DreamHaven

This is a first novel from J. Elle, and one of the first fantasy novels from Simon and Schuster’s Denene Millner Books line, described on her web site as “a love letter to children of color who deserve to see their beauty and humanity in the most remarkable form of entertainment on the planet: books.” Wings of Ebony may not be the most original fantasy ever, making free reinterpretation of tropes we have all seen before. But it has the thing that I look for above all else in young adult fantasy novels: a unique and powerful voice.

The first-person narrator of the story, Rue Jelani, grew up in Houston’s East Row neighborhood (as did J. Elle), but was forced to leave her home after her Moms’s murder. She was taken away by her estranged father, something she still bitterly resents a year later, even though he turned out to be a powerful mage (but the only Black one) in a magical world called Ghizon. For Rue, the powers she gained, parceled out reluctantly by a world where she is an outsider, can never make up for the home and people she lost. Then she discovers the connection between her two worlds, and must learn to use her magic to fight the oppression she finds in both places.

Rue is a wonderful character; all attitude and slang (but very little profanity), and full of a fierce caring for the people she considers her “fam.” She proves to be willing to change her mind when necessary, and able to work to change the minds of others. Her conversations with her white Ghizoni friend Bri, are valuable reading for those of us who are trying to be anti-racist. The conclusion involves some obvious similarities to events in Minneapolis last summer, moved into a fantasy setting where they are rather more effective than they were here. The book is dedicated, on its final page, to George Floyd

This decidedly weird novel is narrated by a smart domesticated crow named S.T. (short for Shit Turd) who has been lovingly raised alongside a not-so-smart bloodhound named Dennis. Their master, a guy they call Big Jim, was clearly not the finest specimen of humanity, though both crow and dog are so adoring that they never seem to realize this. S.T. unironically refers to humans (the ones he likes, anyway) as MoFos, and believes that junk food is the holiest of mankind’s many achievements. The story begins when Big Jim succumbs, along with the rest of the MoFos in Seattle, to something very like a Zombie Apocalypse.

S.T. is a hilarious storyteller, spouting a combination of comic expletives, almost-childlike misunderstandings and, oddly, actual wisdom. The first chapters are pretty liberally salted with four-letter words, sophomoric potty humor, and disdain for almost everything. But S.T. must tone down his obnoxiousness in order to coax Dennis to leave Big Jim’s house in search of help. Eventually S.T. forms a family (or, rather, a murder—he is a crow, after all) with Dennis. The two undertake an increasingly complex and outrageous series of missions as S.T. realizes that no help is coming from the humans, and the animal kingdom is on its own.

As the story progresses, S.T.’s cocky voice is overtaken by a different voice, obviously that of the author. Since I am not a particular fan of horror, I appreciated having the gory decline of humanity described by the snarky, detached voice of the crow, who is in love with all the wrong things about civilization. But author Kira Jane Buxton is in love with nature in its all its glory. To her, even the dangers are wonderful. As Seattle becomes a wilderness populated by rescued pets and freed zoo animals, the narrative switches toward Buxton’s own lush, gorgeous prose. The zombification of mankind has never been more vibrant, ecologically sound, or sadly appropriate.

This is a first novel by a very promising new writer. It feels a bit like Ursula K. LeGuin and NK Jemison, in that it tells a sweeping galactic tale by focusing on the intensely personal consequences of scientific advancement. At the center of this story is the time-distortion postulated for faster-than-light travel—the theory that people travelling through space experience only a few day’s passage of time, while years go by for those they have left behind. The people who travel frequently can bear witness to hundreds of years of history but are left with a sense of missing out on the important things in life.

The story skips through time and space, linked by three space-faring, lonely protagonists. We see the establishment of lovely, bird-shaped space stations after the extinction of the birds on Earth, through the eyes of an ancient woman. Through letters sent to her colony ship from the woman she left behind, we see the end of life on Earth. We see the wonder (and, eventually, corruption) of the newly-colonized galaxy, barely registered by a space captain who left her family too soon and a pre-teen boy who never had a family. It is a beautiful but melancholy story, a thousand years of galactic history condensed by the people it has left untethered.

A bit over half way through the novel, as the captain, the boy, and a small group of ship-mates deliberately pass centuries of real time by planet-hopping, the author tells us, “They were always leaving.” It took me a while to realize that, if one is always leaving, of course, one must also be always arriving. I’m not sure Jimenez ever realized this—he is a young man probably living in pandemic isolation amid world-shattering change. But, for me, the book became a story about the importance of learning to arrive; a reminder that where you are at any moment must be more important than the places you thought you might be going next.

This is one of the strangest, and strongest, young adult novels I’ve encountered for a while. The first-person narrator, a young man from Seattle named Noa, is delightful, and manages to be hilarious and irreverent while telling a harrowing tale of science fictional misadventures. The tale begins with Noa literally waking up in space one morning, wearing a space suit labelled “Nico” that is running out of oxygen and tethered to a space ship that is about to explode.

The space adventures are decidedly weird, but the love story is not. Noa falls right away for another guy, named DJ, from Florida, who has also inexplicably woken up on the same space ship. But because of bad experiences with another boyfriend, Noa is conflicted in love. There is one other person on the ship, named Jenny, who interestingly never questions the validity of or interferes with the budding gay romance. As Noa works through his past issues to accept the relationship that DJ offers, he tells a genuine love story about two kids who question, not their gender or sexuality, but their suitability for love.

As an added bonus, the story managed to surprise me completely with an outrageous but science fictionally satisfactory explanation for the weirdness. The unexpected revelations add a whole new layer of complexity to both the space adventures and the love story. It is, indeed, complicated. And set in space!

Gu Miyoung is a young Korean woman who is half human and half gumiho (nine-tailed fox), called “wicked fox” because the legendary gumiho are immortal fox demon spirits who must consume life in order to live. She is trying to get through high school without killing the innocent (though she is willing to drain the life out of the guilty), while desperately trying to satisfy the demands of her mother, who is fully a fox demon. 

Her life becomes very much more difficult when she saves a young man from an attack by a dokkaebi (goblin). Jihoon is an affable underachiever who has parent issues of his own. But he has been raised on folktales by his Halmeoni (grandmother) and is able to recognize the existence of magical beings when actually faced with them.

This book stands out from the enormous number of fantasies for young adults because Miyoung’s story does not require that she solve problems that are not her own. I have, perhaps, read too many YA epics starring girls who not only must deal with their own growing pains, but also overcome world-shattering systemic evil with their naivety and sheer stubbornness. This tale feels much more intimate and realistic; serious adolescent problems made more urgent and engaging because of a fantastic element. 

While our heroes certainly have otherworldly powers, they are very much grounded in personal experiences within a modern world. The story takes place in a beautifully-described Seoul, Korea, a landscape which feels very different, yet vibrant and real. Both Miyoung and Jihoon change in the course of their tale, becoming stronger and a bit wiser. And, of course, they eventually fall in love. But will they be able to make friends and maybe get into a good college?

There is an epilog which suggests that their adventures are not yet over. A second book, Vicious Spirits, is scheduled for August. I’m looking forward to seeing what these two people do next. 

The Dragon Warrior, by Katie Zhao, is about a Chinese-American girl (Falun Liu, aka Faryn) and her brother (Ah Li, aka Alex). They live in San Francisco’s Chinatown, within an enclave called the Jade Society, a secret group of warriors who fight demons. They have been raised by their grandfather (Ye Ye) because their mother is dead and their warrior father is missing. Ye Ye and his charges are often ridiculed for being too traditional, because no one believes that there are demons any more. Except, of course, there are, and Falun will have to fight Gods and demons from Chinese myths based on the legend of the Journey to the West.

The Girl Giant and the Monkey King, by Van Hoang, also draws from the Journey to the West, which is where the legendary Monkey King originated. The Girl Giant is a Vietnamese-American girl (Thom Ngho, aka No) who lives with her tiger-mom mother in a small midwestern town. Her father is unknown. She’s really, really strong, and thinks that this, in addition to being too Asian, is the reason why she’s an outcast at school. She will venture into the Heavens, led by the mischievous Monkey King, in search of his legendary staff and her own identity.

The books both feature realistic middle school heroes, though The Girl Giant and the Monkey King deals with slightly more mature themes. Both girls receive a reasonable amount of help and misdirection from the adults in their lives, and must sort out which is which in order to succeed. But The Dragon Hero is a fairly typical kid-hero’s journey, with Falun finding her courage and learning who to protect. She will be accepted after she becomes a hero. In The Girl Giant and the Monkey King, Falun must learn how to handle her strength while she decides who to trust. She also must realize that the first step to fitting in is to recognize that you’re really OK.

Both books have a fair number of cultural references, with numerous uses of Chinese or Vietnamese words, particularly for foods, as well as casual mentions of some of the problems that come from being an immigrant. (My favorite Vietnamese word is “cu’ng,” an endearment used frequently by Thom’s mother, which needlessly embarrasses her.) And both books, while leading to satisfactory conclusions, promise to be the first book in a series.

In the past few months, two of my favorite fantasy books, both long out of print, have been re-released in new editions. Both are from smaller presses, so are a little bit expensive, but still cheaper than the used original paperbacks, if you can find them. I read both of them again, and found that they are as beautifully written as I’d remembered. Both are still surprisingly relevant, a reminder that, though we have moved on to new crises and epidemics, the past was no less complicated.

Wizard of the Pigeons by Megan Lindholm (before she became Robin Hobb) was published in 1985. This is one of the first, and still one of the best, urban fantasies. It is a love story to Seattle, told through the eyes of Wizard, a man not yet comfortable in his own power. The new 35th anniversary edition from Grim Oak Press ($30 hardcover) is illustrated with a darker palate than I’d like to see, though once Wizard’s Viet Nam War past arrives to haunt him, it is not inappropriate. As with many urban fantasies, the disenfranchised street people do, indeed, hold important magic necessary to maintain their city. But this Seattle is a place where the price of that magic might be living fully within something that looks very like madness.

The Wild Swans by Peg Kerr was first released in 1999, and tells two loosely entwined stories, one from 1689 New England and one from 1981 New York City at the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. We at DreamHaven Books have signed copies of the new edition from Lume Press ($14.99 paperback). Eliza, in Puritan New England, weaves shirts from nettles for her swan-enchanted brothers, just as in the old fairy tale. Three hundred years later, Elias, a gay man disowned by his Puritan parents, finds a new family among the gay community of Manhattan and then must watch as his “brothers” are inexplicably taken away. In both stories, the real magic is redemption, and it is bought by sacrifice which leads to acceptance and a kind of sorrow that is not far from joy.

Both books finish with a cathartic sadness that nonetheless leads to hope. We have survived traumas before, and we will survive these new ones also.