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All Science Fiction & Fantasy Coverage

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Science Fiction & FantasyYA FictionYAFantasy

The many choices within this fantastical tale

Review by Jennifer Bruer Kitchel

With books meant for younger readers, it can be far too easy to tell where a story is going. There are certain tropes that telegraph the ending, like evil being vanquished, the protagonist struggling with a quest and so on. One of the best things about Rebecca Hahn’s A Creature of Moonlight is that the story doesn’t go where you think it might, and yet it still flows naturally.

The plot sounds like something you might expect in a fantasy: Young country girl Marni comes of age and must decide if she will challenge the evil king for her royal birthright or remain at home. Should she exact revenge on the king for killing her princess mother? Will she follow the voices into the woods and join her dragon father? Both? Neither? Marni must decide whether to find her place in the “normal” world at court or follow her heart and become a wild, magical thing—or maybe those aren’t really the choices. Maybe life is more complicated than that.

What makes Hahn’s story so satisfying is that all of her characters are truly human. Sure, some of them possess a kind of magic, but they are whole people—neither all bad nor all good—who experience internal as well as external conflicts, who make mistakes and bad choices and learn to live with them.

Hahn’s prose is slow and delicious, building to a denouement that is both thrilling and surprising. It’s also exciting to know this is her first novel. I don’t expect her to write about these particular characters again, as A Creature of Moonlight doesn’t have the sense of being part of a series, but whatever she writes will be worth the read—and hopefully will be full of more surprises.

 

Jennifer Bruer Kitchel is the librarian for a Pre-K through eighth level Catholic school.

This article was originally published in the May 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

With books meant for younger readers, it can be far too easy to tell where a story is going. There are certain tropes that telegraph the ending, like evil being vanquished, the protagonist struggling with a quest and so on. One of the best things about Rebecca Hahn’s A Creature of Moonlight is that the story doesn’t go where you think it might, and yet it still flows naturally.

Science Fiction & FantasyYA FictionYAFantasy

Under the Mediterranean Sea, a new series begins

Review by Jill Ratzan

Mermaid princess Serafina is nervous. Today’s the day she’ll prove herself a true descendant of her famous ancestor Merrow in the royal family’s traditional Dokimí ceremony. She’ll demonstrate her worthiness to rule through “songcasting” a complex musical spell, and the day will end with her formal betrothal to the handsome but rebellious crown prince Mahdi.

But when a surprise attack interrupts the ceremony, Serafina and her friend Neela must flee the kingdom of Miromara and swim for their lives into unknown waters. Using both magic and their wits to escape their pursuers, they encounter a variety of fantastical sea creatures—some allies and some enemies. They also learn of political plots and secret alliances, and most importantly, they discover that they, along with four other teenage mer, are destined to find a series of hidden talismans to save the world’s oceans from an ancient monster.

Like many tales set in imaginary landscapes, Deep Blue is full of invented words. Author Jennifer Donnelly’s twist is to openly acknowledge the various languages from which these terms derive, especially Latin and Greek (for example, a velo spell confers speed, and a canta magus is a powerful singer). Puns and ocean-based details abound: Teens sneak out at night to go shoaling, and trade initiatives involve the exchange of “currensea.” The action is well paced, and many chapters end with cliffhangers that draw readers further into the story.

The first book in a planned quartet, Deep Blue combines fantasy adventure, court intrigue and even a touch of teenage sarcasm in an accessible, fast-moving narrative that will leave readers eagerly awaiting the next installment of the Waterfire Saga.

 

Jill Ratzan reviews for School Library Journal and works as a school librarian at a small independent school in New Jersey. She learned most of what she knows about YA literature from her terrific graduate students.

This article was originally published in the May 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Mermaid princess Serafina is nervous. Today’s the day she’ll prove herself a true descendant of her famous ancestor Merrow in the royal family’s traditional Dokimí ceremony. She’ll demonstrate her worthiness to rule through “songcasting” a complex musical spell, and the day will end with her formal betrothal to the handsome but rebellious crown prince Mahdi.

Science Fiction & FantasyFiction

It’s a whole new world—just don’t try to leave

Review by Michael Burgin

On a cold, sunless planet named Eden, about 500 descendants of two stranded travelers live beneath light and heat-giving “trees,” converting the slowly decaying knowledge of their own beginnings into a tribal mythology. Among them, John Redlantern chafes at the slavish, innovation-quenching traditions the Family upholds as it huddles in its small valley and refuses to even question what lies beyond the “Snowy Dark” that surrounds it. Soon, John makes a series of decisions that threaten to disrupt the peace—and ignorance—his tribe holds dear.

Chris Beckett’s Dark Eden does many things well—including the kinds of things that, frankly, are pretty unsexy (or at least hyperbole-resistant), and thus often passed over by reviewers in favor of those qualities that allow the use of words like “haunting,” “lyrical” or “riveting.” Make no mistake, the novel (winner of the 2013 Arthur C. Clarke Award for Best Science Fiction Novel of the Year) certainly deserves such accolades, but it’s also full of simpler pleasures.

There’s the joy of an immediately immersive alien environment. The planet of Eden is a wondrous mix of familiar nomenclature applied to completely alien flora, fauna and topography. The leopards, monkeys and bats, the Alps and Rockies—readers ingest such terms easily, moving through the text without distraction even as a clearer understanding of what the terms actually refer to slowly seeps in.

Meanwhile, the human drama of Dark Eden unfolds, delivered exclusively through the first-person narratives of John, Tina Spiketree and, occasionally, a few other characters. Too often, authors deliver a robustly imagined, unique environment only to falter in the building and presentation of equally unique characters. Not so with Becket, who exhibits a real flair for psychological differentiation—every narrator in Dark Eden exhibits a distinct attitude and perspective (with not a whiff of authorial puppeteering).

With nothing really getting between the reader and the tale . . . well, this is where the more traditional superlatives come into play. Dark Eden is, indeed, riveting, and the world-building is robust—a keenly imagined vision of the interaction between human nature and a truly alien world. What’s more, Beckett’s tale is psychologically convincing. Eden may be a hostile environment, and the Family’s foothold there precarious, but Dark Eden suggests that the interplay of personal psychology and society mores can be as dangerous (and transformative) as even the most inimical of settings.

On a cold, sunless planet named Eden, 500 or so descendants of two stranded travelers live beneath light and heat-giving “trees,” converting the slowly decaying knowledge of their own beginnings into a tribal mythology. Among them, John Redlantern chafes at the slavish, innovation-quenching traditions the Family upholds as it huddles in its small valley and refuses to even question what lies beyond the “Snowy Dark” that surrounds it. Soon, John makes a series of decisions that threaten to disrupt the peace—and ignorance—his tribe holds dear.
Science Fiction & FantasyFiction

A waking nightmare

Review by Michael Burgin

As a literary thought experiment, Kenneth Calhoun’s Black Moon has an exceedingly elegant trigger for the end of it all. No aliens, mutating viruses or celestial cataclysms are needed. All it takes is the removal of one basic yet profound capacity every single human has: the ability to sleep. It turns out prolonged insomnia is an insidious, horrific fate for anyone. Calhoun’s narrative focuses on four protagonists, each caught in a separate pocket of the rapidly disintegrating society. (The four only briefly intersect.) Biggs and Lila still have the ability to sleep. While Biggs tries to find his missing wife, Lila, a teenager, lacks any such mission, instead floating amongst the hordes of increasingly erratic, dangerous insomniacs. Chase is not so fortunate, and as Black Moon progresses, his altered perceptions provide readers a potent window through which to view the blossoming horrors of the sleepless mind. Finally, Felicia, an intern cloistered at a sleep studies institute, represents the closest we come to a solution narrative, as scientists strive to circumvent the enveloping plague.

It turns out prolonged insomnia is an insidious, horrific fate for anyone.

In many ways, the tone and story progression of Black Moon mirrors that of the traditional zombie narrative. (Have zombie stories now been around long enough to use the word “traditional”?) With each passing moment, the protagonists are more isolated, their straits more dire—a moment’s inattention can prove fatal. Yet, befitting its subject, Black Moon may be the most dreamlike apocalypse ever presented. Even as Calhoun recounts the struggles of a few to survive a truly horrific fate for the human race, he spends most of his time in the memories and reflections of his protagonists. The result is a thought-provoking meditation on the importance of human interaction and our reliance on the sleep-fed, rational mind.

At a time in pop culture when the zombie trope remains ascendant, Calhoun’s story seems less a calculated attempt to cash in on a fad than a concurrently generated work, with its own unique themes and authorial preoccupations, that just happens to be a nice addition to the genre. And frankly, if wouldn’t matter if it were a calculated trend-hopper. Either way, Black Moon flows through and over all those shambling, decaying genre expectations. Its themes may well haunt your dreams long after the book is laid down, but count yourself lucky—you can still dream.

As a literary thought experiment, Kenneth Calhoun’s Black Moon has an exceedingly elegant trigger for the end of it all. No aliens, mutating viruses or celestial cataclysms are needed. All it takes is the removal of one basic yet profound capacity every single human has: the ability to sleep.
Science Fiction & FantasyMystery & SuspenseFictionSuspenseScience Fiction

A thriller with a sci-fi edge

Review by Barbara Clark

There’s nothing more peaceful than a 3 A.M. jog on an ocean boardwalk with waves lapping in the distance and no one around—or is there? In Runner, the debut novel in Patrick Lee’s new thriller series, retired special forces op Sam Dryden finds he’s not jogging alone but running for his life, along with a young stranger—an 11-year-old girl who’s fleeing from some smart, devious pursuers equipped with heavy-duty hardware including thermal imaging equipment, hovering helicopters and satellite access. Who are these guys? And what’s with the extensive dragnet? And why are they after an innocent child?

These are the question that readers find answers to, page by page, as Dryden employs all his former tactical knowledge to elude the forces arrayed against him and his small charge. How coincidental that he has all that special training—or is it?

It turns out that young Rachel poses a lot more danger than most 11-year-olds, and Dryden has to scramble to keep up with all the revelations about her special past and her amazing, wide-reaching capabilities. Right now Rachel can’t remember much more than her own name, but her memory is slowly returning, and with it her potential to affect others’ lives. Not only can Rachel read minds, but she has the ability to influence them. There are big players, corporate and governmental, involved in the race to get their hands on the power she possesses.

Runner is packed with scary, fast-moving action scenes, and it moves at breakneck pace as Dryden and Rachel parachute from high-rise buildings, hole up under a seaside boardwalk, play dodge-’em on a freeway and race across Utah’s high country to a deserted lake bed—deserted, that is, except for an odd, steel-framed cell tower rising from the emptiness.

All the repetitive action shots, shoot-outs, treachery, about-faces and devious characters threaten to turn Runner into just another run-of-the-mill thriller. It has “screenplay” written all over it, and as action shot turns into action shot, the story loses some of its punch as we wait for the next predictable take.

The good news, however, lies in the author’s skill in weaving this high-tech thriller. Runner pushes at the edges of science fiction and makes an outlandish and frightening scenario seem plausible—even probable—given the advancements in genetic knowledge and manipulation that are right on our human horizon.

There’s nothing more peaceful than a 3 A.M. jog on an ocean boardwalk with waves lapping in the distance and no one around—or is there? In Runner, the debut novel in Patrick Lee’s new thriller series, retired special forces op Sam Dryden finds he’s not jogging alone but running for his life, along with a young stranger—an 11-year-old girl who’s fleeing from some smart, devious pursuers . . .

Science Fiction & FantasyChildren's & YAYA FictionYAFantasy

Powers of good and evil

Review by Kimberly Giarratano

If Lily Potter and Voldemort had a love child, he would be Nathan Byrn. Born out of an illicit love affair between a White Witch and a Black Witch, Nathan is an abomination, a Half Code. His father, Marcus, is the vilest Black Witch in all of Great Britain. His White Witch mother committed suicide in shame.

Two years before Nathan’s 17th birthday—when he will receive his inherent magical powers—the Council of White Witches imposes harsh regulations on him: He’s not allowed to leave his home without permission; he can’t be in the same room with White Witches; and he can’t be with the girl he loves without the threat of death. The Council kidnaps him and takes him to Scotland, where he is caged, studied and trained as a weapon to kill his father. But Nathan is not a killer—yet.

The first in a trilogy, Half Bad is a fast-paced, compelling story about the many shades of good and evil. The White Witches are considered to be the good guys, but the Council spends much of its resources seeking out Black Witches for torture and death. Nefarious characters and a cliffhanger ending will entice readers and leave them wanting more.

 

Kimberly Giarratano is the author of Grunge Gods and Graveyards, a young adult paranormal mystery.

If Lily Potter and Voldemort had a love child, he would be Nathan Byrn. Born out of an illicit love affair between a White Witch and a Black Witch, Nathan is an abomination, a Half Code. His father, Marcus, is the vilest Black Witch in all of Great Britain. His White Witch mother committed suicide in shame.

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionScience Fiction

Last man on Mars

Review by Emily Bartlett Hines

If NASA ever launches a manned mission to Mars, space-watchers worldwide will scan the skies anxiously, imagining all the things that could go wrong for travelers more than 30 million miles from home. But no one is likely to imagine it as vividly as Andy Weir has in his debut novel, an interplanetary adventure story about an astronaut facing the ultimate worst-case scenario. When a freak dust storm forces the crew of USA’s third Ares mission to evacuate, Mark Watney is knocked unconscious in the chaos and presumed dead. When he wakes up, he’s alone.

Andy Weir's debut is the perfect blend of science and adventure.

Luckily, Watney is an engineer and botanist, two unglamorous skills that offer him a slim chance of survival—if he can make his meager rations last until a years-distant possible rescue. Watney sets to work solving a series of dilemmas: how to grow potatoes on a planet with no air or soil; how to turn rocket fuel into water without blowing himself up; and how to stay sane with nothing except his former crewmate’s abandoned cache of disco and bad sitcoms for company. And he devises a risky plan to make contact with Earth.

The solutions Watney finds may be fictional, but they’re grounded in scientific fact (Weir is a software engineer and astrophysics buff). And this 21st-century Robinson Crusoe is appealingly pragmatic and funny. Commenting on his sometimes tedious Martian daily schedule, he quips, “my life has become a desperate struggle for survival . . . with occasional titration.” In Weir's hands, even the driest scientific topics take on a taut urgency because the stakes are so high.

The book builds to an edge-of-your-seat finale (Hollywood has already bought the film rights). But what makes it memorable is its insistence that a 90 million-square-mile barren wasteland is no match for a roll of duct tape and some ingenuity.

 

If NASA ever launches a manned mission to Mars, space-watchers worldwide will scan the skies anxiously, imagining all the things that could go wrong for travelers more than 30 million miles from home. But no one is likely to imagine it as vividly as Andy Weir has in his debut novel, an interplanetary adventure story about an astronaut facing the ultimate worst-case scenario.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Some very special siblings

Review by Michael Burgin

Time-travel and alternate realities have been a rich and unending source for fiction pretty much since the invention of the genre. But an ounce of temporal weirdness brings pounds and pounds of complications, convolutions and headaches along with the overall plot potential. Paradoxes pop up, as do disruptions of any attempt at linear storytelling. The confusion that can result on behalf of the reader—and sometimes even the writer—can capsize even the most promising tale. As a result, it’s rare to see a writer dive headlong into multiple streams of chronological mayhem and emerge with anything coherent, let alone riveting.

Yet with his time- and reality-bending saga, The Flight of the Silvers (the first book in The Silvers Saga), Daniel Price does just that. Price’s book starts with an intriguing premise, is propelled along by sustained action and enjoyable world building, and, by the book’s end, has maintained coherence and dramatic momentum despite the introduction of a dizzying array of paradox-inducing realities and abilities.

After a brief prologue, The Flight of the Silvers starts with the end of the world (complete with bangs and whimpers). A mysterious trio saves a select few (the “Silvers” of the title), who are soon brought together in a different version of the world they each just saw destroyed. The group includes somewhat estranged sisters Amanda and Hannah, wisecracking cartoonist Zack, failed prodigy Theo, insecure teen Mia and David, a socially inept genius. Beyond a healthy dose of post-Armageddon stress syndrome and the disorientation of being in a familiar yet unquestionably different reality, each Silver starts exhibiting a separate time-related ability. As they do so, they are beset by forces (some hostile, some not) intent on capturing, using or killing them.

Price deserves credit for creating immediately relatable characters whose motivations are understandable even when not so commendable. But he deserves out-and-out praise for doing so while constantly upping the temporal ante. The reader’s uncertainty concerning the rules of this new world may well mirror that felt by the protagonists, but the shared confusion never ruins the immersion. As a result, any hours spent reading The Flight of the Silvers will be time well spent.

Time-travel and alternate realities have been a rich and unending source for fiction pretty much since the invention of the genre. But an ounce of temporal weirdness brings pounds and pounds of complications, convolutions and headaches along with the overall plot potential. Paradoxes pop up, as do disruptions of any attempt at linear storytelling. The confusion that can result on behalf of the reader—and sometimes even the writer—can capsize even the most promising tale. As a result, it’s rare to see a writer dive headlong into multiple streams of chronological mayhem and emerge with anything coherent, let alone riveting.

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionHistorical Fiction

A polished, chilling debut

Review by Michael Burgin

Set initially in Russia during the reign of Empress Anna Ioanovna in the 1740s, J.M. Sidorova’s The Age of Ice turns on a single premise: Alexander Velitsyn, the novel’s narrator and protagonist, is born immune to cold. What’s more, all those emotions that inflame others—passion, rage, shame, etc.—cause him, instead, to generate cold to an equal intensity. (This causes problems.)

In this age of superhero saturation, this setup is an intriguing twist—a historical iteration of the “What would it be like to have a super power in the real world” tale. But it’s not the only impressive aspect of this polished debut novel. Though his effort to understand the cause and map the mechanics of his condition is a major aspect of the plot, it’s the interplay between Velitsyn and history that transforms The Age of Ice from interesting to engrossing. Ultimately, Sidorova’s novel feels like a small physiological fantasy embedded in a much larger piece of historical fiction. For all his uniqueness, Velitsyn is just another person swept along on the waves of history—be they caused by Napoleon or the Great Game between Russia and Great Britain. Like any good piece of historical fiction, The Age of Ice transforms its readers into eager students of the time being portrayed. Sidorova’s accounts of Joseph Billings’ search for the Northeast Passage, the Battle of Austerlitz and the Siege of Herat would fascinate even without Velitsyn’s mysterious, magical presence.

At times, Velitsyn’s tale evokes an almost palpable dread that feels Lovecraftian in tone—though perhaps that’s just a side effect of the Russian fatalism of Velitsyn himself. Nonetheless, no matter how dark the narrative foreshadowing, The Age of Ice is an invigorating debut. It may not spawn a three-film franchise, but this well-researched historical fantasy will have readers eagerly awaiting Sidorova’s next fictional foray.

Set initially in Russia during the reign of Empress Anna Ioanovna in the 1740s, J.M. Sidorova’s The Age of Ice turns on a single premise: Alexander Velitsyn, the novel’s narrator and protagonist, is born immune to cold. What’s more, all those emotions that inflame others—passion, rage, shame, etc.—cause him, instead, to generate cold to an equal intensity. […]
Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

A new fantasy series teeming with imagination

Review by Michael Burgin

One can forgive publishing execs if all they saw was franchise potential in The Bone Season (the first in a projected seven-book series). After all, recent Oxford graduate Samantha Shannon’s debut features a young, resourceful female protagonist—19-year-old Paige Mahoney—who lives in a dystopian future rife with supernatural elements. And for much of the book, Paige is enslaved to an imposing non-human male, yielding a relationship that is both conflict-laden and conflicted. Evaluated just for its echoes of other successful book and movie franchises, The Bone Season looks like a melting pot of moneymaking ingredients.

But it wouldn’t be fair to judge The Bone Season just because it’s pitch-friendly. Shannon’s novel is an impressive feat of world-building, which rests on her inventive supernatural beings. These creatures’ complexity is more reminiscent of Sheri S. Tepper’s classic True Game series than of any contemporary teen-focused fantasy.

The Bone Season is set in a dystopian future that itself is the result of an alternate history that diverged dramatically from our own with an explosion of clairvoyant abilities in the Victorian era. The subsequent reaction against those exhibiting such “unnatural” traits has resulted in London (and several other cities) being controlled by a security force called Scion. As a result, life in 2059 London is a pretty dark place for most clairvoyants, though Paige Mahoney counts herself as an exception. A dreamwalker who works for one of the bosses of Scion London’s criminal underworld, Paige rejoices in her relative freedom and flouting of the authorities, who deem her tainted by her ability. Then she gets caught.

The rest of the book deals with Paige’s efforts to escape her captors, the powerful Rephaim. To do so, she must learn more about them, in particular her keeper, Warden. For readers, the challenge lies in ingesting a complex, multi-sourced flow of information—navigating the details of taxonomy, setting and plot with enough attention left over to bond with the characters and simply enjoy the story.

The most exciting thing about Shannon’s ambitious debut lies not in how closely it aligns with the works—and thus earning potential—of Collins, Meyer, Clare, et al., but in the near certainty that the author’s command over her world will only improve. And with that mastery, the series has the potential to become one that inspires others. The Bone Season is a delicious appetizer. Now we wait for the main course.

One can forgive publishing execs if all they saw was franchise potential in The Bone Season (the first in a projected seven-book series). After all, recent Oxford graduate Samantha Shannon’s debut features a young, resourceful female protagonist—19-year-old Paige Mahoney—who lives in a dystopian future rife with supernatural elements. And for much of the book, Paige […]
Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

Through a portal to a dangerous world

Review by Amy Scribner

The bouncy title of this epic first novel sets up expectations of a certain type of book—maybe one with a pink stiletto or a sparkly diamond ring on the cover. Think again. The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic is a medieval fairy tale with a deliciously dark twist: The heroine is a modern-day woman trapped in an alternate, magical world.

Nora Fischer’s dissertation is going nowhere fast—and her love life is in even worse shape—when she stumbles onto a portal to Semr, an archaic kingdom where magic is in the air and ideas about women’s roles are very different. Nora is enchanted (literally) by a woman named Ilissa, who quickly marries Nora off to her son to produce an heir. But her new family is not what it seems, and Nora flees to the protection of Aruendiel, a reclusive magician whose rough exterior hides a mysterious and painful past. Soon Nora has become Aruendiel’s apprentice, learning basic spells that come in handy when she and Ilissa meet again. Eventually, Nora will have to decide whether to make her way back home, or stay in a world she’s amazed to realize she has come to love.

Emily Croy Barker is the executive editor of The American Lawyer magazine, where she oversees coverage of things like antitrust mass actions in Europe and the population of minority lawyers at big law firms. One can only imagine the fun she had writing this soapy, snappy tale. I’d be a sucker for any book in which Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice played a prominent role (Nora translates that classic novel chapter by chapter for Aruendiel), but The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic stands on its own merits as a thoroughly enchanting read. While Nora and Aruendiel may be more Heathcliff and Catherine than Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Barker has spun a clever, lush yarn that is uniquely its own.

The bouncy title of this epic first novel sets up expectations of a certain type of book—maybe one with a pink stiletto or a sparkly diamond ring on the cover. Think again. The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic is a medieval fairy tale with a deliciously dark twist: The heroine is a modern-day woman […]
Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

A speak-and-spell fantasy

Review by Michael Burgin

It’s easy to underestimate the challenges of crafting contemporary fantasy, especially when one compares the task with that of writing its older cousin, the traditional swords-and-sorcery fantasy. But just because the author of a contemporary fantasy can skip some expository steps in character development and setting if the protagonist is an ex-Navy SEAL named Josh living in Boston instead of, say, a 12th-degree death-o-mancer named Magyar Trothan who lives in the land of Whimsicalia, that doesn’t mean taking the less fantastical road is easy. After all, anything that happens in the mostly real, present-day world is subject to the immediate scrutiny of countless experts—plenty of readers will be familiar with Boston or have a family member in the military, whereas no one other than the author will possess any firsthand knowledge on death-o-mancer training. (Granted, the Whimsicalian Wiki will be up a few days after the book is published.)

Nonetheless, most crafters of fantasy, traditional or contemporary, have one big hurdle in common: devising a system of “magic” that’s fresh, compelling and coherent.

With his latest book, Australian author Max Barry (Jennifer Government, Company) easily clears this often fatal hurdle with a premise (and system) guaranteed to appeal to readers: Words have power, and some words have a lot of power. In Lexicon, a global organization whose members refer to themselves as “the poets” employs psycho-linguistic tactics to control, well, pretty much anything or anyone. But like any other multinational concern, even super-secret groups have staffing needs. In the orphaned Emily Ruff, they find someone who may or may not be a powerful addition to their organization. Barry alternates the chapters covering her recruitment and training with tense action sequences involving a man named Wil and his mysterious captors (or protectors?). These are maddeningly opaque at first, though the blistering pace—more reminiscent of a Ludlum spy thriller than anything else—makes the difficulty in gaining one’s bearings tolerable.

By book’s end, Lexicon has revealed itself as a contemporary fantasy that’s three parts thriller and one part romance (somewhat diluted). In the process, Barry’s tale provides its reader with an intriguing, satisfying ride through a world where the phrase “has a way with words” refers to the author’s own world-building as much as to the characters who inhabit it.

It’s easy to underestimate the challenges of crafting contemporary fantasy, especially when one compares the task with that of writing its older cousin, the traditional swords-and-sorcery fantasy. But just because the author of a contemporary fantasy can skip some expository steps in character development and setting if the protagonist is an ex-Navy SEAL named Josh […]
FictionFantasy

Again the magic

Review by Matthew Jackson

We readers expect magic when we pick up a Neil Gaiman novel. By now he’s built a reputation for his own unique brand of spellbinding fiction, but even among works like American Gods, Stardust and Coraline, The Ocean at the End of the Lane stands as a landmark. Never before has Gaiman’s fiction felt this personal, this vibrant or this deeply intimate.

Gaiman’s hero is an unnamed narrator who returns to his childhood home as an adult and is flooded with memories of a farm at the end of the English country lane where he grew up. We relive those boyhood memories as he does, beginning with an odd tragedy that brought him to the doorstep of the Hempstock family. There he met 11-year-old Lettie, her mother and her ancient grandmother, who claims she was around when the moon was first made. There he finds a pond that Lettie insists is an ocean. And there he embarked on a strange, mesmerizing and often terrifying adventure that probes the often unreachable corners of human memory, nostalgia and wonder.

Never before has Gaiman’s fiction felt this personal.

At fewer than 200 pages, this is one of Gaiman’s shortest books, and yet The Ocean at the End of the Lane is overflowing with ambition. As it meanders through ever-thickening layers of magical intrigue—which wrap this book like bright green English moss—the novel becomes something more than a boyhood adventure story. It is a fable about the practicalities and inconsistencies of magic, about the often unreliable powers of memory and about how fear can often make us stronger. All this is imparted through a lightning-quick narrative filled with typically spellbinding Gaiman imagery, and told in unpretentious but endlessly evocative prose. The Ocean at the End of the Lane is a character study trapped in a fairy tale, a coming-of-age story wrapped in the trappings of myth. It’s Gaiman at his bittersweet, hypnotic best, and it’s a can’t-miss book for this summer. 

Matthew Jackson reviews from Texas.

We readers expect magic when we pick up a Neil Gaiman novel. By now he’s built a reputation for his own unique brand of spellbinding fiction, but even among works like American Gods, Stardust and Coraline, The Ocean at the End of the Lane stands as a landmark. Never before has Gaiman’s fiction felt this […]

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