Book Review Saturday – The Islands of Chaldea

I know, I know – I reviewed a Diana Wynne Jones book a couple of weeks ago. But, to be entirely fair, there’s no such thing as too much Diana Wynne Jones. And this, her last book, was always going to be one for me.

Image: readeroffictions.com

By now, perhaps you know the story behind this book – DWJ became very ill during the writing of it, and died with it partly finished, whereupon her sister Ursula was asked to complete it – but, even if things hadn’t worked out like this, and Diana had had a chance to finish it the way she wanted to, I would have been excited to read it. Sometimes, I feel that DWJ can be a little hit-and-miss for me: I love some of her books with the entirety of my heart, and others leave me a bit cold and confused (I don’t really ‘get’ the Chrestomanci books, for instance, which other readers adore); however, she’s always worth the read, and that’s the beauty of her work.

‘The Islands of Chaldea’ tells the story of Aileen, a young trainee Wise Woman from the island of Skarr. Her aunt Beck is the island’s last remaining Wise Woman, and the book opens with Aileen’s initiation, which she is convinced she failed. She doesn’t have the usual reaction to the ceremony, she has no visions, and she tells herself her magic is weak or non-existent. After her aunt Beck, the magic in her family will be gone – or so Aileen thinks.

Summoned to an unexpected audience with King Kenig, the ruler of Skarr, Beck and Aileen are dumbfounded when they are told they are to mount an expedition to discover the reason behind a giant invisible barrier in the sea between the islands of Skarr, Gallis and Bernica (the Islands of Chaldea), and the larger island of Logra, which has been impossible to reach for over ten years. Nobody understands why, or how, this has happened, and it is up to Beck and Aileen, and their band of unlikely helpers, to figure it out. Not only that, but the prince of Chaldea – Alasdair, the son of the High King Farlane – was taken through a sort of magical wormhole to Logra about a year after the barrier went up, and he hasn’t been seen since. It is believed that the magicians of Logra have devised this unbeatable barrier in order to set about creating weapons, unobserved by anyone from the rest of the archipelago, and fears of an imminent attack are high.

Ivar, the son of King Kenig and Queen Mevenne, is sent along with Beck and Aileen. With them goes Ogo, a young man of Logra who was stranded on Skarr when the barrier went up.

Image: brandondorman.com
Artist: Brandon Dorman

On the way, they stop off at a partially sunk island named Lone, where they come across a strange cat which can appear and disappear at will, and which seems strangely attached to Aileen. He is immediately christened ‘Plug-Ugly’. In the land of Bernica, they meet a monk called Finn who has a parrot named Green Greet, who is far more than he seems. And, in Gallis – the land of Aileen’s father – they meet some of her cousins, one of whom has a pet lizard, who then comes along for the ride.

It seemed clear to me that the islands were supposed to be the British Isles – Skarr being Scotland, Logra England, Bernica Ireland and Gallis Wales – and that gave me a lot of joy as I read (though I could have done without the obligatory ‘leprechaun’ reference as they journey through Bernica.) The animals they collect upon the way are important to the story, of course, but they also have a symbolic resonance. I found the plot to be simple and gentle, with a distinct lack of peril – I’m not saying this is a bad thing, by the way – mainly because it was narrated in a way which made it very clear that Aileen is recalling past events. This removes part of the sense of danger and tension, but also makes the narration ebb and flow, just like the reader is on board the ship beside the characters, bobbing up and down on the ocean waves.

Parts of the book are very funny – particularly the scene where aunt Beck is attempting to air out her clothing to rid it of bad magic, which involves pegging her underwear all over the ship – and, in parts, the dialogue is well-written and well-conceived. At other points, however, Aileen’s dialogue in particular sounds a little clunky and the overall tone is a little toothless. As well as that, at times it appeared that some of the plot points hung on coincidence, or some of the challenges facing the characters were very simply overcome, which took away from my total enjoyment of the book. I admit to finding the ending very ‘smooth’ and neat – so, in other words, very different from DWJ’s normal style which is, sadly, only to be expected – and, for all these reasons, ‘The Islands of Chaldea’ isn’t up there with ‘A Tale of Time City’ or ‘Hexwood’ or ‘Enchanted Glass’ as my favourites of her middle grade books. Because of the fact that it was her last, however, and it was the book that was on her mind as she faced her end, and it was lovingly finished by her sister who (if her Afterword is any indication) had very little to go on when she picked up the reins, I will always cherish it.

So, it’s a definite recommendation from me, if you’re a Diana Wynne Jones fan. If you haven’t read her before, though, I’d recommend ‘Enchanted Glass’ or perhaps even her famous ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ as an introductory book.

And – as ever – if you’ve read any of the books I’ve mentioned in this post, I’d love to hear what you thought!

NaNo, NaNo, NaNo, NaNo, Batman!*

So, in honour of it being Friday, here’s the first chapter of my NaNo project. It’s labouring under the title ‘Emmeline and the Ice-God’ right now, but make no mistake: that cannot last. It is a mere placeholder for a title so brilliant it will turn the brains of all who read it into lumps of solid gold – but that title has yet to reveal itself to me, alas.

Also, I beg your indulgence. This is a first draft, and it’s an idea which I haven’t fully plotted out yet, and so bubbles – like those in freshly hung wallpaper – are inevitable. Be kind.

 *Batman not included

Image: agefotostock.com

Emmeline and the Ice-God

1

From an early age, Emmeline Widget had been certain her parents were trying to kill her. Oh, they weren’t blatant about it, of course – there was none of this ‘surprise! Here’s a dagger in your breakfast!’ carry-on – but the signs were there, all the same. For a start, they insisted on living in a crumbly old house with a multitude of staircases – hidden and otherwise – all of which had at least one trick step which led, pretty quickly and rather painfully, to the cold stone basement floors and floors below. As well as that, there were an indeterminate number of rooms, and sometimes Emmeline even felt sure extra ones appeared out of thin air merely to be troublesome. She’d lost count of the amount of times she’d dodged falling picture frames, each of them heavy enough to crush her flat, or hopped out of the path of toppling suits of armour big enough to fit a giant. Because of all this, she never went anywhere inside her house – not even to the bathroom, not even for a pee – without a flashlight, a ball of twine and a short, stout stick.

Outside wasn’t much better. The garden was overgrown to the point that entire buildings – the summerhouse, the boat house, and the greenhouse – were lost forever amid the foliage, and a roaring river ran right at the end of their garden, sweeping past with all the imperiousness of a diamond-encrusted duchess. Emmeline lived in fear of falling in, so much so that she never ventured outside without a long-bladed knife (for taming the trees), a flare-gun and an inflatable life preserver (really a large hot water bottle, but let’s not nit-pick.)

Because of all this, Emmeline spent a lot of time in her room, reading. Wouldn’t you? I know I would. She had a lot of reading to do, too – her parents had never bothered to engage a governess for her, you see, and so she’d never been to school. She’d reminded them once, when she was about six, that she was entirely lacking in the education department, and they’d promised her the best teachers money could buy, but Emmeline was still waiting. So, she read whatever she pleased. She’d devoured H.P. Lovecraft and H.G. Wells by her third birthday, and had moved on to digest Dickens and Hawthorne and Austen and all the Brontes by four; by five, she’d decided she needed a rest from all the heavy stuff and had read nothing but books about sparkly-hooved unicorn princesses for an entire year, despite the fact that they bored her silly. Now, at nine and two-thirds, she was coming to realise that the only way to read the book she most wanted to read would be to write it herself, which meant that wherever she ventured – Outside or In – she carried her journal with her, too. Thick and bound in leather, with a gold lock, Emmeline would rather have gone without socks than to be separated from it.

All of these necessities, of course, meant that she was never without her large and rather bulky satchel, either, but she never let that stand in her way.

And it probably hasn’t escaped your attention – for you’re one of those readers who never misses a trick, I can tell already – that Emmeline didn’t have very many friends. There was the household staff, including Watt (the butler) and Mrs Mitchell the cook, but of course they didn’t really count, because they were always telling her what to do and where to go and not to put her dirty feet on that clean floor, thank you very much. Her parents were forever at work, or away, or off at conferences, or entertaining – which Emmeline hated, because sometimes she’d be called upon to wear an actual dress and smile and pretend to be something her mother called ‘light-hearted’, which she could never understand – and so she spent a lot of time on her own. This suited her fine.

One day, then, when Emmeline came down to breakfast and found that her parents weren’t there, she didn’t even blink an eye. She hauled her satchel up onto the chair next to her and rummaged through it for her book, glad to have a few moments of quiet reading time before her mother started finding fault with her again.

She was so engrossed in the story that she didn’t even look up when Watt slunk into the room bearing a small silver platter in his neatly gloved hands, upon which a small white envelope was sitting. He bent at the waist, also neatly (because when you’re a butler, everything you do is neat) and left it down in front of Emmeline, who finished reading right to the end of the chapter before she looked up and noticed that she had received a piece of Very Important Correspondence.

‘What on earth is this?’ she asked the now-empty room. All the answer she got was the gentle pock-pock-pock of the clock as it ticked away the seconds.

She fished around in her satchel for her bookmark, and carefully placed it between the leaves of her book. Carefully, she closed the book and slid it gently into the satchel again, where it glared up at her reproachfully until she flipped the satchel closed.

‘I promise I’ll be back to finish you later,’ she reassured it. ‘Once I figure out who could possibly want to write to me.’ She frowned at the small white envelope, still lying on its silver platter, which was very clearly addressed to Miss Emmeline Widget. Private and Confidential, it added, for good measure.

Just because it happened to be addressed to her, though, didn’t mean she should be so silly as to actually open it.

But, said another little voice in her head, it’s the first time in all my life that anything has ever been delivered, just for me…

In the silence of the large, empty room, Emmeline flipped open her satchel again. From its depths, she produced a tiny, stoppered bottle, within which a viciously blue liquid was just about contained. She carefully tipped the bottle until one solitary drop hung on its lip, and then – very very carefully – she let the drop fall onto the envelope.

‘Hmm,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s odd.’

The liquid didn’t smoke, or fizz, or explode in a cloud of sparkle, or indeed do anything at all. It just sat there, like a splodge of ink, partially obscuring her name. Now, the letter appeared to be addressed to someone named Emme Idget, which, Emmeline felt, wasn’t a much better name than her own.

‘If you’re not poisoned,’ reasoned Emmeline, quickly putting away the bottle (for its fumes could cause dizziness in enclosed spaces, like breakfast rooms), ‘then what are you?’

In the side pocket of her satchel, Emmeline always carried a pair of thick gloves. She put these on, and then she picked up – with some difficulty, it has to be pointed out – her small butterknife. With this knife, she carefully slit the letter open, keeping it at all times away from her face.

A thick sheet of creamy paper slid out of the envelope and onto the silver platter, followed by a stiff piece of card bearing gold embossed writing. Emmeline, who’d been holding her breath in case the act of opening the envelope had released some sort of brain-shredding gas, spluttered as the first line of the letter caught her eye.  As quickly as she could, given that she was wearing gloves more suited to cutting down brambles than reading letters, she put aside the piece of card and grabbed the letter, trying to be sure her eyes hadn’t been adversely affected by any sort of poison or concoction, and she’d read what she thought she’d read.

She had.

Here is what the first line of the letter said:

Dearest Emmeline, it began.  If you are reading this note, then in all likelihood, you are now an orphan.

 

*cloak flourish* To Be Continued…

This will all be Worth It. One Day.

The edits for ‘Tider’ are ongoing. I now look like this:

Gaaaah!
Image: prevention.com

I am currently on my fourth careful re-read of the manuscript, and – horrifyingly – I am still finding plot holes, problems, inconsistencies and stupid errors. Taken all together, they are making me doubt my own sanity, ability to write, suitability to use a computer and, in short, my claim to be a productive and useful member of society.

(On this point: when writing a book, it’s always good to begin it from a place of total equilibrium in your mental and physical health. By the time you’ve finished, you won’t be quite as self-actualised as you were when you started, but that’s all right.)

One thing I have definitely learned from this week’s writing has been: Never throw anything away. When you’re editing, and hacking great lumps of text out of your book, it’s important not to fling the scraps into the oubliette of the Recycling Bin. Certainly, it’s vital never to delete anything completely. You really never know when you might need it again. As an example, let me tell you about a scene I wrote several months ago, where my heroine breaks into her best friend’s house in the middle of the night to beg him for his help and ends up having to escape through the bathroom window when his mother wakes up; it was fun, but it didn’t fit with a later edit. To replace it, I put in an emotionally wrenching scene where the heroine’s best friend comes across her in their secret hideout, and offers his help when he sees her in distress – it seemed to suit better, and it certainly fit more snugly with the plot as I’d written it in that particular draft.

Alas, no longer.

Now, I’m changing stuff around again. I’ve noticed myself doing what I always do with my protagonists – making them too safe, and not putting them in enough danger – and that has to be remedied before I go any further with the current draft. My heroine will no longer be discovered, weeping, by a boy; she will be the agent of her own fate, and the original scene will be restored – with extra, added kick-punchery for good measure. So, I spent several minutes yesterday being extremely glad that I have a file labelled ‘Offcuts’ where I put everything I cut from my earlier drafts, and which I can use to restore the book to its former glory without raising my blood pressure too much.

It’s all good.
Image: magnahealthblog.wordpress.com

It’s good to be aware of your mistakes, and of the things you tend to do which stymie the development of your book and your characters. For me, one of these things is that I keep my protagonists too safe. It’s always good to put them through the wringer, and make them suffer; it sounds cruel, but it’s not. If a protagonist is struggling, a reader will engage with them more strongly. People are inclined to support the underdog, I guess. If everything comes too easily to your heroine, then it’s going to induce a reader to start rolling their eyes in bored disbelief, until eventually they put your book to one side and start reading something else instead. Who wants to read a story where everything happens to the protagonist? You want to write a story where the protagonist happens to the plot, not the other way round.

So, because of this, my heroine will be doing no more anguished weeping in a darkened corner. She’ll be busting her way out of places, busting her way into other places, and making stuff happen.

I’m also working through my foreshadowing at the moment – or, in other words, the ‘hint dropping’ that occurs throughout the text, preparing the reader for the end of the book. It’s important to do this right, with a light touch that isn’t overdoing the exposition; however, you don’t want to leave too much in the dark, either, and it’s always good to nudge the reader very gently toward some of the good stuff that’s coming up in the next chapter, or ten chapters away. I’m finding this difficult, I have to admit. One thing is for sure, though – I wouldn’t have a chance of being able to do it without having a completed draft to hand. You need to have a clear idea of your entire story arc before you can start flagging hidden details to a reader.

Pacing is also a problem for me in writing a novel – the current draft of ‘Tider’ has a lot happening to the protagonist in the last five or ten pages, and I want to change that before I consider that book ‘finished’. Foreshadowing will help this, as will allowing my heroine enough brains and chutzpah to start putting things together herself, making educated and intelligent guesses which lead her to important conclusions – then, they won’t all have to be explained to her at the end.

Wow. Writing this post has really made me see how much work I still need to do.

Writing a book is hard. Being aware of your pitfalls is a good way to start fixing them, but it’s only half the battle. I’m sure there are mistakes I won’t see, but I’m going to do my best to spot and destroy as many of them as I can while I have the chance.

Wish me luck!

Writer at work!
Image: orwell.ru