Here Lies Arthur (2007), by Philip Reeve

Philip Reeve’s Here Lies Arthur is quite a departure from his other books—the Larklight and Mortal Engines series—but equally, or even more, engaging. My first thought upon reading Here Lies Arthur was: how much do modern young readers know of the Arthurian legend? How familiar are they with the old tales, the fairy tales, the legends and myths that my generation was raised with? My own children seem sadly lacking in this department, and I guess I have only myself to blame. I really hope that their unfortunate focus on more modern children’s literature (although they have both read The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, and The Dark is Rising…) is not indicative of a trend, because Here Lies Arthur requires a fairly complete knowledge of the Arthurian tales, and it is such a spectacularly interesting version that I would hope all young readers would have the chance of reading, understanding, and thus enjoying it.

The story is told from the point of view of Gwyna, a young girl who is coerced into delivering to Arthur a sword, pretending to be the lake-lady of Celtic myth. From there, the reader can see where the book will take us: Gwyna—who becomes the servant boy Gwyn to protect the astute Myrddin’s secret—soon learns the power of story in deception. The stories Myrddin spins of Arthur’s prowess, his nobility, his ability to unite the warring leaders under one British rule, are crafted with care, aimed at the single political aim of British unity and peace. Arthur, though, is cast as a warring chieftain, with all the faults of a warrior rather than the powers of a diplomat or politically astute ruler. In the afterward, Reeve tells us who in his story relates to whom in the legends we all know: most of them we will have guessed—Gwenhwyfar is Gueneviere, Cei is Sir Kay—but some names are a little harder—Medrawt is Mordred, Peredur is Sir Percival, and of course Myrddin is Merlin. The characters, as they are presented, create a far more believable narrative than the legends do, and we are as riveted by the story Reeve spins as Myrddin’s listeners were of his tales of Arthur. In the end, Gwyna articulates a knowledge that has been growing in her for years: “The real Arthur had been just a little tyrant in an age of tyrants. What mattered about him was the stories” (286). Reeve’s carefully crafted story makes us really think about the transmission of the legends that underlie our culture: for legends by definition have their basis in some historical truth, but have been altered over time to become almost mythic. Gwyna’s tale takes the reader back to a time that is hidden in the mists of romance and chivalry; it clears the air, leaving us feeling that perhaps—despite Reeve’s claims that he “did not set out to portray ‘the real King Arthur’, only to add [his] own little thumbnail to the sea of stories which surrounds him”—Philip Reeve’s version could be the closest we know to the truth.

Cape Town (2012), by Brenda Hammond

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 18.1

Cape Town

The mother of my best friend growing up was a ballet dancer in South Africa before immigrating to Canada. The stories she told came back to life as I read Brenda Hammond’s Cape Town, so similar are the feelings the protagonist Renee has towards her art. But while dancing is Renee’s raison d’être, it is not the central theme of the novel, which spans the year between February 1989 and February 1990: a time when all nations’ eyes were on South African politics and the issue of apartheid. In September 1989, F.W. de Klerk was voted into power; on 11 February 1990, Nelson Mandela was finally released from 27 years in prison; on 8 June 1990, the state of emergency was lifted; between 1990 and 1993, de Klerk’s government systematically ended over 40 years of legislated apartheid. The hope that Renee and her boyfriend Andrew feel in the new Prime Minister’s commitment “to creating a new South African free of oppression and discrimination” (323) resonates strongly at the conclusion of their story. We have lived through the struggle, seen through Renee’s naïve Afrikaans eyes. So carefully depicted is the balance between political struggle and Renee’s own internal struggles that even readers who did not live through that historical moment will understand both the horrors and the hope that surged through South Africa in the early 1990s.
Renee Pretorius is the ideal character to explore the issue of apartheid from a psychologically safe perspective, rendering the horrors of apartheid moderately accessible to a young adult audience. Renee is a young Afrikaans girl, from a traditional rural family, recently arrived in Cape Town to begin her studies at the School of Dance at the University of Cape Town. Her conservative religious and social attitudes sit uncomfortably with her innate humanism, and she soon finds herself not only communicating with, but befriending a Coloured student as well as falling in love with a young political activist of British descent. Renee and Andrew’s relationship is adeptly handled: their conflicts are based on a real social chasm, and the reader is never quite sure whether their feelings for one another will be enough to overcome the vast differences in their cultural backgrounds. Underlying all of her experiences and expressions of discomfort, though, are Renee’s strong feelings of social justice and philia, most powerfully expressed in her unquestioning love of her family’s Black servant, Kokodais.
While the dilemma Hammond creates for her characters is alleviated in the final pages, the providential political moment comes after Renee has made her decision regarding her path in life. We are thus left with both a happy ending and a firm belief that Renee has developed a strong social and political consciousness: she knows who she is, and who she wants to become.

Outcasts of River Falls (2012), by Jacqueline Guest

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 18.1.

Outcasts of River Falls

The Red River Resistance (or Rebellion) of 1869, the North-West Resistance (or Rebellion) of 1885; these are pivotal moments in Canada’s history. In the first act of resistance, Métis leaders Louis Riel and Gabrielle Dumont succeeded in establishing a provisional government and treating with the Canadian Government (although it ultimately did not go so very well); in the second, the Métis were completely defeated, and Louis Riel was hanged for high treason. So much is well known, but after the North-West Resistance the fate of the Métis people slips into the fog of history, silenced by a loud English-speaking voice from the politically powerful East. In Outcasts of River Falls, Jacqueline Guest creates a strong voice for the Métis people, telling a small part of their history in a way that young readers will not only learn from, but enjoy.
In Belle of Batoche (2004), Guest introduces us to Belle Tourond, who during the North-West Resistance comes to recognize her own fortitude and abilities. In Outcast of River Falls, Belle helps her young niece Katy discover her own strength and establish a pride in being Métis. Raised in Toronto without any knowledge of her Métis heritage, the orphaned Kathryn is sent to Alberta to join her Aunt Belle. Landed in a strange and hostile environment, Katy must not only learn a new culture, but adjust her sense-of-self to incorporate her new social position as one of the Road Allowance People: the Métis, who were not permitted to own land and so lived on the government-owned road allowances (that is, until someone White or otherwise privileged wanted the land). Katy’s confusion, the mistakes she makes, the questions she has but is afraid to ask: all ring true. Her position as not-visibly Métis complicates her experiences, and helps her—and the reader—truly understand the evils of prejudice and bigotry. The plot involves a mysterious Robin Hood figure who has been righting some of the smaller injustices perpetrated against the Métis people. Add in a crooked, offensive police officer, and a murdered bank guard, and you have the recipe for a culturally sensitive situation to which, ultimately, Katy must actively contribute. In acting to save her Aunt Belle, Katy finally accepts her true heritage: she ends with her Toronto dreams of being a lawyer firmly reestablished, but now altered: she will not only be a female lawyer on the vanguard of Canadian social progress, but a female Métis lawyer, bound by conscience to fight for the rights of her people.
Outcasts of River Falls comes with an effective Novel Study Guide, which includes synopses of the chapters as well as activities (for example, a 1900 Eaton catalogue to price purchases Katy might have made) and thoughtful study questions. This very engaging novel combined with the study guide will help elementary school teachers of early Canadian history immensely.

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.

Scribbling Women: True Tales from Astonishing Lives (2011), by Marthe Jocelyn

This review was first published in BookBird: A Journal of International Children’s Literature 50.1 (2012): 74.

Scribbling Women

The list of women Marthe Jocelyn includes in Scribbling Women spans both history and the globe, from Sen Shogagon in 10^th-century Japan to Victorian Mary Kinsley in West Africa, from Inuit Ada Blackmore in early 20^th-century Alaska to North Vietnamese Dang Thuy Tram, a doctor in the jungles of the Vietnam War.  Each of the eleven women in this volume tells a unique story of adventure and strength, and Jocelyn’s research and editorial work brings this information alive for the younger reader, aged about 10 through 14.  Some of the works of these women have been published, and so will be available in their full complexity for readers to engage with later in life; some, however, Jocelyn has brought out of dusty archives and into our lives.
Each biography is introduced by an image of the subject, and concluded with a segue into the next, linking these women’s stories across time and geography.  The biographer’s own voice tells the stories, but also lets these women speak for themselves, both in the often-difficult language of the poorly educated (“honred madam with grat plusher I take up my penn to a Quaint you…” [16]) and in transliteration for the young reader.  Gloss is provided regarding historical incidents, situations, and items that the young reader might not understand. While some complexities are necessarily lost in the simplification process, the picture of history that Jocelyn paints is sufficiently accurate and always fascinating.
The narrator interjects questions regarding the motivations of these women, asking the reader to consider these other women’s lives more fully from their perspectives: “Why didn’t she go? Would the passage have cost more money than she could put together? Was she afraid of repeating that long, perilous journey?” (23). The answer is invariably that we cannot know, but we can conjecture; the reader is thus left thinking deeply of the lives of these women so different from our own.

Winter Shadows (2010), by Margaret Buffie

A 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.

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.

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.

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 Devil’s Arithmetic (1988), by Jane Yolen

I don’t think I have read a more powerful narrative of the Holocaust aimed at young adults.  Yolen has captured the chasm between Jewish reality today and that of Nazi Germany spectacularly.  The Devil’s Arithmetic is the tale of a Jewish girl who doesn’t understand the importance of remembrance, and resists participating in the Passover Seder, preferring to hang out with her goy friends.  During a seder celebration, she is transported back to Nazi Germany, and (unbeknownst) meets her grandmother in a concentration camp.  In the end, she must choose death to save the girl who would become her grandmother.  The historicity, the pathos, the personal experience, are marvellously balanced; while we can never truly feel what the victims did, Yolen gives us a glimpse into how someone from our time might have reacted, thrust backwards in time to a terror she understood while those around her did not.

Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders (2010), by Kevin Sylvester

Kevin Sylvester promises that the third installment of the fabulous Neil Flambé Capers, Neil Flambé and the Crusader’s Curse, will be on the shelves soon. I know that lucky reviewers have their copies already, and I can’t wait to get mine! Maybe if I ask nicely Kevin will send me another autographed copy… Meanwhile, I have finally written a review of #1, Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders.  To accompany it, here is a YouTube video of how Kevin draws Neil Flambé: great for all you budding author-illustrators out there!

 

Neil Flambé and the Marco Polo Murders

In 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 his respect of 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.