Hunted (2012), by Cheryl Rainfield

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.

Hunted

While 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.

Post-Human (2009), by David Simpson

Accepting that Post-Human is self-published by David Simpson, a young Vancouver author, we can overlook a number of publishing and editorial mistakes.  The plot itself is original and interesting: humankind has approached physical perfection through the introduction of nanobots into our bodies.  When a universal update goes devastatingly wrong, a few scientists momentarily off-line on Venus are saved.  The plot revolves around their search for other surviving humans, and their battle against the A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) that has taken over control of the nanosystem.  Concepts in the story remind one strongly of M. T. Anderson’s Feed (2002) melded with William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), but Simpson has introduced a number of interesting elements that bear consideration by those readers interested in contemplating where modern and futuristic technology will take the human race.  The strongest success in the novel is the characterization; Simpson’s ethnically interesting mix of characters avoids stereotypes and allows us to engage readily with individuals on both sides of the human conflicts that develop.  Overall, a very interesting novel that suffers most from a lack of professional editing and publication.

House of Stairs (1974), by William Sleator

A dystopic novel of the future, in which a collection of teens find themselves in a large room—or auditorium—that consists entirely of stairs, and a strange vending machine. This is my recollection—I haven’t read this since 1979.  The vending machine distributes food in a rather Pavlovian way: the children are being conditioned to act in certain ways; when they do, they are rewarded with food.  Once they discover what is going on—and that the behaviour being asked of them is aggression—a subset of the youths refuse to cooperate.  When I first read this text, it was a powerful introduction to the notion of mind-control, and resistance, and the necessity of thinking for oneself and standing for what one knew to be right.

I remember the conflict, the emotions, the strength the characters have to call up from deep inside to resist their basic biological needs in an effort to preserve their own sense of integrity. The final scene, once they are seemingly inexplicably freed, haunts me to this day. A spectacular novel at the time, and one I think that has weathered well the sands of time and technological advancement.

Shade’s Children (1997), by Garth Nix

Fifteen years before the story opens, the Change occurred.  Adult’s disappeared.  Children were rounded up by the Overlords, and corralled into dormitories.  At 14, they are sent to the “Meat Factory,” the “Central Processing Facility,” where their brains are used to create the Overlords’ “creatures”: Myrmidons, Trackers, and Wingers, who fight for the Overlords in their unending battles for power.  Occasionally, though, a child escapes…
Gold-Eye is one such child, but his chances are slim until he is rescued by a group of teens who call themselves Shade’s Children. They take him home to their base, where he is trained to fight alongside Ella, Drum, and Ninde against the Overlords.  But Shade is not all that he appears to be, and ultimately the friends learn that they must make their own decisions regarding not only their lives, but what it means to be human.
This is an excellent story, well constructed and suspenseful.  In terms of psychological realism, it rises above many of its contemporaries, and mature young readers will be pleased that Nix dumbs down neither his writing style, nor his content; you cannot trust that all will be well in the end, but you can trust that it will all make sense.

A Wind in the Door (1973), by Madeline L’Engle

“If someone knows who he is, really knows, then he doesn’t need to hate” (98).  This is the fundamental premise of L’Engle’s second installment in the Time Quartet. When I read it as a teen, I remember thinking this novel far less accessible than A Wrinkle in Time, an impression that is less strong as an adult reader.  It does still fall below the first novel in terms of interest level, mainly, I think, because the underlying metaphor—however inspiring—does not provide enough variety when sustained over the length of the novel.

The story opens with Charles Wallace, now a severely bullied grade one student, seeing “dragons” (which turns out to be a “cherubim,” the first demand upon the readers incredulity) in the garden. We then descend down to the lowest level of biological life, the mitochondria (real) and farandolae (fictional) that are a part of mammalian cells. Meg and Calvin, with their hitherto despised principal, Mr. Jenkins, embark on a Fantastic Voyage into Charles Wallace to save him—by saving his farandolae—from illness. The metaphoric lesson is social, political, and environmental: we must work together—at all levels and in all ways—for the greater good. The Echthroi that the protagonists fight are posited as the cause of all war, all evil: implicitly the “Black Thing” that they first encounter in A Wrinkle in Time. Perhaps that is what bothered me as a child: the basis of evil is too simplistic, the message too transparent, where subtlety would be more effective. The message of Naming as self-empowerment is repeated far too often: there is only the one theme around which each of the three trials Meg and her friends face is centred.

So why, then, does this novel still succeed? I think the answer lies, once again, in the characters L’Engle has created. Even Mr. Jenkins, whose transformation from harsh administrator to a more compassionate man would be unbelievable in less adept authorial hands, is presented such that we believe his change is not only real, but permanent. The wisdom of Mrs. and Mr. Murry, briefly revealed, also rings true, and is far more effective social and environmental instruction than the more pervasive metaphor underlying the plot. And Meg has grown: her insecurities are still there, still real, but she has become more self-aware, which enables her to face the new challenges valiantly.

A Wrinkle in Time (1962), by Madeline L’Engle

A classic of American children’s literature, this series is particularly powerful for young girls who feel that they don’t fit in because “girls aren’t supposed to be smart.”  Meg Murry was long one of my fictional heroes, and her strength in saving her brother when her father was unable to do so made me feel that girls had abilities that men and boys never could.  It was an empowering thought, raised in small-town BC in the 1960s-80s.  The science fiction aspects of the novel, the dystopic elements of the world Meg’s father is found in, all strike a cord in the heart of girls who want to travel to the stars just as much as their brothers do.

A Wrinkle in Time (1962)

I wrote the introductory comments years ago, but still from memories of reading the series as a youth. Now, on the occasion of the 50^th anniversary of the publication of A Wrinkle in Time, there has been some discussion of the series on the child_lit listserve run out of Rutgers University (https://email.rutgers.edu/mailman/listinfo/child_lit). In honour of the occasion, in deference to a text that sincerely influenced my life as a youth, I felt I should re-read the novel, as an adult.  Not surprisingly, my opinion differs slightly from my memories…

“It was a dark and stormy night. In her attic bedroom, Meg Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed…” Even Snoopy pays homage to the opening of the novel. Repeatedly. The image of young Meg, her normal strength of character overcome by the storm, sets the stage for the battle between strength and insecurity that she engages in through the course of the narrative. Perhaps it is this internal struggle that rings most true with young female readers; I think it was for me. Through it all, Meg does not conquer unequivocally; she does not vanquish the foe; she merely survives, and saves the ones she loves, prepared—later, in a more mature moment—to continue the fight against The Black Thing that is Evil manifested.

A Wrinkle in Time still stands out as a monumental text in the tradition of female protagonists: how many of us have felt inspired by Meg’s need to think outside the box: like Einstein, to be allowed to show her intellect in the way that works for her? I must admit that I never fully identified with Meg, or Calvin, or Charles Wallace—I was not that brilliant—but I lived with someone who should have (my brother) and I now live with another (my daughter, although I have yet to convince her to read the novel!). I was nonetheless intelligent enough to suffer in highschool for my difference (no dates for me!) and thus sympathized intensely with Meg’s position. I dreamed of a way to show that my difference was not “weird” or abnormal, and tutored as many students—both marginalized and popular—as I could, to show that I bore them no ill will, in the hopes that then they would bear me none.  Mostly, it worked; often, though, I would retreat into novels, where I could live vicariously through the (mostly male) protagonists, who managed to find ways to realize their dreams, their possibilities. Meg was a God-send; she was everything Heinlein’s male protagonists were, and more: a loving daughter, a good Christian, a strong girl but with natural and (I felt) inevitable insecurities in a man’s world: a girl I could look up to.

Her story, too, was simple yet profound. L’Engle creates alternate worlds that for all their otherness ring psychologically true—I think still today; certainly they were completely believable (once you suspended your disbelief regarding time and space travel) in the 1970s when I first read the series. Reading the novel as an adult, I am surprised at the simplicity of the prose, at Calvin’s quick and unquestioning acceptance of his role as Meg’s boy-friend-to-be. As a youth, I remember the (what I thought as) subtle romance to be perfectly presented; now I think it a little heavy-handed. But the relationship between Meg and Charles Wallace, and Meg and her father, are perfectly portrayed, even to a modern, mature reader. I remember, too, not knowing—honestly not knowing—what it was that Meg had that IT didn’t… until she discovered it herself.  And I wonder whether modern readers have more narrative expectation behind their reading of the novel. Will they experience the joy that I did as a young girl, discovering L’Engle’s worlds and ideas as new and innovative? How much of it will seem surprising and original to today’s readers, given how much has been written since, piled upon the shoulders of literary giants such as A Wrinkle in Time?

Look for the reviews of the sequels: A Wind in the Door (1973), A Swiftly Tilting Planet (1978), and Many Waters (1986) to follow as I finish them…

The Black Box (2010), by K. V. Johansen

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 16.3.

The Black Box

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).

Leviathan (2009), by Scott Westerfeld

In honour of my daughter’s 13th birthday today, I thought I should post a review of a book she loves. Then I read through my list and realized that I haven’t reviewed most of the books both she and I have read. Now I will have to go back and read them again to do them justice. In fact, I intend to reread Westerfeld’s “th” series—Leviathan, Behemoth, and Goliath—in order to present a more meaningful analysis of this series, which does so much for the steampunk sub-genre as well as presenting a brilliant alternative historical account of World War One. I know from talking to students (and Westerfeld himself) that the series is a fabulous introduction for students interested in world history. I firmly believe in the power of books not only to entertain and amaze, but also to entice young readers to question the world around them in important ways. Westerfeld’s text—all of them—do this admirably.

Leviathan

Westerfeld’s combination of steampunk and biological fantasy functions to create an interesting alternative history of World War I.  From the adult perspective, it will certainly engage young readers in European history; from a less pragmatic perspective it is one of the more gripping books for older child readers that I have encountered in a while.  It takes the archaic setting of Philip Reeve’s Larklight and increases the stakes.  Where Larklight is a romp, Leviathan—and Behemoth and Goliath that follow—concern life and death struggles; serious dilemmas concerning faithfulness, duty, friendship, and honour; questions of individual rights in the face of societal and national needs; and a perspicacious loris…
In terms of plot, Westerfeld pits the Darwinists (Britain and her allies) against the steampunk Clankers (Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire).  The protagonists are placed in a complicated relationship, Alek being the son of the murdered Archduke Ferdinand and Deryl being a commoner in the British Air Force: a girl, masquerading as a boy to fulfill her dream of flying in one of the Darwinist creations: the biological ecosystem that is the airship Leviathan.  In Leviathan, we meet the protagonists in their separate lives; as they move towards one another and we learn their personalities, Europe moves towards war and we learn the nuances of Westerfeld’s alternate historical setting.

Ender’s Game (1985), by Orson Scott Card

Set in Earth’s future, Ender’s Game tells of a young boy, allowed to be born because his two siblings were almost the right individuals for the government’s purpose.  Families are allowed only two children, except in this situation, and Andrew, who calls himself Ender, is teased for being a “Third.”  Of course, as he is the protagonist, he does turn out to be “the one,” and is sent off to military school for boys at the age of 6.  The issue we are asked to consider is what forces are positive, what negative, in the formation of a young boy’s psyche and sense of identity.  Ender struggles with his similarity to his detested—and somewhat psychotic—older brother, Peter; he also struggles to endure the isolation forced upon his at Battle School.  As he matures—both emotionally and socially—he learns some hard but true lessons about life and society—both his and ours.  This was apparently written as an adult novel, but the protagonist is young enough that young people have taken to reading it.  I would not recommend it for younger children, but those who have begun to contemplate their own selves and identities, and their place in the world, would probably enjoy—or at least learn from—Ender’s struggles and ultimate success.