Books, Graphic Novels, and Other Works of Literature

Re-Vamped

3/31/2019

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#37 - The Darkangel
1982-1990, Ages 13 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a slave girl who must gather ancient magic in order to stop a witch and her vampires from turning the world into a barren wasteland.
(7/6/18)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

I have a rule of thumb regarding creatures of lore: the more versatile the creature, the more interesting I tend to find them. I really do like it when such beings are re-imagined, re-adapted, and/or placed in scenarios less than traditional for them in order to create new stories, so long as it’s artistically refreshing or though-provoking and not completely stupid. It goes without saying that one of the most common creatures to which countless authors have tried to do this very thing—with varying degrees of success—is the vampire. In a Modern Fantasy course that I took at LSC back in the Fall of 2007, I studied the horror novel Necroscope by Brian Lumley. Though ultimately not a personal favorite, I still found it very intriguing in how it portrayed a classic monster I was familiar with in a way that meshed very well with its 20th century setting, changing its vampire just enough to make it feel original while at the same time staying faithful to the “source material”, so to speak. And so, for my Midterm assignment, I decided to write about how vampires have been portrayed in more recent fiction. As luck would have it, I found this YA fantasy series literally just in time for me to start developing my essay. And the world of this vampire was far more unique then I could have imagined.

Aeriel, a young slave girl from the land of Terrain, is burning for revenge after her mistress and friend, Eoduin, is kidnapped by a vampyre in order to become his new bride. Upon confronting him, she naturally proves no match for him, and is taken away to be a servant to his thirteen “wives”, skeletal mummy-like wraiths that have all lost their blood, hearts, and souls to the vampyre—and one of which is the ill-fated Eoduin. But in spite of her grief, Aeriel can’t help but be enamored by the godlike beauty that masks the vampyre’s cruelty, and intrigued by the spark of goodness and vulnerability she sees in him. She comes to learn that the vampyre is, in fact, not yet a true darkangel. Only when he takes one last bride, his fourteenth, will his “mother”, a lorelei or water demon known as the White Witch, take the souls he will offer her in tribute and complete his transformation. Though horrified by this knowledge, Aeriel finds herself torn between her mission to stop the lorelei, and her growing feelings for the vampyre. And even if she is able to save his humanity and his soul without taking his life, Aeriel will still need no less than the power of her world’s sorcerer gods in order to fight the White Witch and her other six vampyre “sons” before they gain the power to spread their eternal darkness and blight across the realm.

As mentioned, the primary monster of this story will be very familiar to most readers in design and temperament, yet not so much so that it can’t count as an original creation. Besides “vampyre” and “darkangel”, this creature has a third name: icarus. In the famous Greek myth, Daedelus made Icarus, his son, a set of wings out of feathers and wax so that he may fly. Pierce’s icarus’ wings are similarly made with the feathers of demonic black birds, magically “sewn” onto him by the lorelei. I love her description of how, when not in flight, the vampyre’s wings drape over his shoulders like a cloak, adding a regal touch to his already divine appearance; not unlike, incidentally, the eponymous heroes of Disney’s Gargoyles series. The beauty of this beast is just as alien but far more treacherous. A striking contrast of cold, dead white and all-consuming darkness, the icarus has the appearance of a fair youth with pale skin, platinum silver hair, and eyes the color of ice, while his wings and clothes are so pitch-black as to give off no sheen, swallowing any and all light that shines upon them.

Pierce puts one other innovative twist on the vampire, as well as on many of the other beings here. The spelling of their names is changed just slightly in order to further differentiate them from their more traditional counterparts. Some examples are simple, like the replacing of “i” with “y” in “vampyre” and “lyon”, and “ph” with “f” in “sfinx”; others are more elaborate, like “duarough” (instead of “dwarf”). On the surface, it’s a small change, and yet it’s incredible how much more exotic it makes the characters and the universe they live in feel.

And speaking of universes, The Darkangel takes place in an alternate reality in which the moon has been terraformed, made habitable to organic matter and living creatures; and the “moon-like” celestial body called Oceanus is implied to be planet Earth. Easily one of this world’s most spectacular sites—and one of my favorites—is the Sea-of-Dust, so-named because the particles that comprise it are so fine that together they surge and flow just like water. Yet they are also stunningly vibrant, as if trillions upon trillions of precious stones have all been crushed into a fluid rainbow of sand, each wave a new color more dazzling than the last.

According to Pierce, the idea for The Darkangel came to her after she read about a dream recounted to Carl Jung, the renowned Swiss psychiatrist, psychotherapist, and founder of analytical psychology. Even in a world as fantastic as this, our protagonist, Aeriel, is no less human than we are, fears and flaws included. In spite of—or perhaps because of—the deadly situation she finds herself in, she has to make a conscious effort to face her enemies and conquer her fears, no matter how grotesque or horrifying. This makes her a compelling foil for many of the other characters she encounters, like the vampyre. Most vampires have traditionally been painted as suave and arrogant by nature; the vampyre Aeriel contends with, though he is both of these things, harbors a surprising childishness underneath his evil, made all the more apparent beside Aeriel’s quiet thoughtfulness and uncertainty. This opens the opportunity, even within such a dangerous and unnatural master/servant relationship, for something that could almost be described as bonding:

“‘I shall tell you the tale of the Maiden-Eater,’ she told him, and began. The tale was a long one, about a kingdom besieged by a dragon and the king’s daughter who slew it and the young hero who helped her. The vampyre laughed outright when she came to describing the wyrm.
‘Big as a cottage?’ he cried at last. ‘With wings? It is evident that you have never seen a firedrake.’ [. . .] The icarus folded his arms and leaned back, looking down on her, his lips curled in contempt. ‘No mere mortal could have killed one single-handed.’
‘Her sword was magic,’ said Aeriel.
‘The dragon would have killed them both long before she could have used it.’
Aeriel looked at the ground. ‘You have seen dragons, my lord.’
‘Oh yes. My mother keeps a pair as pets.’
Aeriel looked at him. ‘Your mother?’ she said. The word sounded strange from his tongue.
His lips twisted again into a smile. ‘I do have a mother,’ he said. ‘How did you suppose I came to be?’ His tone was amused and had no kindness in it. Aeriel dropped her eyes and mumbled something. The icarus pursed his lips a moment, and his look grew farther away. ‘She is very beautiful, my mother.’
Aeriel let another moment go by before she spoke. ‘What is her name?’ she ventured at last.
‘And how would I know that?’ replied the vampyre, affronted. ‘Great personages such as she do not hand out their names so freely.’
‘But you are her son,’ insisted Aeriel, softly.
The vampyre looked suddenly away, and for the first time his cool assurance flagged. ‘She will tell me . . . ,’ he began. ‘She has promised to tell me – when I come of age.’
‘And is she . . . like you?’ asked Aeriel, wondering what sort of being mothered vampyres. His hesitation had surprised her.
‘You mean a winged icarus?’ he asked, regaining himself, and flexing his coal-dark feathers. They rustled like fine, stiff silk. ‘No, she prefers water to air. She is a lorelai.’
‘And she keeps dragons.’
‘Yes.’ [. . .]” (The Darkangel, Pg. 69-70)

To borrow a concept from Joseph Campbell, what makes Aeriel such an endearing and relatable character is her very human wish to “refuse of the call to adventure.” All she really wants is acceptance and love, both from others and within herself, and only by enduring many hardships can she ever hope to achieve this; and even then there is no guarantee that she actually will. Throughout the story, Aeriel receives marvelous gifts and abilities to help her in her quest. As a result, many people, especially the dangerously superstitious ones, begin to see her as a powerful sorceress comparable even to a god. But this only serves to make Aeriel feel increasingly alienated and discouraged rather than confident:

“[The gargoyle] snarled, doglike, and snapped. It was all over one even shade of grey: even its eyes and teeth and tongue were grey. Its shabby, matted fur stood on end. A collar of yellow metal encircled its throat.
Aeriel gazed upon it from the hearth. She felt her heart contract. Beside her, Nat shrank against Galnor. Just then the Beast caught sight of Aeriel, its grey eyes wild and wide. It padded toward her.
Those in its path shrank away from it. Some held daggers, but none dared strike. Aeriel half rose, put her bandolyn from her. She could see the creature’s skeletal ribs, ridges of spine along its back. Her knees gave way.
‘Greyling,’ she whispered. ‘Greyling – first gargoyle ever I tamed. What has become of you? You are all bone beneath the skin.’
For a moment, the gargoyle stared at her, lips pulled back from its broken teeth, tongue loose and lolling. It panted hoarsely. Its tattered ears lay flat against the skull. Aeriel held out her arms to it.
[. . .]
The Beast bellied down before her on the floor. It crept forward, a strange whine gibbering from its throat. Its curved claws scattered the rushes, scathed the floorboards underfoot. The creature reached her knees. Aeriel bent to stroke it as the grey Beast laid its huge and grisly head upon her lap.
[. . .]
‘A sorceress!’ someone whispered then. ‘The storier’s a witch. See how she has charmed the Beast.’
Aeriel did not look up, was aware of the inn guests shifting uneasily, of Nat staring from Galnor’s arms. The bandits of Arl gazed upon her in outright rage. Aeriel stroked the gargoyle’s heavy, strange head, fingered its matted, thin fur.
‘What has become of you?’ she murmured again. ‘You do not look as though you have tasted food since you left me. Eat this.’ She reached into her pack.
‘More sorceries,’ a woman cried. ‘What’s that in her hand?’
‘A jewel.’
‘A dagger – ’
[. . .]
Aeriel dusted the fine fuzz from the apricok, held it out. The gargoyle ate eagerly, almost desperately, strained to swallow against the collar about its throat. Its grey tongue slavered, catching the runnels of blood-colored juice. [. . .]
[. . .]
‘Witchery,’ she heard someone muttering. Another voice, across the room, half shouted, ‘She will charm us all.’
Aeriel looked up then, saw people fall back as she raised her eyes. The hard faces of the Arlish bandits made her skin creep. The gargoyle stared at them, lip twitching into a snarl.
‘Come, Greyling,’ she murmured. ‘I do not like our company. Let’s begone.’” (A Gathering of Gargoyles, Pg. 76-78)

Aeriel wishes only for inner peace, yet not only is she confronted with forces greater than anything she could ever hope to understand, but many of those she would save would rather worship and fear her than befriend and love her. Sacrifice is one of the central themes of this story: sometimes even something as powerful as love can be reduced to a simple hindrance in the face of doing what is best for the world. Is it a sign of truer love to care for the happiness of another, or to ensure the continued existence of creation itself?

To take one magical creature and place it into an nontraditional setting for the sake of a story—and do it well—is no simple feat. To do this with a myriad of creatures in a setting whose theoretical roots stem from science fiction—and do it marvelously—is a sure sign of master storytelling. And all this while crafting a tale of devotion, loss, personal growth, and the finding of one’s identity. Such is the splendor of The Darkangel. Whether you come for the heroine’s journey, the vampyre’s bite, or the moon’s magic, there is something here to stir the imagination of many a fantasy fan.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Darkangel and A Gathering of Gargoyles by Meredith Ann Pierce (published by Little, Brown and Company).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

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EPISODE SONGS:
“Cloak of Night” - Briand Morrison

“Exotic Planet” - Briand Morrison

“Alone” - Briand Morrison

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

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An Adventure in Writing

3/31/2019

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#35 - The City of Dreaming Books
2004, Ages 17 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a writing-obsessed creature and his exploits within a literature-obsessed city.
(5/4/18)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

As I was coming into one of my college classes one morning in the Spring of 2012, my eye caught the picture of a hardcover book belonging to a classmate. I figured it was a read for fun, as it wasn’t one of our required texts, nor did it look particularly frightening (the class in question being Tales of Terror). Upon my asking, she told me a bit about it and allowed me to study it for a moment. Judging from its premise, as well as its insanely creative illustrations, it seemed right up my alley. When I found the book again later at Barnes & Noble, I opened it to a section that I had missed the first time. There, written on the pages that greeted me was a single four-word sentence. A sinister-sounding one despite my not understanding its context, its font maybe half the size of that of the main text, covering the entirety of pages 148 and 149 in five perfect rows and five perfect columns each. The sentence:

“You’ve just been poisoned.”

Reactionary thought #1: “Tales of Terror . . . ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ . . . We’re reading Salem’s Lot, not The Shining. But still. Reactionary thought #2: “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be good.” I know, I’m weird. But then, I am a writer. ;)

Our story begins on the continent of Zamonia: Dancelot Wordwright, sadly, on his deathbed, his loyal godson and student, Optimus Yarnspinner, at his side. During his final moments of life, he tells Optimus the story of a budding anonymous author who had sent him an unpublished manuscript for him to read long ago. This manuscript, Dancelot claims, is undoubtedly the finest, most perfect piece of writing ever to be put to paper, the work of a bona fide literary genius. Bequeathing this priceless document to Optimus, Dancelot begs him with his dying breath to seek out the writer where he had sent him: Bookholm, where every facet of everyday life is related, established, or dominated solely by books and the written word. But as wondrous and enticing as this place is to the unquenchable imagination of Optimus, it also possesses many dark secrets—a fact he learns too late upon showing his manuscript to the wrong person. Now trapped within the catacombs of Bookholm, Optimus’ quest—and life—are put in jeopardy as he must survive the Fearsome Booklings, murderous Bookhunters, ingeniously deadly book traps, and the mutant monsters that lurk within Bookholm’s underbelly. But even these dangers seem trivial when Optimus is confronted by the legendary being known only as the Shadow King.

Though technically the fourth book in Walter Moers’ Zamonia series, this is the first in a self-contained sub-series, which luckily doesn’t require reading of any prior novels. As of early 2018, only this book and its sequel, The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books, have been released and translated from their original German into English. The third, The Castle of Dreaming Books, is still unreleased, but I very much look forward to seeing what happens after that particularly tantalizing cliffhanger. XD

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Even if I wasn’t already taken in by the idea of a literal paradise for book-lovers, I’d still be thoroughly impressed by Moers’ world-building skills alone. For example, according to the “Translator’s Postscript”, Moers first translated this book – rather painstakingly, he claims – into German from the Zamonian writing of Optimus himself. I adore touches like this because such a connection between an artist and his creation – or an affiliation between one artist and another, as it were – makes even a world as bizarre as this feel more tangible and real. And naturally, no world is complete without exotic locales and fascinating inhabitants. Through his illustrations, Moers shows us his gift for conjuring up such alien but imaginative creatures. From the three-brained Nocturnomaths, the prophetic hags called Ugglies, and the disgustingly obese, multi-armed Shark Grubs, to the fox-like Vulpheads, the pig-like Hogglings, and of course, the race to which Optimus belongs, the reptilian Lindworms.

Speaking of, all this we come to know through the eyes and voice of our narrating protagonist. Often addressing the audience directly as “Dear readers”, Optimus serves as our guide through this strange place as he recounts his story. At the same time, he represents us as well, reflecting our curiosity, fear, and captivation, as we all experience these adventures for the first time along with him, his initial impressions of Bookholm and its literary wonders, for instance, being described with an almost childlike reverence. Plus, let’s be honest. Who among us bookworms hasn’t salivated with breathless delight over the prospect of hundreds upon thousands of books, all ours for the reading, our greatest dilemma being which one to choose first? (Sigh.) So many titles, so little time – not unlike real life.

“There they were, the ‘Dreaming Books’. That was what the inhabitants of this city called antiquarian books because, from the dealers’ point of view, they were neither truly alive nor truly dead but located in an intermediate limbo akin to sleep. With their existence proper behind them and the prospect of decay ahead, millions upon millions of them slumbered in the bookcases, cellars and catacombs of Bookholm. Only when one of them was picked up and opened by an eager hand, only when it was purchased and borne off, could it awaken to new life. And that was what all these books dreamed of.” (Pg. 32-33)

[. . .]

“On and on I roamed, and I’m bound to confess that my powers of recall are overtaxed by all the marvels that met my eyes. I felt as if I were walking through the pages of a lavishly illustrated book in which each flash of artistic inspiration was surpassed by the next: walking letters advertising modern printing presses; murals portraying characters from popular novels; antiquarian bookshops whose old tomes literally overflowed into the street; multifarious life forms rummaging in bookcases and vying for their contents; huge Midgard Serpents hauling wagons full of second-hand rubbish driven by uncouth turnipheads who pelted the crowd with trashy old volumes. In this city one was forever having to duck to avoid being hit by a book. The hubbub was such that I caught only snatches of what was being said, but every conversation seemed to revolve around books in one way or another:
‘. . . I wouldn’t read a book by an Uggly if you paid me . . .’
‘. . . he’s giving a reading in the Gilt-Edged Book Emporium at timber-time tonight . . .’
‘. . . a first edition of Aurora Janus’s second novel, the one with the typos in the foreword, for only three pyras . . .’
‘. . . if anyone possessed the Orm, it was Aleisha Wimpersleake . . .’
‘. . . typographically speaking, a disgrace to the entire printing industry . . .’
‘. . . someone ought to write a footnote novel – just footnotes of footnotes, that would be the thing . . .’
At last I paused at an intersection. Turning on the spot, I counted the bookshops in the streets running off it: there were no less that sixty-one of them. My heart beat wildly. Here, life and literature seemed to be identical: everything centered on the written word. This was my city, my new home.” (p. 40-41)

Among my favorite aspects of this book is some of the most whimsically inventive wordplay I’ve ever seen, especially with regards to this universe’s authors. Many of the names Optimus and the readers come across are actually anagrams of famous real-life authors. The results are as funny as they are outlandish. Just to name a few:

- Lewis Carroll = Sellwi Rollcar
- William Shakespeare = Aliesha Wimperslake
- Charles Dickens = Asdrel Chickens
- John Keats = Honj Steak
- Leo Tolstoy = Elo Snooty

I bet Moers just had a ball making those up. :) On a more character-driven note, and for obvious reasons, I also love the last names of the book-obsessed Lindworms (Yarnspinner, Wordwright, Versewhetter, etc.).

The Lindworms spend their lives cultivating their passion for literature and developing their writing skills in the hopes of becoming masterful story-tellers. Thus, it is in Optimus’ very blood to become a published author. But for all his bibliophilic ambition, he is essentially a dinosaurian Bilbo Baggins. Very much the “adventures make one late for dinner” type, he accepts his godfather’s will out of love for family and fine writing but would prefer to read about a great escapade rather than be in the middle of one. He strives to be sensible and dignified in the increasingly barbaric and insane world he’s found himself in, only to come off as either a near-hysterical coward or a pompous dork. This, however, is key to what initially keeps him from realizing his dream, as well as what I think makes him particularly relatable to any aspiring writers. Like most, Optimus has his own tastes and beliefs regarding what makes good literature. But many of the creatures he meets provide him with a treasure trove of new words, ideas, and writing styles that he never dreamed existed. Moreover, they tell him of the Orm, said to inspire authors to write books so eloquent, and so superb, that to read them is nothing short of Paradise—and which Optimus is quick to reject as superstitious crap. I can’t help but see Optimus’ views of the Orm as a subtle jab at the well-meaning but closed-minded artists whose abilities are undermined simply because they refuse to learn from the masters who came before them, or at least try anything new and expand their horizons, a revelation that Optimus finds most humbling upon entering the Library of the Orm:

“I strolled along the shelves with my head on one side, checking the titles.
The Cloud Cuckoo by Bronsar Morello. Recollections of the Day After Tomorrow by Arlon Dumpsey. A Pig in my Poke by Nestroket Krumpf. Never heard of them, neither the books nor their authors. Were these supposed to be literary gems?
Little Enemies by Minimus Suminim. A Cure for the Incurable by Welgo Tark. Warts on a Toad’s Neck by Horam Quackenbush. Nasal Hairs by Hazel Nares.
And those were the books on the top shelf! I’d never read any of them. They were the sort of books I usually glanced at in a bookshop and then forgot for ever. [. . .]
Soft teeth by Carius Molar. The Joys of Gardening by . . . What! I came to a halt and automatically removed a book for the first time.
It was Dancelot’s masterpiece, cheek by jowl with all this worthless trash! I weighed it in my paws for a while. Then the blood rushed to my head!
Yes, dear readers, I felt ashamed because I had behaved as ignorantly as all the stupid fools who had spurned Dancelot’s book. What made me so sure that Arlon Dumpsey’s Recollections of the Day After Tomorrow was of no interest? Or Warts on a Toad’s Neck? Had I ever given those books a fair crack of the whip? Perhaps I had just ignored them for the umpteenth time for reasons I myself couldn’t have explained.
Shame on me! I had to make amends. Taking Warts on a Toad’s Neck from the shelf, I sat down and began to read it.” (Pg. 404)

Similarly to novels like Harry Potter, at least 98% of this story takes place in one location, but that one location is so rich, so enlivened through its bizarre details, eye-popping visuals, and whatever other surprises occupy it that it always feels new and exciting no matter how often you visit or how much you explore. But honestly, I cannot do this story justice with my words alone—not without massive spoilers anyway. Anyone in love with a good book won’t be spellbound by Optimus’ tale just because of zany creatures and clever book puns. This tale is for you, dear readers, who wonder why you are so spellbound by your favorite books and who strive to find the very best ones whose words bring laughter and tears, terror and peace, questions and answers, or otherwise make you feel, deep in your heart, as if your life will never be the same again. I am curious: do you prefer reading such words, or writing them down?

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers (U.S. English hardcover edition, published by The Overlook Press, Perter Mayer Publishers, Inc).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Dreams of Lost Books” - Fred Keller

https://www.facebook.com/fkeller

“March and Jejune”- Fred Keller

“Dromedary Dunewalk” - Fred Keller

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

The City of Dreaming Books on Wikipedia

Walter Moers on Wikipedia

The City of Dreaming Books on Fandom

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Walter Moers on Tv Tropes

The City of Dreaming Books on Goodreads

The City of Dreaming Books on Barnes & Noble

The City of Dreaming Books on Amazon

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A Treasure Beyond Words

3/31/2019

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#33 - A Book Dragon
1987, Ages 8 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a pensive dragon who uses his grandmother’s teachings to seek out his life’s purpose throughout the centuries.
(3/2/18)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

As it turned out, my search for a buyable copy of this older children’s novel back in the early 2000’s was just as memorable as the novel itself. My first attempt led me a few miles away to where a man was selling vast amounts of books from his huge, stately house. He didn’t have the book I was looking for, but that didn’t make wandering and exploring the rooms of his beautiful home-turned-bookstore any less cool or exciting. (It was the first and last time I went, and I once in a while I find myself wishing I’d taken advantage of the opportunity more.) In any case, the other first this book provided was that it gave me a reason to seriously consider internet shopping. With the help of my parents, it was then that I created my Amazon account and from there, made my very first online purchase. In retrospect, I don’t feel that the way these adventures made my owning and reading of this book all the more enriching is too unlike the life journey of Donn Kushner’s protagonist.

One of the last surviving dragons of the Middle Ages, Nonesuch takes the ways of his kind very seriously, just as his stern but loving grandmother raised him to do. However, she makes it very clear to him that he will never be a true and proper dragon unless he finds himself a treasure to guard. When his grandmother at last leaves him—and after inadvertently gaining the strange ability to alter his size according to his food intake—, Nonesuch sets off in search of his own personal treasure. And find it he does, in the form of a beautiful illuminated manuscript, lovingly crafted by a wise and devoted monk. But then, a theft gone awry traps the now-insect-sized dragon within the pages of his book for 600 years, at which time both he and it are transported to a small east coast bookshop in the 1990’s. Hiding within the nooks and crannies of the bookshelves, Nonesuch never reveals himself to the humans of this new place and time, but in spite of himself, he does take an instant liking to the shop’s kindly owner, Mr. Gottlieb, especially upon seeing the care and respect with which the man treats the dragon’s treasure. And so, when the sleazy and conniving real estate agent, Mr. Abercrombie, threatens the future of the shop, Nonesuch takes it upon himself to also protect Mr. Gottlieb, his loved ones, and all his beloved books, the way that only a dragon can.

The overall tone of this book strikes me as very pleasant and introspective. While I’m not sure that traditional story labels like “coming-of-age” or “self-discovery” would quite effectively describe this, I think it still may prompt readers to reflect on how their past experiences have shaped who they’ve become. One of the more amusing aspects about this story is that many of the animal characters--especially Nonesuch’s grandmother—remark (or in some cases, rant) on other creatures or life in general almost the same way that many people do today regarding dysfunctional family members or politics. Like many a no-nonsense matriarch, the grandmother is the type who believes that she knows what’s what about the world, and woe betide the one who dares suggest otherwise! And yet I could never bring myself to dislike her. Though she often talks like a grouchy old bat, we see through Nonesuch that she is indeed very knowledgeable and only wants to bring her grandson up right. Plus, her curt words actually make a lot of sense, more often than not:

“And then her mind, which sometimes could not remember events of the same day, took a great leap backwards. In the beginning, his grandmother told Nonesuch, dragons had chosen to separate themselves from the dinosaurs, to whom they were distantly related, except for being so much more intelligent.
[. . .]
[. . .] “‘They were so stupid,’ the grandmother said, wagging her head with a sour, disapproving tone, as if she were speaking of creatures alive now, not those dead for millions of years. ‘No true dragon could ever tolerate such stupidity.’
‘But Grandmother,’ Nonesuch said respectfully, for he knew she didn’t like to be contradicted, ‘some of our ancestors have done foolish things. You’ve said so yourself.’ He remembered her past stories. ‘Most of the time,’ he added.
His grandmother reared back her head and almost rose up on her legs; her dim eyes glowed fiercely. “Foolish? Yes! Improvident? More often than not! Never counted the cost! At times, frankly, insane! But not stupid! Any true dragon could always tally up the costs of its actions, could always foretell that it was heading for disaster, if it chose. But there are more important choices!’
Then, her eyes sending out pulses of dull light, as pride and sorrow swelled within her, his grandmother told of the valiant, unfortunate Schatzwache, who, from high above the Caucasus mountains, spotted a vein of pure gold exposed by a sudden geological fault. Obedient to the great law of all dragons, ‘Guard your treasure,’ Schatzwache settled down on the shining surface, covering it with his wide wings and long tail, hardly leaving it even to search for food. Finally, when he was so weak that he could no longer fly, he was set upon by scores of knights with two-handed swords and hundreds of bushy-bearded peasants with long axes. He gave a good account of himself before his enemies hacked him to pieces, and his green blood mingled with theirs. But the dragon’s blood burned down into the gold itself, giving it a magnificent blue-green sheen: the ‘dragon-gold’ from which the crowns of all the Czars of Russia were fashioned.
‘Yes, guard your treasure,’ the grandmother repeated. ‘A dragon without a treasure is nothing but an ugly flying reptile, with even less dignity than a salamander!’ Then, her nostrils pinched together, she added, ‘With less dignity than a turtle, and with no more than a toad.’
Nonesuch’s grandmother had many sayings like this, which she brought out at more or less appropriate times. ‘Never kill anything you won’t eat,’ she would say, adding in a milder tone, ‘Why waste the energy?’ Or, ‘Be dauntless, valiant, tragic, whatever you like; but don’t be stupid.” Or, ‘If you must fight, find of worthy foe.’ (Often adding with a shake of the head, ‘If you’re lucky enough to come across one these days.’) But usually, even if she had said it before, she would end her list of precepts with: ‘Always guard your treasure!’” (Pg. 4-6)

Nonesuch, for his part, takes life in stride, possessing a healthy curiosity, but without ever forgetting his roots. Though determined to follow his nature as well as his grandmother’s words, he does so his own way, going so far as to shrink himself to the size of smaller creatures. While a logical series of events leads to him discovering this ability, how he actually acquires it is only hinted at and never fully explained. Nevertheless, it grants Nonesuch a view of life that he has never seen before. This is doubly true regarding humans and their creation of books. It is not only of the joy of the written word where Kushner draws our attention. Through Nonesuch’s eyes, young readers get a glimpse of the beauty of illuminated manuscripts, on each page of which both words and pictures are painstakingly crafted to create a divine masterpiece of color and detail, almost as real as the real thing:

“But the images on the top page in the binder and on the unfinished page drew [Nonesuch’s] attention more closely. The middle part of each page was covered with black letters. In the wide margins around the text were more familiar shapes. A vine started in the lower right-hand corner and spread all around the page, its branches meeting again at the upper left-hand corner. Small tendrils of the vine ran right into the text, marking certain letters with tiny red and gold flowers. Away from the text, the vine became alive with larger flowers in fantastic shapes and colors. Here and there faces peered out of the vine: unicorns, gnomes, mischievous monkeys, solemn toads. From one leaf a tiny bat hung, head down. In the blank spaces away from the vine, bright butterflies fluttered, looking as if in a moment they would fly away from the pages.” (Pg. 69)

Adding to this aesthetic, pictures of a similar nature are peppered throughout the novel, some larger ones bordering the pages that begin each chapter, while smaller ones are placed above or in between some of the paragraphs. (One of my favorites is the Robin Hood figure on the inside of page 18, shooting an arrow toward the upper left corner into the corresponding number, which flies backward in pieces.)

On that note, one thing in particular that struck me is how easy it was for me to forget that this is a book aimed at children, because of its surprisingly quiet atmosphere. Though there are some lightly amusing bits, certainly, like the almost casual manner in which the narrator chronicles Nonesuch’s attacks on cats and dogs that mistake him for prey; or when the grandmother matter-of-factly describes rearranging the chemistry of the stars in the sky as if it were comparable to clearing off a kitchen table; or—without giving away spoilers!—the oddly practical way in which Nonesuch finally gets rid of Abercrombie. But I think this aforementioned atmosphere boils down to the main character’s pragmatism. There were some points when I found myself thinking of the movie Forrest Gump. A weird comparison, I know, but please hear me out. Like Gump, during his entrapment within his manuscript, Nonesuch often finds himself in the midst of prominent events in history, such as the “Black Death”, the great fire of London, and the War of the Roses. Such events most remember and revere, while the more down-to-earth character may acknowledge it and but then move on with no real attachment or emotion. But that’s not to say that Nonesuch doesn’t feel nostalgic every now and then. The dragons of this story have neither true love nor hate for humans, generally preferring to avoid them altogether (unless, of course, they present themselves as a convenient meal). Nonesuch is no noble defender trying to justify the whims of humans despite their evil ways. He reminisces and wonders a bit when presented with the somewhat existential question of why he chooses to live among the humans in the bookshop. But in the end, rather than dwell on it, he satisfies himself by deciding that it makes him happy, a simple and sensible answer that best suits his nature and his personal interests.

“In the following days, Nonesuch hardly left the bookshop. This was not only on account of his own special treasure, the Book of Hours. From time to time he crawled into the cupboard in Mr. Gottlieb’s study to look at it—for the bookseller was too worried to take it out. But mostly, Nonesuch realized, he spent his time watching over the other books in the shop.
Why was he so concerned with these books? They didn’t even stay in the shop. They were sold; people took them away, often with eager faces, and sometimes brought others to take their place. It was like the old days in the Abby of Oddfields, he finally realized, when he had set himself to guard the crops which, he knew, would be harvested and eaten, and replaced with fresh plantings. These books were the crops of the bookshop, Nonesuch thought. Curiously, this idea pleased him. My friends have good crops, he said to himself.
Friends! How he had come to be involved in the ways of humans! Sometimes he wondered if his grandmother would approve. Then, he thought, this must be an aspect of human life that even she had never known. If we must be involved with humans, he told her in his mind, these are the kind of humans we should choose.” (Pg. 172-3)

Besides providing a unique take on the concept of a dragon guarding a valuable treasure from thieves or invaders, A Book Dragon also highlights the beauty of books—their creation as well as their use, both ancient and modern—without being obvious or preachy about it, and encouraging readers to enjoy and share the activity for its own sake. This is the kind of novel that’s best read in the evening, in a big comfy recliner, with a nice cup of tea or hot chocolate on hand. Something to make you think about your past fondly, and use those memories to move forward, but at your own relaxed pace. However, you may want to consider leaving the book out when you’re done for the night. There might be another “book worm” nearby, hiding just out of sight, wanting to take a peek, too. You never know :)

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from A Book Dragon by Donn Kushner (published by Avon Books).

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Feline Fighter

3/30/2019

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#30 - Varjak Paw
2003-2005, Ages 9 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a young cat who must learn a secret style of martial arts in order to protect other cats from dangers both modern and ancient.
(12/1/17)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

In both art and storytelling, there exist certain teams that go so well together that, while each person may be a great artist in his/her own right, it’s sometimes hard to imagine a piece created by the hand of one without that of the other. Consider these pairs: Singer Elton John and songwriter Bernie Taupin; filmmaker Jim Henson and fantasy artist/art director Brian Froud; and—one of my personal favorites—author Roald Dahl and illustrator Quentin Blake. Similarly, whenever I think of the books of Neil Gaiman, it’s near impossible for the artwork of Dave McKean not to jump to mind as well, and vice versa. That being said, Gaiman didn’t write these books, but Mckean did make the pictures for them, and it was that distinct and instantly recognizable drawing style on the covers that sucked me in and provided the perfect introduction to a fantastic author whose work I might otherwise have passed up.

Varjak Paw is a young Mesopotamian Blue cat living with his family in the home of a kind and wealthy Contessa. His family is content to bask in the luxury and comfort their privileged life provides. Varjak, however, is bored and restless, and—despite his parents’ disapproval and his littermates’ bullying—would much rather listen to his grandfather, Elder Paw, and his stories of their ancestor Jalal, a wise and powerful warrior said to be the greatest Mesopotamian Blue who ever lived. This ordinary routine changes one day when the increasingly ill and little-seen Contessa seems to have at last died, and a strange Gentleman and his two eerily silent twin black cats take over the house. Sensing something dangerously amiss, Elder Paw orders Varjak to go to the Outside to seek out a dog, a monstrous creature said to be the only thing capable of killing a man. During his journey, Varjak learns of the mysterious Vanishings, in which cats simply disappear without a trace. The more immediate threat to his life, though, is the ruthless gang cats that patrol the streets, especially those led by Sally Bones, an evil white cat whose heart is as cold and her claws as sharp as her single ice blue eye. But Varjak receives guidance from an unlikely source: the spirit of Jalal himself, who visits Varjak in his dreams and teaches him the Seven Skills of the Way, an ancient and secret style of feline martial arts. Aided also by his new friends, Holly, a blank-and-white gravelly-voiced cat who hides a lonely heart underneath a harsh demeanor, and Tam, chocolate-colored and cheerfully gluttonous, Varjak must master the Way in order to survive the streets and prove to his family, his enemies, and himself that he is indeed worthy of Jalal’s legacy.

The pacing here is quick and steady throughout, appropriate given the plot’s numerous fight sequences. This is superbly demonstrated by McKean’s monochrome drawings, the streaks of black ink sleek and gritty all at once, giving the cats a fierce and fascinating kind of beauty while complementing all the drama and action. Even though the Varjak Paw books are novels at their core, in the sense that the illustrations either share space with the text on a single page or take up entire pages by themselves, they often read like graphic novels, in that the text is often placed directly inside or over the images in narratively and metaphorically significant ways. In the scene of the first book in which Varjak is beaten unconscious by the arrogant and domineering Ginger, page 102 ends with these lines:

“Already it seemed very far away, like it was happening to someone else. His body felt cold and weightless. As if from a great height, through a curtain of pain, he could hear voices talking. He wondered vaguely whose they were.
‘Leave him alone, Ginger.’ A gravelly voice.
‘Well, look who it is! Friend of yours, is he, Holly?’”

The text continues on page 103, now white against a backdrop of pure black, with a white silhouette of Varjak’s body sprawled out, as if consumed by the darkness of death:

“‘Leave him. He doesn’t know anything.’
‘Ha! He’ll learn.’
Something crunched into Varjak’s ribs. Purple pain seared though his body--
. . . and faded into black.”

Another symbolic aspect of the artwork is demonstrated in Varjak’s dream encounters with Jalal. On these pages, rather than paired with the stark black of reality, the text is written over a contrasting backdrop of grey, pale and soft in the way that only dreams can be—just as Jalal’s calm and dignified manner is so in a way that is one with nature and with life:

“Varjak dreamed.
He dreamed he was walking by a river in the heat of the night. Zigzag trees swayed in the warm breeze. The air smelled like cinnamon, and tasted of ripe dates. He looked up. The stars were different. They sparkled big and bright in a brilliant sky.
An old cat with silver-blue fur like starlight walked beside him. He looked like a Mesopotamian Blue, but he wore no collar and his eyes were amber like the rising sun.
‘Welcome to the land of your ancestors,’ said the old cat. ‘Welcome to Mesopotamia.’
‘Mesopotamia? Where Jalal came from?’
‘Jalal the Paw, yes indeed. This was his home in olden days.’
Varjak’s pulse beat a little faster. ‘Did you know Jalal?’ he said.
‘And if I did?’
‘Then I’d ask you questions! Are the tales true? Could he really talk to dogs? And—and what would he think of me?’
The old cat cackled. ‘What a question! Why should that matter to you?’
Varjak looked away. ‘My family say I’m a disgrace to the name of Jalal. They say I’m not a proper, pure-bred Mesopotamian Blue.’
‘Oh? And what say you? Are you worthy of your ancestors—or not?’
‘No,’ said Varjak quietly. He hung his head. ‘I’m not.’
‘What if you knew the secret Way of Jalal? Would you then be a proper Mesopotamian Blue?’
Varjak smiled sadly, remembering the Elder Paw. ‘I already know about the Way. And I feel just the same.’
‘You know the Way? How impressive. Perhaps you will demonstrate. Strike me.’
The old cat stopped walking. He blocked Varjak’s path. He wasn’t big, but something about him looked dangerous. Varjak stepped back a pace.
‘Strike me!’ he commanded again. His amber eyes flashed. ‘Strike me now, or die where you stand.’
Well, if that was what he wanted . . . why not?
Varjak swiped gently at the mad old cat, meaning to tap him on the side. But somehow, he didn’t connect. His paw sailed through the air, and thudded harmlessly on the ground. Varjak frowned. How could he have missed?
[. . .]
He slammed out a silver-blue paw, missed completely, and lost his balance. Those alien stars twinkled at him with silent laughter as he rolled onto the riverbank. He sprang up again, furious.
‘Once more!’ goaded the old cat. Varjak’s frustration boiled over. He lashed out. His paw flapped stupidly in space, and he toppled to the ground. He kicked with his back legs, but he was fighting himself now, and he knew it.
He was beaten.
His elderly opponent peered down at him. [. . .]
[. . .] ‘Who are you?’
‘Do you still not know me, my son?’
‘Jalal?’
'Jalal the Paw, that am I.’ He winked. ‘Believe none of the tales.’” (Pg. 54-58)

The real Mesopotamia eventually becomes what is now most of present-day Iraq. Born in Beirut, Lebanon—bordered by Syria and Israel—and growing up in the Iraqi diasporic community in London, Said flawlessly weaves the exotically beautiful imagery, nature, culture, and wisdom of his ancestry into this contemporary industrial setting. In a very Miyagi-like fashion, Jalal teaches Varjak that his Way applies not only to combat and survival, but to life as a whole. Not every one of the Seven Skills is strictly a fighting move; in some manner they may deal with personal reflection, respect of the self and of others, and above all, living life to the fullest. Similarly, it is through his friendship with Holly that Varjak comes to realize just how misguided his family’s views—and his own— really are, leading him to wonder what a so-called “proper Mesopotamian Blue” really is. His family, especially his jerk of an older brother, Julius, are proud of their heritage, believing themselves to be “special” and condemning Varjak as “a disgrace to the name of Jalal” (Pg. 32). But Outside, as Holly is quick to point out, Varjak is just another cat. Despite her initial surliness, she is the one who proves a true ally and friend to Varjak, showing him around the city and helping him to stay alive:

“‘I want to go home.’
‘I told you, it’s safer to stay here.’
‘Not that home. My old home, on the hill.’
‘Still thinking about that?’ She shrugged. ‘What’s stopping you?’
‘I can’t. I was supposed to go back with a dog, to save my family from the Gentleman and his cats. I tried to get one, Holly. I stood there, in front of those monsters, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even get them to talk.’ He closed his eyes, the shame still stinging like a new-cut wound. ‘I failed.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said gently. ‘Dogs are scary. Stupid, too. I’ve never heard of a cat who could talk to them.’
Varjak sighed. Jalal could do it, he knew that. But he was no Jalal. He wasn’t even a proper Mesopotamian Blue. ‘All I know is I’ve let everyone down. I can never, ever go back. Without a dog, I don’t even have a home any more.’
‘That’s not true. The whole world’s your home now. Even Sally Bones’s territory.’ She winked a mustard eye at him. ‘Let’s get some sleep. It’ll seem better tomorrow. You never know what’s around the corner.’
They settled down, side by side, in the shadows of the alley. There was no invisible barrier between them any more. There hadn’t been for quite a while now.” (Pg. 159)

Many of the lines Said includes in these books sound like the sort found in fortune cookies (without being as corny as that analogy sounds): profound sayings capable of opening one’s heart and mind with just a few short, simple words. One of my personal favorite of Jalal’s is “A cat is an idea of freedom made flesh” (Pg. 106), not only an elegantly-worded testament to a cat’s natural grace and beauty, but a point of how only cats that are “truly alive” would never allow themselves be tied down to a single place, or depend on anyone for survival but themselves. But the greatest—said by both Jalal and Holly—is the one that truly captures the essential message of this story: “The only thing that counts is what you do.”

Though children are the target audience here, these books don’t hold back on the action and suspense. The fight sequences can be gruesome at times, but there are plenty of tender and humorous moments to balance out the violence. It’s not only due to being a cat lover and a Dave McKean fan that I still come back to these even as an adult. I think Varjak Paw’s greatest strengths are its cool and unique visuals and its very healthy dose of tangential and philosophical ideas, treating kids like adults, and introducing them to new storytelling techniques, fantastic settings, and mature concepts at a pace both stylish and dignified.

A name is a name is a name, but action leads to change, and even the smallest change can bring about the beginning of something legendary.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Varjak Paw by S.F. Said (published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

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EPISODE SONGS:
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“Ancient Mentor” - Alex Nelson

“City of Hope” - Alex Nelson

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

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Circus Spirit Animal

3/30/2019

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#24 - Secret Heart
2001, Ages 10 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a quiet boy whose imagination and soul are freed when an old circus comes into town for its final performance.
(6/2/17)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

When I was a kid, I used to look at the sky all the time. Initially it was because I REALLY wished I didn’t have go to school the next day and this could make me forget about that painful fact for at least a little while. As I’ve gotten older though, watching the sky helps me forget about everything. Not just my earthly responsibilities, like to my family, my jobs, my writing; not only my personal imperfections, like my Auditory Processing Disorder; and even more than abstract concepts associated with the sky, like angels and aliens. For a brief moment in time, I can pretend time itself doesn’t exist. I can let go of my mortal self. But eventually I come back down to Earth, and I have a sense of having been away for years despite only hours going by. The real world seems almost strange to me, and I feel both empowered and fearful by the mystery of what my future will hold for me from then on. I think that’s what makes this novel’s protagonist so relatable to me.

Virtually everyone in the near-forgotten village of Helmouth seems to think they know how Joe Maloney should be. His classmates tease him for his severe stuttering; his mother, though loving and devoted, wishes that he would act more responsible; and his best friend wants to teach him to be a man by hunting and killing. Joe, however, would rather simply contemplate the world around him: the strange creatures in the sky and the songs he hears them sing—and more recently, the awesome and mysterious tiger that has been visiting him in his dreams. At the same time, the once famed Hackenscmidt’s Circus has come to the village for its final show, and Joe finds himself immediately drawn to it despite the hostile taunts of his peers. It is with the guidance of the peculiar but kindhearted performers, especially the beautiful young trapeze artist Corinna, that Joe is able to follow his path to self-discovery and unearth many miracles along the way.

Granted, I first read this book at a much younger age, but to be honest, I initially wasn’t sure what to make of it. From the synopsis alone I couldn’t tell either the central conflict or the characters’ goals, and plot-wise it was unlike anything I had read before. In retrospect, I think it reads more like a poem, a story that is not so much a story, but an experience. There is a deep sense of sadness that permeates throughout, as though due to a hopelessness or a longing for something that can never be, even though nothing particularly bad has happened; but feelings, or a lack of them, don’t always need justification or explanation in order to manifest themselves.

In some ways, Joe seems just as spiritually lost. He doesn’t seem to know for certain what he wants out of life, nor does he have any particular fears or regrets. But what sets him apart is that he sees so much more than beauty where others see ugliness or triviality. But what that “so much more” is isn’t always clear, even if readers are being told what Joe is “seeing”. In fact, the writing seems to deliberately make it vague as to where real life ends and the supernatural (if it exists here) begins. There were some parts, for instance, when I couldn’t really tell whether Joe is truly seeing entities from another reality due to a genuine magical gift, or he is simply daydreaming, creating his own reality within his mind based on how he sees—or would like to see—the world around him:

“Soon Joe’s body began to twitch. He rolled from side to side. The distant tiny skylarks yelled. He opened his eyes and the sky was filled with them. They darkened the sky from horizon to horizon, a storm of trembling black specks that sang in the vast blue space between the village and the sun. Above the crags, the peculiar winged beasts wheeled across the sky. He closed his eyes again, heard a single skylark singing at the center of his brain, a sweet and frantic noise. Tasted its egg on his tongue, felt it trembling with life inside him. He stood up and crouched forward and gently stamped his feet on the earth. He turned slow circles. He let the skylark sing and fly. He gently stamped the earth. He groaned and let the noises in his throat become sweeter, sweeter, lighter, lighter. He spread his arms behind his back. He gently stamped his feet upon the earth. He sang. He trembled. He felt himself begin to disappear.
‘Joe! Joe, man!’
Stanny rubbed his eyes, crouched low in the ruins, snorted. ‘What you doing, Joe, man? You do the craziest things sometimes.’
Joe hesitated, mid-dance.
‘What you doing?’ said Stanny again.
Joe turned to him. What was he doing? He had no words for it, for the way his spirit sometimes soared inside him and blended with the earth and the sky. He had no words for the way his body trembled and seethed with such excitement.
“Just th-this,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, turned a circle, opened his eyes again.” (Pg. 27-28)

Almond uses a great deal of animal imagery throughout the story for several purposes, namely that of tigers and skylarks. Often they are presented as if they are spirits calling to those they would guide and protect if only the latter would listen. It’s with a sort of tragic irony that the more antagonistic characters, in their moral self-righteousness, act more savage that those they would deem the animals, seeming to have lost touch with these “spirits” in their quest to do something mature and important. Many of their arguments are the sort that one might feel inclined to agree with on principle. Yet these noble proposals are driven by a narrow-mindedness bordering on an even worse kind of barbarism, a sort of “with us or against us” mentality.

“‘Let me introduce our Mr. Maloney,’ [Bleak Winters] told [the class]. ‘And, Mr. Maloney, let me introduce some of your fellow pupils from Hangar’s High. Hangar’s High. You may not remember it. A redbrick educational establishment. Your school!’ He turned to the others and lowered his voice. ‘You may not yet have come across our Joseph Maloney, for he is an elusive little chap. Something of a star at the disappearing act.’
They carried computer-printed banners: BAN THE CIRCUS; CIRCUS MEANS CRUELTY: LET THE ANIMALS GO; TAKE YOUR TENT SOMEWHERE ELSE.
‘Come and join us, Mr. Maloney. This is our lesson for today, a bit of philosophy, history, political action. What right have we to use animals for our entertainment?’
He put his arm around Joe’s shoulder.
‘Come and join us.’ He snorted. ‘Or are you already enlisted as the new tiger tamer?’
‘There’s no t-tigers,’ said Joe.
Winters gasped. He raised a finger.
‘Let us listen to the words of an expert! Let us listen to the words of one who has already been inside the charnel house.’
‘There’s no t-tigers!’ Joe said. ‘There’s no w-wild animals! They’re gone.’
He wriggled free of Winters.
‘That’s not the point, Joe,’ said Francesca Placido, a skinny girl with a Tibetan hat on. ‘What about the dogs? What about the pigs? It’s not just tigers, it’s the whole animal world we have to think of.’
‘Well said, Francesca,’ said Winters. ‘Mr. Maloney?’
Joe felt the lark singing inside him and the tiger prowling inside him. He looked at the teacher, and knew that Bleak Winters was never anything else except Bleak Winters. He looked at the children. He knew that they, like him, might have larks and tigers inside them, but they kept them hidden, and one day their larks and tigers might disappear, just as Bleak Winters’ had. He wanted to tell them this, he wanted to draw them away from Winters and toward the tent and the wasteland, but he didn’t have the words.
He hunched his back, moved on.
‘Get back to school!’ Winters snapped. ‘Get back to school or you’ll be lost in your own stupidity.’
Joe listened to his larks. (Pg. 42-43)

While this metaphor can also represent the concept of the joys of childhood being at odds with the bitter realities of adulthood, I think an explanation like that would be too simplistic in this case. It might be more accurate to say that just because one life is ending, whether it be circus life or young life, doesn’t mean that life of another kind isn’t waiting. Nor doesn’t growing up and/or moving on mean losing one’s identity. Corinna makes it clear to Joe that the relationship between the circus animals and the performers was one of mutual love and respect—and still is. Even if the animals no longer exist in tangible form, such a relationship and its memory must still be cherished and treated with dignity:

“‘You’re more than you think you are,’ [Corinna] said. ‘You’re more than they think you are.’
[Joe] tugged his hands away.
‘I—I know I am!’ he said.
His face burned. He stared at her.
‘Only Maloney, lalalala . . .’
He gasped. His head rang with the voices of those who mocked him, those who said what he should be, those who said what he could be. The words struggled for life on his tongue.
‘And I—I—I am more that you think I—am!’ he stammered.
She touched his hand again, but he pulled it away.
‘That’s why we need your help, Joe,’ she said.
‘My help?’
‘That’s why the tiger came for you.’
He stared. He sighed. He wondered what she meant but he knew himself that the tiger had a purpose, that it had searched for him, that it had called him. And he felt the fur on his skin. He felt the heart drumming in his chest.
‘We find it hard to understand,’ she whispered, ‘but sometimes the most important things are the most mysterious. We don’t have words for them. But we need someone like you, Joe. No, we need you.’
Joe narrowed his eyes. He stared into her. He saw other worlds, other lives. He knew that Corinna had larks and tigers inside her. He knew that her mind could stretch as far as and beyond the Black Bone Crags.
‘It’s always been said,’ she whispered, ‘that when the circus comes to an end, we’ll need someone to take the beasts back to the forest. Only that way will the circus be truly ended. Only that way will our hearts be truly at rest. Only that way will we be able to think of beginning again.’
‘But there’s no w-wild beasts.’
She said nothing. She met his eyes. He nodded. He knew that there would always be wild beasts.” (Pg. 97-98)

This book may not appeal to everyone as strange descriptions and a lack of an obvious or traditional narrative goal can make it hard to follow at times, but as I said, this story seems to be less about logical understanding and more about simply feeling. Despite the atmosphere of inevitable loss throughout, Almond still weaves in a sense of hope with thoughtful characters, otherworldly grace, and wildly gorgeous imagery. While this setting seems like a perfect place for dreams to die, how they die depends on their dreamers. Dreams can be forced to die full of pain and grief, leaving a trail of regret for the living left behind. Or they can allowed to die as though from old age. Naturally, with some sadness, maybe, but also with acceptance. Quietly and peacefully so that other dreams and dreamers can take their place with strength and dignity.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Secret Heart by David Almond (published by Dell Laurel-Leaf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc.).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Inner-Natural” - George Ellsworth

https://www.facebook.com/GeorgeLEllsworth

“Outer-Natural” - George Ellsworth

“Circum-Natural” - George Ellsworth

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

Secret Heart on Wikipedia

David Almond on Wikipedia

David Almond's Official Website

Secret Heart on Goodreads

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Mad Wolf Disease

3/30/2019

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#22 - The Wereling
2003-2004, Ages 16 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of two teens who must fight against werewolves exploiting modern technology in their plan for world domination.
(4/7/17)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

Time, changes, and rearrangements aside, I can still point out today the exact spot in the Barnes & Noble in Duluth where I found two out of the three of these books. Though I knew only what was on the back covers, and being hesitant to begin until I had the complete trilogy, I decided to take a chance and order the missing novel. The result? I became so absorbed in the insanely fast pace and adrenaline-fueled suspense of the story that soon after I started, I actually stayed up until 3 am just to finish the second book. Much as I love to read, an occurrence like that was extremely rare for me even when I was a teenager. Even so, I still thank heaven that I didn’t have either school or work the next day.

During a vacation with his family, 16-year-old Tom Anderson is attacked by a wild animal while alone in the woods. Miraculously surviving, he wakes up in the home and care of the Folan family. Though grateful, Tom keeps requesting to go home to his parents, but the Folans keep giving reasons why this is not possible . . . as though they don’t want him to leave. This fear is soon confirmed when Tom discovers that his hosts are actually werewolves who have now turned him into one of their own in order to be a mate for their daughter, Kate. Fortunately for Tom, Kate will do anything to preserve her humanity and his and vows to help him escape her blood-lusting family and seek out a mysterious medicine man said to be capable of curing newly-turned werewolves. During their quest, they learn of a plot initiated by the evil albino ‘wolf, Papa Takapa, which would pave the way for werewolves to become the world’s new dominant species. Now with almost every other ‘wolf in the U.S. hot on their trail, Tom must learn to trust Kate while coping with his new other half in order to stay alive long enough to stop Takapa and be cured.

Stories like this tend to be hit-or-miss for me because, let’s face it, in fiction these days, legendary creatures in the modern world are a dime a dozen. But Cole makes his werewolves particularly interesting by a seemingly unrelated element: science. Part of what made the original Dracula so fascinating is that bodily filth and disease—devastatingly rampant in the 19th century—were the metaphorical basis for the vampire and the process by which one succumbs to vampirism. Likewise, in a time and universe in which science is most often preferred over myth, lycanthropy, or werewolfism, is also treated much more like a sickness than a supernatural power.

In many western mythologies, wolves often represent greed, destructiveness, and, of course, lust. According to Cole’s mythos, it is only by mating with a male werewolf that a pureblood female will ever become a wolf herself, otherwise she will remain human indefinitely. I found this idea especially unique, and not only as a refreshing plot device. Kate, a teen now of breeding age, is deathly afraid that, should her own inner ‘wolf ever awaken, she will become a mindless killer, just like her mother (more on her later). But the dread goes deeper than that. It would be like being invaded twofold: infection and rape—a heinous experience that she might possibly find herself enjoying, but would afterword make her feel forever unclean and irredeemable.

“Kate laughs feverishly as her bones begin to shift. Muscles tear and ripple. Teeth twist into spikes. Silken hair sprouts from every sweating pore. [. . .]
Her heart beats sure and strong. [. . .]
[. . .]
Soon she is bounding over rich-smelling earth. At last she feels alive. Feels she belongs. She catches the sharp smell of a frightened animal close by. She slips through undergrowth toward it. A deer, startled, bursts from its hiding place and starts to bolt. She matches it for pace, watches it swerve and dance with fear.
Finally she tires of the chase and slams the animal to the ground. Her claws tear into the deer’s flank; her jaws close around its throat, sharp teeth piercing the downy neck. Blood floods over her lips. It’s everywhere, sweet and sticky; she is bathed in it. Exultant, she raises her head and howls her thanks to the moon. . . .

The scream tore out of Kate as her eyes snapped open.
She jolted upright in her bed, trembling, gasping for air. She pressed her hands to her face, fingers searching the smooth clammy skin as hot tears poured over them. Then she gagged. The dream had never been so vivid; the blood had never seemed so real.
The moon was just a soft glow through her flimsy curtains, but Kate feared even the intrusion. She pushed sweat-drenched hair from her eyes and turned on her bedside light. Looking around at the familiar objects in the room, she reassured herself she was normal. For now . . .
But the images of the dream wouldn’t fade this time. The moon. The blood.
The exultant wolf.
That’s going to be me, she thought, still trembling. That’s what I’m going to become.
Kate dreaded the day she would think those thoughts not with fear and guilt and shame—but with pleasure . . .” (Wounded, Pg. 2-4)

As for Tom, however, the beast inside him is now all too real. But he soon learns that he is no ordinary werewolf: he is a wereling, a special type who is able to balance his humanity with his wolf instincts no matter which form he takes. This is both a rare blessing and yet an even more terrible curse for Tom. While he can take advantage of his newly sharpened senses while human and retain his human thoughts and memories as a wolf, this leaves him unable to escape the constant pain of knowing the horror of the creature he has become—and what that creature might be capable of should he ever lose control of it:

“Suddenly there was a loud cry to their left. [. . . They saw] a young woman in a head scarf, staring around frantically, her hand to her mouth.
‘My baby,” she gasped. ‘I went to get some change, and now . . .’ She started shouting: ‘Bobby! Bobby, honey, where are you?’
[. . .] Tom saw a half-eaten crustless sandwich in the child’s stroller. Concentrating, he could smell the peanut-butter-and grape-jelly filling. He turned in a slow circle, trying to see if he could scent it anywhere.
[. . .]
‘I can smell him,’ Tom breathed. ‘Wait here.’
‘Don’t leave me!’ Kate panicked.
‘Just a few seconds,’ Tom promised her. Then he jogged across the concourse, sniffing the air. It was like he could home in on the scent of the little boy, and it was mingling now with the overwhelming stench of . . .
Tom hurried to the men’s room, and there was Bobby, grinning as his sandy brown hair was buffeted in the blast from a hot-air dryer.
‘I needed to go pee,’ the pudgy little boy announced.
‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,’ Tom agreed. He picked him up and carried him back across the concourse. He smelled like soap and candy, safe and clean. The way Joe used to smell. Tom had resented having a baby brother so much at the start, but . . .
He froze.
The smell of the plump little boy in his arms was making him salivate.
‘Here,’ Tom muttered, dumping Bobby in his mother’s arms without another word.
‘Thanks,’ the woman called gratefully, but Tom was already walking away. The crowd began to disperse.
Kate appeared, carrying his backpack as well as her own. ‘What am I, the bellhop now?’
Tom slumped down on another bench, sank his face into his hands. ‘I . . . I thought maybe I could find something good in all this mess,’ he whispered. ‘That I could help.’
‘You did help,’ Kate said softly, joining him. ‘You were right about the boy and you sniffed him out.’
Tom snorted. ‘I wanted to eat him.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Kate said quietly. ‘You drew on the wolf in you without letting it out. I’ve never seen that before.’ She smiled at him. ‘Hey, wereling. Perfect synthesis of man and wolf . . .’
‘There’s nothing perfect about me,’ Tom snapped. ‘What if next time that hunger hits me, I can’t control it? Can’t stop myself?’
Kate was silent for a long moment. ‘Come on,’ she said at last. ‘It’s almost five. We should get ready to board.’” (Pg. 96-98)

And besides the personal ramifications of becoming werewolves, Tom and Kate also have to deal with enemies who couldn’t be more demonic even in ‘wolf form. Now, I’ve witnessed plenty of brutal antagonists in a multitude of stories, but Kate’s mother, Marcie, is a real sadist in her own right. “[Like] a junkie needing her fix”, as Kate once puts it, Marcie sees almost every other creature as prey and loves nothing more than to rip any live piece of flesh into bloody shreds:

“‘But I need to go out and kill,’ said Marcie, like this was the most reasonable thing in the world.
[. . .]
[. . .] ‘Marcie, the boy must be close to turning,’ Hal said reasonably. ‘We need to be here for him when—’
‘Hal, baby, be here for me right now, okay? Please. I need to go out.’ Marcie was quieter now. Her slow, sly voice was somehow scarier than the yelling. ‘I’m not strong and stoic like you. I can’t live off cold, dead, stuff my whole life.’
‘You go feeding too much. Stray too far.’
[. . .]
‘What part of this aren’t you getting, Hal?’ Marcie sighed. She cupped his face. With each whispered word a different nail gouged the skin on his cheek: ‘I’m—going—outside—tonight.’” (Pg. 54-55)

And then there is Takapa, who more than lives up to his Navajo namesake, “Eater of Men.” Underneath his sickly, corpse-like appearance lies a savagery that he flaunts and relishes with a psychosis as delicious as it is chilling—pun intended.

“There was a rushing, eerie cracking sound, like ghosts bundling up a pile of dry sticks.
‘Boo.’
Kate opened her eyes.
She decided maybe she preferred the ‘wolf.
A naked man stood before her, early fifties, maybe, stick thin and covered in eczema. He looked half starved; his ribs stuck out like blades through flaky skin, his stomach was sunken, his hips protruded like bone handles.
[. . .]
[. . .] A silver double helix dangled from the fleshy lobe of his right ear, while his left ear looked like it had been chewed clean off. His skin was pockmarked with the scars of old acne, and his eyes were a watery pink, the color of raw flesh.
[. . .]
Abruptly he got up, walked over to one of the crates on the nearby rack, and pried off the lid. He scooped out a mass of crimson slush ice and pushed it greedily into his mouth like it was Ben & Jerry’s or something. ‘Mmm.’ He shut his eyes and sighed dreamily. ‘Love it when you get a clot.’
He held some under Kate’s nose. ‘Slush pop? It’s blood, liver, and chili sauce, my own recipe.’” (Pg. 195-197)

Between the awesome characters, both good and evil, and the intense plot twists, I found myself holding my breath more than once while trembling with excitement. During the numerous times a main character was captured, tortured, or in a fight, I kept asking myself, “How the H are they going to get out of this mess?”

Like I said before, taking a well-known and well-respected trope—or in this case, mythical creature—and setting it in the modern era can very easily take the magic and mystery out of the entire experience, not to mention the creature itself, if not done well—like a certain novel/film franchise involving teen vampires. But assuming it was done correctly and with care, I think this story would make an excellent film series in the supernatural thriller genre. A splendid concoction of the technological and the nightmarish, The Wereling is sure to linger and prowl within the mind long after the final page has been turned.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Wereling: Wounded by Stephen Cole (published by Razorbill/The Penguin Group).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Monsters in My Head” - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“Invisible Dreams” - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“Techno Monster” - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

The Wereling on Wikipedia

Stephen Cole on Wikipedia

Stephen Cole's Official Website

The Wereling on Stephen Cole's Website

The Wereling's Facebook Page

The Wereling on Goodreads

The Wereling at Barnes & Noble

The Wereling on Amazon

The Wereling on eBay

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Dog Brain

3/29/2019

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#20 - Lives of the Monster Dogs
1997, Ages 17 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a writer who is given rare access to the private lives of some famous but highly unusual immigrants.
(2/3/17)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

There is an annual book sale that takes place at the Duluth Public Library in the summer that I always enjoy attending at least once during the three to four days it runs. Even if I end up leaving empty-handed—and every so often I do if nothing sticks out at me—I’m still satisfied as I get a chance to reminisce about the titles that I remember from my youth while pondering on what’s come out that I may have missed. I was at one such sale a few years back when my eye fell upon this book tucked upon a shelf of Adult Fiction. After reading the title on the spine but before actually taking the book from the shelf, I wondered if it was some sort of metaphor. Something political, maybe, or relating to a war or scandal or some other piece of history that I’d likely never heard of. My curiosity piqued, I pulled out the book and my eyes widened: to my surprise, the cover art was quick to tell me that the book’s title was more than a bit literal. The picture showed what appeared to be a person in a wine-red silk shirt, but this person had the head of a beautiful dog; I didn’t know precisely what the breed was, but to me it looked like a Siberian Husky. Needless to say, the synopsis only further guaranteed my purchase.

The people of 2008 New York get the surprise of their lives when a group of refugees arrive in their city hoping to build a new life for themselves, having been completely isolated from the rest of the world for nearly a century. But these are no ordinary refugees; in fact, they’re not even human. They are a race of highly intelligent dogs created through years of scientific experimentation. Able to walk and speak as humans do, and attired in elegant gowns, tailcoats and top hats, they are the epitome of 19th century European wealth and nobility, and the fascinated New Yorkers welcome them with open arms. Though curious herself, struggling college student Cleo Pira is too focused on her own daily life to dwell too much on them. That is, until she is unexpectedly befriended by the dogs’ pensive historian, German Shepherd Ludwig von Sacher, and later commissioned to write news articles about their various plans and exploits. She accepts the offer as it not only pays well, but allows her to meet the other dogs and learn more about their personal lives. But then she learns the dogs’ most terrible secret of all: they are being afflicted one by one by an incurable Alzheimer’s-like disease that eats away at their humanity, reverting them more and more to their original canine state while slowly and painfully killing them. And when the dogs host an extravagant public party at the new castle built as both a new home for themselves and as a gift to New York, Cleo realizes that she may have no choice but to bear witness to the living nightmare of their seemingly inevitable extinction.

Excited though I was to read this book, a bit of suspicion nevertheless crept into my mind after the first few pages. I wondered if this was going to be a Beauty-and-the-Beast or Romeo-and-Juliet scenario, or a case of “good human protects good creatures from evil/ignorant humans”. As it turns out, neither were the case, which frankly was a nice change of pace. But in all seriousness, if something like this were to actually occur and everyone knew it for a fact, there would be utter chaos in some form or another. I think that was the aspect that surprised me most and where my suspension of disbelief was most tested because the apparent ease with which the humans accept the dogs seems questionable at best. At the same time, though, I’m glad to experience a story where one can explore the events and consequences of a hitherto impossible happening in the real-world of the 21st century without the anarchic side of human nature getting too much in the way.

Similarly to books like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Stephen King’s Carrie, and Max Brooks’ World War Z, Lives of the Monster Dogs is in part an epistolary novel told through the letters, journal entries, and news articles written by the central characters. This adds an extra layer of melancholy realism to the narrative. As the tale progresses, there is the increasingly oppressive feeling that something is going to be lost forever when it is least expected, whether it be a self-indulgent novelty or something far more precious—and that is a line constantly blurred throughout.

In spite of all the praise and attention they receive, the dogs, especially Ludwig, hold no illusions as to how ridiculous they must appear to the humans. There is no explicit racism in the story, but it is still plain that the differences between Cleo and the dogs are too great not to create some tension between them. There is one scene in particular where Cleo joins Ludwig for lunch, and she can’t help but notice the awkward ways in which he tries to acclimate himself to human dining. A subtle discomfort lingers even after an amicable parting:

“Once when I passed [Ludwig] the bread, without thinking I set it down a few inches beyond the far edge of his plate, and I watched with fascination how he flipped his tail upward to hook it under one of the horizontal slats in the back of his chair, to keep himself from falling as he leaned over to get the silver wire basket.
‘You are laughing at me,’ he said.
‘No, I was just noticing how you used your tail . . .’
‘How could you do anything but laugh at me?’ He paused. ‘It’s all right.’
‘But I wasn’t.’
‘Of course you were. I can imagine what I look like to you. It’s awkward, and I don’t do a very good job. Your world wasn’t designed for dogs.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘All right, I don’t know,’ I said. I could feel tears stinging somewhere in the upper part of my nose.
We ate the rest of the meal in silence. When we were finished, Ludwig looked up at me, folding his napkin in his hands. He seemed tired.
[. . .]
‘Listen, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if I have.’
Ludwig closed his eyes for a second. ‘You haven’t.’
He pushed against the edge of the table to move his chair back a little, then lowered his feet to the ground one at a time, holding on to the edge of the table as he stood up. I got up, too.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ he said.
At the door, leaning on his cane, he offered me his hand and held mine for a moment in his stiff mechanical grip.
‘Goodbye, Cleo. I hope I will be able to see you again,’ he said.
‘I’d like that a lot,’ I said. ‘I really would.’" (Pg. 72-73)

I believe that Bakis uses the very impossibility of the dogs to represent the misgiving that life itself may very well be not only pointless, but perhaps even the greatest cosmic joke ever conceived. This point of view also implants in the characters a sort of god-worshiping complex that is more than a bit unhealthy. As Ludwig fights to write down his people’s history before the disease takes him entirely, his mind always returns to Augustus Rank, the human scientist who created the monster dogs. Seeing Ludwig try in vain to capture even the smallest trace of his creator reminds me of how people struggle to get in touch with God, and from there make better sense of their otherwise pitiful, earthly existence, time and again without success:

“Augustus, you were wrong! Your dogs have forgotten you!
[. . .]
If only I could tell him, I think I could understand the history of my race—I could understand what he meant by creating us, what we are.
I do feel a kind of sympathy for him. I can see that he was lonely, and how much he wanted us. But I feel no real love for him, and that is what is needed to re-create him.
He was able to live his whole life sustained only by hope. But I am not so perfect. Like all of us, I grew tired of waiting and wanted to make a life for myself here and now. And now the pure, clear, focused desire for him is gone—I am no longer a dog waiting by the door with one single thought in its mind.
I can’t reconstruct that love, that hope. The past is disintegrating. I try once again to muster the feeling, and I can’t. I think my mind is wandering—it may be one of my memory lapses coming on. [. . .] How unlike Augustus Rank I am, who died with pure hope on his mind.
This is it. Just now a thin involuntary whine escaped my lips and I stopped typing to bury my nose once again among the papers on my desk, to take in the meaningless smells of Augustus, the soft burning reek of oxidizing paper, the flat scent of photocopies and the musty take of ferrotypes.
It is really hopeless—he does not exist anymore. [. . .] Since my glasses are off and I have ink stuck to my nose, my own senses are dulled, too, and I can’t perceive anything clearly; it seems to me that the whole world is decaying.” (Pg. 12-13)

[. . .]

“[. . .] I emerged from my memory lapse a few hours ago, and—I cannot describe my state of mind since then.
[. . .]
There were piles of feces in the corners of my apartment. I am half-starved—[. . .] The front door and the floor beneath it are ruined with scratch marks, and the fingertips of my prosthetic hands are now tangles of tiny frayed wires and torn rubber. [. . .] Several of my teeth are chipped, and my nose and tongue are bruised. Much of my furniture and all of my rugs [. . .] have been torn up and they are soaked with urine. [. . .]
When I emerged from this state at one o’clock and saw what I had done, I sat down and howled. [. . .] I am a dog. God help me. (Pg. 85-86)

There are some dogs, however, who would rather accept their death with grace and dignity—a fact that Cleo can hardly bear. In a dilemma not unlike the issue of assisted suicide, Cleo is torn between wanting to respect the dogs’ wishes to die as they see fit and begging them to keep fighting to live. But as this already bizarre reality she is now a part of descends into even deeper madness, she realizes she would nevertheless do anything to protect it. Some of these selfish feelings may come from a bit of celebrity obsession to an extent, but I also think that Cleo’s reflections illustrate people’s tendency to cling to anything that eases any pain or emptiness they may feel—and few desires are more human than that:

“Late that night I woke up with fur in my mouth, crying. My face was buried in Lydia’s deep mane, and it was dark. [. . .] She must have just curled up beside me when she’d come in. Now we lay together on the big velvet couch, and though it was warm and quiet and my cheek was pressed against Lydia’s comforting fur, I felt terrible. I couldn’t tell what I was crying about. [. . .] It wasn’t the hopelessness of all of the dogs’ situations, or the lost spirit of Rank [. . .] though that was part of it, too. I felt that I had wandered out beyond the edge of a circle of light where I’d always lived, onto an endless plain. [. . .]
Maybe all I was thinking that night while I looked up at the red cloudy sky, wrapped up in Lydia’s nightgown and crying, was that I wanted to be with the dogs, wherever they were going, even though I knew it was impossible. They weren’t even gone and already I missed them so much that my whole body ached. The raw pain of having joints and muscles and organs, the uncushioned feeling of living, without hope or love, my throbbing heart, it all hurt so much. I just didn’t want to be in the world without them.” (Pg. 265-266)

This story is not categorized within any one genre, but that just adds to its uniqueness, with characters almost worthy of a Shakespearian tragedy and a plot that blurs the line between affection and obsession. Lives of the Monster Dogs not only explores the sometimes eerie similarities between human and animal, but illustrates the agony that sentience can bring, and begs the question of how far one is willing to go for what they believe is love or to satisfy the longing for meaning in one’s life, something sought after by both man and beast.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis (first edition, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Monster Fugue” - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“Always on My Mind” - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“Deep of the Night" - Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

Lives of the Monster Dogs on Wikipedia

Kirsten Bakis on Wikipedia

Lives of the Monster Dogs on Goodreads

Lives of the Monster Dogs at Barnes & Noble

Lives of the Monster Dogs on Amazon

Lives of the Monster Dogs on eBay

^^ Back to Books, Graphic Novels, and Other Works of Literature

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Lunar Lover

3/27/2019

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#12 - Blood and Chocolate
1997, Ages 16 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of how a teen werewolf’s search for normalcy and inner peace leads her into a forbidden romance with a human.
(6/3/16)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

There will always be a special place in my heart for this story. This is not only one of the first novels in the teen romance category that I remember reading, but perhaps the only one for which those closest to me shared my praise, namely my younger sister and one of my best friends from high school. Odd as it sounds, this was a very rare thing for me. We three loved fantasy fiction and still do, and yet, until this book, we never found one that we all truly loved with equal passion. And I find it especially fitting that the story’s author will be celebrating her birthday this month. What romantic doesn’t like a good werewolf tale to kick off the summer (aside from maybe the ones who prefer vampires, of course?) And so, in honor of Annette Curtis Klause, turning 62 on June 20th, I’m going to introduce what is arguably her best-known novel to date.

16-year-old Vivian Gandillon is a loup-garou—a werewolf—living in present-day Maryland. She and her widowed mother, Esme, remain in close contact with the remaining members of their pack, who are struggling hard to survive within human society after yet another arson-caused fire killed many of their kind—including Vivian’s father who was the pack’s leader. This results in continual bitter arguments and violence between pack-mates, making Vivian increasingly depressed and lonely. Despite these feelings, however, Esme warns Vivian against getting too close to humans and tells her to stay with the Five, a gang of boys who are the only other teens in the pack, but they only make matters worse with their recklessly immature behavior and their obvious desire of Vivian as a mate rather than a friend. But one day, after reading a human classmate’s poem, which contains lovely and surprisingly accurate descriptions of a werewolf transformation, Vivian decides to take a chance and find the writer: a boy named Aiden. A sensitive lover of magic and philosophy, Aiden appears to be Vivian’s intellectual and spiritual match in every way, but she naturally must hide her animal side from him, much to her chagrin. While she walks the fine line between her love for Aiden and her loyalty to the pack, a man suddenly turns up dead—with suspicious wounds that could only have been made by a werewolf. With a traitor in their midst and the police coming ever closer to the truth of her kind’s existence, Vivian is left with fears could destroy both her life and the lives of those she cares for, both human and werewolf.

The werewolf pack as Klause has created it is like its own tight-knit community and even subculture, to a degree, with its own religion—Vivian often uses expressions/curses like “Great Moon” or “Goddess”—its own sayings, such as “Don’t date if you can’t mate” (since werewolves and humans can’t breed together), and even its own slang terms, such as “meat-people”, a derogatory word for humans. More to the point, unlike some traditional books of this kind, the protagonist here is neither regretful nor inwardly tortured because of what she is. On the contrary, it is perhaps the greatest joy of her existence. The strength, the swiftness, the physical experience of the transformation and the sheer beauty of the creature she becomes, are all nothing short of ecstasy for Vivian. Accordingly, Klause peppers the story with numerous sexual metaphors to describe and compare the imagery of bodily changes and carnal desires, among other things, as exemplified in one of the finest portrayals of a werewolf transformation that I’ve ever seen in literature:

“Like all her people, at the full moon she had to change whether she wanted to or not, the urge was too strong to refuse. Other times she could change at will, either partway or fully. Right now the moon swelled like a seven-month belly, and she wanted to change because it was possible. She wanted to run for the joy of it.
She stalked through the backyard dusk, across the bat-grazed clearing in the narrow ribbon of woods out back, over the stream, up the embankment, and down into the wide grassy valley that held the river.
The grass was already high. Here and there might be nests made by kids making out or getting high, but she sniffed the air and smelled no human flesh.
Down by the river was a giant tumble of rocks that screened the riverbank. Behind the rocks, amid the shoulder-high weeds, she slowly slid off her clothes. Already her skin prickled with the sprouting pelt. A trickle of breeze curled around her buttocks, and her nipples tightened in the cool air off the river. She laughed and threw her panties down.
Her laugh turned to a moan at the first ripple in her bones. She tensed her thighs and abdomen to will the change on, and clutched the night air like a lover as her fingers lengthened and her nails sprouted. Her blood churned with heat like desire. The night, she thought, the sweet night. The exciting smells of rabbit, damp earth, and urine drenched the air.
The flesh of her arms bubbled and her legs buckled to a new shape. She doubled over as the muscles of her abdomen went into a brief spasm, then grimaced as her teeth sharpened and her jaw extended. She felt the momentary pain of the spine’s crunch and then the sweet release.
She was a creature much larger and stronger than any natural wolf. Her toes and legs were too long, her ears too big, and her eyes held fire. Wolf was only a convenient term they had adopted. Those who preferred science to myth said they descended from something older—some early mammal that had absorbed protean matter brought to Earth by a meteorite.
Vivian stretched and pawed at the ground, she sniffed the glorious air. She felt as if her tail could sweep the stars from the sky.
I will howl for you, human boy, she thought. I will hunt you in my girl skin but I’ll celebrate as wolf. And she ran the length of the river to the edge of the city slums and back, under the hopeful early-summer moon.” (Pg. 29-31)

Vivian is not ashamed of her lust, either for love or for life. Through Vivian’s actions and personality Klause portrays the similarities between humans and animals that eat, mate, love, and live as nature intended, and how there can be no greater beauty than that.

But that’s not to say that Vivian is promiscuous or evil or even heartless—or that her ability is without its misgivings. Much as Vivian is proud of what she is, even the best intentioned of her people tend to, in her mind, disgrace if not outright abuse the power their wolf form gives them. Vivian wishes with all her heart that they could see what she sees and long for the same thing she wants: to enjoy their wolf form for its own sake, not to befoul the image of their race and their heritage by slaughtering one another. But Vivian comes to realize that she may not be as different—or noble—in this sense as she would like to believe. Should she ever see Aiden during a full moon, for instance, she will have less control over the wolf transformation, and be at greater risk of inadvertently harming him:

“‘Dear Moon, he’s sweet, Vivian thought in anguish. A swift pang hit her gut, and she bit the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would keep her sane. Not sweet like that, she screamed silently, staring with panicked eyes at her round firm thighs. [. . .]
How do I make him go? She thought as her joints began to pop. [. . .]
[. . .] He moved closer and put an arm around her. ‘You pick a funny time to go shy on me,’ he said.
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter at her stupidity. How could she think she could be intimate with a human? She detected an undeniable rippling up her spine, and a hardness came to her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She tested a new idea. So what if I hurt him?
‘Vivian?’ Aiden whispered. [. . .]
[. . .] It was a stupid thought. She doubled over and moaned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
               ‘What’s wrong?’ Aiden asked, surprise and concern in his voice.
               ‘I think I’m coming down with the flu,’ she said. What a brainstorm. ‘Maybe you should go. I don’t want you to catch it.’
               ‘But someone should look after you if you’re ill.’ [. . .]
               [. . .] A spasm ripped through her and the bones in her knees crunched. ‘Go! Please go!’ she yelled, and scrambled for the window like a drunk, her legs refusing to obey. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
               She dove onto her bed, rolled to the floor, and spidered out of the room on knuckles and toes. She reached the bathroom at the end of the hall and slammed the door behind her. [. . .]
               Outside the window the swollen moon leered at her over the tops of the trees.
               She shuddered with pain, and tears outlined her downy face. She had never known a time when she hadn’t wanted the change, but now she was nauseated from holding it back. [. . .]
[. . .] She clenched her hand, withdrew her shaking fist, and curled into a tight, trembling ball on the bathroom floor. I won’t go out, she promised. I won’t go out. If she did, she might follow him and stalk him to his lair.
               She shuddered into her final shape, raised her muzzle, and howled frustration at the porcelain tile. Her voice echoed about her like a curse.” (Pg. 65-67)

For all that he loves to consider the existence of otherworldly creatures and the mystical as a whole, Aiden is still very much a normal human boy with normal human perceptions of reality that Vivian, being a mystical creature herself, can’t always agree or identify with. And as the mysteriously murdered bodies keep piling up and a series of events begins to affect her memories of previous nights, Vivian can’t help but wonder if she really is nothing more than an ugly, bloodthirsty beast herself, incapable and undeserving of true love. As the book’s title suggests and its synopsis states: “What is [Vivian] really—human or beast? Which tastes sweeter—blood or chocolate?”

Like many teens her age, Vivian yearns for acceptance, and answers to her questions of her place in the midst of a chaotic and unforgiving world, a struggle made all the more difficult when even the closest of loved ones offer neither guidance nor comfort, and those who could are gone forever. But as she pursues these answers, not once does she ever lose her inner strength or the determination to stay true to herself.

A gorgeous blend of tragic teen love, identity crises, exciting wolf battles, and a murder mystery to boot, Blood and Chocolate is a rare delight for teens and adults looking for a fantasy tale that is as deep and smart as it is romantic and suspenseful.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Blood and Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause (1997 paperback edition; published by Bantum Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers, a division of Random House, Inc.)

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Lovely Dark” – Sean Zarn

https://www.facebook.com/sean.zarn

“Soul of the Wolf” – Sean Zarn

“Death By Moonlight” – Sean Zarn

Download the full 15-minunte episode here!

Blood and Chocolate on Wikipedia

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Faery Figurines

3/27/2019

2 Comments

#11 - Old Oak Wood
1999-2001, Ages 9 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a shy faery child who often finds himself trying save the faery realm when he least expects it – and with very few others ever even knowing it.
(5/6/16)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

If there is one thing I’ve learned about living in Duluth, MN, it’s that praying for cold weather to warm up can sometimes be like praying for water to stop being wet. Even up until as late as April, we still get some sporadic snow falls and harsh wind chills here in Duluth from time to time. But, of course, nature does what it will, whether we humans like it or not. Yet this can also be a beautiful thing. There is a power and mystery about nature that even to this day, with all our knowledge and expertise, seldom fails to amaze and inspire. And who better to guide us through such a world than the children of Nature herself: Faeries! Even better: faeries not simply drawn or painted on the page but displayed before tangible backdrops in all of their 3-Dimentional glory! And so, here is a series of tales for the warm season that is now (hopefully) here to stay. With gorgeously magical settings, vivid descriptions of the natural world, and characters reminiscent of the incomparable Jim Henson’s Creature Shop, famed sculptor Wendy Froud and fantasy writer Terri Windling have teamed up to present these literary gems.

The series’ protagonist, Sneezlewort Rootmuster Rowanberry Boggs the Seventh—or simply Sneezle for short—is a gentle-hearted two-hundred-year-old tree root faery child, whose home is Old Oak Wood, the oldest and most esteemed faerie court in the wooded hills of Dartmoor, located within the British Isles. He has long, pointed ears; a fur pelt; a somewhat pudgy face; and a tufted tail of which he is very proud. He lives at the root of a large tree, and he enjoys almost nothing so much as a warm fire and a hot meal—especially when that meal involves cakes!

In A Midsummer Night’s Faery Tale, the faerie court is abuzz with preparations for Midsummer Night, during which the Gathering of the Faerie Queen Titania takes place. For the entire two hundred years of his life, poor Sneezle has never managed to stay awake long enough to see just what happens at the Gathering. This time, though, he is determined to learn the answer, and to help out and hopefully secure for himself a significant role in the process. But then he learns that Queen Titania is under a spell of deep sleep, and he must obtain her Midsummer crown in order to solve this mystery before something terrible happens at the Gathering. In The Winter Child, the faeries of Old Oak Wood are once again very busy and excited, this time for Midwinter’s Eve. The problem: winter is nowhere to be found! Without the power of Lady Winter, dangerous creatures like the goblins—normally asleep during the cold, snowy months—threaten to gather together and wreak havoc upon Old Oak Wood. With the help of his best friend Twig, some friendly sorcerers, some elusive elementals, and a mysterious downy-haired faery baby hatched from golden egg, Sneezle sets out to find Lady Winter and restore the cycle of the seasons. Finally, in The Faeries of Spring Cottage, after narrowly escaping from a band of strange and aggressive stick-like creatures, Sneezle inadvertently winds up in the worst place possible for a small faery like himself: in a house filled with humans! Sneezle must enlist the aid of a cheerful brownie that also lives inside the house, as well as some royal rat faeries, dolls that are able to come to life through faery magic, and even a young human girl, in order to find his way back home.

As I touched on before, one thing that truly makes these books stand out is their pictures, which are actually photographs. The characters are shown as dolls and puppets on real-life sets, both natural and man-made. Wife of world-famous fantasy artist Brian Froud—of whose work I am a huge fan—Wendy Froud is a doll-maker and an extraordinary artist in her own right. One of her greatest achievements was her help in the creation of the character Yoda from the film Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. Like her husband, Froud has also worked with Muppet creator Jim Henson, designing various creatures for The Muppet Show, as well as his classic films The Muppet Movie, Labyrinth, and The Dark Crystal.

The story’s other half, writer Terri Windling, is one of fantasy’s finest authors for both children and adults and her works have won numerous awards, such as the World Fantasy Award and the Bram Stoker Award, among others. One of her primary interests as a writer is exploring how myth and folklore are used and expressed in today’s art. Here, the way she describes Old Oak Wood, one could almost believe that magical beings really do live just beyond the trees, the rivers, or the hills—and could be seen with just the right mindset:

“Faeries are contrary creatures, but there is one way they are pleased to oblige us: to humans determined not to believe in them, they remain quite invisible. Yet anyone who has ever suspected that Nature herself has a spirit and soul can learn to see her children, the faeries, flickering through shadows of field and wood. . . .
. . . Old Oak Wood was quiet and still if you looked at it through human eyes—but Sneezle looked through faery eyes and saw quite a different picture. The shadows were filled with woodland folk—faeries and foxes, brownies and badgers, piskies and porcupines, derricks and deer, all busy now with preparations for the Gathering to come. Tiny green piskies harvested cobwebs, red-eared trolls gathered mandrake roots, and luminous flower faeries wove garlands of ivy and briar roses. Brownies with clothes of bark and moss painted white spots onto red mushrooms. Excited rabbits, always a nuisance, rolled in the leaves and scampered underfoot. Delicate sylphs flew overhead, pouring mist from silver buckets.” (Pg. 4-6)

Windling writes like a grandparent or older storyteller reciting a tale for children. Her words or so carefully chosen as if by wise adult with strong knowledge of this magical world, yet they are simple enough so that children can be completely immersed in the tale.

And speaking of children, Sneezle is a character that I believe many—both kids and kids at heart—could relate to. Little Sneezle is seldom taken seriously in spite of his good intentions. He is ungainly, somewhat gullible, and not especially strong or handsome. Thus, he seeks reassurance that he indeed has a purpose in his life:

“Starbucket filled his pipe with faery herbs, then sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, nephew, what brings you all the way to this part of the wood?’
Sneezle, seated at his feet, looked up at the kind old troll gravely. ‘What happens on Midsummer Night?’
‘Wait and see at the Gathering,’ the troll replied, eyes sparkling. ‘You’ll go this year, won’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . . Uncle Starbucket, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Everyone keeps shooing me away! I want a job like everyone else—and I don’t know what mine is.’
The old troll puffed on his pipe, considering. ‘All creatures must follow their natures, boy. You must do what you were born to do best.’
‘But I’m not good at anything. I’m clumsy and get everything wrong. I mess things up,’ Sneezle confided, ‘and everyone laughs at me.’
‘Well then, Sneezle, maybe that’s your role. Maybe you’re supposed to cause chaos, and stir things up, and make people laugh. Why, that’s a fine job to have!’ the old troll assured him.
‘No, it’s not,’ the little faery mumbled, ears drooping around his cheeks.
‘Remember: the actions of the smallest faery help or harm all of Old Oak Wood. Have patience, boy. Wisdom is a thing you earn, not a thing you’re born with.’
Sneezle’s ears pricked up at this. ‘How do I earn wisdom, uncle?’
‘There’s no recipe for wisdom, boy. Just trust your heart, for the truth of things isn’t always clear to the eyes or ears. The world is filled with illusion, child; not everything is as it seems. But the heart is where true wisdom lies—and you have a good one, Sneezle.’
Sneezle frowned, scratching his pelt. Adults always talked in riddles like this. He hoped that in another hundred years he would finally understand them.” (Pg. 18)

As is often true, what children may lack in physical strength and worldly knowledge, they can and do make up for with an open heart and an unbiased point of view. Not unlike in most traditional fairy tales, Sneezle always gives help to any creature, faery or otherwise, that needs it, and more often than not, those creatures turn out to be powerful beings who in turn offer rewards for his kind acts. In this way, Sneezle is able to see that he does have the power to change things for the better, just by being himself:

“. . . ‘I may be a hero, but I’m still a fool,’ the downcast little faery groaned. ‘’I still mess everything up. I’m still the same old Sneezle.’
‘And that’s a fine thing to be!’ said a voice behind him.
The child turned and saw a radiant man and woman among the trees, dressed in grass-green velvet, crowned with ivy and rowanberries, luminous with the morning light. He knew at once who they must be. ‘Are you . . . ?’
‘The Lord and Lady of the Wood,’ the lovely woman said. ‘And you, my little trickster, are Sneezlewort Rootmuster Rowanberry Boggs the Seventh. A proud old name for a fine young faery. We’ve come to return a wish to you. . . . Take it with our blessing, child.’
‘I will,’ promised Sneezle earnestly. ‘I’ll be much wiser from now on.’
‘Just be Sneezle. That’s good enough,’ said the raven-haired Lord of the Wood with a smile.” (Pg. 50)

It is apparent that the two minds behind this literary adventure have created these characters with great skill and, more importantly, with great love. Every creature’s appearance and personality is unique and expressive: bright, rosy-cheeked children, wizened, starry-eyed elders, and grotesque, cunning monsters, with the tone and object placement within each picture fitting perfectly with its corresponding occurrence. Though they specialize in differing forms of art, Froud and Windling’s abilities are such that they add an authenticity to these stories that to me is pretty rare in many newer children’s books today. The combination of photographed sculptures and rich narration reveal a new world that can be believable and wondrous to children and adults alike.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from A Midsummer Night’s Faery Tale by Wendy Froud and Terri Windling (1999 hardcover edition; published by Simon & Schuster)

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Nature's Secrets” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“A Child's Quest” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

“Home of the Heart” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

Wendy Froud on Wikipedia

Terry Windling on Wikipedia

The Frouds' Official Website

Terri Windling's Official Website

The Frouds' Facebook Page

Old Oak Wood on Goodreads

Old Oak Wood on Amazon

A Midsummer Night's Faery Tale at Barnes & Noble

The Winter Child at Barnes & Noble

The Faeries of Spring Cottage at Barnes & Noble

Old Oak Wood on eBay

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A Shifter in Perspective

3/25/2019

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#9 - Switchers
1994-1999, Ages 10 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a teen who comes to realize her identity through her secret ability to shape-shift.
(3/18/16)

The following recording is edited from its original 15-minute version due to copyright restrictions. To hear the full version, tune in or stream at the scheduled times on ktwh.org, or download on AudioPort.

The memory’s a bit vague, but I think it was around this time in high school that I learned of this story. And while it has nothing to do exactly to this month’s signature holiday, it does take place primarily in Ireland, so I figured: why not discuss it now? It was the second book of the series that I picked up first in the library; and of course, I had to find the first book beforehand so that I could follow along. In retrospect, I believe I found it at a good time in my life. Though I was a bit older than the protagonist at the time of my first reading, the story still resonates with me to this day, not only because of its fantasy elements, but because of the symbolism it offers in relation to both the hardships and adventures of growing up.

Each book is episodic, but they all intertwine in overall plot. Switchers centers on Tess, a young teenager who is what’s called a Switcher, one who has the power to shape-shift into any animal at will. In the first book, she has told no one of her ability up to this point and typically uses it as a brief escape from normal human life. But one day, she is approached by a boy named Kevin, who has been observing Tess for some time and happens to be a Switcher as well. Kevin reveals to Tess that every Switcher will permanently lose their power once they reach the age of fifteen, and whatever form a Switcher is in at such time will remain that Switcher’s form for the rest of their life—and Kevin’s birthday is only days away. Moreover, he insists that she, a fellow Switcher, is the only one who can help him to stop the mysterious increasing cold that is threatening Ireland and the rest of Northern Hemisphere. In Midnight’s Choice, Tess meets another Switcher named Martin, who, rather than facing the pain of reality, decides to flee from it by retreating into the form of a deadly creature that feels no remorse or weakness; Tess is left to face him and his darkness without the aid and companionship of Kevin. And in Wild Blood, Tess, while visiting her uncle and his family in the country, is about to turn fifteen herself and is agonizing over what shape to take for the rest of her life. But when her young cousins suddenly disappear in the woods, Tess must set aside her inner turmoil and find them before both they and her abilities are lost forever.

To begin with, the chemistry between Tess and Kevin evolves beautifully, despite a rough start in their relationship, as they become a foil for one another. A significantly fascinating aspect of Tess’s character is how closed-minded she is at times, not wanting to believe in what hasn’t been proven to her and often afraid to venture out of her comfort zone. But Kevin opens Tess’s eyes to greater possibilities by encouraging her to explore parts of the animal world that she never had before. It’s worth mentioning here that much of the splendor of this tale comes from the exploration of the minds of the animals the main characters become. Thompson gives readers vivid portrayals of the consciousness of numerous creatures, such as rats, owls, and dolphins, describing them as if they were human, but on a level both fundamentally and unattainably diverse. Upon learning that Tess has never been a goat, Kevin is surprised and convinces her to try it; the experience turns out to be much better than she expects:

    “Tess was surprised by some of the things that she was learning. She found that it was a myth that goats would eat anything. On the contrary, her senses of smell and taste were so refined that she could tell in an instant whether a moth had laid eggs on a leaf or a bird dropping had landed there, even a month ago. She would leave anything that was the slightest bit tainted where it was on the tree, and eat carefully around it. She found that she had a rich and rare sense of her own independence. [. . .] [S]tronger than any every other emotion in a goat’s heart is the love of freedom. Even here, amid the luxury of the rich lands where food would never be scarce, her goat soul longed for the high, craggy places of the world, places that are of no use to mankind but are the wild, windy kingdoms of goats.
[. . .]
Kevin turned to Tess, and the sly, mischievous glint was in his eye again. Tess knew that for the first time, she was returning it. Together they slipped through the fence as if it wasn’t there and strolled out into the field.” (Pg. 105-106)

[. . .]

Tess and Kevin, communicating by a combination of goat gestures and rat images, were having a ball. Three policemen and a gathering of neighborhood residents were red in the face with exertion and fury. The goats dodged and scrambled, jumped walls, and pushed through hedges. They split up without hesitation when they had to and met up again as soon as they could. They avoided traps with uncanny and infuriating ease.
               A local farmer had been called in to help and he had arrived full of cool confidence with his two best sheepdogs. But ten minutes after he had arrived, the farmer was coaxing the terrified creatures back into his Land Rover and wondering if they would ever work again.

[. . .]

[. . .] [The goats] swung at full speed into the yard at the side of the house and veered in through the open door of the woodshed. A few seconds later, Tess and Kevin emerged laughing, their eyes still shining with mischief.” (Switchers: Pg. 110-111)

Tess, on the other hand, acts as a link to humanity for Kevin, who has never felt right living among humans; as an animal (especially a rat), he always knows his place, for better or worse, because animals don’t lie or pretend as humans do. Upon meeting Lizzie—an eccentric old woman and former Switcher herself —Kevin quickly butts heads with her, but Tess is able to see that they are more alike than they realize:

               “‘That’s teenagers for you,’ Lizzie went on, her voice rising in tone to near hysteria. ‘They hasn’t even started and they’s had enough. They only wants to sit in front of the TV or have a good time for theirselves being jackdaws and puppies and toads. They’s always had enough, even before they’s had what they come for!’
               Kevin wheeled on her, [. . .] ‘And what about stupid old women? Who invites . . . who invite people to visit them and drag them across Dublin and then tell them to mind their manners so they can stand there and abuse them?’
               ‘You hasn’t any manners to mind!’ shouted Lizzie.
               ‘Listen to who’s talking!’ yelled Kevin, and he stormed out. He was halfway up the little path before Tess caught up with him. [. . .]
‘Wait, Kevin,’ she said.
               ‘What for?’
               ‘I want to talk to you for a minute.’
               ‘Talk?’ he said. ‘That’s all people ever do. Talk, talk, talk. They talk so much they get on each other’s nerves and what happens then? They have to bloody well talk about it!’
               ‘Don’t be like that, Kevin.’
               ‘Why not? What’s the point of all that talking, eh? Now you want to talk about that stupid old woman, and we wouldn’t be here in the first place if it weren’t for her talking too much.’

[. . .]

‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘The old woman is like you. She doesn’t understand people, either. She doesn’t know how to behave.’
               Kevin turned away from her. ‘It just proves my point, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of time trying to understand people.’ But Tess knew he was disarmed now.

[. . .]

‘Do you know something, Kevin?’ she said.
               ‘What?’
               ‘You care a lot more about people than you think you do.’
               ‘Oh, do I?’ His voice was full of contempt. ‘Why do you think that?’
               ‘Because if you really didn’t care, if you really thought people were so useless, then they couldn’t upset you, could they? Because you’d never expect anything better.’” (Switchers: Pg. 92-94)

With each adventure, Tess grows stronger as a Switcher, but faces ever increasing struggles as a human as well, further emphasized by her inability to choose a final form. It is not only the choice of what creature suits her best that she must consider, or even the thought of disappearing from her parents’ lives with no explanation. It is the fear of regret and lost chances that haunts her, the knowledge that the future is inevitable, and she can’t see herself in it, nor can she see a life that will give her unconditional happiness. But face this reality, she must, like any other growing human being:

“[Tess] thought of the land again, the fresh green beauty of the woods and the greed of the people who wanted to destroy them in order to line their own pockets. She didn’t want to be an adult in a society like that, where no one cared about anything except money. She envisioned the world as a gray barren place, where nothing lived except human beings and nothing grew except the food they ate. Like a plague on the earth. Like locusts, they destroyed everything before them. Like locusts, they could see no further than their own, immediate greed.
               She wouldn’t join them. Better to be an animal, even a greedy one like a pig or a rat. At least they didn’t pretend to care. People were worse. People were hypocrites. [. . .]

               [. . .]

               A sudden gust of wind rattled the window hard, and Tess sat up with a start. There was something [that Lizzie] had said. What was it? Tess concentrated and, obligingly, the words came to her.
               ‘Does we believe what we see, or does we see what we believe?’

[. . .]

               Tess knew now that the chips were down. She could still cop out, of course. [. . .] But [. . .] it would be an admission that her fear had defeated her. And suddenly she realized that she didn’t need Lizzie to tell her what to do. The truth, plain and simple, was that if anyone had a chance of finding those children it was she. [. . .]
After tonight her powers would be gone. The events of the day were moving too fast, robbing her of time and space to think, and it looked now as though she wasn’t going to have time to make a considered choice of what to be. But perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it didn’t help to have time to think. Up until now all the thinking in the world hadn’t helped her arrive at a decision.
[. . .] For the next few hours she still had her Switching powers. If she did not use them while she could, she might spend the rest of her life regretting it.
With a feeling of courage returning, of becoming herself again after a long absence, Tess flung open the window.” (Wild Blood: Pg. 168-171)

Too old to be utterly sheltered anymore, yet too young to be fully understanding of real life, teens are often faced with choices that could potentially alter their way of thinking and their lives in turn, something they may not want to admit is daunting for them. They may feel caught at that important threshold between childhood and adulthood, as once they go forward it may be next to impossible to go back. But this can also be an asset: teens can begin to explore the world and learn to live in it while their minds and hearts are still open enough to embrace its joys and glories that adults may have forgotten or disapproved of. I believe that, through Switchers, Thompson portrays these struggles in a very authentic and poignant manner even as the supernatural is occurring all around.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All excerpts are from the novels, Switchers (1999 Hyperion paperback edition) and Wild Blood (2002 Hyperion paperback edition) by Kate Thompson

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Majestic Heart” – The Curellis

https://www.facebook.com/JakeSearlMusic

“Rince” – The Curellis

“Peaceful 5ths” – The Curellis

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

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