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.

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 Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (2006), by John Boyne

John Boyne’s latest novel, The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket (2013), has been shortlisted for the Irish Book Award: Children’s Book of the Year, an honour that The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas won when it was published in 2006; like The Boy in Striped Pyjamas, it has also been longlisted for the Carnegie Medal, so I felt that before reviewing it for Resource Links magazine (it is only due to be released this March), I felt I should read Boyne’s other two children’s books.  According to John Boyne’s website, The Boy in Striped Pyjamas also won the “Irish Book Award People’s Choice Book of the Year, Bisto Book of the Year, Que Leer Award Best International Novel of the Year (Spain), Orange Prize Readers Group Book of the Year.” It was shortlisted for the “British Book Award, the Border’s New Voices Award; the Ottaker’s Children’s Book Prize, the Paolo Ungari Literary Award (Italy), Irish Book Award Irish Novel of the Year Award; the Leeds Book Award; the North-East Book Award; the Berkshire Book Award; the Sheffield Book Award; the Lancashire Book Award; Prix Farniente (Belgium); Flemish Young Readers Award; Independent Booksellers Book of the Year; Deutschen Jugend Literatur Preis (Germany).” It was also longlisted for the “Carnegie Medal and the International IMPAC Literary Award.” Quite the list of honours. It is really difficult, psychologically, to review a book that has won such accolades when I personally find it highly problematic. I am actually speaking of both the Boyne books I have read, but let us stick to The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas for the moment; my review of Barnaby Brocket will be published elsewhere fairly soon.
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas has a relatively simple plot. The protagonist, Bruno, is the son of a Nazi officer, recently promoted to Commandant of a place that Bruno mistakenly calls Out-With. Bruno does not understand why the people on the other side of the fence wear “striped pyjamas,” or why Pavel, who claims to be a doctor, should be serving him dinner. Bruno disobeys his parents’ command never to leave his residential compound, and goes “exploring” along the fence, for “for almost two hours” (107).  Eventually, a young boy, Shmuel, comes to the fence and talks to him. The two build a friendship, just talking through the fence, until one day—the day before Bruno is scheduled to return to Berlin with his mother and sister—Bruno crawls under the loose wire of the fence to help Shmuel look for his father, who has disappeared. Things do not go well in the end, and Bruno’s father—finally figuring out what has happened to his lost son—is left to consider the personal ramifications of his engagement with the Nazi atrocities.
A number of children’s literature experts on the child_lit listserv took umbrage with The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, one at least feeling that it was inappropriate to ask the reader to be sympathetic to a Nazi child or, more significantly, to a Nazi parent, given the historical situation. My own opinion is that Boyne does manage to create a child narrator who is sympathetic in his naïveté; interestingly, though, it is that very naïveté that offends me as a reader.
There is a commercial currently playing on Canadian television for belVita breakfast bars—I believe—in which the 5-year-old child (or thereabouts) pictures his father “crawling through traffic” and being “buried under a mountain of paperwork” in his office. The young child visualizes the phrases literally, which is comic in an advertisement. In Boyne’s novel, however, Bruno exhibits the same lack of development, the same inability to interpret his world, as the child in the ad. The problem is: Bruno is 9 years old. Still, he cannot pronounce Auschwitz or Führer, repeating “Out-With” and “Fury” even after being corrected by his remarkably precocious 12-year-old sister.  That he does not understand his father’s job intimately is not surprising, but that he has no idea—and when asked in class, “he realized that he didn’t know himself. All he could say was that his father was a man to watch and that the Fury had big things in mind for him. Oh, and that he had a fantastic uniform, too” (5). Later, when he forgets to salute, his father reminds him, and Bruno “made the signal, and said the phrase and imitated him exactly. … ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, which, he presumed, was another way of saying, ‘Well, goodbye for now, have a pleasant afternoon” (53-54). To solidify our opinion of his intellect, Bruno later asks his father of Hitler: “Well, who is he anyway?) (117).
The Deutsches Jungvolk—the younger division of the Hitlerjugend (Hitler Youth) movement—had children from ages 10 and up. In fact, German elementary schools were universally teaching anti-Semitic doctrine as early as 1937. Mary Mills presents the following school math problem on her website: “The Jews are aliens in Germany—in 1933 there were 66,060,000 inhabitants in the German Reich, of whom 499,682 were Jews. What is the per cent of aliens?” (from Herbert Hirsch, Genocide and the Politics of Memory (Chapel Hill & London: U of North Carolina P, 1995) 119). Hitler’s propaganda machine even rewrote traditional fairy tales, as discussed in Ron Schlesinger’s 2010 investigation of “Red Riding Hood in the Third Reich: German fairy tale movies between 1933 and 1945.” As the children of a Nazi Commandant, Bruno and his sister would undoubtedly have been inculcated with Nazi propaganda from an early age, as were their peers. It is highly unlikely that Bruno’s parents shielded him from such ideological inculcation, given his father’s profession. If indeed they had shielded their children from the world, how do we account for the sexual precociousness of his sister, Gretel, who flirts, “putting on a silly voice that made her sound as if she hadn’t a thought in her head” (79), with one of the soldiers, Lieutenant Kotler?
Another logistical anomaly is the loose wire Bruno finds in the fence, exactly where he happens to rest, and happens to meet Shmuel. In the end, the boys use it to sneak Bruno into the camp; but if such an escape route existed, and Shmuel understood the gravity of his position—which is made explicit at times—why would Shmuel—and others—not have snuck out? Similarly, a 9-year-old concentration camp inmate would never have collaborated in sneaking a boy he cared for into the camp: the stakes were too high. Even more problematic, though, is Shmuel’s mere existence in Auschwitz, where children too young for arduous manual labour (as young Shmuel was) were immediately gassed, along with the old and infirm.
Effective literature for children about the Holocaust is very difficult to create. Lois Lowry has been criticized because her Number the Stars (1989) tells of perhaps the only Holocaust story with a happy ending: the transportation of the Danish Jews to neutral Sweden in 1943. But is there a way to write of the real horrors for young readers? I don’t mean stories of World War II, such as Donna Jo Napoli’s superb Stones in Water (1999), but stories of the Holocaust itself: of the persecution of the Jews and others sent to the death camps. For young adult readers, we have, or course, Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl (1947; English translation 1952), as well as Elie Weisel’s Night (1958), Art Spiegelman’s Maus (1986), Jane Yolen’s The Devil’s Arithmetic (1988), Jerry Spinelli’s Milkweed (2003), and actually quite a few others. For younger readers, though? Perhaps Roberto Innocenti’s picture book Rose Blanche (1986), or Judith Kerr’s When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit (1971), but I can think of none other that are both sufficiently historically truthful and yet psychologically palatable for the young. Certainly The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, in my estimation, does not succeed

Little Brother (2008), by Cory Doctorow

Little Brother plays to one of my worst fears, even a phobia: the abuse of power by petty officials. Border crossings are particularly troubling for me, as for years I was exactly the sort of person into whose backpack less-reputable individuals might slip something, to be reclaimed on the other side. I am not usually paranoid, but I must admit to repeated anxiety every time we approached a border or airport security in our years travelling around Europe and Asia.  So imagine my response to the opening scenes of Little Brother, in which Marcus and his friends are arrested as terrorists, merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cory Doctorow’s intent of causing the reader to question the balance of power in post-9/11 America was thus particularly effective for me. I almost put the book down, so worried was I of where the novel might take me. Then I remembered I have read all of Robert Cormier’s novels (one after another—do that and try to avoid depression and trauma), how bad could it get? I am so glad I persevered, as Doctorow’s protagonist is a brilliantly constructed example of my favourite type of teen geek, one who understands his own ability with technology—the power of the future—and yet is young and naïve enough not to understand fully the political powers that control his reality. He is a combination of so many real teens and the rarer breed: young hot-shot techno-geeks. His type—and thus his character—fascinates me.

Marcus (aka M1K3Y in 1337-speak) takes on the American Department of Homeland Security and wins: a situation that should not be possible and in most narrative instances would not be plausible. Doctorow, however, constructs his plot carefully, and we believe in Marcus’s ability to orchestrate the pranks he does, as well as the governmental responses to them. Power in the novel shifts back and forth between the teen rebels and the DHS until finally Marcus realizes the severity of what he has started, the degree to which others are suffering for his cause. The ideological aspects of his decisions are not glossed over; he has to seriously consider his own motivations, what he is asking of those around him as well as supporters he has never met. In the end, he does what I always want teen protagonists to do at such times, but so few: he goes to sympathetic adults for advice and assistance. Little Brother is thus not merely about teenaged power wielded against the adult world, as so many YA novels are, but about the conscious activism of individuals with integrity against corruption and the abuse of power. By making Marcus’s situation a part of a greater ideological battle, Doctorow raised the bar for YA literature. I’m not saying Little Brother is unique in this—Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games series, Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies series, and Cheryl Rainfield’s Hunted spring to mind—but it seems that YA literature tends toward the self-absorbed teen perspective in a way that is both present and yet transcended in Little Brother.

Other Bells for Us to Ring (1990), by Robert Cormier

This is the only one of Robert Cormier’s novels I feel comfortable recommending to younger readers.  While I teach a number of Cormier’s works at the university level, the issues they contain are in general too starkly expressed, and too troubling, for me to consider the experience of reading them something I want to give to those I love. Tunes for Bears to Dance To (1992), I might, as well, if the reader were looking for a troubling novel with a powerful and effective social message.  But Other Bells for Us to Ring, unlike Fade (1988) or Tenderness (1996) or After the First Death (1979), has a beauty in it that warms the soul.  The ending does not leave us mourning for the characters, but rather believing in the miracles that true friendship and faith can bring into an otherwise desolate life.

In Other Bells for Us to Ring (published in the UK as Darcy in 1991), Darcy Webster and her new friend Kathleen Mary O’Hara are inseparable. The two girls share everything, and strengthen each other in their youthful struggles. Darcy is Unitarian; Kathleen is Catholic, and shares with Darcy the new and—for Darcy—exotic world of Catholicism. In a visit to her Church, Kathleen “baptizes” Darcy with Holy Water, solidifying in her mind the bond that has grown between them, but at the same time adding to Darcy’s uncertainty about who she is, and how she fits within her family, her religion, and her community. Darcy’s father has gone to war; as Christmas approaches, he is registered as “missing in action.” Darcy’s mother sinks into depression, with migraines that cause her to neglect her child, who of course needs her mother even more, as she tries to come to terms with her father’s possible death. The only stable thing in Darcy’s life is Kathleen, who struggles with her own family situation: poverty and an abusive, alcoholic father. Kathleen promises Darcy: “I will not desert you” (152), there will be “other bells for us to ring” as adults. In the end, Kathleen’s love is shown to transcend even death. Despite negative reviews posted on amazon.com, Darcy’s Christmas miracle restores a warm glow of hope and faith and love to an otherwise troubled young girl, hope that flows into the reader, subtly echoing the faith that is the foundation of the Holy season Cormier chose for his novel.

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.

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 Wolves of Woden (2001), by Alison Baird

I love time-slip novels, and was excited about the premise of The Wolves of Woden, which brings together two fascinating periods in history and legend: World War II Newfoundland and Arthurian England. Alison Baird weaves a tapestry in her settings; her descriptions both depict and suggest the strangeness of Jean’s seeming temporal disruptions, the uncanny sense of each world being more real than the other. Her characters are well-drawn, too, and her plot tight and interesting.

So why, I ask myself, did I not enjoy the book more? The problem lies, I think, in exactly that sense of neither world having obvious primacy over the other. Jean’s life in Annwn seems more important while she is there, and the reader can engage most easily in the fantasy nature of the narrative, but yet the text suggests that Jean’s role in Annwn is actually an important quest not only for Annwn, but for Newfoundland as well.

Baird has created parallel universes, not different temporal situations, for her protagonist to move between. In Annwn, where magic is known exist, they understand that their world is real, our world the shadow; in Newfoundland, Jean cannot discuss Annwn, for no one would believe her. The connection between the two worlds, too, is posited as real: what happens in Annwn is not only reflective of, but also causal in what happens on the battlefields of France. The suggestion—voiced by the Shade of King Arthur, no less—is that through her pivotal role in overcoming Woden in Annwn, Jean is responsible for the hope that comes into our world: in The Wolves of Woden, our “hope” lies explicitly in the Americans entering the war in 1941, which enabled the ultimate defeat of Germany. While the concept of a causal connection between the medieval, magical battle in Annwn and the very real carnage of World War II is interesting, the linkage is rather complicated and thus less effective than it might be. Sacred weapons are transported into our world, and then back, changing magical properties in their journeys; despite her magical abilities, Jean has no control over her passage between worlds, but is taken from Newfoundland when she is needed in Annwn; people we care about die in both worlds, as the Nazis and the Lochlannach violently invade the lands they would conquer. I am never sure—even in the end—what Jean’s real role in Annwn was or will be: the premise for her involvement is not sufficient. Jean is taken into Annwn on a number of occasions, and returned to Newfoundland once Woden’s forces are vanquished. That battle over, and with the Americans entering the war in Europe, the text suggests, all will be fine and ultimately return to normal. While it seems possible to accept the trope of “the return to normal life” in the fictional setting, familiarity with World War II history does not permit such as simple view regarding our world. Despite the ultimate defeat of Nazism, four full years of horrific war seem to be trivialized somewhat by Baird’s comparatively short fantasy battle. Perhaps for younger readers, historical knowledge will not impinge upon a sense of hopeful closure for Jean… but is the lack of historicity required doing them a disservice?

Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, and The Story of a Short Life (1895), by Juliana Horatia Ewing

In my other life, I work for the Canada’s Early Women Writers (CEWW) project, headed by Dr. Carole Gerson at Simon Fraser University.  The project aims to construct an online database of all Canadian women who published—in any genre, in any forum—before 1950.  CEWW is one of the seed projects for the larger database project, the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory (CWRC), run out of the University of Alberta, and headed by Dr. Susan Brown.

Connecting my love of early Canadian literature with my love of children’s literature, I have been reading through the children’s texts written by some of our authors, with the intent of sharing them—if only superficially—with others.  The first such text was The Bells on Finland Street, by Lyn Cook; this is the fourth.

Juliana Ewing was a well-known British children’s author, with an extensive bibliography. She falls onto my radar for having lived for two years in Canada (1867-1869). Elizabeth S. Tucker’s Leaves from Juliana Horatia Ewings “Canada Home” (1896) is part biographical, part autobiographical, and contains a number of photos of the author and her life in Canada. Given this connection, I thought I would read at least Jackanapes, one of her most successful children’s stories.
My copy of Jackanapes (published in 1895) is bound with two other of Ewing’s children’s books: Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot (1884), and The Story of a Short Life (1885). All three are unquestionably written as instructive moral tales, but where Jackanapes and to a lesser degree Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot retain the reader’s interest, The Story of a Short Life is tedious and we wish that young Leonard’s life had been shorter… or, more compassionately perhaps, that the author had not chosen to write about it. Leonard is a spoilt, demanding child who, when crippled by a fall from a cart, becomes even more spoilt and demanding. Despite the author’s intent of showing how he tries to live up to the family motto, Lœtus sorte mea (“Happy in my lot”), we spend the entire short text wishing that the adults around him practiced some of the logical moral discipline that Victorian children’s texts are generally known for. Instead, when after years as an annoying cripple, Leonard inexplicably succumbs to his injuries and dies, we are shown his parents later blessed with a new family, and who remember and honour the valiant young boy who strove so hard to be like the noble soldiers around him. But failed! Perhaps I should have stopped after Jackanapes and Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, which have similar morally intent, but are far more enjoyable to read.
Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot is an pleasant story of a young orphan who is taken in as a servant, strives to do well through honestly and hard work, and ultimately succeeds, inheriting his master’s dovecot and doves. The story achieves its goal of showing material gains resulting from moral behaviour, and is an engaging story at the same time. Its success lies both in the simplicity of the story and in the interesting characters, peppered as it is with country accents and quirky characters. The popularity of both Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot and Jackanapes were undoubtedly augmented by Ralph Caldecott’s illustrations, which are sprinkled throughout the stories.
          Jackanapes is the nickname of young Theodore, son of the “big house” in the village. While the story begins with his birth, and ends with his death, it is much more the story of the whole village, the relationships that develop over the years, and how Jackanape’s life is intermingled with all of those around him. (One commentator notes a similarity to Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford (1853), which I think is not inappropriate.) The plot of his life is stereotypic: he leads his less adventurous friend Tony into all sorts of mischief as children; Tony follows him into the military but Jackanapes is by far the better soldier; Jackanapes dies saving Tony on the battlefield; the entire village honours him and Tony is a better man for the sacrifice of his friend. What is engaging about this story is that—unlike young Leonard—Jackanapes is an honourable lad who deserves the respect and love he garners. He is repentant when he is wrong, honest about his activities, and he loves his horse: a better advertisement for the cult of muscular Christianity can only be found in Tom Brown himself.  So in the end, when Jackanapes dies, we are saddened, even to tears. Ewing has excelled in this story: her characters are more well-rounded and interesting than in her other two stories included here, and the picture she paints of village life in the mid-Victorian period is rich with pastoral imagery and honest human emotion. The diction is somewhat heavy at times:  no more than many other novels of this period, but perhaps more than the average child reader—even then—would want to bear for long. But the story itself pulls the reader through, in a way that justifies Jackanapes’s position as one of the minor classics of Victorian children’s literature.

Warden of Greyrock (2009), by K.V. Johansen

The Warlocks of Talverdin, as a series, is a little uneven, not in writing style or level of interest, but in the narrative structure of the individual texts. Nightwalker (2007) and The Shadow Road (2010) stand alone quite effectively, but Treason in Eswy (2008) and Warden of Greyrock must be read as one longer narrative. Warden continues the search to discover the meaning of the Yehillon cult: its history, its impetus, its diabolical plans to annihilate all Nightwalkers from the world… and further. But that is in The Shadow Road.

The story opens with a flashback to a flashback initially given us in Treason in Eswy: the death of Robin and Fuallia’s grandfather near the Kanifglin Pass. This sets the stage for the continuation of the previous story, and the action then switches back to Korby’s activities as a spy on the mainland (remember? Treason also opened with Korby’s cloak-and-dagger search of a library on the mainland). The parallel is effective, returning us to the central plot that was rendered peripheral in Treason by the escape and eventual marriage of Eleanor of Eswy.

The most serious incident in Warden is the kidnapping of Annot, Baroness Oakhold, who is still not married to Maurey’lana, as his Queen and Aunt has not given her blessing, hoping that he will ultimately marry another Nightwalker and thus strengthen his hereditary ability as a Maker. In the chapters focused on Annot, Johansen slips from her usual first-person staggered narration. At first, I wondered at this, until reminded of what Annot experienced in her captivity. Annot is severely beaten in her abduction, and suffers significant, permanent, but not completely debilitating brain damage, but also awaking her latent witch-powers, related to those that manifest so strongly in her cousin Korby. For this reason—Annots lack of reason much of the time—her chapters are related in limited-omniscient third-person. This gives us the opportunity, too, of learning more of the thoughts and motivations of Katerina, erstwhile lady’s-maid to Eleanor, now wife of Alberick, the chosen lord of the Yehillon, sent in disgrace by her lord to serve the despised captive Annot.

The plot is complicated, yet woven carefully and concisely. No strings are left untied in the end; no questions in the reader’s mind stand out strongly as unanswered. Which is not to say that there are no unanswered questions: only that we feel, at the end of the novel, that the issues of import at the moment, have been resolved. As at the end of Nightwalker, and moreso at the end of Treason in Eswy, the immediate resolved concerns leave the reader with only enough sense of closure to sustain until the next installment: the real history is still slowly, fascinatingly, being revealed.