Ms. Karamath.
Ms. Karamath introduces him to the work of famous photographer Diane Arbus, whose pictures influence his vision. This connection between the readers’ world and the narrative world is a strength; the development of T–’s artistic ability alongside the reader’s developing understanding of T– as a person is very effectively executed and almost mitigates sufficiently other problems in characterization.
When T– has photographic evidence of Joined at the Hip’s murderous attack on Lucy, he considers taking the photos to Ms. Karamath, the only adult he trusts. Ultimately, for reasons that are explicit but not convincing, he does not do so, and this is another issue I have with the story. Regardless of the depth of fear he has of Joined at the Hip—T– they poisoned Sean’s dog, Watson, and threatened worse to Sean—is it realistic that T– would tell no one? Granted, the adults in his life have not been entirely supportive, but again, this is an issue. All the adults we meet, including T–’s mother and father, believe Ryan’s lies and consider (what they interpret as) T–’s criminally anti-social behaviour to be an understandable result of his childhood injury. No one ever thinks to address the issues T– actually might have: are we to understand that there has been no counselling, that there is no understanding of his psychosocial reality? That question aside, all of his actions could also be interpreted in less damning ways. The notion of T– having a persecution complex, projecting his abuse at the hands of Joined at the Hip onto others around him I could understand as a narrative device, but that doesn’t appear to be what is going on. Despite his use of language, T–’s tale is not a metaphor: to have the entire adult worldT– even ultimately Ms. KaramathT– unable to see what is going on, to the extent that T– ends up serving a seven-month incarceration, seems problematically unrealistic.
The intensity of Ryan’s bullying I can accept, as it is presented as excessive even for a typical bullying situation, but when Ryan is found guilty of assault on a member of his own gang, there is no reassessment of T–’s situation at all. Having years of experience dealing with the Canadian school system, including special needs assessments and psycho-educational evaluations, I find it very hard to believe in T–’s journey, in the choices he makes, or the responses of those around him.
Back to topWhen Nate moves with his paraplegic mother from North Vancouver to Vancouver Island, he feels like he has been sent to the edges of civilization, away from all that matters to him, including his best friend, “Lug.” Part of the move was explicitly to remove him from Lug’s negative influence, and teen readers will all understand Nate’s motivation in lying to his mother and taking the ferry back to the mainland “for one short day” (3). When two girls at the mall mistake Nate for a popular TV star, and Lug capitalizes on their mistake, Nate feels compelled to go along with the lies, despite his qualms. The situation spirals down from there. Lug’s growing dishonesty and lack of social conscience force Nate to stand up for what he knows to be right, strengthened by his attraction for Spring, one of the girls they have signed up for fake casting calls. Spring, however, is not inclined to forgive him. Nate sets out to set things right, first severing all ties with Lug and neutralizing Lug’s criminal intents; then scripting his confession to his mother and reaching out to Spring, hoping she will give him another chance. Through these honest attempts to make amends, he is given hope but no panacea: if he wants Spring’s friendship, or more, he will have to prove himself all over, starting from behind.
Back to topIt is 1842. Jennie’s family is starving, so she takes some mouldy oats from a milliner’s garbage. For that, she is convicted of theft and sentenced to 7 years transportation to the penal colony of Australia. She is one of 235 female convicts, including pregnant women and women with young children. Jennie is fourteen when she boards the convict ship Emily Anne; the youngest prisoner is ten-year-old Alice.
Judith Silverthorne’s account of Jennie’s life on board the Emily Anne is convincingly harsh; there is very little evasion of the horrors of the women’s lives at the hands of uncaring or even abusive guards. What helps Jennie survive are the relationships the women forge in their shared hardship. As Jennie discovers the gamut of “crimes” the women have been sentenced for, she comes to appreciate her fellow prisoners’ differences. Learned prejudices against the “doxies” Lizzie and Fanny, or the alcoholic Dottie, or the Irish-Catholic Kate, are eventually subsumed in the need to band together to survive the physical and psychological trauma of their situation. Seasickness and poor rations threaten their health. Crowded into small, shared bunks or hammocks, they are afflicted by rodents, lice, and fleas. Women and children, most used to living simply but honorably, are treated like animals by the poorly paid crew and guards.
Not all the guards are as vile as “Red Bull” Chilcott, whose lecherous behaviour threatens the sexually innocent among the prisoners, and whose sexual appetites mark him as a target for Fanny’s manipulations on behalf of her friends. Some of the guards are cruel but not abusive, and some appear more sympathetic towards the women’s plight. We see a subtle connection growing between Jennie and a young crew-member, Nate, and when the ship is wrecked on a reef near Tenerife, we are not surprised that the intelligent Nate is instrumental in saving a small number of crew and prisoners.
Silverthorne does not stray from her excellent historical representation even in the romance that is beginning to grow between Jennie and Nate. The women’s ultimate fate after being saved by a passing Scottish vessel—whose Captain and crew are welcoming neither to the English nor to women—is logically supportable in terms of the political, financial, and cultural reality Silverthorne is recreating. Nate expresses his hope that his and Jennie’s lives will follow a similar path, and we are shown a narrative direction in which that could be true; but at the close of the novel, we are left with as much uncertainly as Jennie and the other survivors. As readers, we are convinced of the historical truth reflected in Convictions; Jennie’s story remains in our minds, her future pondered, long after the last page is read.
Back to top“My name is Aram Davidian. And I am a Canadian.” Call Me Aram, sequel to Aram’s Choice (2006), is a simple and heart-warming story of the orphan boys brought to Canada during the Armenian Genocide, following World War I. While the language is simple, author Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch neither oversimplifies nor romanticizes the psychological and cultural difficulties overcome by the orphans, who found themselves on a farm in Ontario, initially with no one who understood their language and culture. Based on historical fact, this story is powerful in teaching readers today of history, cross-cultural understanding, and charity. That which the boys find strange—ice boxes, wood stoves, porridge with cream—today’s reader might easily find equally unfamiliar. Skrypuch’s narrative voice, in explaining how Aram’s culture differs from Canada, also reveals how 1923 Canada differs from our world today. There are many learning opportunities in this text; the depth to which the issues can be explored can be tailored to the age and maturity of the reading audience. The addition of the glossary and historical notes lends validity to the text, rendering it not only a beautiful tale, but an inspiring part of our national history.
Back to topJump Cut is one of the Seven series, which advertises itself as “The Seven Series: 7 grandsons; 7 journeys; 7 amazing authors; 1 amazing series. Read one: Read them all.” I was sent an Advanced Reading Copy (ARC) of one of the other novels, Devil’s PassJ, by Sigmund Brouwer, by Resource Links online magazine in the summer, and loved it. I was thus really excited when my daughter brought three others home as soon as they came out in October (her school librarian is really on top of things). I had been advised by another children’s literature scholar whom I respect that the series is “very uneven,” but I of course wanted to read them all myself, regardless. My friend didn’t mention Staunton’s, so I did dive into it unprejudiced by other’s opinions. I was not, however, as thrilled with it as with JDevil’s Pass.
The premise of the series is that David McLean dies, leaving seven grandsons of five daughters all bereft, for, from all accounts, McLean was am amazing man and a fabulous grandpa. In his will, he leaves each of his grandson’s with a task that will send them on some sort of adventure. Early in each story (I surmise… certainly in the two I have read), we glean that each of the adventures was specifically chosen not only to satisfy some emotional, historical need of the grandfather, but to help each grandson grow into manhood through life lessons that he would not otherwise have access to. The set up is not only clever, but carefully and artfully constructed so that it works both narratively and emotionally: we really like what David McLean has done for his grandsons, and our appreciation reflects also their love for their grandfather and thus their willingness to do seemingly odd things to achieve the goals he sets out for them. In Devil’s Pass, Webb ends up trekking in the northern wastes, a adventure replete with red-neck bullying and the requisite grizzly bear—still, it does not sink as far into stereotype as this sounds; in Jump Cut, budding cameraman Spencer’s task is to film himself kissing the cheek of an old Hollywood flame, “Gloria Lorraine,” his grandfather’s youthful heartthrob. The story is, of course, far more complex than this, and Spencer learns the truth along with the reader. He also learns some lessons about what constitutes worthy content in both film and reality, a lesson I would have thought he had a better handle on at the outset. This is perhaps the greatest failing of the novel: Spencer misses so many filmic opportunities. I would have though that a keen teenaged boy with a new video camera would be more interested in actually shooting footage, in fact the trope is of course how annoying a newbie with a camera can be… Spencer consistently misses shots that are not only interesting, but essential to the task he has set himself—of Gloria has set him—on: filming her journey back to her roots. It becomes annoying. The behaviour, too, of the “kidnapped” gang member seems less authentic than the social threats expressed so effectively in Devil’s Pass: Jump Cut reads like a fiction—fun, interesting, but no actually something that might ever happen this way. Still, it was interesting enough for me to want to read Richard Scrimger’s Ink Me, the story of Spencer’s younger brother, “Bunny,” whose seemingly simple assignment is to get a
In 2000, Terry Trueman published Stuck in Neutral, written from the perspective of a teenaged boy suffering from cerebral palsy so badly that he cannot communicate at all. The novel is brilliant, causing the reader to really think about what it must be like, to be an intelligence locked in a body with no controllable outward responses. In the final scene, Shawn is about to enter a fit, unsure of whether or not his father is—at that very moment—intending to “put him out of his misery.” Kathy Stinson’s What Happened to Ivy tells a similar story, from a different perspective, and is, I think, more successful for that. While Stuck in Neutral shows the internal perspective of the cerebral palsy sufferer, What Happened to Ivy tells the equally troubling tale of Ivy’s brother, David, and the father who might or might not have been instrumental in his daughter’s death.
David both loves and resents Ivy. He feels that his parents focus entirely on her, ignoring the things in his life that matter, the things most teenaged boys can share with their parents and siblings. David, like his parents, is little more than a caregiver for the severely disabled Ivy; nonetheless, the three of them love her dearly, and work unceasingly to ensure her comfort and safety. Holidaying at their cabin, while David is walking with his new girlfriend and their mother is napping, Ivy has a seizure in the water and drowns. David is understandably traumatized by the combination of guilt and relief he feels, and this is what gives the novel its power. Reading David’s story, I felt so strongly that he really needed to talk to someone his own age, who would listen and understand and give sage advice; then it occurred to me that very few people his age would have any sage advice to give: his situation was relatively unique, although survivor’s guilt itself is not. That is a role that Stinson’s book can perform admirably. There are very few books out there that can be successfully bibliotherapeutic in the strictest sense of the term, but this I think is one. David struggles both with his own guilt and with his resentment of his father, who admits in his distress that he let Ivy go as she struggled in the water during her fit. David himself points out the philosophical difference between killing and letting die, but that is not enough to heal his own wounds. In the end, as in Stuck in Neutral, we are left not knowing what the criminal and social ramifications of the situation Stinson constructs will be, but we are given ample evidence of the possibilities. We also know the direction that David’s thoughts have taken, and we see him move towards self-healing, the final step in the bibliotherapeutic process. We watch as his family’s tenuous balance and security is wrenched apart, and we watch as his mother and father and girlfriend, Hannah, help him to slowly weave together his own revised pattern for his life. When he admits the most profound source of his own guilt to Hannah, she thoughtfully remarks, “You’re human, David” (139). Simple, honest, and non-judgmental, her comment solidifies the healing process David has begun. In the penultimate scene, David is finally able to extend that healing to his suffering father. While the practicalities are not resolved, David’s own inner turmoil has been calmed, his emotional energy directed away from his own grieving towards that of his parents. He has grown into an emotional maturity that we know will help him to survive whatever happens next.
Back to topJordan Stratford begins the notes at the back of The Case of the Missing Moonstone by telling us that “the year 1826 itself is practically a character in the book,” and it seems that in fact the year 1826 might just be the most historically accurate character in the book. In his story, Stratford brings together a plethora of well-known historical personages (Ada Lovelace and her half-sister Allegra Byron, Mary Godwin and her step-sister Jane (Claire) Clairmont, Charles Babbage, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Charles Dickens), adjusting their ages, rewriting their characters, and conflating their stories to construct his narrative. He provides factual accounts of each of their lives in his notes, wherein he explains his decisions, and how the real historical characters were connected (and they all are, in interesting and complicated ways).
The novel opens with the unconventional young Ada being upgraded from a governess to a tutor. Mary Godwin is introduced into the equation when she comes to learn with Ada under the tutelage of Percy Bysshe Shelley—Peebs, as Ada calls him, based on his initials. The two girls form The Wollstonecraft Detective Agency, named after Mary’s mother Mary Wollstonecraft, the famous advocate for women’s rights. As such an enterprise would be unacceptable for young ladies in their time (Mary Wollstonecraft’s advocacy notwithstanding), the young Charles Dickens is co-opted as their courier. At the end of the novel, the girls are joined by Allegra and Jane, in preparation for the sequels to follow.
The two protagonists’ reflect the complementary strengths of their namesakes: while Ada Lovelace is famous as a mathematician, Mary Shelley—as Mary Godwin eventually became—is known for her literary prowess, writing Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus in 1818. “In real life,” Stratford tell us, “Mary was eighteen years older than Ada … But I thought it would be more fun this way—to cast these two luminaries as friends.” Despite that Stratford does tell us that Percy Bysshe Shelley “ran off with sixteen-year-old Mary to Switzerland, and they were married two years later,” the difference between his Mary Godwin and Mary Shelley the author is not only striking but problematic. It would be difficult, however, to create a novel for middle-school readers that tells the truth of the extremely unconventional lifestyles that Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary, and her step-sister Jane (Claire) Clairmont (who was the real Allegra Byron’s mother) engaged in before Shelley’s early death by drowning. “While in reality Peebs had died even before our story begins, I have extended his life so that he, Ada, and Mary can be in this story together.” “As with Mary,” Stratford continues, “Jane’s timeline is moved so that she can be young alongside Mary and Ada,” and “in real life, Allegra died of fever at the age of five.”
These alterations do a great disservice to young readers; Stratford’s intent of creating an engaging story peopled with historical figures is perhaps well intentioned, but more problematic than effective. Young readers interpret story as reflecting reality in some way: the expressive-realist error, no doubt, but not surprising in the middle-school audience this mystery is intended for. While it is fascinating to read a well-written novel set in a historical period and learn from the research the author has engaged in, when it is difficult to discern where history ends and fiction begins, the novel becomes far less valuable as a vehicle of knowledge acquisition—which young readers will take it to be.
It really is a shame that Stratford plays so lose and easy with the characters, as his research is strong, and he incorporates the factual history smoothly into his story. Ada is brilliantly constructed as an excessively intelligent young girl, with strong characteristics of high-functioning Asperger’s. Anyone who lives with such a child will recognize both the frustrating and the rewarding aspects of living with someone like Stratford’s Ada. Ada’s mathematical and scientific investigations are described in just enough detail to inform the reader without boredom, and the dynamics between the socially oblivious Ada and the more psychologically astute Mary are delightful. When the characters are this engaging, and the plot interesting and well constructed, we can forgive the author some degree of liberty with historicity.
And herein lies another issue with The Case of the Missing Moonstone, at least for me: as I read through it, having suspended my disbelief regarding the characters—I quite enjoyed Ada’s youthful eccentricities and Mary’s rampant imagination—I couldn’t help but feel that I had read this plot before… The title should have been a dead giveaway, but it didn’t occur to me that an author would unabashedly copy an earlier plot.
Again in his notes, Stratford is entirely forthcoming, telling us about Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone (1868), commonly accepted as the first detective novel written in English. “Our mystery,” he admits, “is a nod to some of the elements of this classic.” More than just a nod, Mr. Stratford, when your plot can be so readily anticipated through knowledge of Wilkie Collins’s. Middle-school readers will almost certainly not have read The Moonstone, so we can see how Stratford’s idea that “it would be fun to have the world’s first computer programmer and the world’s first science-fiction author solving the world’s first fictional detective mystery” could appeal. The writing is of course all Stratford’s, and he has an effective authorial voice, hints of sarcasm underlying the more straightforward narrative that young readers will really enjoy. But yet the novel bothers me. The use of an already well-known and successful premise, the drastically changed biographies of well-known historical figures: for me, these infringe upon my appreciation of the strong characterization of Ada and the interesting explorations of nineteenth-century science and literature. If it were only Ada, with a supporting cast of unknowns, in a story with an original plot… but it is not, and it is up to my readers to decide to what degree the lack of historicity and originality impacts their enjoyment. For me, it was too much.
Back to topIn Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders, Kevin Sylvester serves up a fascinating menu of mystery and humour. Neil Flambé, children’s literature’s answer to Gordon Ramsey, is an over-cocky but brilliant young chef: very capable in the kitchen, but lacking the emotional intelligence and life experience necessary to survive the heat of the Hell’s Kitchen that is the professional culinary world. Usually, I don’t like bossy, self-assured characters (Artemis Fowl and I do not get on so well), but Sylvester narrates Neil’s experiences in such a way that we are tolerant of his inexperience, for the same reason his mentor, Angel Jícama, tolerates his tantrums and selfishness: for all his brashness, Neil does care for those who support him. In this first book in the series, we learn how Neil grew from infanthood into adolescence. The back story sets the tone for the excesses in Neil’s character: no baby really ever fixated on the Food Channel and learned to cook before he learned to speak… but with Neil, we believe the tale. And we are interested in seeing how this brilliant yet emotionally immature lad grows over the course of the story.
The plot of The Marco Polo Murders is as engaging as the characters. Chefs around Vancouver, Neil’s home, are being poisoned: along with the cloying scent of masala chai and… something else, small scraps of an archaic text are left with the bodies. Solving the mystery involves a knowledge of history as well as the culinary arts: history that Neil has omitted to study in his classes at school. That his seemingly unmotivated cousin Larry can contribute as much as he can to the case is humbling for Neil, who begins to learn the value in others’ ways of approaching the world, others’ talents that differ from his own. As the plot thickens, it becomes more apparent to the police—in the person of the culturally eclectic detective Sean Nakamura—that Neil is a prime suspect. His unerring sense of smell is no use when he is incarcerated for murder, and Neil must trust his sous chef and the authorities in order to save the lives of his friends. In the end, Neil’s confidence in his own abilities remains solidly intact, but a respect for others’ wisdom and experience has been blended into his essential world view, much like salt enhances a dish: you shouldn’t taste it, but you notice if it is not there.
Back to topArtemis Fowl meets Gordon Ramsey: who’s own opinion—“Good fun”—adorns the cover of the first book, Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders (2010). But I have to say, I like Neil Flambé a lot more than I like Artemis Fowl; but then, I have trained as a chef, not a criminal mastermind, and I understand Neil’s culinary obsessiveness. Nonetheless, what makes Neil Flambé more than just a spoilt, self-important boy-chef is Sylvester’s ability to reveal Neil’s humanity, even possibly humility, in times when such a response is most appropriate. Neil’s presentation as a fourteen-year-old boy who understands both his own greatness and the fallibility of his youth, coupled with the wisdom of his gentle-giant mentor Angel Jícama, the casual intelligence of his side-kick cousin Larry, and a plot that has sufficient twists and turns to engage the young reader, presents a recipe for success.
Sylvester’s clever use of tangential referents peppers both the narration and the characters’ comments; I particularly like the comment about the “dim-witted duo” having “returned from the trip down the eerie canal” (172), a reference distinctly pointed at the young Canadian reader. In keeping with the abundance of Canadiana embedded in its pages, Neil Flambé and the Aztec Abduction resembles Goethe’s “inhabited garden,” revealing the common humanity in characters from all nations and ethnicities. Sean Nakamura is indicative of the characters Sylvester gives us: a detective from Vancouver, with an Irish first name and a Japanese last name. Similarly, Neil’s girl friend has recently moved from Spain, and his mentor is an indigeno from southern Mexico. The ethics of multiculturalism extend to Neil’s experience of Mexico, and provide a learning experience for both character and reader: through his culinary respect for the poverty-stricken Margarita, who cooks exquisite home-style food for workers at a garbage dump, Neil learns that not only the rich deserve—or appreciate—fine cooking. Neil has no epiphany: he remains committed to his drive for fame and fortune, but his understanding of his relationship to his clientèle and his world has altered subtly.
Of the plot, I will say little, except that it is carefully constructed narrative recipe, containing a number of unexpected ingredients that keep the reader hungry for more. All in all, Neil Flambé and the Aztec Abduction is a fitting sequel to the excellent first volume in the series. Sylvester admitted during his visit to the Vancouver International Writers’ (and Readers’) Festival in October that he was hard at work on Neil #3. I, for one, cannot wait for the third course of this gripping narrative meal.
Back to topI am so used to Kevin Sylvester’s cast of characters representing the cultural diversity that I know as Vancouver that an important, subtle relationship in The Crusader’s Curse failed to surprise me sufficiently, or so I am told. It was called to my attention by another reviewer to whom I lent my copy, a reviewer who is prominent in the children’s literature world for his active support of GBLTQ literature for readers of all ages. In the penultimate chapter, Jean-Claude Chili comments that his friend Hugo Victoire “eez used to loud noises. I snore like a greezly bear” (274). They have been together for “many years” Jean-Claude admits, and he strove to keep Hugo, like his sister—the people he loves—out of what he knew to be a very dangerous situation. Nothing more. For years now GLBTQ critics have been asking for texts that aren’t about homosexuality, or about “coming out,” or focus on the conflicts raging within our strongly heteronormative society, but rather present alternative sexualities as a non-confrontational reality, as they should be. Such representation is slowly beginning to appear. Neil Flambé and the Crusader’s Curse, even more than the first two culturally diverse texts in the series, lies in the vanguard of social tolerance.
More than that, though, The Crusader’s Curse is another delectable taste of mystery and adventure: an international Stanley Park for children. When the Neil Flambé cookbook comes out (I am writing purely from desire, not insider knowledge), I can’t wait for the recipes from this novel! If you ever need to seriously cook your Canada goose—or hedgehog, or garter snake—Neil Flambé is your man, or rather, boy.
But Neil is growing up. As he hits his fifteenth birthday, he seems to have lost his panache; the food he serves his guests appalls them, and the arrogant boy-chef learns to eat humble pie. The reader, privy to the historical backstory upon which Sylvester loves to construct his narrative palimpsests, knows that the curse of the Flambés has descended: Neil’s culinary senses have deserted him. He is almost overcome, and readers are on tenderhooks as they follow Neil’s vacillation between depression, anxiety, and anger, with only enough information (such is Sylvester’s admirable narrative control) to trust that the plot will not burst into flame in the oven. It almost does, and I must admit that the final scenes were hard to follow, relying as they did on the reader’s ability to create visual images from the barrage of action words required. But the failing, I know, lies in this reader: the children to whom I lent the book loved the ending with all of its excitement combined with Sylvester’s inimitable sense of humour. But it made me wonder if there are anime artists and producers waiting to create a film version for us? And would we want that…? Perhaps not: Sylvester’s language not only reveals his subtle, sardonic humour in a way that film could not, but also creates layers of narrative that replicate the nuances of culinary artistry, drawing on all of our senses, not only the visual. So, Mr. Sylvester, back into your garret to garnish Neil Flambé #4 (Neil Flambé and the Tokyo Treasure), or are you starting on that cookbook yet?
Back to top“The Chefs gave him a mission: to keep the world safe and well fed. … He became the greatest Chef of them all…” (5). Kevin Sylvester’s fourth installment of the Neil Flambé Capers—Neil Flambé and the Tokyo Treasure—opens suitably with a foray into the world of manga. The short excerpt from Neil’s cousin Larry’s new online manga, The Chef, sets us up for Neil’s adventure in Japan, where his cousin Larry’s reported death leads Neil to grapple with illegal fishing practices and a maniacal competitive chef.
The pathos that news of Larry’s death produces is honest and heartfelt. Although we know that Larry can’t be dead—Sylvester wouldn’t do that to us… would he?—we tear up with Neil as he slices onions with Larry’s knife, contemplating Larry’s joie-de-vivre and laissez-faire attitude. This is a growing moment for Neil Flambé as much as his humbling jail-time in The Marco Polo Murders (2010), or his eye-opening visit to the slums of Mexico City in The Aztec Abduction (2010). When Neil discovers an alteration in The Chef that only Larry could have made, he optimistically sets out to find his cousin and solve the mystery he knows is brewing like the finest Saki: warm and subtle, with a sharp bite at the end.
The search for Larry sets Neil up against the environmentally unethical chef Matsumoro Nori. Accompanied by Sylvester’s usually droll punnery, we travel with Neil to Japan, where he engages in a culinary competition that is straight out of James Bond, with poisoned ingredients and losers as shark bait. Between the numerous gastronomic removes of the competition, Neil and his friends collaborate on solving the mystery of Larry’s disappearance. The clues Neil receives, the cultural knowledge and wordplay required to solve them, and Sylvester’s inimitable humour make Neil Flambé and the Tokyo Treasure a gripping, chuckle-inducing adventure. Such a delicate balance between humour and suspense is seldom achieved by other authors; it is not surprising that Neil Flambé and the Tokyo Treasure is up for two awards this year.
The Ontario Library Association’s Forest of Reading awards are adjudicated by young readers, so winning a Silver Birch award must be extremely gratifying for an author. Sylvester is no strange to such gratification, though: Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders won the award in 2011; Neil Flambé and the Aztec Abduction was runner-up in 2012; as was Neil Flambé and the Crusader's Curse in 2013.
The Children’s Book Centre John Spray Mystery Award will be announced tomorrow (22 October 2013), which is why I have had to rise up out of my slough of inarticulateness and get this review written and posted tonight! Neil Flambé and the Tokyo Treasure is up against four other books, all of which were written for an older reading audience. The best of these—Devil’s Pass by Sigmund Brouwer—will certainly give Neil Flambé a run for its money… I am not sure whether to be disturbed by the imbalance of having a humourous adventure book for 8-12 year olds set up against YA realist mysteries, or impressed that Neil Flambé should be included in such a collection. I suspect I will subscribe to the latter opinion if it wins, and almost certainly the former if it does not. So best of luck luck to Neil Flambé on his latest adventure out in literary-award-land. May the best chef win.
Back to topNeil Flambé (or should I say Kevin Sylvester) strikes again. We know him (Neil, not Kevin) as an arrogant, self-assured 15-year-old chef with a penchant for trouble. He is plagued by unwelcome mysteries, such as a piece of paper preserved in an ancient jar of honey that finds its way into his kitchen. Frustrated, he explicitly refuses to engage; all he really wants is to “just run the restaurant, in peace for a change” (6). Readers know, of course, that this will not be his fate.
Neil has been commissioned by Lord Lane to use the case of honey to make an exquisite meal—which Neil is of course confident he can do—but in the making of the meal, he is forced to open the ominous jar of honey, revealing a poem in Elizabethan script, a cypher to unravel. Neil hands the paper over to Lord Lane and washes his hands of the situation. Readers know, of course, that this will not be the end of it. When Lord Lane goes missing, Neil—as the last person to speak with him—is called to help. Accompanied by his cousin Larry, and eventualy his girlfriend Isabella, he and his unerring sense of smell set off to England. The usual gripping and humourous adventure ensues, revolving around British culture and history, expecially the history of the Elizabethan theatre: William Shakespeare, Will Kemp and his nine-days Morris dance, and the rivalry between the two men.
The narrative is rife with Sylvester’s trademark punnery and clever names (such as Arthur Gawain, the Oxford scholar) but also brings in new layers of allusion for precocious readers: for example to Harry Potter (97), the Lassie series (131), and the obscure cult film Green Eggs and Hamlet (213). Neil’s slovenly attention to his schooling is represented differently, as well. Not only does Larry show him up with his eclectic knowledge, as usual, but in numerous situations Neil’s lack of knowledge of basic highschool content—most notably Shakespeare’s plays—excludes him from the action. Being forced to recognize this failing grate, and his discomfort is a strong advocate for better study habits; I would not be surprised if curious readers leave this novel and go directly to Shakespeare in some form (Manga Shakespeare is actually very good). As Isabella’s friend Rose dryly observes (as she gains entrance into an exclusive archive), “Academic accreditation opens doors. Stay in school, kids.” (129).
What stands out most in this fifth book in the series is Neil’s development as a young man. Reading over past reviews, I note that in each novel, we’ve watched as Neil grows that little bit more mature, beginning to recognize the value of others—and others’ abilities—in his life. In The Bard’s Banquet, we see a monumental change: Neil moves beyond a recognition of the social contract, and the flutterings of emotional connection to others, to actual behavioral change. He says “please”—twice in a row, shocking his cousin (14); he contritely recognizes the validity of Jones’s criticism of his inflated ego, and sincerely apologizes (165); and he commends Isabella for her prowess: “complements never flowed easily, unless he was talking about his own food, so this was new” (113). A greater emotional epiphany comes when Larry saves him from potential death (not that they haven’t been here before), and Neil breaks down. This scene is a moment of poignancy amongst the adventure and humour: “It’s cool, cuz. … I’ve been waiting for a little emotion to break through that gruff cheffy exterior,” Larry tells him reassuringly: “There’ve been glimpses before, but this is good. Don’t hold back any more” (206). The sixth book in the series, Neil Flambé and Duel in the Desert is due out next month (March 2016); I am greatly looking forward to seeing how Neil continues to develop as a character.
Back to topMINRS has just been short-listed for the Canadian Library Association's Book of the Year for Children Award, so I thought I had better finish my review and post it post-haste. I read the novel in early February, and it took me this long to review it because 1) I didn't think I could review it without spoilers (but I think I've managed), and 2) I didn't think I could really do it justice (and I'm not sure I have). Regardless, here is my review…
To begin, any of you who have read my reviews about novel series in which each book does not stand alone will know how much I hate cliffhangers. And MINRS definitely has a cliffhanger. The last three words. That is all it took. Up until that point, I thought I knew where it was going. Thank you, Mr. Sylvester. No, I take that back. Or maybe not, as up until those three words, MINRS was one of the most gripping YA space novels I have read in a long, long while.
When I first read the description, I thought “ Well, that concept seems a bit derivative…” but I was very wrong. The dust-jacket flap tells us that
Earth is running out of resources, so Melming Mining looks to space and launches the Great Mission to Perses, the newest planetoid in the solar system. It’s humanity’s only hope for survival. … Christopher and a small group of young survivors are forced into the maze of mining tunnels below the surface of Perses. The kids run. They hide. But can they survive?
Space exploration and settlement as “humanity’s only hope for survival,” of course, is not a new concept, nor is having a group of teenagers separated from their adults in order to save humanity; but in MINRS, interesting scientific concepts couple with strong, consistent characters to create an unpredictable plot that holds us in thrall.
The novel opens with a tension in the small community fuelled by the upcoming Blackout, a two-month period when the sun will lie between Perses and the Earth, causing not total darkness but a full communication blackout. To assuage anxieties, the adults are convinced to throw a “Blackout party,” which goes really well… until it doesn’t. Instead of fireworks to mark the moment blackout is complete, bombs are hurled down from the sky above them, decimating the terra-formed field. Then the more accurate energy-pulse bullets rain down, killing everyone they can reach. Christopher is one of the teenagers successfully pushed towards the mines, one of only a handful of survivors hidden from the mineral-ore raiders who believe they have annihilated the population. Christopher’s father makes him promise to keep the others safe, and tells him of a beacon placed deep inside the mines by a few of the more pragmatic adults. But the beacon will not work in the blackout; the teens must find a way to survive in the shell-damaged mines for the next two months.
That is the set-up for the action that follows: the running, hiding, and eventual pillaging of the “Landers” storeroom and sabotaging of their machinery. My description makes it sound way less innovative and impressive than it is. What really moves me is Sylvester’s insightful expression of the balances of power that develop amongst the teens, and the internal and external conflicts that inform that balance. Underlying more traditional explorations of the bildungsroman development of character is a sense of noblesse oblige: Chris and his best friend, Elena, discovering that their unique strengths create an obligation to use those strengths for the good of the group, regardless of individual desires. Again, my description makes it sound far more trite than the emotional depth Sylvester shows us. In the tunnels of Perses, Chris and his rag-tag fugitives (sorry, I had to) learn more than just how to survive: they learn some of the darker secrets of the company that created Perses and of what people—even those they admire—are capable of.
When her beloved grandfather dies, Heather tries to escape into her literary worlds: the world she creates through her own nascent writing ability and the world of the books she reads. Sometimes she wants to “push through the coats at the back of an old wardrobe,” meet Mr. Tumnus, and “even find Lucy in the forest and the three of [them] could sit at a little table at the café together eating Turkish Delight and discussing how to solve all the problems of the world” (28): problems like how to manage when her mother slips into depression, and she has to face her troubling adolescent world, seemingly alone. To top it all off, she has thoughtlessly insulted “one of the only people at school who has spontaneously said anything nice to [her]” (70). With the problems in her family, and her trouble with friends, Heather is sure: there are No Cafés in Narnia.
Heather is fascinating, very real child protagonist: her mind wanders; she can’t focus easily; she struggles with being an outsider on the little island her family has recently moved to. She articulates her world through the eyes of her own protagonist, Writer Girl. Her alter ego’s attitudes and responses actually help her to see herself more objectively, to understand the balance she must create between being the child and striving to find the maturity her family needs from her. Her imagination blossoms in her self-assessments, in her diary entries, and in her letters to her best friend in Toronto. Her narrative ability is far more vibrant in her thoughts than she is able to get down on paper—but she continues trying. Ultimately, with the help and guidance of those around her—young and old—Heather makes the right choices, and the crises in her life become manageable.
What I like best about No Cafés in Narnia is Nikki Tate’s complete presentation of her characters’ lives. Even though in general “people like to read about danger, excitement, and romance,” Tate knows that “real writers take advantage of every moment, every experience, to enrich their work. They use all the mundane details…” (90). While this knowledge does not stop Heather from trying to write a murder mystery, it does reveal Tate’s belief about a writer’s goal, and the artistry of Tate’s own fiction. Back to top
Katie is invisible. She likes it that way. It’s safer than standing out, given her borderline-alcoholic mother with a history of bad choices in male companions. The one before last, for example, had been a real problem… But then Katie is cast as Katherina in her high school production of The Taming of the Shrew. On the stage, she can be as strong as she knows she is inside, and it feels right. And she is good. Everyone tells her so, including the new boy, Evan…
Evan has come down in the world, from a life of private schools to a public high school where he has little respect for his peers and none for his teachers or the administration. His privileged life continues: the clothes, the Audi, the attitudes that carry him through life and impress all the girls, including Katie… but also the psycho-emotional price he pays for having, as his father puts it, a “higher market value” (113).
Eric Walters and Theresa Toten take turns writing sections of the novel from the perspective of these two teens as they come together both on and off stage. Seeing their carefully crafted relationship from both sides will be illuminating for young readers, who often wonder how the other gender functions. But while Katie is an excellent example of a strong but seriously troubled teen struggling to come to terms with past abuse and present insecurity, Evan is initially—no, for most of the novel—little more than a Letch-in-Prince-Charming’s-clothing. His actions seem to be all that Katie thinks they are, but his inner monologue foreshadows the pain he will cause her before the novel is over. The way this dynamic is structured presents a strong warning to all young girls regarding many boys’ intent: the warnings our mothers and fathers give us, but we never believe. Katie’s friends Travis and Lisa, too, are wary of the attention Evan showers on her, and—as similarly socially outcaste before the advent of Evan—are strongly supportive, even when their concern angers Katie. The workings of these teens’ relationships are carefully and effectively constructed; we see these characters as real teens within their fictional setting. When Katie and Evan’s relationship reaches its climactic moments, we are left to consider seriously the two personalities, the social and familial causes of their several problems, and how they as individuals choose to respond to the traumas of childhood and adolescence.
In the end, unquestionably, Katie stands strong. She tells Evan unequivocally: “You taught me so much, Evan. About myself, about … so much,” but she has grown beyond his reach: “You need help. Your father … Get help, Evan. […] No one will ever lay an hand on me again” (223-9). Evan, always in control—taught control as the only acceptable modus operandi by his domineering financier father—has lost what he has fortunately come to realize is a prize worth keeping: Katie’s love. We see Katie’s growth; we see the healing that goes on in her family, the potential for happiness that she helps to establish for herself and her mother. With Evan, there is less evidence of change. Certainly he does stand up to his father on behalf of his powerless mother, and he does finally admit to himself that he needs healing, needs Katie’s love as much as he used to mistakenly think she needed his mojo. But in the end we are left with only the possibility of his seeking the professional help he needs, and standing up to his father once seems only too likely to create more barriers to healing. Evan is going to find only resistance, not assistance, from his family. Still, his moment of realization is strong, and we can only hope that Evan has learned as much, as effectively, from Katie as she has learned from him. What is certain is that teen readers have much to learn from both of them. The novel is so well crafted that the learning will come gradually, accompanied by powerful vicarious emotions that I think will help them prepare for real relationship dilemmas when—hopefully only if—they are encountered.
Back to topThe young adult literary world has become inundated with supernatural beings: werewolves, zombies, and vampires abound, in a multitude of previously unrecognized forms. It seems the Twilight saga has much to answer for. Wading through the paranormal and mythical chaff, however, we occasionally stumble upon a brilliant, innovative use of the supernatural tropes so lately bent into any narrative form authors see fit: for zombies, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost’s movie Shaun of the Dead (2004); for werewolves, perhaps Annette Curtis Klause’s Blood and Chocolate (1997); for vampires, until recently, Scott Westerfeld’s Peeps (2005). Now we have a new player on the field: Drew Hayden Taylor’s The Night Wanderer: A Native Gothic Novel.
Initially given to me by a colleague who is teaching it at the university level, I was uncertain what to expect, but the novel is billed as Taylor’s “first novel for young people” (backmatter). Superficially, it provides a lot of what Twilight fans are looking for: a young female protagonist, an attractive male vampire who for unexplained reasons is abstaining from feasting on human blood, a forest setting near a Native community. What is positively, powerfully different is that Taylor’s heroine is herself Anishinabe, or what less-aware readers would call Ojibwe, as is our vampyric lead. This set-up allows Taylor to integrate into his mystery a significant number of social issues that face contemporary Native communities in Canada.
Tiffany Hunter lives with her father and grandmother, “Granny Ruth,” on the reservation at Otter Lake, Ontario. Granny Ruth represents the old ways, one of the community’s last fluent speakers of the Anishinabe language. Through her mixture of traditional ways and common human wisdom, we see hope for Tiffany’s future, despite her seemingly bleak present.
Tiffany has recently started dating a chuganosh, a White boy, which accentuates the tension building in her family since her mother left them, moving to Edmonton with her White lover. Tiffany’s relationship with Tony, like so much in the novel, could go either way. The result is thus neither surprising nor unbelievable; the deep realism of the novel lies more in the details, the little things that both her friends and family, and his, say. This realism coexists with a paranormal mystery that draws equally on Native mythology, contemporary YA literary tropes, and more traditional vampire lore. Readers aware of any of these will recognize early the nature of “monster” (4) that Pierre L’Errant (“The Wanderer”) has become; the mystery springs from being unable to predict what he will do, and how Tiffany will fit into his plans.
While Taylor is not as successful as some authors at entering into the psyche of his young female protagonist—his prose feels (unsurprisingly) sometimes more like an adult male describing a teenaged girl, than the thoughts of a teenaged girl herself—his prose is lucid and at times beautiful. When Pierre describes his life, or forcefully reminds Tiffany of the joys in her own, there is a poignancy in the message that will, I think, reach the YA reader effectively. Similarly, when characters are in the woods of Otter Lake, there is no doubt of the power—for both good and evil—that the land holds. The final scene, in which the mystery is ultimately resolved, is a magical blending of Native belief with Taylor’s fictional narrative. More than just superior to Twilight and novels of its ilk, The Night Wanderer is a fabulous blend of realism with the supernatural, both Native and Non.
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Paul Vasey is identified on the back cover as “a boarding school survivor” [my emphasis], which suggests perhaps too subjective a perspective in his fictional representation of life at an abusive Catholic boarding school. A Troublesome Boy is an extremely well-written novel, but also extremely disturbing, as it is intended to be. What is most problematic, for me, though, is not truly knowing the boundaries between reality and fiction. I would like to think that the abuse rampant at “St. Iggy’s” is fictional, but I know it is not. I would like to think that the systemic willful ignorance—even acceptance—of such abuse is fiction, but I know it is not. I would like to think that the extent of the corruption that allows Church officials to remain untried for their crimes (even the local policeman covers for the guilty priest) is fiction, but I think it is not. Still, Vasey’s novel leaves me feeling that the degree and frequency of the physical—as well as emotional and sexual—abuse that the Fathers at St. Iggy’s are responsible for is excessive: while no single incident rings false, overall Teddy and Timothy’s experiences are too much to take in. The mind (my mind at least) screams that this must be overdramatized. Which leads me not to want to recommend this text except with the strongest of caveats against emotional trauma for the reader. And in the end, while Teddy and Timothy’s stories are told, there is no hope given. In 1959, when the story is set, there is nothing to expect except an inexorable continuation of the criminal and damaging status quo. This, too, we know to have been true until very recently.
A powerful novel, containing perhaps too much truth. So what, then, is my problem? My problem is, I think, that beside all of the abuse, all of the sins of the Church, which are real, this novel does not show any of the very Christian, courageous individuals who also constitute the Catholic Church. I myself was smacked upside the head (granted not at boarding school) for insisting that mountains in a drawing of Jesus could be purple (defying visual logic), by a Nun who was known to enjoy hitting children; except for that one case, the Priests and Nuns who crossed my path were intelligent, compassionate, spiritually supportive individuals. Overall, the good people far outweighed the bad, positive learning far outweighed the injustices. The history of the Catholic Church as an institution is abysmal, unquestionably, but A Troublesome Boy troubled me mostly because its truth is not mitigated by the more complex reality that is, and was, even in 1959, Catholicism.
I once write a chapter for a book about Robert Cormier, an author well known for his starkly realist novels for young adults. Cormier explained his novels’ popularity by stating readers “say I tell it like it is. This is the way life is, and they are tired of books where everyone walks off into the sunset together” (in Herbert Foerstel’s “Voices of Banned Authors,” in Banned in the USA: A Reference Guide to Book Censorship in Schools and Public Libraries (Westport, CN: Greenwood, 2002) 150). The collection of short stories in Dark Times strikes a similar note of stark realism, revealing a number of harsh incidents and situations that real teens in our world have to deal with every day. Dark Times, however (unlike Cormier’s more lengthy and troubling œuvre) contains glimmers of hope. The protagonists’ situations are not always alleviated; the adults don’t ride in on white horses to save them; there are not always happy endings and walking off into the sunset. That is not reality now, any more than it ever has been, but in these stories “as in real life, the darkness lifts” (Walsh 9). Ann Walsh has chosen stories that show readers the strength that young adults can have: perseverance and optimism even in the darkest of times.
I have to admit that I have never reviewed a collection of stories before, and I found it difficult. It seems impossible to address the collection as a whole, sufficiently, when each of the stories themselves is so rich in meaning. Dark Times is comprised of 13 stories, all dealing with some form of loss; each character’s loss is unique, however similar the feelings of grief can seem. In “Snow Angel” (Carolyn Pogue), adopting a cousin with fetal alcohol syndrome has a devastating effect on Mary’s family. In “The Canoe” (Lee Maracle), a son needs to restore his relationship with his distant father after the loss of his mother. In “All is Calm” (Ann Walsh), Katie struggles with her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s, until one of the “popular” boys in her school shares his own story. In “Kick” (Betty Jane Hegerat), Justin has to find closure when the bully who taunted him dies. In “Sisters” (Sarah Ellis), the family complications of Charlotte’s “foster grandmother” are revealed at her death, helping Charlotte come to terms with her own sister’s desertion. In “Explaining Andrew” (Gina Rozon), James feels smothered as a “baby-sitter” for his brother Andrew, who suffers from schizophrenia. In “Cold Snap” (Diana Aspin), Cassie is filled with hatred when she discovers her father is having an affair. In “the sign for heaven” (Carrie Mac), Della learns to love a little girl she is teaching sign language to, only to lose her to pneumonia. In “A Few Words for My Brother” (Alison Lohans), Hailey’s adopted brother, Devin, who has fetal alcohol syndrome, is responsible for the death of a friend and his other sister’s hospitalization. Hailey struggles to come to terms with her brother’s crimes and the guilt she feels for her sister’s injuries. In “Dear Family—” (Donna Gamache), Melinda reconnects with her estranged mother, who left to “find herself” as an artist in the wilds of BC. In “Dreams in a Pizza Box” (Libby Kennedy), a mother and her two daughters run from an abusive situation and end up on the streets. Struggling with illness, poverty, and homelessness, the mother does the best she can for her daughters, but in the end must leave them at a women’s shelter, where she hopes they can be cared for properly. In “Hang On” (Patricia McCowan), Kevin feels guilty when his dare-devil friend Randy ends up in a coma after a prank. The final story in the collection, “Balance Restored” (Jessi May Keller), takes us through the stages of grieving with Alexandra, whose boyfriend has died in a car crash she survived.
Together, these stories reveal a depth of human situations and responses that, taken all at once, could be overwhelming—rather like reading Robert Cormier’s novels one after the other, only (being short stories) somewhat less traumatic. Perhaps the best way to approach the collection would be to read one a day, and really think about what the story is saying. The messages are strong; each separate story—each separate voice—should be heard on its own.
Back to topI have just reviewed Whatever, by Ann Walsh, for Resource Links magazine. Usually, my reviews get reposted here after a year or so, but in this case, I really wanted to mention it far sooner than the next issue, so I have written this second review for earlier public consumption.
Whatever is not only a powerful story, but an invitation to readers to become more aware of the social system that supports them. Darrah is a normal teen, with good grades and a stable home life… yet in anger she pulls the fire alarm in the hospital where her brother is receiving treatment. Her motivation is understandable (we learn), and the repercussions of her action teach her—and the reader—that all individuals must become part of the social web that sustains us all. That sounds like rather heavy preaching, but Walsh’s novel is anything but.
In response to her action—in which an older lady is injured—Darrah is given the option of being part of the Restorative Justice Program rather than face a court hearing. When her overprotective parents immediately assert that she will, they are told by the investigating officer, in no uncertain terms, that such a decision can only be Darrah’s: Darrah has both to own her actions, and to engage completely with the solution. Such a message is empowering for teen readers, who are often still coddled by overprotective parents; the need to grow up—to be responsible for themselves—is a driving force in adolescence.
The Restorative Justice Program—implemented in British Columbia in the 1990s by the RCMP—gives young offenders who are genuinely repentant the opportunity to make reparation for breaking the law. Restorative Justice is more than community service as punishment: it requires the engagement of the offender with the offended, and a collaborative decision of what constitutes an appropriate response to the young person’s action. Walsh herself is a facilitator in the Restorative Justice Program, which is peopled largely by community volunteers, so it is not surprising that Darrah’s story is a well-constructed fictional look into the system, ultimately an encomium for its efficacy.
Darrah is ultimately sent to assist Mrs. Johnson (“Mrs. J”), the elderly lady whom she has injured, and the story moves away from the notion of crime and punishment within society, and into a deeper look at familial relationships. Why Mrs. J has chosen to help Darrah (for this is what it amounts to) mystifies Darrah. Slowly, though, Darrah learns that even adults have their secrets, and sometimes telling lies—or at least omitting information—is not the wrong choice. The complicated ethical questions that Darrah grapples with—combined with her growing respect for Mrs. J and affection for Mrs. J’s grandson—create a inspirational story that leaves us with a solid believe in self-knowledge, self-respect, and integrity as foundations of our society. With teens like Darrah to pass the reigns to, all will be well.
NB: The book includes an appendix with the recipes Mrs. J teaches Darrah. More importantly, accompanying Teachers’ Activities, including a simulation Restorative Justice circle and a look at what happens when young offenders go to court, are available on Ronsdale Press’s website. Back to top
When I first picked up Walking Home to review it, I was concerned. What do I know about Kenya? How could I possibly determine the authenticity of the social and cultural space Eric Walters is describing? Fortunately, Walters includes an “Author’s Note” at the back (should this be at the front?) which tells us about the Creation of Hope Orphanage he founded in Kenya after a 2007 visit to a friend there. “Accompanied by four children from the Creation of Hope Orphanage, four young Canadians and my good friend Henry Kyatha,” Walters tells us in his “Note,” “we walked the route traveled by my characters. … Over six days, we walked more than 150 kilometers so I could know Muchoki.” With such assurance about the author’s personal investment—material and emotional—in his subject, my own approach to the novel changed: what I was about to read was fiction, certainly, but with an underlying truth that elevates the novel from interesting fiction to a reflection of reality that cannot be ignored.
Muchoki, his mother, and his little sister Jata have lost everything. On January 1st, 2008, armed assailants attacked a church in Eloret, over 300 kilometres north west of Nairobi, and burnt it—and all inside—to ashes. Walter’s fictional characters escaped this massacre. When the story opens, they are living in a refugee camp near Nairobi. When his mother dies in the refugee camp, Muchoki makes the decision to escape with Jata rather than face separation. In far away Kikima, his mother’s people live. His only choice, then, is to take Jata and face the long walk through the dangers of war-torn Nairobi, and out the other side, south towards Machakos. From there, they would ask directions to Kikima, where they hope that the family who do not know of their existence will welcome them. Strong for his sister in this and many ways, Muchoki weaves a narrative of hope for Jata: their mother’s people are Kamba, “people of the string,” so they will follow the string of the legend that will lead them unerringly to their family.
Walking Home is more than the story of Muchoki and Jata’s journey. In keeping with this sort of survival story, it is about what Muchoki learns, how he grows, as they travel towards their destination. Before he leaves the refugee camp, a friendly sergeant tells him that Kalenjin or Kamba or Kikuyu, Luo or Maasi, they are all Kenyans: together they must build a stable country. The bitter hatred Muchoki feels for those who killed his father cannot be assuaged by words, and certainly not all who the children meet on their journey help to dissipate the anger and distrust. But the balance is in their favour, and aid comes from many hands: the sergeant is Kalenjin; a Maasi father and son watch over them for a span; they aid a Luo merchant passing through Kibera, a dangerous Narobi community; their experience—far more than the sergeants words—teaches them that there is a Kenya, encompassing all tribes.
Muchoki leads Jata along the invisible string of his mother’s Kamba heritage, and—as in the folktale—it leads them home. Back to top
The premise of the Secrets series is that seven self-proclaimed “sisters”—orphans in the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls in Hope, Ontario—are sent out into the world when the orphanage burns down. Each of the “sisters” is given an envelope by their beloved headmistress, Mrs. Hazelton; the envelopes contain information about their pasts, providing paths for them to take towards their futures.
Betty Shirley is unquestionably innocent, but her naïveté is presented at times as an unexpected ignorance—despite her high grades—and always through a narrative voice that seems not naïve so much as infantile. Throughout the book, we are repeatedly reminded of her goodness: Mrs. Hazelton gushes that her “optimism has been a blessing to us all … you always seem to see the positive in everything” (15); Joe, the cook, comments on her internal strength and goodness (26); and the servants of the family she ends up serving welcome her as a daughter: “starting today,” the housekeeper. Mrs. Meyers coos, “you do have a family—us” (54). Little things throughout the text enforce this artificial feeling of security and support: Mrs. Remington invites her servant Betty (now Elizabeth) to sit a the dinner table—“so we can talk and I can get to know you better” (59)—and drinks with her son to Elizabeth’s health at her arrival (84). In fact, Mrs. Remington orchestrates Elizabeth’s return to Kingston, as Elizabeth’s mother, Victoria, had been a maid in their home before she died. “We all knew and loved her” (61), Mrs. Remington tells Elizabeth. When Victoria became pregnant out of wedlock, Elizabeth marvels, “the Remingtons, rather than asking her to leave, … had made a place for us, and the staff had been like my family” (64). When Richie Remington wants to take Elizabeth to visit Victoria’s and his father’s graves, Elizabeth is surprised: “No one … objected to my taking the time off. In fact, Mrs. Remington had not only agreed but had asked Ralph [the gardener] to pick two big bunches of flowers” (93). It is all too lovely too be true, and the enchanted life Elizabeth leads is not sufficiently mitigated by the mystery that darkens her past.
In her envelope, Elizabeth had found a 1950 newspaper clipping describing her father’s conviction for the murder of her mother. Despite her naïveté, and an insecurity that makes her hesitant to walk to the local bank alone (130), she goes to visit him in prison. In keeping with the ethos of the novel, he “burst into tears” at seeing his “little angel” again, as he proclaims his innocence (144-47). The mystery that develops as Elizabeth and her new police-officer boyfriend, David, delve into the history of her father’s conviction is as unsurprising as its conclusion: corruption within the police force and the oligarchy, leading to murder and false conviction. The red herring in the case is the Remington’s son Richie, who has an undefined mental disability sometimes resembling Down’s syndrome, sometimes autism. Richie’s erstwhile affection for Victoria and Elizabeth, combined with his mental deficiency, are suggestive, as is a scene in which he wrings pone of his pigeon’s neck—albeit because the bird was dying (172).
Reading Innocent, I couldn’t really get past the literary ghosts of Porter’s Pollyanna (1913) and Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (1937). All in all, the stereotypic characterization and predictable plot suggest that Eric Walters, so capable in many others of his books, was not fully engaged in the production of this story.
Back to topClay Man: The Golem of Prague brings to life the traditional tale of Passover during the persecution of the Jews of Prague during the late 1500s. At Easter, the Christian population would accuse the Jews (at this time celebrating their Passover) of the “Blood Lie,” that the Jews used the blood of a Christian child in the preparation of their Passover matzos. Young Jacob, the narrator, watches in secret as his father the Chief Rabbi creates “Josef,” the golem, out of clay. The Rabbi tells his people that “Josef was sent the ghetto to protect our community—to keep us safe from our enemies” (34). For three years, he does so. The stories Jacob relates are both of how the people misunderstand both Josef’s role and his nature, in a way that both Jacob and the reader comprehend, and of the ways in which Josef saves the Jewish community from the dishonest attempts of the Christians to discredit and even murder them. It is because of human error that Josef must be decommissioned, as it were: the Rabbi forgets to give him his Sabbath instructions, and Josef becomes overly agitated, scaring even those who know him. When the Rabbi puts Josef to “sleep,” he tells Jacob: “One day, when the Jewish people have great need of him, the golem may be called upon again” (75). The power of belief has raised the golem; the power of belief makes his memory live strongly within the Jewish tradition. Watts has presented the story in an engaging yet simple way, the horrors of persecution and the joy of protection as seen through the eyes of a young, typically energetic, Jewish boy. The story is augmented by Shoemaker’s beautiful charcoal sketches, the medium suiting perfectly the ancient and somewhat eerie mood of the tale.
Back to topTouched by Fire is the most recent in a long line of powerfully moving stories told by Irene N. Watts. Like Goodnight, Marianne (1998) and its sequels Remember Me (2000) and Finding Sophie (2002), Touched by Fire recounts the experiences of the Jewish communities persecuted before and during the Second World War. In Touched by Fire, Miriam’s family flee the pogroms in their village, and start a new life in Kiev. As the persecution of the Jews grows worse, Miriam’s father emigrates to America, promising to send for his family, to bring them to the “Golden Land” (7) and freedom. Through unforeseen circumstances, Miriam must travel alone to meet her father, leaving her mother, brother, baby sister, and grandparents behind.
Watts’s description of the hardships Miriam endures—travelling alone to a foreign land, braving the immigration procedures on Ellis Island, and trying to find work in a new, English-speaking city—are balanced between the threatening possibilities and a more idealistic view of events. Miriam’s positive attitude earns her friends, who in turn help her to find a job at the Triangle Shirtwaist Company. Readers will almost certainly be unaware of the 1911 tragedy, in which 146 of the company’s employees died in a fire. The fire was one of the worst industrial accidents in American history, and for Miriam, brings back memories of the screams, the flames, the fear, when the Cossacks burned her family’s home and village. Watts places Miriam firmly in the middle of the tragedy, and we are caught there with her. We see only what she sees; we feel her panic, her fear, as the building burns and many of her co-workers jump to their deaths, unable to escape the flames.
Watts has a talent for expressing the seemingly inexpressible in a way that young readers can comprehend. Even through the calamity and its aftermath, when readers feel the trauma Miriam experiences as she waits for news of her friends, Watts’s characters exude a strength that readers will see and be comforted by.
I’ve just finished Claudia White’s Aesop’s Secret (well, obviously, because here I am reviewing it). They say don’t judge a book by its cover, but in this case I think maybe you can. Larissa Kulik’s drawing of Melissa, one of the two protagonists, is so alluring, whimsical yet uncanny, and thus very fitting with the content of the book.
I have to admit it took me a little while to get into the story; the language is not as light and flowing as other books I have read recently. But then it began: I sunk deeper and deeper into the story, completely uncertain where White was taking us. The more I read, the more I honestly didn’t know, couldn’t tell, where we were headed… which of course drew me deeper still.
The concept in Aesop’s Secret is refreshingly original. A race of Others live among us (okay, not so original yet), called Athenites, used to live in harmony with humans but were forced by history to conceal their abilities. This name is purportedly based on the Greek goddess Athena’s ability to transform into other animals. Now, if you think about Ovid’s Metamorphosis (the title is a bit of a give-away), it is not only Athena, amongst the gods, who has this ability. But I’ll give White that one; after all, Athena’s mother Metis was known—more than other mythological characters—as a shape-shifter. Melissa and Felix Hutton’s mother is about to publish a treatise revealing that Athenites are real, not mythological. She seems exactly the right anthropologist to do so, as the Huttons themselves are Athenites. But someone doesn’t want that research published.
Athenites’ abilities manifest as they mature; shape-shifting is genetic and connected in some way to their hemoglobin. This sets up nicely for a plot involving biological manipulation for at least one character’s nefarious purposes. I really don’t want to say more than that; you’ll have to read the book. The originality lies largely in the parts I am not telling you: sorry. While there is some catering to the narrative expectations of child readers—I can tell you that it all works out in the end—there were quite a few “oh—didn’t see that coming” moments to keep readers on their toes.
Aesop’s Secret is the first of a trilogy, all of which are written, published, and available now to be read: the second book is Key to Kashdune (2014) followed by Servalius Window (2015), itself a novel in three parts. White avoids the “well, I might as well write another volume” problems that so much series fiction has these days. At the end of the novel, you can see how the story can go on, but you are still left satisfied. The best place to be: you can read on, but you don’t have to in order to find closure.
Back to topGrail suffers from the plague that besets all great historical novels: the reader cannot determine with certainty where the history leaves off and the fictional narrative begins. To say that John Wilson has done his homework is not, I think, giving him sufficient credit. He has not only researched both historical setting and historical incident, but manages to convey, through his densely packed narrative, what feels to be the reality of life during the Crusades. The historian in me despairs that we can never know, for sure, how close his account comes, but for modern readers, I think it more than suffices.
His tale revolves around four main characters: friends and comrades who must choose their own paths through the tumultuous political landscape of Southern Europe in 1211. John and Isabella seek knowledge and truth in the deserted libraries of Al-Andalus; their childhood friend Peter follows the Church leaders in the search for the Holy Grail and the persecution of heretics; Adso, their soldier companion, has his own troubles, which lead him to the brink of destruction. Their stories are entwined in the history of the Knight Crusaders’ persecution of the Cathar heretics of Southern France, and the search for both the mythical Grail and the apocryphal Gospel of the Christ. The characters are engaging and consistent. We value the wisdom of he who became St. Francis of Assisi, and respect John’s search for learning as an artist, but one wonders how the modern young adult reader will respond to the voices in Peter’s head and the stigmata on his hands and feet. In this instance, the confluence of historical fact and authorial narration becomes problematic. Most of the archaic thoughts and beliefs—such as Peter’s opinion that “[i]f God wished us to see the moon and stars as if they were in our hands … [h]e would have given us the eyesight to do so” (236)—can be interpreted within their historic context; Peter’s voices and stigmata, on the other hand, we are asked to accept as real. If one can set aside the wonder and questions that this raises, we are left with a tightly woven tale of intrigue and mystery, presented in the most authentic of medieval armour and cloak. For the lover of historical fiction, a series to be savoured.
Back to topLooking through my pile of "books to review," I grabbed the book on the top: John Wilson’s recent Orca Currents contribution, Bones. I expected good things, having greatly enjoyed Wilson’s The Heretic’s Secret trilogy, and having recently reviewed Wings of War for Resource Links magazine. Bones fully lives up to my expectations, being another excellent example of Wilson’s care in research and presentation of data. In this novel, his topic is palæontology; the setting, the badlands and coulees surrounding Drumheller, Alberta, location of the world-famous Royal Tyrrell Museum. Wilson conveys to his readers the depth of his own understanding of his topic, yet avoids any patronizing or erudite tone in his narration: exactly what struggling readers need in order to engage with the story. Wilson has chosen this topic well for another reason, too: it seems to be true still today, that children all go through a “dinosaur” phase. I remember having memorized the names of dozens of prehistoric creatures; the rivalry between my brother and me was replicated 30 years later in my own children’s lives. [As an aside, the dedication of Bones thrilled me: “For Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Lost Worlds first sparked my ineptest in dinosaurs.” I read Lost Worlds in my youth as a result of my obsession with dinosaurs. The more I know of John Wilson, the more I like this author… But I digress.]
To return to Bones: Sam and his girlfriend Annabel have come from Australia to visit Sam’s mother, who lives in a commune near Drumheller. The highly intelligent Annabel is already fascinated by palæontology, and Sam feels somewhat excluded from her conversations with Dr. Bob Owen, his mother’s friend and a researcher at the museum. Sam’s annoyance turns to jealousy when they meet Glen, a research student working with Dr. Bob. This social aspect to the story underlies a mystery that the two teens become involved in, indeed, discover. They had previously run across Humphrey Battleford, a private art “collector” (read, in this instance: thief). Wilson’s allusions to his previous story, Stolen (2013), are suggestive but not intrusive, as is his hook at the end of the story, when Annabel ponders, “I wonder if we’ve seen the last of him?” (117). If you do follow my blog, you will know my opinion of series fiction that requires readers to continue. Bones is a fine example of how to do it right. We know there is a history with the dishonest Battleford, but the exact details are not given nor do they matter. What we do know is that his presence sets the teens on alert, and that their concerns are justified. When Sam, Annabel, and Dr. Bob discover that their fossils have been stolen, they recognize the futility of going to the police, a degree of realism often overlooked in teen fiction. The wheels of legal bureaucracy move very slowly indeed; in order to ensure his continued research, Dr. Bob understands that it is more important to get his fossils back than it is to have Battleford brought to justice. And thus the story ends. Annabel’s final comment to Sam leaves open the possibility—but not the requirement—of future installments of their story.
Back to topJohn Wilson is not only a careful historian, but a powerful weaver of tales. Wings of War joins And in the Morning (2003), Red Goodwin (2006), and Shot at Dawn (2011) to tell the story of World War One through the eyes of those the war touches, both in the trenches and on the home front. Wings of War, though, takes to the skies, exploring the life of young Edward Simpson, who learns to fly in his uncle’s wheat fields and ends up flying over Beaumont-Hamel during the most devastating battle in the war.
World War One saw a new form of warfare: no longer did men face one another only on the battlefield with guns and bayonets, but with tanks, flamethrowers, poison gas—and above, with airplanes. Eddie Simpson is already infected with the flying bug before the war begins; he knows that from the relative safety of his airplane cockpit, high above the barrage, he can contribute to the war effort. Like so many young men, he goes to war inspired by idealism, a sense of the rightness of his involvement. He recognizes early his advantages over the soldiers caught in the trenches, suffering in ways that have little to do with the enemy bullets that bombard them. It isn’t long, though, before Eddie is faced with death—both of his friends and of German soldiers shot down by his squadron. Learning the ways men handle the killing and the fear of being killed, he grows up quickly; the new recruits, older than he, seem young, innocent. At the age of seventeen, Eddie is a seasoned veteran of the air; as he says, he has already “acquired the tired look around the eyes that marks those of us who have been here longest” (146).
Eddie’s emotional and psychological development moves us; we watch as his idealism slips away and a hardened maturity grows in its place. What makes Wings of War especially engaging, though, is Wilson’s artful weaving of Eddie’s story with the technical details of early flight: airplane construction and handling, and the specialized techniques required for successful aeronautic battle. Airplanes and flying are Eddie’s life, but he struggles to reconcile the sense of freedom flying gives him with the destruction it enables. It is only fitting that his story centers around that which moves him most deeply: flying, planes, and his role as a pilot and a soldier.
Back to topNed the Mouse is in prison and spend years trying to escape before succeeding in an improbable and magic-realist sort of way. The target audience of this book is likely the 6-8 year olds, or maybe younger. It is cute, but I found it troubling in the conflict between faux-realism and the protagonist’s sudden ability to post parts of his body to his friend outside of prison and yet remain alive.
Does Tim Wynne-Jones know Margaret Buffie? Do they get together over a glass of wine and discuss the most effective methods of integrating the paranormal with the realism of their young adult fiction? When I began reading A Thief in the House of Memory, I thought it must be so, but as the novel progressed, I realized that while both authors are equally effective at this combination, the methodologies as well as the results differ. Where Buffie’s paranormal incursions into our consensus reality are unquestionably ghostly, Wynne-Jones’s Declan might be imagining his visions of his mother. But what about the bruising on his ribs after a tight hug?
For Tim Wynne-Jones is a master of YA magic realism: his ghosts weave in and out of our world, troubling, but accepted by readers as part of the real world he depicts.
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A simple text telling of the visit of a young Belarus girl suffering from the unhealthy atmosphere of the post-Chernobyl landscape. Tanya comes to Vancouver on a relief program to stay with Jillian Nelson and her family, but despite wanting to have a friend badly, Jillian finds it difficult to be a friend. The story is written with a young beginning reader in mind (ages 6-8?)—or rather, the narrative voice is simplistic enough that older readers will find it too young. The highlight of the story is not in the plot, but in Beryl Young’s insightful portrayal of the tensions between the protagonist and her Belarus guest: I don’t think I have ever read a text which manages to portray the protagonist so successfully as a jealous, spoilt, 11-year-old and yet retain my interest and affection for the girl. The characterization of the other members of the cast is equally powerful, and raise an otherwise banal and predictable story to one worth reading and sharing.
No authors yet reviewed.