Review: "Once Upon a River" by Diane Setterfield

"On a dark midwinter’s night in an ancient inn on the river Thames, an extraordinary event takes place. The regulars are telling stories to while away the dark hours, when the door bursts open on a grievously wounded stranger. In his arms is the lifeless body of a small child. Hours later, the girl stirs, takes a breath and returns to life. Is it a miracle? Is it magic? Or can science provide an explanation? These questions have many answers, some of them quite dark indeed.

Those who dwell on the river bank apply all their ingenuity to solving the puzzle of the girl who died and lived again, yet as the days pass the mystery only deepens. The child herself is mute and unable to answer the essential questions: Who is she? Where did she come from? And to whom does she belong? But answers proliferate nonetheless.

Three families are keen to claim her. A wealthy young mother knows the girl is her kidnapped daughter, missing for two years. A farming family reeling from the discovery of their son’s secret liaison, stand ready to welcome their granddaughter. The parson’s housekeeper, humble and isolated, sees in the child the image of her younger sister. But the return of a lost child is not without complications and no matter how heartbreaking the past losses, no matter how precious the child herself, this girl cannot be everyone’s. Each family has mysteries of its own, and many secrets must be revealed before the girl’s identity can be known." (blurb from goodreads.com) 

Rating: 2/5

I thought I was going to love this book. Gorgeous cover, compelling storyline, rave reviews... The first chapter had me hooked. I reflected that I liked the style. The characters seemed interesting. I was quite engrossed with the plot. I read it quite quickly. But...

There was a huge "but." A "but" so huge that I was rather disgusted with this book and its author by the time I'd finished. Some would say it's just a detail. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm just overreacting. But in my opinion, the detail in question should not have been found in a book published in 2018.

Now, what am I talking about? 

There is in this book a very varied cast of characters. So varied that it screams "politically correct" writing. 

So one of the characters has Down's syndrom. This character I found interesting. I expected him to play a bigger part. I wanted him to play a bigger part. I'd never read a book before when a main character had Down's syndrom. Except that he wasn't a main character in this book either. Just part of the supporting cast. Here, in the background. For the sake of diversity. But that's OK. That's the author's choice.

There is mention, "off-stage," of a gay character. Now that's great. Except that this character plays no role in the story and is killed off before the plot even begins. He's just there to show how open-minded and wonderful another character is. Again, it really seemed to be a way for the author to claim her open-mindedness. And that's lovely, but for a cast to be truly diverse, it should concern the main characters. To just stick references to people who are "different" is more insulting than anything. It's as if the author was saying that they couldn't be more than references. As if they couldn't play a real role. But again, that's just my opinion.

Then there's a Black character. And he's a main character. Hurray! I should be pleased. I was at first. Except... Each time this character was mentionned, each time his point of view was used, his skin was mentionned. Constantly. After ten times of reading that he was black (*gasp*) I did get it. I also did get that everyone was racist and scared of him, except that handful of wonderful, open-minded white main characters. 

That could have been OK. It could have been taken as a way to reflect the racist attitude of many people in the 19th century. And then I came across this sentence, which shocked me. I don't remember it exactly. I don't especially want to remember it. In this sentence, the narrator, after describing people's attitude towards this Black character, concluded by saying that his blackness was only superficial. What?! I guess the author's intentions were not to be racist. But this is so badly phrased... It bothered me, along with all the other little details I mentionned.  

So that's for what bothered me most. Other things about the characters bugged me. The female characters for instance. They could have been interesting but they weren't really. And, again, the author tried a bit too hard to portray some them (one especially) as strong and independent, when their actions show they're not. 

As for the plot, it started off being quite compelling. However, the ending ruined it all, because the author tried too hard to explain it all and tie it all nicely and give the characters who deserved it their happy ending. At the beginning, she tried to dabble with magical realism but it felt as if she did not dare take it too far. A bit like with the "diversity" of the characters. A few touches here and there but nothing really deep. 

All in all, I'd say the main problem in this book was the overbearing presence of the author herself. That might sound a bit odd because, after all, a novel doesn't write itself. But as a reader, I do not want to "hear" the author, I do not want to be analysing why she did this for that reason. I want to be carried away by the story and entranced by the characters. I wasn't really here, at least not for the whole book, in spite of the atmospheric writing style

Review: "The Last Runaway" by Tracy Chevalier

 

"Honor Bright is a sheltered Quaker who has rarely ventured out of 1850s Dorset when she impulsively emigrates to America. opposed to the slavery that defines and devides the country, she finds her principles tested to the limit when a runaway slave appears at the farm of her new family. In this tough, unsentimental place, where whisky bottles sit alongside quilts, Honor befriends two spirited women who will teach her how to turn ideas into action." (blurb from my edition of the novel)

Rating: 3.5/5

I found that The Last Runaway was an enjoyable book, easily read in a few sittings. I would not say that much happens in it but it was compelling enough to keep me turning the pages and wanting to know what would happen to the characters. 

I learnt several things while reading it. I had little to no knowledge of Quakers and their way of thinking, and even less of the "Underground railroad" through which escaped slaves tried to reach freedom and Canada. The "railroad" was composed of the people who helped them along the way. Some of those people were Quakers and the author does a great job at showing the conflict between moral and practical considerations, as well as the double standards at play. 

The Last Runaway was also very instructive on the subject of quilts and on the difference between English and American ones. I did find that interesting, again because I did not have any previous knowledge of it, if a tad repetitive. Sewing and making quilts are Honor's main occupations and a good part of her life is centred round this. This makes for some interesting observations on fabrics, patterns, etc. 

I enjoyed reading the descriptions of daily life in Ohio, where Honor ends up settling. They were quite vivid and I had no difficulty picture how the characters' life was. I really liked the attention to detail shown by the author, from food to clothes to buildings. 

There was maybe one thing that disappointed me a little: I had somehow been led to expect that the Underground railroad would play a greater part in the plot than it actually does. I would have liked to see more of this, and for some characters to be more developped. In a way, I felt the book could have been 100 pages longer than it is, to allow it to deepen some aspects of the plot. As for the ending, it left me wondering if there would be a sequel as well as wanting to know more. 

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 5

An illustration from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The fifth in a series of extracts from my novella....which is going to be published tomorrow!!! This passage follows the fourth extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

He stretches his neck to drink, unstable on legs still too long for his body. A ghostly horse comes to meet him in the water, a black horse with white legs and a white mark on his face. As he dips his nose in, the ghost disappears in a thousand ripples. A toad waddles on the water edge, bulbous and clumsy. Vaguely menacing as well. He takes a few steps towards it, but changes his mind when he hears it croak and decides to trots back towards his mother. 

The morning is cool, though he is aware now it will not last. He has accepted the succession of night and day, the succession of hours, of moods. There’s the time to nurse, the time to sleep, the time to play, the time to travel. They walk many miles, from one water point to the next, visiting the same ones at regular intervals. The tall blue mountains remain constantly in their background, keeping watch over them. Often he looks at them, wondering what lies beyond. They have not seen or heard men and horses again, though from time to time the wind carries a scent that reminds him of them. 

His mother paws at the water. Droplets become light as they splash above the surface. He runs towards her, nibbling a strand of her mane, hoping she will play with him, chase him. A vagrant fly lands on his rump and he bucks. As the day advances and the heat increases, the flies swarm, attacking him, targeting his eyes, his nostrils. His tail is too short for him to chase them like his mother is able to, so he stays by her. Or gallops as fast as he can: as long as he runs he has peace. But then they come back, more numerous, to feed off his sweat. 

An ibis prowls by the water edge, not far from the toad. It has a long, curved beak. Its head is covered in folds of pink, bald skin. He canters towards it; the ibis hops further away, spreading its wing as if to fly. It glares at him, leave me alone, horse, go back to your mother. 

His mother does not want to play. She leaves the water, rolls in the dust. He imitates her. The flies do not like the dust. He stands up, shakes himself, takes a deep breath. As he does, a smell he has never encountered before reaches him. What is it? He is not certain but he is struck with terror. He glances at his mother: her eyes are wide and wild, her head held high as she watches the other side of the water. 

And they see it. The tawny fur, the heavy, though supple, body. A rippling mane, covering the head and shoulders. Amber eyes and cruel jaws. Lion, lion, the ibis squawks, spreading its wings. 

We must run now, my little one, his mother says. Her nostrils are flared, her breath heavy. Her terror intensifies his own. You must run now, as fast as the wind from which you were born. Lion, lion, the ibis squawks again. And the two horses run. 

He runs ahead, his mother closely following him. He runs ahead, faster than he has ever run. Feeling his mother’s fear as clearly as his own. Running to escape the smell of the lion. Is it behind them? He dares not turn his head, dares not slow down. 

He goes on galloping, even when the lion’s smell does not reach him anymore. He goes on galloping, forgetting why he had even started. Intoxicated by the wind and by the rhythmical beating of his hooves on the rocks below. Delighting in the speed and power he never knew were his. He is invincible. He, the horse born of the desert and the mountain. Nothing will ever capture him, neither the lions nor the men. Not even the birds who fly high above can go as fast as him. 

His mother catches up with him, his mother makes him stop. Why, all of a sudden, are his lungs burning and his legs weak under him? Why, all of a sudden, is he too exhausted to take another step? 

You are silly, little one, his mother tells him, you are silly but you run well. The lion could not have caught you. You must learn that not all animals are our friends. The lions and the leopards are to be avoided at all costs. Remember the scent you smelled today. If you smell it again, you must run. Even if I am not there, even if you do not see me. You must run. 

His burning lungs cannot take in enough air. The flies buzz, louder, louder. Walk now, his mother tells him, you must not stand still. You are silly, little one. 

One step after the other, painfully, painfully, until she allows him to stop, until she allows him to drink her milk. He wonders what exactly is the terrible thing that would happen should the lion catch him. He wonders why he was filled with such terror. Are lions worse than men? he asks his mother. 

Lions eat horses, like you have seen birds eat insects, like we eat the leaves and grasses. 

It feels very strange to him, and terror clutches his heart again. He starts at every noise, at every shadow, at every rock, at every bush. But the breeze carries only the smell of juniper and pine. 

The first lion I saw, his mother tells him, the first lion I saw was one my Master had killed. Out on the mountains he had gone, riding a black horse, my father, leading a grey horse, my brother. When they came back, the carcass of a lion was slung over the grey horse’s back. I smelled and saw for the first time a lion and death. I came up close, to investigate. In spite of my fear and of my instinct to run away. My Master laughed, he said it was right that his Lioness should have a look at the lion. And I looked. At the yellow fangs, at the sharp claws. At the glazed eyes. And the black horse, my father, gazed at me with pride. 

How did you run away from the men who had taken you? he asks. 

They put a metal bit in my mouth that cut my tongue and made me bleed. They tied ropes around my legs and my skin was bruised and burnt. I fought, I kicked, and they beat me. But the more blows fell on me, the more enraged I became. I used my hooves, I used my teeth. For the first time in my life, I smelled and tasted the blood of men. Their eyes glazed over, like that of the lion. I smelled the blood of men, and it was drunk by the mountain. The bit broke, the ropes snapped. I ran, away from pain, away from men. I ran towards the mountain. It was calling me. I ran and a falcon screeched above me. I ran until the men and their horses could not catch up with me. And the mountain became my home. It is your home too, my little one. Remember, in spite of the lions and the leopards, as long as you can run the mountain will keep you safe.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 4

An illustration from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The fourth in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the third extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Night comes, and with it the peacefulness following a long, warm day. His mother has forgiven him, and already he forgets her anger towards him. What he cannot escape is the image of the horses and the men, of the golden bridles and silver saddles. 

Tell me about men, he asks his mother. You told me of the plants, of the animals, of the way the mountain breathes, of the way the desert lives. Now tell me about men. 

The full moon casts a milky light. Shadows dance, shadows laugh. I was not always wild, his mother says. I was not born like you, high up on the mountainside. My home at first, was in the dwellings of men. From the moment I took my first breath, the voice and touch of men was part of me. They gave me a name that was not the one my mother used. They called me the Lioness, for the colour of my coat, and because I came from a line of brave, courageous horses. The men fed me, the men petted me. One of them took special care of me. He was my Master. 

She gazes at the stars, at the millions and millions of stars above, and he watches her. The moonlight has turned her white legs silver, like the saddles of the men’s horses. He has white legs like her. Was it your Master who made you mistrust men? he asks. 

No, my Master loved me and I loved him too. He took special care of me, and with pride he watched me grow. He admired the way I moved, he praised my behaviour, he revered my beauty. He called me his Lioness. He told me I was the best of the horses he had bred. He stroked my forehead. He smoothed the tangles in my mane. I followed him where he went. Other horses had metal bits put in their mouths, but my Master let me go free. He whispered sweet words in my ears and I was always by his side. 

What happened then? Why did you leave your Master? he asks. 

Not all men are gentle and kind. Some burn with what they call envy and jealousy. What they do not have, they want to take. And I was taken from my Master. It was a night much like this one. A man I had never seen before came up to me. How could I have guessed he was not to be trusted? Men had always been good to me. It is only when I saw him carrying a rope that I knew he was bad. I tried to run away but it was too late: the rope was tied around my neck, cutting into my skin and flesh. I reared and tried to strike him with my front hooves. But he hit me on the head. Never before had I known such pain. Never before had I been hurt by a man. He dragged me away, and I did not resist anymore. I should have. If a man were to try to take me again, I would fight, fight until the life has been crushed out of him. Now I know better than I did before. 

She stamps her feet and pins her ears back, baring her teeth at an invisible enemy. He starts at the dry rustling of the bushes, half-expecting to see a man emerge from there. 

I was taken away, his mother sighs. I was taken away, stolen from my Master. The rope around my neck was tied to the saddle of another horse and we galloped into the darkness. It was a night much like this one. My neck was raw where the rope dug into my flesh. For the first time in my life, I knew the smell of my own blood. For the first time in my life, I realised that I should fear men. When we were far enough, far enough from my Master, far enough from the friends of my youth, we met other men. And I was exchanged for a handful of gold pieces. They glimmered under the moon. The other men came to take me. A metal bit was put in my mouth. I fought. I bled. I was beaten again and I learnt to stay quiet. I had to stay quiet, to save my strength. 

She sighs again, gazing at the stars, gazing at the round, full moon. Her eyes are filled with shadows. You must sleep now, my little one. You too must save your strength.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 3

One of the illustrations from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The third in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the second extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

One day, they wander further away from the mountainside, looking for water, looking for food. And for the first time he hears neighs which are not those of his mother: it is not her voice, calling his name, a sound imprinted deep into his soul. His mother listens, then answers. It is not the soft, tender voice she uses with him. 

There are others like us, then? he asks her. She looks for a long time towards the place whence the neighs have come. We must walk on, she tells him. 

He follows her, but he is curious. From time to time, he thinks he hears the neighs again, and pricks his ears, and turns his head towards the sound. Walk on, walk on, his mother insists, and she even breaks into a trot. 

At last they stop, in the shade offered by a twisted cedar tree. His mother sighs and closes her eyes. He nibbles a needle-covered branch, spits it out. A lizard runs under a rock. He gazes at it with interest, until a small bird catches his attention. Hello again, hello again, the bird chirps. Do you remember me? I came down from the snowy mountains, on a frosty, frosty morning. You are much bigger now, you are much healthier too. The vultures were disappointed then. 

What did the vultures want with me? he wonders. You wouldn’t know, the small bird chirps. He sighs, ruffling the feathers of his white, spotted throat. 

Neighs again, not so far away. His mother opens her eyes and lifts her head, listening. Then goes back to sleep. He wanders off, the small bird fluttering behind him. 

Where are you going? Where are you going? You should not leave your mother’s side. But he is puzzled by the neighs. He is puzzled and does not want to rest. He will not be gone for very long, he only wants to have a look. Still the bird follows him, chirping in alarm. 

He smells the horses, like his mother, but not his mother. Smells them, yet there is another scent mingled with theirs, one he has not encountered before. One that makes him suspicious, and he advances cautiously, noiselessly, hooves making only a dull thump on the dusty ground. 

He sees them by the water and the trees, a group of horses. What are they wearing on their heads and on their backs? And what are those beings, standing next to them? 

These are men, these are men, the small bird chirps. And the horses belong to them, not to the mountain like you. That is why they have golden bridles and silver saddles. You should not stay there. 

The men are draped in flowing clothes, white as the snow on the summit of the mountains. Their voices stir something in him, an old, old memory, a memory that is not quite his. He stares at them, fascinated. Go back, go back, the small bird chirps. And his mother is beside him, ears pinned flat against her neck, teeth bared. What do you think you were doing? 

The bird flies away to settle on a branch above the horses and the men. The silver and the gold glisten in the sunlight. It was wrong of you to leave my side, his mother tells him, and pushes him back toward the mountainside. 

Why was it wrong? he asks. We greet the antelopes and the birds, the lizards and the snakes. Why do we not gallop with the horses who are like us? His mother pushes him on, ears back still, and her teeth bruise his neck. These horses belong to men, and men would capture you if they saw you. Men cannot be trusted. You must remain by my side if you want to be safe. And for the first time, the first time since that first night, he sees a strange new light in his mother’s eyes. He sees fear.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - blurb

I've showed you the front cover of Mr. Summerhaye's Horse, so here's the back cover, featuring the blurb.
The novella is now available for preorder as an ebook. You can find it here.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 2

The second in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the first extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Then his world is the mountainside, as he follows his mother, as they trot on the rocky ground. Then his world is the desert, the dust, the heat. Stay by me, his mother tells him, I shall keep you safe. Step into my hoofprints, you must not wander away. Not that he wants to. Everything is strange and alien to him. As the hours pass, as they travel, as the sun follows its course, the world around him changes and moves. Smells assail him from every side, some attractive, some menacing. A gerbil scuttles under his feet and he stops. The shadow of the bird has not left them. He does not like it. 

Do not pay heed, his mother tells him, it is a vulture, and no danger as long as you stay by me. His mother is tall and strong. She holds her head high, her coat shines orange and gold and her legs are pure white. She walks on, tirelessly, as he begins to feel weary. The horizon shimmers and trembles as the heat intensifies. The mountains, and their purple blue shadows, threaten to crush him. 

At last they stop. The ground is cracked where they stand. In a hollow there is water. More flowers, more plants. His mother drinks the water while he nurses. His eyes are heavy, his legs reluctant to bear his weight. Rest, his mother tells him, rest and sleep, my little one, while I watch over you. You will always be safe with me. So he lies on the rocky ground and closes his eyes. Sleeps and slips back into the darkness, the darkness he first knew, the darkness he comes from. 

*

Then his world is the mountainside. His world is the desert and a burning sun. His world is the dancing shadows of birds and the dust on the yellowing plants his mother eats. His world is the afternoon haze on the horizon. As the hours pass, he accepts it, I am part of it. Not so alien, not so strange, as long as his mother remains, his mother’s warmth, his mother’s smell. 

He nurses, he sleeps. He wakes and stands up and follows his mother. The shadow of the bird disappears after a while. He grows more aware of the life, of the hundreds of tiny heartbeats all around him, under the rocks and the bushes. The eyes of a sand cat meet his and he starts, half in surprise, half in fear. His mother tosses her head, you are in no danger, walk on. 

He sees a group of animals, with four slender legs like his mother and him. He turns his head with interest, but his mother does not stop. They are not like us, my son, see their horns? They are gazelles, we are horses. These are the names men gave to us. He does not know what men are and his mother does not explain. The scent of the gazelles drifts his way. No, they do not smell like his mother. On the mountainside they run and jump, nimble and delicate. A soft wind blows. He would much like to join them and play. Walk on, his mother nudges him. 

The sky, so blue before, becomes yellow and pink, and the shadows on the stony ground lengthen. The haze melts away. For a moment, the air is clear, sharpened by vibrant colours and by a cool wind. 

The sky, so blue before, darkens, melting into the sombre mountains. What is happening now? He does not understand. The world is turning, changing, and he can only watch in wonderment and awe. At last, the stars, appearing one by one. It is the night, the night into which he was born. The sun will rise again, his mother tells him, until the night swallows the day. The moon shines above them, a thin crescent of light. The hum of insects, a soft lullaby. He presses is head against his mother’s flanks. Stay close to me, my little one.