Fairies and changelings

I'm currently reading (among other things) Some Kind of Fairy Tale, a grownup fantasy by British author Graham Joyce (Doubleday, 2012). It's not a changeling story, at least not so far, but a kidnapped-by-the-fairies one, in which teenaged Tara Martin disappears into a dense forest known as the Outwoods, only to return twenty years--or is it six months?--later.

Forests are my favorite magical places (castles or old houses are a close second), and Tara's description of the forest on the day she disappeared is especially evocative:

After a while I found a rock covered in brilliant green moss and orange lichen. I sat among the bluebells and put my head back on the mossy pillow of the rock.

The bluebells made such a pool that the earth had become like water, and all the trees and bushes seemed to have grown out of the water. And the sky above seemed to have fallen down on to the earth floor, and I didn't know if the sky was earth or the earth was water. [42]

Then a man on a pretty white horse appears, and you know that boundaries are going to be crossed. As it turns out (I'm on page 132), they are crossed in ways I'm not so interested in reading about. Instead I'm rereading my favorite Zilpha Keatley Snyder book, The Changeling (Atheneum, 1970): "I am a princess from the Land of the Green Sky," Ivy said. "I have discovered the Doorway to Space."

The Changeling isn't a fantasy book, although Snyder did eventually write the Green-Sky Trilogy (beginning with Below the Root; Atheneum, 1978) based on the Tree People game that Martha and Ivy play in Bent Oaks Grove. But Ivy herself is such a magical character, I almost believed that she was a changeling. And that I was, too.

[Why, why is The Changeling out-of-print? I'm adding it to my list of books to reprint when I start my own small press.]

The ballad of Long Lankin, for Poetry Friday

Debut author Lindsey Barraclough's YA novel Long Lankin was inspired by the eponymous old English ballad (Roud Folk Song Index 6) in which Long Lankin, aided and abetted by a nursemaid, murders a lady and her infant son--by pricking him all over with a pin (shiver):

"Where's the heir of this house?" said Long Lankin. / "He's asleep in his cradle," said the false nurse to him.
"We'll prick him, we'll prick him all over with a pin, / And that'll make my lady to come down to him."

The baby's cries bring his mother, and she dies in Long Lankin's arms.

Barraclough sets her retelling of the ballad in postwar England: Sisters Cora and Mimi are sent from London to stay with their great-aunt Ida in the coastal village of Bryers Guerdon, but Auntie Ida, stern and secretly terrified, doesn't want them there. Of course, Cora and Mimi disregard her warnings (Ida doesn't even want them in the great big house alone) and go straight to the forbidden church and graveyard. Don't they know they're in a gothic horror story? Sigh. Poor Mimi.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

A Monster Calls: A novel by Patrick Ness, inspired by an idea from Siobhan Dowd (Candlewick, 2011) is a heartrendingly beautiful book, one of the year's best. It's being considered for all sorts of awards, including the Cybils, where it's a finalist in the Middle Grade Fantasy and Science Fiction category.

But is that where it belongs? If the monster is real, existing as a physical entity (that's the definition in Webster's Dictionary), then yes: the book is fantasy. But if the monster is only metaphorical, then no, because otherwise it's set firmly in the real world, the one where mothers die of cancer, and there are bullies at school, and you're only thirteen. That one. Ours.

I happen to think that the monster is both real and metaphorical: that's the source of its power. But if I had to categorize the book itself, I think it would be fantasy, on the strength of passages like this one:

It had been a dream. What else could it have been?
    When he'd opened his eyes this morning, the first thing he'd looked at was his window. It had still been there, of course, no damage at all, no gaping hole into the yard. Of course it had. Only a baby would have thought it really happened. Only a baby would believe that a tree--seriously, a tree--had walked down the hill and attacked the house.
    He'd laughed a little at the thought, at how stupid it all was, and he'd stepped out of bed.
    To the sound of a crunch beneath his feet.
    Every inch of his bedroom floor was covered in short, spiky yew tree leaves. (11)

This monster leaves more than a trace--he leaves a floor covered in needles, or in red yew tree berries (37).  Those aren't metaphors (Conor has to bag them up and throw them in trash, after all). Or if they are metaphorical, they are also, definitively, real.

The multiple meanings of the words real and fantasy complicate these arguments.  Emotions are also real, even though they don't exist as physical entities. And it seems paradoxical that the more real something might be, the more firmly a book that is all about raw, real emotion becomes (just?) a fantasy book.

Now, whether this is a middle grade or a young adult book is also up for debate (Monica Edinger of educating alice originally nominated it as YA Fantasy). I don't think this is necessarily a coincidence: extraordinary books are often difficult to categorize. A Monster Calls isn't even the only book on our list that begs these questions. Many thanks to Zoe of Playing by the book for bringing them up (in the comments on another post). Now it's your turn.

Dragon Castle

After all was said and done, I was honored to write the text to accompany Dragon Castle by Joseph Bruchac (Dial) on this year's list of Cybils finalists in Middle Grade Fantasy and Science Fiction. Writing these little paeans to literary achievement and kid appeal is tricky; they have to be concise (mine is 111 words, not counting the exclamation) yet convincing, and above all, they have to make you want to read the book. Which I hope you do.

By the head of the dragon! It’s a good thing Prince Rashko, the sensible second son, is around to defend the royal family’s ancestral castle when Baron Temny and his army of invaders move in, because he’s not going to get much help from his parents (called away to the Silver Lands) or his brother (bewitched by the beautiful Princess Poteshenie). Drawing on Slovakian proverbs and folklore, Bruchac alternates—and eventually intertwines—Rashko’s story with that of the hero Pavol, also depicted in a mysterious tapestry that hangs on the castle walls. The result is high fantasy laced with history and humor, action and adventure, as Rashko and the reader alike uncover the secrets of Dragon Castle.

I like to think I'm getting better at writing these (this is the third year I've been a first-round Cybils panelist; I wrote the blurbs for Fever Crumb by Philip Reeve (Scholastic) in 2010 and Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman (HarperCollins) in 2009), but there's always more to say. I'm still sorry I wasn't able to work the giant, telepathic wolves into the final copy.

I would love to know, though: Would you read Dragon Castle? Why or why not? Because, ahem, you should.