Fantasy sometimes gets a bad rap, but good fantasy ushers us through the hearts and minds of beings we can identify and sympathize with because it’s driven by the human condition. Affected by forces both benevolent and evil, the protagonist often fights to restore justice. Exceptional fantasy is a keystone, offering us insight, adventure, and escape while leaving us better people in its wake. Way of the Argosi is such a book.
To put it in its place, Way of the Argosi is a prequel to de Castell’s Spellslinger series and branded Young Adult Fantasy; though as is the case with most YA, this book will be as well-received as Lord of the Rings by adult readers. And good news, a sequel, Fall of the Argosi, is on its way.
Sebastien de Castell (this is his real name by the way) introduces us to an extraordinary orphan. Following the dark path of the mythic Hero’s Journey, first conceived by Joseph Campbell, eleven-year-old Ferius Parfax sets out alone after her tribe is massacred by a band of mages. This is a book about power, politics, and genocide and, most importantly, how to not only survive against adversity but change the world for the better. Ferius’s people, the Mahdek are the victims in this vicious war.
Along the way, Ferius meets Durrall Brown, a “meddling frontier philosopher” who is in my humble opinion, one of the greatest characters ever written. Durrall Argos, the man in brown, is a cowboy Buddhist who carries a razor-sharp Tarot deck that can cut you as easily as cure you. Brown instructs Ferius, and us, in the Way of the Argosi. Are you hooked yet?
This is a beautifully produced book with a stunning Tarot card cover that features mirrored images of Ferius Parfax and Durrall Brown. Other intricate full-size black and white images drawn by Sally Taylor separate philosophical sections. And there is a detailed map that reminds me of Ireland, as all maps do. Skip the e-book and buy this book in print. It’s a keeper and one you will return to read again and again if only to learn to be a better human being and savour the feel of slipping inside a velvet cloak by a fire on a rainy day.
Sebastien de Castell’s lyrical prose, brilliant world-building, and exceptional dialogue will keep you turning pages long after your candles have burnt low. “I was tired of living like a wandering ghost, punished by the sight of the hideous, scrawny, sexless creature I glimpsed in grimy pools of street water. I wanted to be clean again” (65). I hear echoes of Tolkien and Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. Another bonus is that de Castell was a fencing choreographer; something evident in the cracking fight scenes that take us directly into the fighter’s mind. Did I say I love this book?
Here you will enter a society like many in Earth’s history where cultures exterminate cultures only to be wiped out themselves. But within the violence are those who illustrate compassion, courage, and wisdom; those who walk with the Way of Water.
Sebastien de Castell
*published in the Ottawa Review of Books, October 2021
Chi’miigwech to my friend Tamara at Western Sky Books for putting this book in my hands last Sunday and to Leanne Betasamosake Simpson for writing this cure. Easy now, white ladies, the cure is a response to one Susanna Moodie, whose Roughing It In the Bush (1852) is a racist, colonial, settler account of her arrival in her New World. I read the aforementioned text in 1997 and wrote in my journal: “Moodie is a classist and racist—not my idea of Canadian classic literature.” (Yes, I have journals that date back to the early 90s.). I downloaded Moodie’s text for free on Kindle (cause why pay for something like that) and tried to read it again just to compare this to that, but I couldn’t get beyond the first chapter of Moodie’s vehement verbosity. She starts out by slamming the Irish immigrants and moves on from there. Nothing but perfect white homes and sun rippling on water suits Mrs. Pastoral Moodie.
While Moodie uses far too many words to describe her dissatisfaction with “the bush,” Simpson sprinkles her text with enough Ojibwe words to make we want to enrol in an Anishinaabemowin language course. (And forgive me if I use these terms in the wrong way. I’m trying, and hate being only a zhaaganaash.) I knew a few Anishinaabe words before I read this text and I know a few more now. I finished the paperback last night and then, this morning, I went through the whole text using the online Ojibwe People’s Dictionary Simpson recommends in her Author’s Notes, while eating pancakes and maple syrup and thinking of home and Niinatig, the Maple Tree. I penciled in the translations where needed. I apologize, Tara. I know you hate my margin notes. But I’m an academic at heart and need to know. Still, I refuse to look stuff up online when I’m settling into dreamland with a good book; hence the need for a breakfast session.
Anishinaabemowin is a beautiful language that interweaves people, land, weather, culture, and feelings in a soft, gentle, musical rhythm. For example, Makwa Giiziis is the Moon When Bears Wake Up — much better than February, don’t you think? Minomiin Giizis is the Moon of Wild Rice — August or September depending where you live. That connection to what’s happening on the land makes me feel soft and warm inside. That’s how I feel as I read this book, actually. There’s quiet gentle healing here and a good dose of sarcastic “haha” humour (which as we know is healing in itself.)
I’m reading the sign and letting the 4:45 a.m. departure time sink in, sipping the lemon water in the shitty plastic cup, when he approaches me with all the confidence the trifecta of obliviousness and delusion and patriarchy can provide.
We talk about things, but not really, because I can’t remember who he is.
He tells me he’s the director general of Indian Affairs and sometimes I have a poker face and sometimes I just have a face.
He is so clean and shiny. I’m in flannel plaid pyjama pants with a not-matching plaid flannel shirt because who gives a fuck. He has a bureaucratic overcoat and adult shoes that require regular neoliberal maintenance. I’m in bare feet. He looks like he’s lived in Ottawa for too long. I look like I’ve lived in Peterborough for too long (179).
I grew up on Anishinaabe territory (along the north shore of Lake Ontario) later lived near Lake Scugog, and then went to Trent University near the aforementioned city of Peterborough, where I learned from traditional teachers and Elders. If I were ever to move back to Ontario that is where I would settle. I don’t know how authentic this map is, but it will give you some idea of the land of which I speak. And, of course, the Anishinaabe people and their neighbours were here long before maps were drawn. Since forever.
At any rate, this is a book review and all I can say is, “read this book.” Now that I’ve penciled in the meaning of all the words I guessed at (and got most right from the context by the way) I’m going to read it again because it just makes me feel good — not numb, not guilty, not sad, just good. I’m not sure if it was Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s intention to make white ladies feel good, but it worked for this one. Perhaps this is the cure of which she speaks.
An intense psychological coming-of-age story, Secret Sky kept me flipping pages far into the night. Emelynn Taylor, a troubled and naive twenty-two-year-old woman, returns to the seaside cottage where she grew up. As idyllic as it sounds, something’s not quite right. Without warning, Em’s body begins to lose gravity and she finds herself floating into the sky, then crashing back down. She’s been given a gift but no instructions on how to use it. Though she’s made it through university, her floating bouts impact her ability to work, even with her pockets full of rocks. So, with the keys to the cottage and six-months living expenses courtesy of her mother, she returns to the romantic scene of her childhood. But that doesn’t seem to solve the problem.
Secret Sky is the first book in The Gift Legacy series and Emelynn’s gift is one of flight. Who has not envied the birds and dreamed of flying? As a child, I tried to jump off my father’s armchair into flight; after all, I was named after Wendy from Peter Pan. Flying dreams followed, where I ran off the edge of a hill and was suddenly airborne, arms moving in a gentle breast stroke. If you’ve ever experienced these fantasies, you’ll love Jo-Anne’s descriptions of flying. McLean is a masterful writer and includes a complete flying glossary where she introduces you to her secret world.
After a disastrous crash, Emelynn is discovered, healed, and brought up to speed on her gift by Dr. Avery Coulter, a kind doctor, who is part of a secret underground society of flyers. The handsome, sexy, rich, and charming Jackson takes her “under his wing” on his yacht and teaches her to use her gift. Part romance, part sexy thriller, this series introduces a brilliantly original world where our desires are possible.
The story is set in Coastal British Columbia in an idyllic setting that makes me a little envious of young Emelynn who lives in a postcard cottage with waterfront and is able to fly.
This is the tenth cozy mystery featuring Cait Morgan, a fifty-ish, marmite-munching, tea-drinking, Welsh-Canadian sleuth who works as a criminal psychologist at a B.C. university on a mountain I’m sure I attended. I recognize those inlet views. In fact, Ace’s dashes of local colour really pulled me into this book.
After travelling the world for nine books solving light, cozy international murders (yes, no slash and gore is possible) Cait and her ex-RCMP/Intelligence officer husband, Bud, become embroiled in a possible murder right next door to their home on Red Water Mountain. Their ninety-year-old neighbour, Gordy Krantz, is discovered dead. He’s recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and suicide seems plausible until the coroner’s report comes back and they discover that old Gordy had been dosed with hemlock.
In between bouts of cooking, cuddling her Labrador retriever, and watching Scandi-noir (who doesn’t love Scandi-noir?), Cait investigates with the guile of Agatha Christie by pretending she’s collecting information for the eulogy Gordy directed her to write in his will. An eccentric cast of locals, one of whom is a garden centre mogul, rounds out the suspect list.
Early on, Cait and her faithful husband Bud (I still don’t know who’s more faithful, Bud or the dog?) acquire a disgusting mattress full of Gordy’s journals and using her eidetic memory, Cait is able to sort and file his life story from 1954 to 1993 all in her mind. After conducting her polite investigations, Cait laments: “This isn’t a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, as Churchill spoke of Russia; this is a maze of bricks walls, all ten feet high, with no apparent way out.” But get out she does. Cait Morgan is an impressive woman, as is Cathy Ace.
Ace has been shortlisted for the Bony Blithe Award the last three out of four years and won in 2015 for Best Canadian Light Mystery. Her writing is stellar. Details, references, allusions, expertly crafted phrasing, and serious subjects punctuated by wit and humour. Her references to local settings intrigue me. I deduced that the elusive Red Water Mountain must be on the north side of Lougheed Highway just west of Mission and craned my neck when I drove through the other day hoping I would see it and know. Before immigrating to Canada, Ace was a marketing specialist, speaker, and trainer. I’ve seen her present and she’s as lively and entertaining as her books. The Cait Morgan Mysteries have been optioned by the UK company Free@LastTV who produced MC Beaton’s Agatha Raisin books for TV.
Living in a rural community everyone knows their neighbours. Or do they? Is the eccentric single man you move in beside really the man he says he is? Or could he be a killer? A thief? An imposter? Is the woman offering you tea trying to get to know you or investigating you? How many bodies are buried outside your door?
The Corpse with the Iron Will is published by Four Tails Publishing.
Who’s your favourite writer? I’ve always dreaded being asked that question because I didn’t have one, until now. Cherie Dimaline is my new favourite writer. I read and reviewed Empire of Wild (2019) not long ago because the cover was so striking. Last week, I finally picked up The Marrow Thieves.
This short, dark, dense, YA book won numerous prestigious awards when DCB released it in 2017. TIME magazine declared it one of the Best YA Books of All Time. Why?
The Marrow Thieves is timely. Emotional. Superbly written. Thought-provoking. Gut-wrenching. Grave.
This dystopian novel is labeled Science Fiction. It’s also labeled Young Adult, I assume because it has limited sex and course language, and the main character, Frenchie, is a sixteen-year-old Metis man-boy on the run with an eccentric familial crew in the forests of northern Canada. With him are Frenchie’s love interest Rose (16); Chi-Boy (17) and Wab (18) who are one sweet couple; Tree and Zheegwan, 12-year-old twin boys; Slopper, nine and delightful; Ri-Ri , a seven-year-old girl whose grown up with them from infancy; Minerva their Anishinaabe Elder; and Miigwan who holds them all together.
The story is set in the not-too-distant future, before 2050, in a time I may not be physically here to see, but perhaps you will. Global warming, a concept we are becoming more and more familiar with each day, has destroyed most of the world. Tectonic plates shifted. Cities crumbled into the sea. America fought Canada for clean water from northern rivers. The Great Lakes were “polluted to muck … fenced off, too poisonous for use” (24). The government militarized. The North melted. People died in masses from disaster and disease and stopped reproducing. And then the non-Indigenous folks stopped dreaming. Which brings us to the crux of the story.
The only people who can still dream are Indigenous. As Miig explains: “Dreams get caught in the webs woven in your bones … You are born with them. Your DNA weaves them into marrow like spinners … That’s where they pluck them from” (19). Frenchie’s band of survivors are running north because they’re being hunted for their bone marrow. The government has built new “residential schools” and hired “recruiters” to track down and capture anyone with Indigenous ancestry. They work them, kill them, and siphon their melted marrow into vials labeled by age and nation. The historical echo of exploitation and genocide rips through this book leaving us horrified.
But, take a deep breath. This is science fiction. Right?
Cherie Dimaline is a multi-award-winning author from the Georgia Bay Metis Community in Ontario. Her writing is so fresh, so original, so stylish and real, I’m hoping it seeps into my own bone marrow. I hope she is not a prophet, but merely issuing a warning like those forest fires and floods and Hellish droughts that continue to shake and shock us.
Listen up. Young Adult or grandmother, if you read no other books, please read this one. Preferably aloud to each other. And then talk it out. And hug it out.
And if this book seems too dark and depressing and your guts are already shivering, know this. The sequel is coming out this October. Hunting by Stars. I’ve already pre-ordered my paperback. You see, I have hope for Frenchie and his crew. And I have a new favourite writer.
Photo from her website, cheriedimaline.com which has a wealth of information about who she is.
In the sixth installment of the Rockton series, Kelley Armstrong takes us back to the town’s beginnings, so much so that I felt regrettably this might be the end. Her website says otherwise. Since she is contracted for seven books, the series “will be at least that long,” Armstrong assures us. Still, there is a lingering sense of finality at the conclusion of this book that gives me a pang of sadness. I’ve loved this series since the beginning.
The discovery of an injured stranger, who only speaks some Germanic language, heralds an investigation into the genesis of Rockton, the outlying settlements, and the hostiles. For those new to Rockton, Armstrong spends the first few chapters reminding us where we are—a strange, somewhat violent town in the Yukon where people apply to live so they can disappear from insurmountable problems in the outside world. This means your neighbours might be killers or victims or just on the run from mistakes and wanting a new start. Rockton is off the radar and puppeted by a council who live outside it, with one rep or spy who usually lives in it.
Casey Duncan, the series protagonist, is a detective. Sheriff Dalton is her mountain man partner, and her sister, April is the town’s autistic physician. Casey’s young Newfoundland dog, Storm, provides comic relief and also is an amazing tracker, something this team needs because someone is always disappearing into the bush.
These books are written with an overarching sense of intelligence. The concept of the hidden Yukon town is clever, but as Armstrong reveals more information as to its genesis through the wily detective, we see a blossoming brilliance in this cold northern darkness. Casey Duncan narrates in the present tense, first-person point-of-view, and we are given ample entrance into her thoughts as she struggles to solve the mystery of the injured stranger and what it might mean to the town and its inhabitants. With that, we learn Casey’s theory of how the hostiles evolved from a splinter group from the second settlement—a settlement that had broken free of the town of Rockton. And so we see these factions which are not so much classes as cultures who strive to navigate “an endless balance of debt and obligation.”
Outdoor enthusiasts will appreciate the riveting action and adventure scenes where Casey and Dalton negotiate with grizzlies, wild boar, wolves, and all the Yukon wilderness has to offer. There is scarcely a moment to eat or sleep or put the book down. No one is who they appear to be, including the injured stranger.
A Stranger in Town is published by Minotaur Books.
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