Throwback Thursday: The Goddaughter and Death by Lissa Sloan

Not all godmothers are fairies, 
and it is best to remember that 
Death always keeps her promises...

Editor’s note: Lissa Sloan is probably the most published writer on EC. This story from 2017 shows why. Lissa draws readers in and make us root for her well-drawn characters. We feel their emotions, and the action is well paced. For those of you thinking of submitting a story. Take a good look at how this story is constructed. For everyone else, it’s just a great read.


Once there was a motherless girl. She had a powerful godmother who helped her get to the palace to win the heart of a handsome prince. But it was not the godmother you think. It was not the girl you think. And her tale does not end with a happily ever after. It ends like all tales, though, as you will see.  

But we must begin at the beginning, not the end, and so we must go back. Back to the birth of the motherless girl. When Death came for the girl’s mother, the dying woman seized Death’s robes in her weakening hands. She knew her baby daughter would face hardships without her. Her husband would not want to be alone; he would marry again. And who would look after her daughter then? Who would put the child first? With her last breath, the mother begged Death to stand godmother to her baby girl. To watch over her and guide her. Death was used to begging, but no one had begged this favor before. Death leaned over the bundle in the father’s arms, examining the child. Then she nodded once. Her robes turned to smoke in the woman’s cold hands and swirled up the chimney. The father and daughter were alone.

But they were not alone for long. As the mother had known, the girl’s father was lonely and married again. The new wife had children of her own, and more children came along afterward, as children will. The motherless girl was thrust aside, and no one thought of her.  Except for Death. Death was true to her promise. She came to the christening, she visited from time to time, and as the girl grew older, she began to make some provision for her future. The family had come upon hard times, and Death knew there would be no money for a dowry. So she decided to give her goddaughter a profession.  

“You shall be a healer,” she told the girl. Together they walked in the woods, and Death showed the girl the right herbs to collect to make a cordial that would cure all but the gravest ills. “If you are summoned to a sickbed and see me at the bed’s head, then give your patient the medicine, and all will be well,” she told her. “Until the next time, at least,” she said, her robes lifting in the slightest of shrugs. Then she put her bony hand under the girl’s chin, forcing her to look into the depths of her black eyes. “But if I am at the bed’s foot, then there is no help for him. And you must not try.” The girl nodded and promised that she wouldn’t.

To begin with, the girl attended only the poorest homes. For who would want the services of a young girl in a shabby dress when they could have a proper physician, or even an apothecary? But plenty of folk had no choice and were grateful for anyone who cared to come. The girl was glad to go where she was wanted and was always careful to obey Death’s instructions.  

Then one day, the word spread throughout the town. The young prince was gravely ill. The apothecaries and physicians had failed, and the king and queen would pay any price to one who could cure him. The girl pitied the prince, but she envied him too. No one would pay any price to save her life. So she set off for the palace. The guards scoffed at the sight of a barefoot girl with nothing but a bottle of green liquid in her hand. But then they saw Death approaching the palace gates, black robes billowing behind her, and their ruddy faces blanched in terror. They hurried the girl inside and barred the gates, practically pushing her up the stairs to the prince’s room.

But Death was there before them, at the foot of the young man’s bed. It was a shame, thought the girl, as she sat on the bed to examine her patient. He was so young; it was not fair for Death to take him now. And then the girl did something brave. Or something foolish. Or maybe both at once. She could not say what made her do it. Perhaps it was the silent weeping of the queen or the reddened eyes of the king. Perhaps it was not. More likely it was the way the prince’s dark locks fell across his forehead and the way he grabbed the girl’s hand as she reached out to touch his fevered brow. Whatever her reason, she called two guards to her, strong men both, and whispered in their ears. At her command, one took the prince’s shoulders and the other his feet. They reversed his position on the bed. The girl tipped the cordial down his throat and looked up at Death, now at the head of the bed.  

Cold filled the room as Death approached her goddaughter. She laid a cold white hand upon the girl’s cheek. “You are young, my child; I shall forgive you. But do not disobey me again.”    
The goddaughter was sorry. Mostly. She shook her head and promised she would never disobey again, a tear of contrition freezing as it trickled down her cheek. Death was gone then, black robes fading into the room like steam from a boiling pot, but no one noticed.The prince was sitting up in bed, the color already returning to his cheeks.The king and queen rejoiced, and the maids and the guards rushed out to share the good news. But the prince had eyes for no one but the girl who had saved his life.

Now though our story has no ever after, it does have some happily, and that begins here. For they married, of course, as you knew they would. The girl became a princess and, in time, a queen. She healed her subjects when she could and nursed them with care when she could not. She was renowned for her knowledge and her wisdom, for she was never tempted to defy Death again. At least, not until the day she came into her firstborn’s room and found the godmother at the foot of the girl’s bed.

Again the goddaughter was brave, and again she was foolish. This time it was the queen herself who lifted the girl off the bed. The princess was only a little thing, so light that the queen reversed her position on the bed in one blink of Death’s black eye. The child drank the cordial and sank back onto the bed.  

The queen was not sorry. But she knew her godmother would be angry, and she stood to face her. Death approached her, placing one skeletal hand on her goddaughter’s chest. Her touch was light, but the queen felt the breath turn to ice in her lungs. “You are old enough to know better, child,” Death said softly. “And from now on, you shall. Next time, you will welcome my coming.” The queen’s heart stopped, and she slumped to the floor in a rustle of silk as Death withdrew her hand. Then the godmother was gone, disappearing in a swirl of fog like breath on a cold morning. And the queen’s heart beat once more.

Death had been right to say the queen would welcome her coming, for the princess did not recover as her father had. She lingered and wasted, begging her mother to let her go, and the queen could do nothing to ease her pain. All she could do was to implore the godmother’s pardon and entreat her to return. But Death chooses her own time, and she came when she was ready. The queen did indeed welcome Death and begged the godmother to take her too. But Death was used to begging. She merely shook her head and disappeared, her robes trailing up into the air like smoke from a blown-out candle.  

The queen could not carry on without her child. But she did carry on, for what choice did she have? She walked with the godmother in the woods, gathering herbs. She healed the sick when she could, nursed them with care when she could not, and curled into her husband’s arms in the dark of the night. And among her grief there was more happily, although no ever after. There was even, when she was almost too old to give up hoping for such things, another child, a son this time.

When Death returned to the palace the queen was not ready, and she knew she never would be. The godmother stood at the foot of the king’s bed, just as she had stood there all those years before when he was only a prince. When the prince and the healer had never even met and the barefoot girl with the bottle of cordial had so much less to lose. But now the girl was a woman, and lose she did. Not all, but enough. Again she begged the godmother to take her too. But Death was used to begging. She merely shook her head, her robes dissipating into the room like mist in the morning sun.  

The queen could not carry on without her husband. And yet she did, for what else could she do? She and the godmother took her little son for walks in the woods, showing him what herbs to pick and how to make the cordial. She ruled her kingdom with wisdom and compassion. She took the prince with her to visit sickbeds, healing when she could and nursing with care when she could not.

When Death returned for her at last, the queen welcomed her with a kiss. She called for the prince. She told the boy, nearly a man now, that he must be brave, and she hoped no more foolish than necessary. She said there would be no need for the cordial this time, and she kissed her son goodbye. Then she took the godmother’s robes in her hand and begged a favor with her dying breath. She asked Death to stand godmother to her son when she was gone. Death was used to begging, but she had grown to like this favor, so she nodded her agreement.  

Before the prince, now the king, could call for the guards to move his mother on the bed, before he could unstopper his cordial or even beg, before he could do anything but grab a fistful of Death’s robes, all was over. Death’s robes turned to smoke in his trembling hand, and the boy was alone.  

But Death was true to her promise, and the young king became a healer like his mother. He was brave at times and foolish at others and sometimes both at once. He knew Death’s rules, and perhaps he obeyed them, perhaps he did not. But that is the godson’s tale. The goddaughter’s tale is over. They will have the same end, though. While we may have some happily, there will be no ever after.  

For Death makes sure that all our stories end the same.

Lissa Sloan's poems and short stories are published in Enchanted Conversation, Niteblade Magazine, Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus, andFrozen Fairy Tales.  “Death in Winter,” Lissa's contribution to Frozen Fairy Tales, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Visit her online at her website,lissasloan.com, or on Twitter: @LissaSloan.

Story ART by: Amanda Bergloff

Disobedience by Lissa Sloan

Sleep in the ashes. Do not touch the spindle. And always do what you're told...

I must not touch a spindle.

I must not leave the path.

Or talk to strange wolves.

I must not use the littlest key.

Or visit my lover’s house when he is not home.  

I must not discover the pot full of cut-up women or the poor girl’s finger, ring still on.

I must do as I am told.

I must sleep in the ashes.

I must flatter the king.

I must marry my father.

I must stay in the wood and starve.

I must go with the devil when he comes to take me.

I must do as I am told.

I must not hide.

I must not escape.

Or cheat my way out of a bad bargain.

I must not discover murderers or expose usurpers.

I must not grow back my severed hands.

Or bring anyone back to life.

I must not break enchantments.

I must do as I am told.

For if I don’t

If I am not master of my curiosity

Or my desire

Or my sheer stubborn will

Who knows what might happen?

Perhaps everyone

Poor tailors and forgotten soldiers

Downtrodden goose girls and stunted kitchen wenches

Murderous husbands

Scheming maids and lazy stepsisters

Tyrant kings and jealous queens

Would get what they deserve.

Exactly

What they deserve.

Lissa Sloan's poems and short stories are published in Enchanted Conversation, Niteblade Magazine, Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus, andFrozen Fairy Tales.  “Death in Winter,” Lissa's contribution to Frozen Fairy Tales, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Visit her online at her website,lissasloan.com, or on Twitter: @LissaSloan.

Read Lissa's poem, "Hide," from EC's Donkeyskin Issue HERE.

Poem ART by: Amanda Bergloff

A Burning Tale, By Lissa Sloan

They say you should not speak my name. They say if you so much as whisper it, I might appear. But on nights like tonight, some folk cannot quite resist. How beastly she is, they say, with her jagged teeth, gobbling up small children who stray off the path. How terrifying is her hut that turns on chicken legs, with its fence made of thigh bones and burning-eyed skulls. How fearsome are the three horsemen she commands, the first black as the night, the next white as the dawn, the last red as the sun.

And just between us, say stepmothers to stepsisters, she would be just the thing to rid us of this tiresome bit of baggage, this motherless, worthless servant girl.

They say I am only a story. Too wild, too ancient, too ravenous to be true. But some nights they do still think of me, if by chance their flames go out. For on this shortest night, when my Dark Midnight is at his weakest, all good folk make their fires the brightest. They make them burn high and hot, all the brief night long, feeding flames to my Red Sun that will last him all the year. If by chance, on this night of all nights, if the fire has gone out, if the last candle flame is guttering and sputtering, then stepmothers and stepsisters could almost believe I am real after all.

For they know one more thing about me, besides my crooked nose, so long it touches the ceiling of my hut when I lie down to snore my rattling snores, besides my red eyes and my iron teeth and my hideous claws. They know I keep the light burning.

Off with you, they shriek at the child, and don't come back without a light. They believe in me just enough to think we will do their neglected work, this little slip of a girl and me. Or they send me their unwanted rubbish, this leftover girl, in hopes that I will finish her off. I don't suppose they care which. They believe I will do their bidding.

And so they send her, a hungry little waif with nothing to guide her but the shine in her eyes and the doll in her pocket. She does look good enough to eat. But fair is fair, and I always give my visitors a chance.

Oh yes, I know the girl's secret. That little bundle of rags she keeps in her pocket. Her mother-doll. It led her through the blackness, right to my door. Turn left at the path. Now right. Now straight ahead. Tell the hut, 'turn your back to the forest, your front to me,' and it will show you the door. I know the child feeds her doll scraps of meat and crumbs of cake and thimbles full of tea. I know that in return, it does the impossible tasks I set. We understand each other, this doll and I. It nods to me as the girl comes through my door. And I nod back. Fair is fair.

And when my hut is neat as a pin, grain sorted and seeds cleaned, I send the child on her way, before my shortest Dark Midnight is over. She must be home before he gallops past her, making way for my earliest Bright Dawn. I give her the favor she requests, for fair is fair and I have my reasons. This red-eyed skull will light her way, speeding her home, task completed.

And yet I gave her more, more than she asked for. My blazing skull will light not only the candle and the fire, but the whole house and more. For I have not forgotten stepmother and stepsisters waiting idly inside, thinking I will do their bidding. I do no one's bidding. And yet my Red Sun will be fed. When he follows my Bright Dawn, his mount's hooves leaping into the air to take his place in the sky, he will never be so long or so strong as he is this day. By their burning, the stepmother and stepsisters will feed him so well that he will warm the land and ripen the crops like never before. He will bring plenty and health, full bellies and strong beasts. At least until next year. My Red Sun and I, we make no guarantees.

And that blessed, tasty little morsel? The doll in her pocket will whisper to her all she needs to know. Don't go in the house. Hand the light through the door. Run for your life. And she will be wise enough to listen, and brave enough to carry on. That suits me well, for someone must live to tell the tale. And fair is fair.

They say I am only a story. But I keep the light burning.

Lissa Sloan's poems and short stories are published in Enchanted Conversation, Niteblade Magazine, Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus, and Frozen Fairy Tales.  “Death in Winter,” Lissa's contribution to Frozen Fairy Tales, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on twitter: @LissaSloan. 

Image by Ivan Bilibin.

'Heavenly Godparents' and More

One of my favorite writers, Lissa Sloan, has written a post for Tales of Faerie.

It's called "Walk into a Forest: Heavenly Godparents and Other Immortals." In it, she explores how Christian figures like God, the Devil and Death make many appearances in fairy tales. 

Intrigued? Check it out here: http://bit.ly/1TW9rxN

Here's one of the images from her post, by illustrator Heinrich Leffler:

Arabian Nights: Two Retellings of Tales from One Thousand and One Nights, By Lissa Sloan, Fairy Tale Book Reviewer

In which Lissa reviews The Drowning Guard and Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn.

The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire by Linda Lafferty

Esma Sultan, the Sultan’s favorite sister, is ill.  She is plagued by the smells of rotting flesh and visions of drowned men.  They are her victims: her Christian lovers who spend a night with the Sultaness in her bed and are sentenced to be drowned in the Bosphorus before dawn.  When a doctor prescribes confession as a cure, Esma Sultan chooses to unburden herself to one who shares her culpability.  Ivan Postivich, a former cavalry captain demoted by the Sultan, is her drowning guard, ordered to carry out her lovers’ death sentences.  Postivich, too, is tormented by the souls on his conscience, and despises his mistress for forcing him to murder innocents.  But, as ordered, he listens as Esma tells him her story to while away her sleepless nights.

Set in Constantinople during the lead-up to the 1826 Janissary revolt against the Sultan, Linda Lafferty’s The Drowning Guard presents a detailed picture of the Ottoman Empire, complete with its opulence, diversity and contradictions.  One of these contradictions is Esma Sultan, a powerful woman who, despite her culture’s repressive attitudes toward women, exercises great influence over her brother and provides a sanctuary from the world of men for the women in her harem.   The Drowning Guard can be seen as a reverse-gender retelling of Scheherazade, with Esma Sultan as King Shahryar, sentencing a string of innocents to their deaths.  However, Esma is also Scheherazade herself, drawing Postivich into her story against his will, making him increasingly eager for the next installment, and her company.  This part of the story, with its themes of guilt and redemption, intrigued me, and had me anxious to know Esma Sultan’s secrets.  Unfortunately for fairy tale fans, the Scheherazade elements of the story wane about halfway through, leaving a story which is much more historical romance (containing some sexually explicit material) than fairy tale. While The Drowning Guard fails to fulfill its fairy tale promise, Lafferty’s lush portrayal of a fascinating place and time makes for a transporting read.

Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn: A Steampunk Faerie Tale by Danielle Ackley-McPhail and Day Al-Mohamed

In London, young Ali bin-Massoud is far from his home in Wadi Al-Nejd.  He misses his home and family, but is grateful to his father for arranging his apprenticeship with renowned inventor Professor Charles Babbage.  He loves learning with the professor and hopes one day to be an artificer like his teacher, building complex machines.  But when a clockwork falcon delivers an intricate puzzle box with his name on it, Ali’s life begins to change.  He must return home following the death of his beloved father, pursued by sinister men trying to steal the box.  Back in Wadi Al-Nejd, Ali must deal with his jealous older brother, solve the mystery of the contents of the box, and fulfil his destiny as guardian of a cave of ancient treasure, aided by a captivating djinni.

In Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn: A Steampunk Faerie Tale, authors Danielle Ackley-McPhail and Day Al-Mohamed retell Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves in a steampunk setting.  The cave of treasure is opened, not only by magic words, but gears, pulleys, and steam power.  Travel is accomplished not only by traditional means, but also airships and mechanical camels.  The authors’ set-up of this world feels forced at the beginning, but eventually becomes more comfortable.  The steampunk setting of this Middle Eastern tale allows for an interesting exploration of magic, science, and faith, and the way they interact, but examining these themes more fully might have given the story more depth.  Aside from altering the setting and fleshing out the story and characters, the authors make few changes to the original story.  The most notable change is the origin of Morgiana, the clever servant girl who aids Ali in his conflict with the gang of thieves.  While the story’s ending is the desired one, the way it comes about feels untrue to the world of the book, so the climax lacks the emotional resonance I hoped for.  However, Ali is a resourceful, soul searching character, and he gives the story heart, making it a pleasing Arabian Night’s entertainment.

Which country or culture’s fairy tales would you like to see more of in TV, film, or book form?  Join the Enchanted Conversation and share your thoughts.  Happy reading!

Lissa Sloan has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Lissa's avatar, by Lissa

Book Review Column, By Lissa Sloan (From the Forest and Opal)

Into the Woods: In which I review books about the woods and set in the woods (From the Forest and Opal).

From the Forest: A Search for the Hidden Roots of Our Fairy Tales by Sara Maitland

In From the Forest, Sara Maitland provides an in depth look into the connection between forests and fairy tales. Maitland theorizes that the landscape a group of people live in heavily influences their culture, including their fairy tales. For instance, characters in Middle Eastern tales do not go into the desert the way European characters would go into a forest, because the desert would only cause their deaths. They find their adventures travelling to other places or at sea. Whereas while European characters could get lost in a forest, they could also hide, find adventure, and find themselves once again. Therefore, Northern European fairy tales are tightly bound to the countryside of Northern Europe, especially its forests. Over the course of a year, Maitland records her visits to twelve British forests as she thoroughly explores the way forests influence fairy tales. Each chapter finishes with her retelling of a Brothers Grimm tale, which often touches on themes from the chapter.

Throughout From the Forest, Maitland examines forests and fairy tales in a variety of ways. She looks at natural history, and the way humans affect the land they live in, remarking that even humanity’s efforts to preserve a forest in its natural state has an effect, just as attempting to record a previously oral story in print makes the story static, freezing it in a moment in time. She uses events from British history such as “afforestation” (a monarch claiming any land he/she likes for personal use) and the Enclosure Movement (the monarchy forcing the original landowners to buy back their lands, and then the nobility barring the commoners from using it) to explain why kings come out so poorly in fairy tales. Doubtless the tellers of these tales took great pleasure in the subversive message of common people using their wits, good manners, and bravery to rise out of poverty and end up on top, often outwitting a king in the process. Speculating that the originators of Northern European tales lived and worked in forests, Maitland spends some of her forest visits meeting modern Free Miners and foresters.

Maitland has a conversational style, and the non-fiction section of From the Forest makes for a fascinating read. But her re-told fairy tales are equally appealing. Many tell the tale from a different point of view, commenting on the story along the way. Maitland’s style is simple and graceful, making her stories a pleasure to read. Her tales seem to just keep getting better as the book goes along, but standouts for me are the poignant "Dancing Shoes," which tells "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" from the point of view of the soldier, and "Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf," the story of Red’s wolf-like woodcutter. I found it curious that, as Maitland is especially focused on differences in fairy tales from different geographical areas (rather than the similarities most scholars focus on), that she uses Grimms’ tales, rather than specifically British tales such as "Jack the Giant Killer" and "Mr. Fox" to go with the British forests she writes about. However, From the Forest is a completely absorbing, thought-provoking read, which anyone who loves not only reading fairy tales, but reading about fairy tales is sure to enjoy.

Opal by Kristina Wojtaszek

When her mother dies, Opal is taken to her father, who she has never met. But Opal is no ordinary girl. She was born a snowy owl, and spent her early life in the wilds with her mother. Now she must learn her history as part human, part Fae, a people with a strong connection with nature who can take animal form, and take her place in the world. Opal is told through two narrators, the title character, and Androw, a young prince who forsakes his cruel father and enters the woods, where the Fae are said to live. He also seeks a white hare, with black tipped ears and red eyes. The hare is a character from a fairy story, but Androw is determined to find her nonetheless. Together Opal and Androw tell not only their own stories, but that of Eira, a half-human, half-Fae princess who cannot survive among humans and finds peace in the woods with The Seven, who take the shape of animals to guard their precious charge.

As an alternate version of "Snow White," Opal is one of the most unique fairy tale retellings I have come across. Author Kristina Wojtaszek does not use many parts of the original tale, there is no wicked stepmother, for instance, only a very loving one, but the elements she does use are intriguing. Despite a simple plot, I found the use of two narrators, telling their stories from different points in time was disorienting for a while. However, I continued to be drawn in by Wojtaszek’s introspective characters and compelling world. Opal is an intimate, very personal book, and reading this it gave me a strong sense memory of the complete escape I enjoyed curling up with the Patricia McKillip books I loved as a teenager. I found myself wishing it were a full length novel so I could delve deeper into it.

Lissa's avatar, by Lissa

What atmosphere or setting says “fairy tale” to you? Join the Enchanted Conversation and share your thoughts. Happy reading!

Lissa Sloan has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website,lissasloan.com, or on Twitter, @LissaSloan. 
 

Book Review Column: Girl Power, By Lissa Sloan (Cinder, Scarlet, and Towering)

Girl Power:  In which I review three updates featuring classic fairy tale heroines: the girl with the slipper, the girl with the hood, and the girl with the hair.  (Cinder, Scarlet, and Towering)

Cinder and Scarlet, by Marissa Meyer

Cinder is volume I of The Lunar Chronicles, Marissa Meyer’s blend of post-World War IV Earth and classic fairy tales.  Linh Cinder is the best mechanic in New Beijing, where she supports her stepmother and stepsisters by working out of a market stall.  When Crown Prince Kai gives her a mysterious repair assignment and later invites her to the royal ball, she finds him as attractive as the rest of the world does.  But Cinder can’t imagine Kai would be interested in her if he knew she was a cyborg.  And she has other things on her mind, such as the deadly plague that is hitting too close to home, fixing the family hover before the ball, and trying to avoid the cyborg draft.   When Cinder is forced to become a test subject for plague vaccines, she learns she is more different than she knew, and that time is short if she is to save Kai and all of Earth from the plans of the sinister Lunar queen, Levana.

Volume II of The Lunar Chronicles is Scarlet, which continues the story of Cinder and Kai, adding in Scarlet Benoit, who works on her grandmother’s farm and delivers produce to the nearby town.   Scarlet’s grandmother has been missing for two weeks.  The police have given her up for dead, leaving Scarlet to search on her own until she receives an offer of help from Wolf, a mysterious and potentially dangerous stranger.  Meanwhile, Cinder is on the run from the government, who has promised to turn her over to Queen Levana to avoid her declaring war, as Kai desperately seeks a diplomatic solution to the Lunar problem.

Cinder and Scarlet provide a clever futuristic update for "Cinderella" and "Little Red Riding Hood." It is great fun predicting how Meyer will use events from the original tales (quite inventively, in most cases) and when she will depart from them completely.  However, The Lunar Chronicles so far tell a story that is quite engaging in its own right, set in a transporting world and peopled with appealing characters.  Cinder and Scarlet are both strong, sympathetic heroines, though in quite different ways.  Scarlet is fiery while Cinder is more introspective.  Likewise, Prince Kai is seriously charming while Wolf is more the strong and smoldering type.  There is plenty of high-stakes conflict from mustache-twirling villains like Cinder’s step family and Queen Levana and her minions, who possess a Jedi-like mind-controlling power.  But the drama is balanced by a good dose of comic relief, often provided by Iko, Cinder’s quirky shoe-loving, boy-crazy android, and roguish pilot Carswell Thorne, Cinder’s fugitive traveling companion.
     

Meyer is a skillful storyteller, deftly slipping in exposition, establishing relationships, and building characters while keeping the plot ticking briskly along.  At times her narration is a bit on the dramatic side and her villains a bit on the melodramatic side, but I was too busy enjoying the story to mind much.  The Lunar Chronicles have it all--action, adventure, romance, and a healthy dose of girl power.  I freely admit I’m looking forward to the next installment, Cress, which comes out in February.  Considering the leafy green title, and the fact that readers have already met an unattached character named Thorne who flies a spaceship called a Rampion, we can be fairly certain that the title character will be based on a tower-dwelling girl with a lot of hair. 

Towering by Alex Flinn

Speaking of "Rapunzel," Towering is Alex Flinn’s latest fairy tale update.  The story is told by alternating narrators, teenagers Wyatt and Rachel.  Haunted by recent personal losses, Wyatt moves to remote Slakkill, New York, to live with family friend Mrs. Greenwood.  Mrs. Greenwood is still grieving for her daughter, Danielle, who disappeared many years before.  Visited by an eerie dream, Wyatt feels drawn to learn more about the lost Danielle and her fate.  Rachel spends all her time in her tower room.  In between the visits of the woman she calls Mama, she has only her books for company.  She knows nothing of the outside world, only that Mama keeps her safe from those who would harm her.  But she knows that one day she will leave her tower, that there is something she must do, and someone she will meet.  When Wyatt appears outside her window in need of help, Rachel is ready to come to his rescue.

In many ways, Flinn updates "Rapunzel" quite effectively, changing the longed-for rampion into an addictive, hallucinogenic leaf, and exploring the themes of heroism, isolation, and rescue.  She also delves into some of the tale’s most intriguing questions: Why would an adult shut a child away from the world, how much protection is too much, and what would be the experience of this sheltered child when she finally experiences the real world?  Wyatt’s search for answers about Danielle, other vanished town teenagers, and a mysterious singing voice which only he can hear provides a shivery, gothic atmosphere.  

Unfortunately, I found that the resolution, complete with a prophecy, telepathic communication, and super strength, felt awkward and ill-suited to the introspective world of the story.  It was Towering’s three-dimensional characters and thought-provoking aspects that most resounded with me. 

What do you look for in female protagonists?  How is the fairy tale genre measuring up to your expectations? Who does it well?  Join the Enchanted Conversation and share your thoughts.  Happy reading!

Lissa's avatar, by Lissa

Lissa Sloan has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on Twitter, @LissaSloan. 

Book Review Column: Let It Snow, By Lissa Sloan (Breadcrumbs and The Snow Child)

Editor's note: Lissa kicks off five new posts here at EC, just in time for Thanksgiving. And she's brought us some reading treats!

Let It Snow: In which I review two books full of cold weather and warm hearts.

 

Fifth graders Hazel and Jack are best friends. Together they are knights, dragons, superheroes, or anything else they can read about or dream up. Imaginative Hazel doesn’t fit in well in her new school, and Jack’s friendship is what makes it bearable for her. But one day, Jack gets something in his eye and stops speaking to Hazel. Then he follows a mysterious woman into the woods and disappears. Hazel may be ill-equipped to deal with the everyday world of her broken family, the unkindness of her classmates, and the disapproval of her teacher, but there is no one better prepared to undertake the perilous journey through the woods and the snow to the white witch’s palace to rescue Jack.

 

While Anne Ursu’s Breadcrumbs is a mainly a re-telling of The Snow Queen, she also sprinkles elements of other Hans Christian Andersen tales through her story. When Hazel enters the woods, she discovers not an ordinary wood, but a fairy tale wood which does not wish her well. She encounters red shoes, a match girl, and a crone with a stolen swan skin. Hazel also meets others, ordinary people like her, who have lost things and wandered away from the real world, losing themselves in the process.

 

"Winter," by Margaret MacDonald

Ursu is especially strong at characterization. I felt for Hazel immediately, and rooted for her through the entire story. Her devastation at Jack’s defection is so accurate, so familiar it is almost painful to read. In fact, Hazel’s story seemed so grounded in reality I found it jarring when the elements of fantasy were introduced. However, fairy tales exist to help us meet our real world challenges, and this holds true in Breadcrumbs. Ursu successfully digs deep into her chosen themes. I was intrigued with the way she balanced Hazel’s devotion to Jack with her emerging sense of independence, her motives progressing from selfish to selfless in the course of her quest. While in many ways Breadcrumbs sticks quite closely to The Snow Queen, it effectively stands alone as a touching tale of two friends, struggling to grow older without growing apart.

 

Eowyn Ivey’s debut novel The Snow Child is the story of Mabel and Jack, a middle-aged couple homesteading in Alaska in the 1920s. They have left their home and family on the east coast, but there is one thing they cannot flee—their grief at being childless. One night they build a child out of snow. They give her a face, hair, and a red scarf and mittens. The next morning the snow child is gone, but Jack and Mabel begin seeing a mysterious girl in the woods around their house, a girl who wears a red scarf and mittens. As Mabel and Jack attempt to tame the girl, they find their romance rekindled as they are unexpectedly drawn into the joys and sorrows of parenting.

 

The Snow Child is based on the Russian tale The Snow Maiden. Ivey’s story is a poignant exploration of parenthood, and the ways in which parents should not, perhaps cannot, stifle their children’s true nature. This idea is reinforced by the story’s untamed setting. Ivey’s Alaska is a land of extremes, with midnight sun and cruel dark winter. It is also a land of savage beauty which Mabel comes to love and accept in all its harshness. In addition to being a thought-provoking book, The Snow Child is full of heart, and reading it is a cathartic experience. Ivey’s style, while simple and unsentimental, skillfully draws the reader so deeply into the hearts and minds of her characters it is easy to become immersed. At times their story is heart-rending, but Mabel and Jack are good company on this tender journey of losing and finding, of embracing and letting go.

 

Which fairy tales would you like to see re-told, or do you prefer to stick to the traditional versions? Join the Enchanted Conversation and tell us what you think. Happy reading!

Lissa's avatar, by Lissa Sloan

Lissa Sloan has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Wolves and Witches, EC's First Book Review Column, By Lissa Sloan

Editor's note: Today we begin our first monthly column, and while Lissa Sloan will be focusing on book reviews, upcoming columns by two other regular writers will feature vintage fairy tale information and current fairy tale news. Lissa kicks things of with a intriguing trio of books.



Lissa's official EC avatar,
drawn by Lissa Sloan, herself!

Wolves and Witches: In which I review three books, one containing wolves (some of whom might be werewolves) and witches, one containing a wairwolf (who is not exactly a werewolf) and witches, and one called Wolves and Witches, which contains both wolves and witches.
Between 1764 and 1767 the residents of the French province of Gevaudan lived in fear of the beast or beasts which killed many of their number.

In Scarlette: A Paranormal Fairy Tale, author Davonna Juroe weaves these historical events together with the "Little Red Riding Hood" tale, werewolves, and witches.  Nineteen-year-old Scarlette ekes out a living as a seamstress in her beast-ravaged village.  When her beloved Grandmother is bitten by one of the creatures, Scarlette is forced to go hunting for a cure, and the truth behind the attacks. 

Scarlette is well paced, with the action constantly building as Scarlette seeks answers to her questions while dealing with her antagonistic mother and a lecherous employer.  She must also sort out the intentions of a local nobleman and a mysterious woodcutter.  Scarlette’s weakness lies in its language. The narrator’s contemporary speech and frequent employment of over-used expressions distracted me from an otherwise absorbing story.  Those reservations aside, Juroe quite effectively tells a tale full of adventure, intrigue, and romance, never forgetting that Little Red Riding Hood is the story of a girl, a grandmother, a red cloak, and the woods.   And one other thing—it’s still a cautionary tale about the dangers of getting into bed with a wolf.

In The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, twelve-year-old September is spirited away from World War II-era Omaha to an adventure in Fairyland.  While there, she is drawn in to a quest to retrieve an enchanted sword for the Marquess, a disagreeable girl who rules Fairyland with an iron grip.  She won’t allow any of her winged subjects to fly, and there is never hot cocoa anymore.  (She does, however, have a very fine hat.)  Along the way, September meets an unusual cast of characters including three witches (one who is also a wairwolf), a Wyverary (the offspring of a wyvern and a library), a soap golem named Lye, and a Marid, a wish-granting sea creature. 

The plot is reminiscent of classic stories such as The Wizard of Oz, but every story has its roots somewhere, and author Catherynne M. Valente acknowledges that, making sly references to Oz, Narnia, and the Persephone myth in the course of the story.  The action begins so suddenly I had no time to know September or feel any sympathy for her.  Eventually, though, her story does prove to have heart, and a lot of it.  September is a resourceful girl who journeys through an unknown country with the welfare of her friends always in mind and sometimes nothing but herself to rely on. 

Fairyland is a wondrous and frightening place, filled with cities sewn from cloth or baked into bread buildings, angry household objects, and wild bicycles.  Valente guides the reader through this wonderland with a lyrical and whimsical style.  The sophisticated vocabulary may ask a lot from a middle grade reader, and sometimes seems very formal coming the Midwestern twentieth-century September, but it is a pleasure to read and adds to the book’s Victorian, Alice-in-Wonderland feel.         
 
Wolves and Witches is an anthology of fairy tale poems and short stories by sisters Amanda C. Davis and Megan Engelhardt, who are no strangers to Enchanted Conversation fans.  Both authors are adept at playing with endings, themes, and settings of the classic fairy tales they tell.  Davis and Engelhardt’s voices work well together.  They are at times touching, creepy, funny, and empowering as they re-invent, twist, and turn familiar favorites on their heads.   Standouts are Davis’s story "Gold in the Straw" and Engelhardt’s poem "Untruths About the Desirability of Wolves." 

I might have wished for more variety when it comes to the fairy tales featured, for "Hansel and Gretel," "Little Red Riding Hood," "Rumpelstiltskin," and "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" are each treated by both authors.  But on the other hand, perhaps it only proves the point that the ways any fairy tale can be interpreted and reimagined are endless.  And I would have found it difficult indeed to choose between "Bones in the Branches," and "A Letter Concerning Shoes," the two stories based on the "Twelve Dancing Princesses."  They are very different, but equally compelling.  Wolves and Witches is full of consistently strong writing touched with a sly humor both authors share. 

Have you read any of these books?   Join the Enchanted Conversation and let us know what you thought.  Happy reading!

Lissa Sloan has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on Twitter, @LissaSloan.

The Curious Tale of Mr. Fox, By Lissa Sloan

Editor's note: Just read this one. You'll love it!

I am going to tell you the story of my sister Lady Mary and Mr. Fox. But I am not sure quite how to begin.  My brothers and I could never understand what she saw in the fellow.  She was hardly alone in her admiration of him.  Indeed, many of the ladies of the village of L_____ thought Mr. Fox the most agreeable gentleman of their acquaintance.  Perhaps it was his charming, almost lazy smile, his bright mischievous eyes, or his fine red coat, which I daresay many of the gentlemen envied.

 

But perhaps it was rather the fact that my sister had an especial fondness for animals.  And whatever his more attractive points, Mr. Fox remained a scavenging, sheep-chasing, chicken-stealing fox.  My brothers and I would have sent him packing the first time he trotted through our gates and scratched at our door, but Mary insisted he be allowed the pleasure of waiting upon us.

 

She was always soft hearted, you see, and far too trusting.  When we were children she was just the same.  Take hunting, for example.  Tom, Dick, and I traipsed home from each of our first fox hunts with our cheeks smeared with blood, as any initiate should.  But on the day of Mary’s first hunt, when the hounds closed in on their quarry, Mary leapt from her pony and took the terrified fox in her arms, snarling at the hounds and the rest of us to keep away.  The master threw up his hands and called in his hounds.  The only marks on Mary’s face that day were the claw marks of the ungrateful wretch whose life she had saved.

 

I must own we all indulged my sister, as she was the only girl, and the youngest.  The entire household allowed her to have her way in everything.  Of course we tried to persuade her to be sensible.  When Mr. Fox came courting her, we told her again and again that he was no better than a common poacher.  No one ever caught him at it, and he always protested that he was a gentleman, and never ate anyone’s pheasants but his own.  But my brothers and I continued to doubt him.  Mary, however, was satisfied.  So satisfied, in fact, that she allowed him to make her an offer of his hand, or, I should say, his paw.  As her oldest relation, Tom of course refused his consent, but that was nothing to Mary.  She was a singularly headstrong creature, and was determined to accept Mr. Fox.

 

We should have known how it would be.  Mary used every weapon at her disposal.  She used her wit, vivacity, charm, and sheer stubbornness.  She vexed Tom, (Dick and I too, I might add) day and night, until at last, as always, we gave in.  The wedding breakfast was ordered; the wedding clothes bought and paid for.  Mary was to have Mr. Fox, a gentleman of considerable property.  So it was rumored, at least.  And Mr. Fox was to have Lady Mary and her fortune of forty thousand pounds.  Our acquaintances in  _____shire were all astonishment.

 

No bans were read, for Mr. Fox declared he would have a special license.  On the day he was to ride to town to procure the license, he called on Mary before he left.  I heard them talking together in the shrubbery.  “In the morning,” he was saying to her, “could we have some bread and perhaps a cup of chocolate before we go to church?”

 

Mary laughed.  “What about the wedding breakfast?  You’ll spoil your appetite,” she chided him.

 

“Not a bit of it,” he told her.  “You know what a ravenous fellow I am.”  I took this opportunity to appear on the path.

 

Mary rose from the bench where they sat.  “Very well,” she said.  “You know I could never refuse you.”

 

Mr. Fox gave me his jaunty smile.  “Congratulate me, Harry,” he cried.  “Tomorrow will make me the happiest of gentlemen.”  Without waiting for my response, he leapt from the bench and bounded away through the park.

 

I took Mary's hand.  “Are you certain about all this?  We know nothing about him.  We’ve never even seen his estate, if he even has one.”

 

Mary smiled and kissed my cheek.  “I know my own mind, Harry,” she said.  Then, almost to herself, she added, “Of course he has an estate.”  With that, she headed off towards the stables.

 

I did not see her again until the next morning, the morning of the wedding.  She was looking rather low-spirited, sitting alone at the table in the breakfast room.  I thought brides were supposed to wear light colors, not black.  But I daresay I am a stupid fellow and know nothing about ladies’ fashions.  Mr. Fox noticed her changed appearance also.  As soon as he leapt into his chair, he put a paw on her hand and said, “You are pale, my love.  Are you not well?”

 

Mary gave him a small smile.  “It is only a headache,” she said.  “I had a terrible dream last night.”

 

“Indeed?” cried Mr. Fox, “Well, you must tell me all about it.  Our nightmares often seem foolish by the light of day, and it will while away this tedious time before we are to go to church.”

 

Mary smiled, a bit of her usual liveliness returning.  “You know I could never refuse you,” she told him archly.  The matter was settled, and Mr. Fox began to do justice to his bread rolls at once, without benefit of butter or jam.

 

“I dreamt I was overcome with curiosity to see your house, as I had never been there,” she began.  “So I set out.  You had told me I was always welcome, you know.”

 

Mr. Fox paused in devouring his bread to assure her he had told her many times that she might visit whenever she liked.

 

“I arrived at your house,” she went on, “to find an arched gateway, upon which was carved what I guessed to be your family motto.  ‘Be bold, be bold,’ it said, ‘but not too bold.’” 

 

Mr. Fox’s nose came out of his chocolate cup, and he licked his chops.  “It is not so, madam,” he said with his lazy smile.  “An extraordinary motto, but I assure you, it is not mine.”

 

Mary inclined her head.  “It was only a dream, sir,” she said, and went on.  “Perhaps the message was for me.  For bold I was.  I went through your gates and approached your door.  Above your door was carved another message, ‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart’s blood should run cold.”

 

“It is not so, my love,” replied the bridegroom.  He stopped eating for a moment and scratched his ear with his back foot.  “I should never have such peculiar words written above my door.”  He shook his head, and returned to his food, all affability.

 

“I was bolder still,” continued Mary, “and I went through your door to find your house empty.  I was not surprised, because I knew you to be from home, just as you were yesterday.  I began to look about me, but, to my alarm, I heard footsteps outside the door.  I blushed then to think how I had intruded on your privacy, and I opened the first door I came to, so as not to be discovered.  What do you think I saw there?”

 

Mr. Fox winked at her roguishly.  “Perhaps you saw all the jewels I have set aside to give you when you are my wife and spoilt your own surprise.  Was that what you saw, you impertinent creature?”

 

Mary shook her head.  “I saw a room full of skeletons and the bodies of young ladies with their throats ripped out.”

 

Mr. Fox coughed, and chocolate went everywhere.  “It is not so, my love.  What an unnatural dream to have.  Why you dreamt it I cannot imagine.”

 

“I ran from the room at once,” Mary went on, her hands in her lap.  She had not touched her food.  “There was not time to try another door, so I hid behind a tapestry.  In you came, sir, with a richly dressed young woman.  You had the end of her skirt between your teeth and were dragging her across the floor.  Once inside, you took a fancy to a ring around the lady’s finger.  It was stuck there, and she could not get it off, try as she might.  You grew impatient, and seizing her finger in your teeth, bit it off.  You worried the poor girl’s finger in your mouth to shake off the ring.  But you were too hasty, sir, for both ring and finger flew across the room and landed at my feet.  You dragged the unfortunate creature into the bloody chamber to revenge yourself upon her, and I made my escape.” 

 

 

Mr. Fox was not eating now.   “It is not so,” he said in a strained voice.  “God forbid it should be so.”  With some effort, he summoned up his habitual smile and said teasingly, “You had no business to have such a dream.”

 

Mary withdrew one hand from her lap.  “It is so,” she said, opening her hand, which contained a delicate finger, the ring still on it.  “It was no dream.”

 

Tom, Dick, and I leapt to our feet, demanding satisfaction from Mr. Fox, as the gentleman in question jumped from his chair.  “Sit!” commanded a low voice from the end of the table. It was Mary’s.  She was standing too, straight and tall.  My brothers and I reclaimed our chairs, while Mr. Fox cowered on the floor, his tail curled tightly about him.  I thought I heard him growling.  But I was mistaken, for he too was looking for the source of the sound.

 

Mary came around the table, a handful of leashes in one pale fist.  At the end of the leashes were her foxhounds, bristling and straining to be set free.  At last I understood Mary’s black dress.  She was not dressed for the wedding.  She was dressed for the hunt.  She gathered the hound’s leashes near their collars and knelt next to Mr. Fox, who was now shaking from whiskers to tail.  His ears drooped as her free hand reached out towards him.  A whine escaped his lips as Mary’s fingers stroked his fine red coat.  “I do pity you,” she said.  “So I will be generous.”

 

I could not fathom it.  How could she show compassion, even now?  Mr. Fox’s ears tipped forward.  “Yes, my dear,” he almost whimpered.  “Show some mercy.” 

 

“You know I could never refuse you,” she said.  Then she called to the butler.  “Have Hobson saddle my horse.  I will be down in five minutes.”  She leaned close to Mr. Fox and spoke low in his ear.  “I’ll give you a head start.”


Lissa has contributed stories, poems, and guest posts to Enchanted Conversation, but she also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at lissasloan.com.