The Secret of Willow Castle (1966), by Lyn Cook

Not long ago, I was out in Ontario celebrating the 100^th anniversary of the War of 1812, staying in Brant County, one-time home to Sara Jeannette Duncan, E. Pauline Johnson, Adelaide Hoodless, and other notable early Canadian women. Although Brantford was fascinating, I was rather sad that it lies so far from Westport, up near Kingston, where author Lyn Cook still lives. I have spoken to Lyn Cook a number of times by telephone; she is a delightful woman: sharp, engaging, knowledgeable, and with a sense of humour that makes me really want to meet her in person. But alas, on this last trip, it was not to be. The next best thing, though, was visiting the… bookstore? library? home? of Mr. Nelson Ball, who has been slowly selling off his Canadiana library over the years, and who had a store of Lyn Cook first editions. Having already depleted my book budget, I could only choose one, so I purchased The Secret of Willow Castle, the favourite childhood book of Lisa Wood, my host in Brantford. She loved this book so much, she tells me, that she forced her parents to take her to Napanee, to see where it takes place. Doubtless Napanee has changed since 1834, but one always hopes to find something of the story still lingering…

For The Secret of Willow Castle is based on real people: Henrietta MacPherson and her family existed; she appears on both the 1861 and 1871 Canadian census records, still living with her parents. A comment in the end matter of the book tells us that “in the town of Napanee, Ontario, Henrietta’s home still stands now, as it did in 1834, on the river bank looking towards the falls. The mills are gone but a plaque in a hillside park marks their place, and the willows still trail their branches in the quiet waters of the pond.” The house is in fact now the Napanee town museum, with its own website. So too is there ample historical evidence of Henrietta’s cousin John Alex, who weaves his way in and out of her life, an inspiration to her growing sense of honour and responsibility. John Alex is in fact John Alexander MacDonald, destined to be the first Prime Minister of Canada. There are sufficient indications of his growing political acumen, and discussion of his future should he choose to enter politics, but never is he firmly identified. The unaware reader does not stumble over the politics in the story, which are natural comments made by the adults, not ideologies masking as narrative. Politics are only interesting to Henrietta because she is a curious child who wants to know what the adults around her are discussing. The reader, like Henrietta, learns just enough to stay interested: “’Tis not usual for young ladies of eleven to be interested in politics, childie, but if you want to know, I’ll tell you” (31), her father tells her, and includes her in his discussion with John Alex about William MacKenzie’s leadership, couching his discussion in terms that young Henrietta will understand.

Despite its extensive and solid connection with Canada’s real history, I read The Secret of Willow Castle with no introduction other than that a friend had liked it. I knew nothing of the history of Napanee, or its connection to John A. MacDonald or Canadian history as a whole. To me, The Secret of Willow Castle was an entrancing story of a young girl being raised by an affluent and morally honourable family in the early 1830s. The tone of the novel reminded me of Louisa May Alcott’s Eight Cousins (1875), undoubtedly my favourite book as a girl, as the sense of a young girl needing to learn her place in the world, not only as a woman but as a member of an entitled family, resonates in both.

The story begins with young Henrietta MacPherson—having recently celebrated her 11^th birthday—awaiting the arrival of her favourite cousin, John Alex. John Alex brings her a present, but in her excitement, she demands that she receive it immediately. The moral current of the novel is set here, for her father allows her to open the present, but not to actually use it until she learns to behave in a more controlled manner. John Alex agrees, noting that she will learn such control as she grows older. While Henrietta is not—and does not become—a meek, obedient child, such as this scene might suggest both the author and the parents would like, she does learn both control and responsibility through the course of the story. Allowed to accompany her father to the gristmill they own, she discovers a mysterious new friend, Sarah, who has created a “secret castle” in a willow tree by the river. The girls become fast friends, hiding notes in the tree when they cannot meet, but contriving to meet whenever they can. The friendship between the girls is the underlying thread that weaves through the other events in Henrietta’s story: being barred from a skating party; attending a fair; meeting the neighbour’s slave, Jim, and questioning the morality of his situation; helping to settle a long-standing feud with another family; visiting the local wise woman for medical aid; being surprised with a trip on a river schooner; and participating in the day-to-day life of young girls in the mid 1800s. The girls’ lives are thrown into turmoil, though, when Sarah, an orphan servant to a neighbour, is at risk of being sent away to a family fallen on hard times. Just as the crisis reaches its climax, Henrietta falls dangerously ill.  Narrative expectation tells us that all must work out in the end, and the reader can almost—but not quite—see the path of Sarah and Henrietta’s story before it unfolds. There is no overarching dramatic tension in the story—despite a few tense scenes—but drama and excitement are not the point of The Secret of Willow Castle. This novel has significantly more substance than the faster-paced sensationalist story often written for youth today. The Secret of Willow Castle is both an extremely well researched and seemingly faithful representation of early Canadian life, and a heart-warming portrayal of a young girl’s growth into a strong, liberal-minded young woman to whom friendship and family remain paramount.

Treasure Island (1883), by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have recently reviewed Adira Rotstein’s Little Jane and the Nameless Isle (2013), the protagonist of which is Long John Silver’s granddaughter. Significantly, her father’s name was Jim… I knew enough of Stevenson’s story to tell where the allusions lay—and what they were to—but it struck me as oddly amiss that I had never actually read Treasure Island as a child. Finding a copy in my bedroom when visiting my cousin last week, I set about to remedy the omission.

It was strange to read—finally—a book that I have seen reproduced in both live action and animated film, as well as heard of for so long. Treasure Island is the source of so many of our cultural tropes about pirates: the peg leg, the parrot on the shoulder, “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” and X marks the spot. So I was not blind to the significance of Long John Silver when he appeared, a precognition that I thought detracted from my reading experience. As the story went on, though, I discovered that there is a good reason that this is one of English literature’s classics. Stevenson’s characters are as intricately developed as his plot; the narrative chicanery young Jim encounters and sometimes creates are brilliantly conceived and wonderfully executed. The language, too, is accessible and interesting: young readers will learn not only the tropes, but also some real information about life—especially sailing and navigation—in the mid eighteen hundreds.

I think I didn’t like Treasure Island as much as did Captain Marryat’s Children of the New Forest (1847), perhaps because I like camping in the forest more than life on the high seas, but I really do understand why children even now love Stevenson’s novels.

The Children of the New Forest (1847), by Captain Marryat

This is, of course, a modern cover… I unfortunately do not own a 1st edition, much as I would love to.

Captain Frederick Marryat (1792-1848) is well known as a Victorian novelist as well as an officer in the Royal Navy. His semi-autobiographical Mr. Midshipman Easy (1836) and his later Masterman Ready (1841)—both naval adventures—are perhaps his most famous works, but he wrote a total of 26 novels beginning with The Naval Officer in 1829. His final two novels—The Little Savages and Valerie—were published posthumously in 1848. It is interesting to note that Marryat spent time in both the USA and Canada, and in fact took part in the British defense during the 1837 Rebellion in Upper Canada. His novels set in North America thus exhibit far more authenticity than those of, for example, G. A. Henty’s later “Boys’ Own” style Imperialist adventure tales.

Published in 1847, The Children of the New Forest was the last novel released while the author still lived. Unlike his more swashbuckling naval and military adventure novels, Children of the New Forest is historical, set during the English Civil War and Cromwellian rule in England. A Victorian historical novel appeals on a number of grounds, but I must admit that I had long put off reading Children of the New Forest, thinking that it would be a significant investment in time and energy, Victorian boys’ novels being what they are: wordy and often unnecessarily pompous or overly didactic in tone. Those that are not, I have found—per Henty and Haggard—are often almost offensively Imperialist. This renders them fascinating to study, but not so enjoyable to read. Still, when I was at a loss for what to read on the bus coming home from the office a few weeks ago, I pulled Marryat’s novel off the shelf and began at the beginning. By the time I reached home an hour later, I was a quarter of the way through the book and thoroughly engaged. I finished it within three days.

The story tells of the four children of the loyalist Colonel Beverley, who is killed defending King Charles I against the Cromwellian army in the Battle of Naseby in 1645. His home is subsequently destroyed, and the

This frontispiece of the Beverley mansion burning was created by Marryat’s son (http://www.bl.uk/collections/early/victorian/children/childn3.html).

children presumed dead. To keep them safe, however, a loyal retainer has taken them to his woodsman’s cottage deep in the New Forest, where they grow to semi-adulthood before his death of old age. The eldest son takes a post as secretary to a sympathetic Forest Warden, and eventually becomes embroiled in the Royalist plans to restore the monarchy. Hidden identities, love affairs, politics, loyalties and legalities: Children of the New Forest has it all, presented in prose that is fluid, with descriptions that are lush and poetic. Perhaps it is because I do start out liking Regency and Victorian novels—when I have the leisure to devote to them—but despite expectations I found The Children of the New Forest a lively, entertaining, yet informative tale that I strongly recommend to any modern reader—of any age—interested in British history, childhood studies, or just a well-written tale of honour, loyalty, and survival in hard times.

The Luxe (2007), by Anna Godberson

Anna Godberson’s The Luxe is touted as “similar to the Gossip Girl series, featuring beautiful socialites and various romantic encounters” (Wikipedia); I have not yet decided whether I am upset or relieved that this is misleading.  The Luxe is far more like a Georgette Heyer novel, only with more words and explanation and less action and plot, if such a thing can be imagined.  The word “innocuous” springs to mind… its existence, while inconsequential, lies in contrast to my opinion of Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, and The Clique as morally and ethically problematic, if not dangerous.  The plot of The Luxe is mundane and predictable, the writing mediocre, and the sexual exploits of the characters comparatively innocent.  The temporal distance—and the author’s interpretation of Victorian American society—means that the social transgressions that Elizabeth and Diana Holland—and even Penelope Hayes—are responsible for are tame compared to those exhibited by their more modern counterparts.  In The Luxe, the protagonist is a marriageable age, so her serious romance with a coachman—instead of the rich gentleman her family needs her to marry—is romantic, and risky, but not risqué.  For the modern reader, crossing class boundaries this way does not resonate… at least not in Godberson’s text.  Similarly, Diana meeting her “crush” in a greenhouse at 9 pm will not thrill readers who no doubt have much later curfews themselves—and often break them.  Godberson does not manage to instill in her text the sense of adventure—sexual or otherwise—that she is obviously attempting to; readers wanting the combination of innocence and sexual adventure The Luxe purports to provide should perhaps seek out Georgette Heyer instead (but you didn’t read that here…)

There Will Be Wolves (1992), by Karleen Bradford

Karleen Bradford has recreated the People’s Crusade with a careful attention to historicity: her characters are believable and stay true to their medieval sensibilities.  Even in the end, Ursula’s view of her world remains consistent.  It is a monumental achievement on the part of the author; creating believable characters from such a harsh, unforgiving period of history is no easy task.  The plot itself skims over much of the actual pilgrimage, focusing on essential points to help the reader understand the changes that occurred in the atmosphere of the Crusade and the attitudes of the People Crusaders.  I would recommend this far before Karen Cushman’s Catherine, Called Birdy (1994) in terms of representation of this period; it lies between the comfort of Cushman’s novel and the graphic warfare of John Wilson’s Heretic series (also exceptional).  For the more sensitive reader, Bradford is perfect: the reality is reflected, the horror is portrayed, but the graphic details are minimized.

The Sign of the Beaver (1959), by Elizabeth George Speare

This is a seemingly fairly accurate presentation of the life of a young teenage boy left to tend the homestead while his father returns to civilization to fetch his mother, younger sister, and a new baby.  In the early days, Matt makes a number of mistakes, but is saved from the consequences of his stupidity by a local First Nations chief and his teenaged grandson.  Under arrangements by the grandfather, the two boys must work together, and consequently learn to first respect and then appreciate each other as brothers.  Each boy comes to manhood in his own, culturally specific way, and they part knowing that each must follow the path his own society constructs for him.  While not a YA novel, it presents a mature depiction of cross-cultural understanding that the young reader can learn from positively.

The power of the novel, however, is offset by the advertisement in the back pages for Speare’s Calico Captive, of which chapter 2 is reprinted.  Calico Captive, unlike either The Sign of the Beaver or The Witch of Blackbird Pond, seems to rely heavily on negative stereotypes of First Nations aggression.  While White people were historically taken captive, the scenes presented—albeit in isolation—from this third novel do not hold up well to scrutiny.

Torn from Troy: The Odyssey of a Slave (2011), by Patrick Bowman

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 16.5.

This novel is published here in Vancouver, by a local, family-owned press: Ronsdale. The owners of Ronsdale Press are active environmentalists, and bring their ethical attitudes to their work, choosing carefully what and whom to publish. I wish there were more socially conscious small presses around these days, and that it were easier, financially, for them to stay in business.

Torn from Troy

Patrick Bowman’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.

Wonderstruck (2011), by Brian Selznick

My first impression of Wonderstruck was that it was painful.  Seriously: physically painful.  With arthritis in my hands, holding open a book of this size was difficult, but the wonder of the story was worth every moment, and I did read it in one long sitting.

Like The Invention of Hugo Cabret (2007), Wonderstruck is both written and drawn.  In Wonderstruck, though, Selznick has worked with time and dreamscape to create two separate storylines—one written, one drawn—which ultimately coalesce, leaving the reader with a strong sense of satisfaction in knowing the truth that has slowly been developing through the asymptotically approaching plotlines.  Ben lives in the woods of Minnesota in 1977; Rose lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, in 1927.  Ben lives with one deaf ear, and suffers an accident which temporarily causes him to lose hearing in the other ear; Rose is deaf, and lives at the moment when silent film was transitioning to the “talkies.”  Both children share a need to belong, and this need carries them to New York, where their two stories merge together at the “Cabinet of Wonders” at the American Museum of Natural History.  As Ben unravels the secrets of his past, he enters Rose’s drawn world; it is as powerful as the wardrobe into Narnia, for readers now see Ben, and the older Rose, and both of their searches end happily.

Selznick has created another masterpiece, more effective, I think, than Hugo Cabret before it. The illustration is equally superb, but the narrative structure of Wonderstruck is superior. To this, add the sense of fateful coincidence—of nothing really being coincidence—that Blue Balliett plays with so successfully in Chasing Vermeer (2004), and we have in our hands another spectacular novel that will engage readers of all ages

Call Me Aram (2009), by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

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 14.3.

Call Me Aram

“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.

Grail: The Heretic’s Secret, Book II (2010), by John Wilson

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 16.2.

Grail

Grail 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.