The Song of the Quarkbeast (2011), by Jasper Fforde

The Song of the Quarkbeast is the welcome sequel to the Ffordian adventure that is The Last Dragonslayer, so I was very excited to be leant it by a friend… but somewhat disappointed in the outcome. While it does contain the requisite Ffordisms to be bone-ticklingly humorous, it was just a bit too “more-of-the-same” to engage me fully. The plot is sound, but the editing is lacking. Twice at least, explanations and sentences from earlier in the book are repeated in a way that seems unintentional and thus flawed (15, 45; 51, 215)… I don’t know that this is the fault of the author: after all, he must have revised the text a numerous times. Seriously, though (she said, putting on her editor’s hat), this is why authors need good editors: it is the editor’s job to make sure that technical errors, transcription errors, logical errors, and just mere unintended silliness, does not make it into the final print.

Editing and other annoying minutæ aside, The Song of the Quarkbeast has some truly magical moments.  The plot is sufficiently convoluted to support Fforde’s inane sense of humour; the characters are quirky but delightful—well, except for people like the All Powerful Blix, protagonist Jennifer Strange’s arch-nemesis (all good heroes need an arch-nemesis: just ask Perry the Platypus…) and recently appointed Court Mystician. The impetus of the fundamental conflict is the attempt by the despotic ruler to control magic and magicians, which—as Jennifer states, “are best independent … they should serve no one in particular, and be beholden to no—”… but she is cut off by the King (114). The crisis our heroes at KAZAM Inc. find themselves in is ultimately averted by a dividing Quarkbeast and a powerful spell known as the Transient Moose. How fitting, for these are two of the most loveable characters Fforde has created.  Overall, it is only my editorial OCD that impinges upon great enjoyment of Fforde’s recent foray into literature for a younger crowd; even as an adult, I eagerly await book three in the Last Dragonslayer series.

The Riddle of Stars, a trilogy by Patricia A. McKillip

It is best to review these three titles as a trilogy á la Lord of the Rings, rather than three separate novels. Series fiction has become so popular in the children’s and young adult literary world that we have forgotten the joy of a good trilogy, which combines the longevity of narrative that series fiction attempts to supply with a story that is well structured and coherent: with a beginning, a middle (climax, change of scene, rising action, another climax, another change of scene and rising action), and an end (a final climax, dénouement, and ultimately great satisfaction for the reader). Series fiction, on the other hand, often lacks the solid structure that leads to reader satisfaction: because it is written without a solid plan in the initial stages, it seldom forms as cohesive and satisfying a narrative. Don’t remind me that Dickens (among others) wrote his novels piecemeal this way, weekly, changing his plot to satisfy his readers’ opinions as he went along… I firmly believe he would have been even greater had he not suffered under such constraints!

To continue. I have not read The Riddle of Stars trilogy since I was a teen, but I cannot think why not: it was one of my absolute favourites, second perhaps only to Lord of the Rings. When I picked it up again last week, I remembered why I loved it so much. Even though I remember the essential plot, I can no longer remember the details, and the story and the world McKillip has created pulled me deep within: I ran with the vesta; I became a tree; I wept with Raederle… No trilogy or series since this—except perhaps K.V. Johansen’s Warlocks of Talverdin—has constructed for me such a complete, satisfying world, mythology, and backstory to the current narrative.

   In The Riddlemaster of Hed (1976), we meet Morgan, Prince of Hed. Morgan’s title means that he is bound irrevocably and immutably by a deep magic to his land. Not until his death—and then equally irrevocably—does his rule pass to his land-heir. But Morgan is also a Riddle Master, sent away from his agrarian homeland to study in the city of Caithnard with students from all the lands in the realm. He is torn between his identity as ruler of Hed—a land and culture that he truly understands and loves—and the three stars on his forehead that appear to mark him as something other than a ruler of cattle, pigs, and their keepers. Ultimately, he has to choose whether to pursue or abandon the riddle that is his identity. In McKillip’s world, philosophy, history, and belief are both bound and explained by the riddles the learnèd ask of each other, and their answers. Morgan has been trained in this world as much as his princedom, but there are riddles that even he cannot answer. He journeys north to Erlenstar Mountain, to seek the High One of the Realm, the only one who can answer the Riddle of his Stars, and his identity. En route he meets and befriends a number of rulers of other kingdoms; these friendships  will serve him well in his future struggles. But when he reaches the apparent end of his quest, the final words we are given are “Oh, no!” There his tale—at least in this volume—ends.

In Heir of Sea and Fire (1977), we return south to Raederle, Morgan’s intended, and the political struggles in which the world is embroiled now that the Prince of Hed has disappeared. While Raederle’s father seeks Morgan in his own way, Raederle and the two other women who love Morgan—the warrior Lyra and Morgan’s sister Tristan—abandon the pattern of their lives to seek him, and the answers to the fate that awaits their world. Parallelling Morgan’s search for identity, Raederle seeks to understand her own heritage, to learn why her wise and loving father made an oath to marry her to the man who could win a contest of Riddles with the shade of Aum of Peven, a great King and Riddle Master. She begins to comprehend her true nature, and to fear it, as much as—or more than—she fears losing Morgan.

In Harpist in the Wind (1979), while Raederle has learned her true name and nature, Morgan still struggles to determine who he is, and why the harpist Deth, whom he loved, had betrayed him so cruelly. The shape changers who pursue him to the corners of the realm, the evil Riddle Master who seeks to destroy him, even his own nature seems to battle against the peace he seeks for himself and his world. Slowly he integrates his abilities with self-knowledge, battling against self-doubt, until in the final moment—almost too late—he learns his true name, and his real place in the natural order of his world.

The Sower of Tales (2001), by Rachna Gilmore

I 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.

The Last Dragonslayer (2010), by Jasper Fforde

I read the first five of Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series as they came out in the early years of this millennium (I had to say that!), and was thrilled by the irreverent humour, the originality of concept, and the artfully handled literary allusions. “But,” I thought to myself, “these cannot be literature for the average young adult, for the simple reason that they require an extensive background in the classics of English literature.” What a shame, as I know my teenagers would love the humour and the disruption of readers’ expectations that Fforde revels in.  So finally, in 2010, Fforde gratified my hopes, and produced his first YA novel. The Last Dragonslayer reveals the refusal to conform to readers’ expectations and narrative conventions, but is playing with a sub-genre more popular among child and young adult readers: fantasy, magic, and witchcraft. The tropes Fforde plays with will be recognizable to any readers familiar with Harry Potter, or Diana Wynne-Jones’s work, or Susan Cooper’s, Lloyd Alexander’s, Michael Ende’s, Cornelia Funke’s, Christopher Paolini’s, Chris D’Lacey’s… the list goes on.

The story centres around the Kazam Mystical Arts Management company, currently run by the “apprentice” Jennifer Strange, an orphan indentured to the owner, Mr. Zambini, who has mysteriously disappeared. Kazam’s business is to rent out sorcerers and other individuals adept at what magic there is left in the world: for magic is quickly being depleted as the dragons slowly die out. The last dragon is aging, and the magical world is in upheaval. Fforde constructs a world in which magic is an inherent part of consensus reality, woven through the day-to-day complications and frustrations of contemporary middle-class life: the combination is sardonic, and hilarious.

Part of the history of magic in the Kingdom of Hereford, in the Ununited Kingdoms, where Kazam is located, are the magical creatures created before such sorcery was outlawed. The fiercest of these is the quarkbeast: “a small, hyena-shaped creature that is covered in leathery scales and often described as: One-tenth Labrador, six-tenths velociraptor and three-tenths kitchen food blender” (Song of the Quarkbeast 87). You cannot train a quarkbeast: it chooses its owner. Or not. Wild quarkbeasts are rare, and hunted much as lions or grizzlies are in our world: as trophies. Quarkbeasts are also “fiercely loyal” (120), affectionate, and “for all their fearsome looks … obedient to a fault” (94), with a “placid nature” (5) that is belied by their appearance. It is not their fault that the mere sight of one sends fear into the hearts of even the bravest; in fact, Jennifer’s “might have been so unaware [of his fearsome appearance] that he wondered why people always ran away screaming” (6). That Jennifer Strange has The Quarkbeast as her companion is a clue to the reader, as well as those around her, that she is something more than an unmagicked apprentice—which of course she also is. We like Jennifer, her fortitude and refusal to be cowed by disreputable but powerful political forces, but we love the Quarkbeast.

Jennifer Strange, prophesy says, is destined to be a key player in the political and magical situation developing in the Ununited Kingdoms. Ultimately, she has to make choices that pit her moral integrity against the financial security of those who depend upon her. The situation is sufficiently complex that readers can not necessarily anticipate her responses, and what seems to be the wrong choice turns out (in true Jasper Fforde style) to be not only right but essential.

In the Hand of the Goddess (1984), by Tamora Pierce

The sequel continues Alanna’s adventures, and at the end reveals her gender identity to those around her. Pierce continues with her ability to cast Alanna as a successfully ungendered individual until the middle of the book, when both George and Jon, who know her as a girl, begin to show interest.  Alanna’s response at this point becomes less credible than her earlier lack of interest was.  Kristin Cashore deals much more effectively with the balance between female sexuality and independence within a patriarchal society in Graceling (2008).  Still, Pierce’s writing is good, and the story compelling, albeit less successfully in this book than the first.

Tears of the Salamander (2003), by Peter Dickinson

This is an interesting and engaging pseudo-historical novel set in an alternative medieval Italy, in which alchemy and magic are powerful and feared forces.  Young Alfredo is orphaned, and moves to live with his Uncle Giorgio. He begins to learn the secrets of his family, his uncle’s control of and inextricable connection with the fiery powers of the volcano, Mt. Etna. Alfredo is destined to become his uncle’s heir, learning his powers, taking on the mystical control that he is told is his birthright. The story is engaging, but it is the characterization of young Alfredo and his associates that glows with alchemical brilliance.

While Tears of the Salamander seems to be written to a younger audience, in terms of language and length, it contains a few references which are aimed at more worldly readers, such as the topic of castration of young boys to retain their high-pitched voices in the choir and priests lusting after young boys (a passing reference).  All in all, it is a well-written and fast-moving narrative that incorporates the magic seamlessly into the everyday life of Dickinson’s alternative world. Tears of the Salamander is my favourite of Dickinson’s novels; I enjoyed it more than the similarly imaginative Ropemaker, perhaps because it is not attempting to be as epic, and is thus a more self-contained, satisfying reading experience.

 

The Ropemaker (2001), by Peter Dickinson

This is an epic narrative about the transition from one era to the next in a fantasy world.  The new era is ushered in by the passing of a token from one powerful magician to the next, and in this case facilitated by our protagonists, who must journey out of the comfort of their pastoral valley existence to locate the magician who can help them heal their valley… so they think.  But they are caught up on the affairs of the Empire, and set in motion the changes that herald the coming of the new era.

It is well written, but a bit long for the tale.  Unlike Lord of the Rings, there are not enough politics to sustain the length of the book, and it drags at points.  Regardless, it is a fascinating and original story, and does lead one to want to read the sequel, Angel Isle (2007). That is not to say the ending is unsatisfying—the text stands alone completely; the sequel must be another story in the same setting, but not requiring a connection to the intricate and complete plot of The Ropemaker. It is on my self, so maybe I should read it next…

Transmigration (2012), by Nicholas Maes

This review was first published in Resource Links Magazine, “Canada’s national journal devoted to the review and evaluation of Canadian English and French resources for children and young adults.” It appears in volume 17.5.

Transmigration

Whoa. 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 ascendancy 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.

Alanna: The First Adventure (1983), by Tamora Pierce

“Sure,” I thought facetiously, “that’s an original plot element: girl dresses up as a boy to become a knight…” But Alanna gripped me fro the first moment.  To begin with, she is a twin, so disguising herself as her brother has a certain amount of feasibility. Pierce’s description of the character, too, lends credibility to her lot; ultimately, we are willing to forgive any implausibilities for the engaging and enjoyable story.
Alanna (“Alan”) is gifted with magic, as are many people in her world; she is a healer but wants to become a night, not a lady. Her wise-woman mentor tells her that she must cultivate her gift, in order to offset the violence and death that a knight brings to the world.  The book is of course a bildungsroman of Alanna’s growing into young womanhood while masquerading as a boy—complete with her distress at breasts and her period—but it is also largely about how Alanna comes to balance the two sides of her being: knight and healer. The metaphor is not overt; young readers will imbibe the message women of the 1980s were learning: it is difficult to balance home and autonomy, nurturing of self and others, as women forged their path into what had for so long been exclusively a man’s world.  Alanna is a delightful, while powerful, adventure that will give strength to young female readers, but be equally engaging for boys, as Alanna’s comrades are interesting, well-developed characters in themselves.
            Alanna: The First Adventureis the first of a series of four novels in the Song of the Lioness series; it is followed by In the Hand of the Goddess (1984), The Woman Who Rides Like a Man (1986), and Lioness Rampant (1988).  Alanna also appears in Pierce’s other series, The Immortals, Protector of the Small, and Daughter of the Lioness.

Stardust (1998), by Neil Gaiman

A star falls in Faërie, and is hunted by three separate individuals for their own gain.  This story is an original plot line, although like other magical fantasies it combines a number of known tropes and mythologies. Like Gaiman’s Neverwhere, the audience is not well defined: the style is very much in keeping with the narrative voice and fairy-story style of Diana Wynne Jones’s Howl’s Moving Castle, which makes it seem like a children’s or very young adult novel, while the content (descriptive [although not graphic] passages of a sexual nature, for example) place it on the adult shelves in most bookstores. Wikipedia asserts that this is the “first solo prose novel by Gaiman,” but I think I would consider that Neverwhere.  Stardust was in the first instance a “novel with pictures,” serially published in comic/graphic novel form; then a hardcover novel without images; then a 2007 movie which, while necessarily different, is as entertaining and engaging as the print versions (in my estimation).