Cynthia Sally Haggard's Blog: Cynthia Sally's Blog, page 37

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE by Katherine Arden narrated by Kathleen Gati

I admit that I was very puzzled by this book. At the beginning, it sounded like a set of linked short stories. Oh well, I said to myself, the author clearly loves Russian folklore, so I suppose she is going to tell us her favorite stories.

Slowly, the book coalesced into a narrative centered on Vasya Petrovna, a young girl with The Sight. Of the five children born to her mother and father, she is the most like her mother, who was similarly gifted. There is also talk of a grandmother (her mother’s mother?) who also had this Gift.

Unfortunately, Vasya’s mother dies shortly after her birth, and in a household made up mostly of men, Vasya has no-one who is able to trammel her wildness. Consequently, she behaves like a boy. Not only does Vasya have The Sight, she is unusually good with horses. Of course, this tiny 14-year-old is able to ride savage stallions that would make grown men pale with fear.

However, Vasya is a kind-hearted soul and does her best to help her family. Her attempts are thwarted by her Wicked Stepmother Anna Ivanovna, who can also “see” things. Unfortunately for Anna, instead of seeing these creatures as friendly (as Vasya with her Pagan beliefs does) her Christian Religion constrains her to see them as Demons. Consequently, she lives in a state of successive panic attacks. It doesn’t help when handsome Father Konstantin appears, as his religious zeal causes everyone in the village (except Vasya) to live their lives in a succession of panic attacks, sure that they are destined for an Eternity in the Flames of Hell due to their Wicked Ways (i.e. their Pagan beliefs.)

Despite her kindness, most people are put off by Vasya. They don’t appreciate having a teenaged girl in their midst with her wide “feral” eyes, her hoydenish ways, her outlandish abilities to ride stallions. They whisper that she is a witch.

Poor Vasya is given a “choice” that was given to all teenaged girls in 14th-century Europe: Marry, or immure yourself in a Convent.

Instead, Vasya disappears into the Forest with Winter Demon Morozko, so as not to cause her family embarrassment, and more importantly, difficulties in managing their lands. (Her father is a Boyar, and her mother and stepmother are related to the Royal Family.) Had she remained home, there is a good chance she would have been burned at stake for being a witch.

The ending was as puzzling as the beginning. Vasya rides into the forest on her favorite stallion, discovers Morozko’s abode, and goes inside. THE END. But what about Father Konstantin? Does he obey Vasya’s repeated exhortations to leave the village so that everyone can calm down & experience some joy in this world? Or does he stay so that he can eventually entice Vasya into his bed? And what of Vasya? She disappears into the Forest. But is she not condemning herself (at the age of 14) to a life of Cold & Darkness with an Icy Demon? And didn’t her mother say that it was important to have this last child, this daughter, even it if might kill her? But how can Vasya do anything if she is in a Dark & Remote Forest?

So I went back to Amazon, only to discover that THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE is the first in a series of three. Stay Tuned. Five Stars.

Reading Sundays: THE END OF CHILDHOOD (Part 8), a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

“Susan!” he exploded. “You’ve been avoiding me!”

My face flamed. What could I say? I certainly couldn’t repeat Martha’s advice. Somehow, all my devising had come to naught. I had to say something, so I lifted my chin and looked him in the eye.

“You are a married man.”

“And?” His tone had a dangerous edge to it.

I swallowed. “I think you should stop courting me.”

“Courting you? Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yes. You ask me all sorts of things as if I were your wife. But I’m not your wife.”

“No, indeed.” He sighed heavily. “Ah! If only that were true. What a mistress you would make!”

I edged away. “I am not your mistress sir, nor indeed your wife.”

“But one day, I shall be a bachelor again. He came closer. “In the not-too-distant future. What say you then? Would you like to be my wife?”

My mind reeled at his words. All I was capable of noticing was that he had caught me in a corner of the room between a large bookcase and an overstuffed sofa. I stared at the floor and tried to calm myself with a deep breath. Was this actually a proposal of marriage? It didn’t sound like one. In any case, how could that be? Mr. Clayton was far too grand for me.”

“You haven’t answered,” he remarked. “Am I to understand then that you think me wanting as a bridegroom?”

“I—” I looked down at my hands. “I didn’t mean that, sir. Of course you would be a good bridegroom. One that any lady would want, but—.”

He brought his face closer. “But what?”

A Master Shipwright’s tools.

“I am—not suitable. My father is a Master Shipwright. People would laugh.”

“Oh, but I think you are very suitable. Indeed, that is why your father placed you here, to make a good marriage. Is that not so?” He moved inexorably towards me. His breath was warm, spiced with brandy, wine, tobacco. I looked up at him, wondering how I could fend him off, when suddenly I was in his arms and he was kissing me on the lips. I stiffened as he assaulted me, then strangely, I melted. I had never known kissing could be so pleasurable. I moaned.

He lifted his head and smiled. “You are perfect for me, Susan.”

“But—.”

“No more buts.” He kissed me on each cheek, on my eyelids and on the tip of my nose. “An exquisite young woman,” he murmured.

I pulled away. “Are we engaged?”

He looked at me for one moment, as if considering. Then he smiled. “Of course, you shall have your ring.” He drew out a velvet box from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. Inside was a ring with a purple stone surrounded by diamonds. He placed it on my finger. “This is an amethyst surrounded by diamonds. It is my pledge to marry you.” He kissed me again.

“But Mrs. Clayton—”

“—will soon be gone. You will take her place as the second Mrs. Clayton.”

I looked at the magnificent ring he’d placed on my finger. “I can’t do this, sir. Not while she’s alive. It’s wrong.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m doing something morally reprehensible?”

I looked up. His blue eyes had become chips of ice, his smile glittered dangerously.

“I am sorry, sir,” I stuttered. “I never meant to anger you.”

He relaxed. “Then we’ll say no more about it.”

I made a low curtsey and turned to go. “One more thing, my dear.” He put his hand on my arm. “Call me John.”

“John,” I breathed.

“Yes indeed,” and he kissed me again, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth.

I fled.

[To be continued.]

Elly Griffiths’ THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END (RUTH GALLOWAY #3), narrated by Jane McDowell

A house is crumbling into the sea on the north Norfolk coast, taking its secrets with it, when a visiting German archaeologist dies suddenly.

He has been stabbed in the heart with a pair of scissors.

And so we continue to wend our way through archaeologist Ruth Galloway’s exciting life, with her career as the lodestone of this series of books. Six men are buried in a crumbling cliff with their hands tied behind their backs. How old are the skeletons? Stone Age? Iron Age? Or modern? And do their deaths have anything to do with the mysterious death of the German visitor?

Elly Griffiths sure hands guide us on another fascinating story, which ends with a breath-taking scene (literally) in which two beloved characters nearly drown…Five stars.

Elly Griffiths’ THE JANUS STONE (RUTH GALLOWAY #2), narrated by Jane McDowell

[image error]Ruth is thrilled. Now forty years old she is finally pregnant. However, to the shock of her born-again Christian parents, she is not married. And when asked who the father is, Ruth replies: “I’d rather not say.”

Against this backdrop, Ruth finds the skeleton of a child buried under a doorway. Could the skeleton be Roman? After all, the Romans used to sacrifice children to the God Janus, the god of doorways, the deity of Beginnings and Endings.

Ruth and her new friend Max Grey, an archaeologist with an expertise in all things Roman, investigate. Along the way, it becomes clear that someone is trying to scare Ruth. Her cat is murdered, its dead body deposited on her doorstep. And someone leaves a plastic figure of a dead baby. Poor Ruth, who is finding her pregnancy rather difficult, is unnerved and scared. Who could be playing such cruel tricks on her? Five stars.

Elly Griffiths’ THE CROSSING PLACES (RUTH GALLOWAY #1), narrated by Jane McDowell

I had never encountered this author before (she was recommended to me by my sister) but I very much enjoyed this volume. Elly Griffiths has now written 13 murder mysteries involving archaeologist Ruth Galloway (who specializes in bones) and DCI Nelson who inhabit the wild reaches of Norfolk near King’s Lynn & the village of Snettisham.

So much of this novel consists of wonderful descriptions of the mud flats near Ruth’s cottage, mudflats that are so dangerous that if you do not know where you are going you will either be swallowed up by the sea, or by the mud.

Of course, there is an unsolved disappearance, a cold case of 10 years. There are descriptions of digs and of offerings form the British Iron Age (700 BCE to 43 CE when the Romans arrived.) Through it all, author Elly Griffiths conveys the powerful sense of magic that emanates from wild, unruly, untamed places.

If you have never heard of this author or this series before, I highly recommend it. Five stars.

Reading Sundays: THE END OF CHILDHOOD (Part 7), a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

“But now the doctor has told him she cannot have more children,” whispered Martha. “So he’s turning to you. Men have these physical needs, it’s a fact of life. If they can’t find a wife, they’ll turn to vulnerable girls. Or they’ll go to the brothel.”

“Really?” I gazed into her face. “But he seems like such a gentleman.”

“All men are like that,” Martha said. “You’re growing up now, it’s time you realized that men will do anything to get you into bed. Especially someone like you.”

“Why me?”

“You’re very pretty, Miss. You’re just the sort a gentleman would take a fancy to.”

I digested that comment. No-one commented on me at all. I’d always assumed it to be because vanity was a sin. But what was it Mr. Clayton had said when he’d returned from his visit to Staffordshire? Something about how blooming I was. And he did seem to spend a lot of time looking at me.

“But what can I do?”

“Never let your guard down. And most of all, don’t spend any time alone with him. Try to include Miss Maria as much as you can. Think of excuses to get her to go along with you. It shouldn’t be hard. She’s very fond of the master.”

I nodded and rose. “Thank you,” I said to Martha. “I don’t believe anyone else would have explained this to me.”

She rose too and enveloped me in a hug. “God bless you,” she said.

As October turned into November and November turned into December, his attentions never faltered. This was the longest visit he’d paid us in many a year. Every day I would sit alone by the window with dawn breaking outside, thinking up various stratagems for keeping away from him. I began giving Maria lessons in French, botany, history, geography, so that when he wanted me to go walking with him, I could invent an excuse for having her along with me. Every afternoon, I made myself take my embroidery to sit with Mrs. Clayton. I tried to make myself useful by offering to do household errands for her, running up and down the stairs, relaying messages to the kitchen and back. Mrs. Clayton gradually became less hostile. One afternoon as I sat beside her bed, giving her beef broth for she was too weak to take it herself, she patted my hand and smiled slightly. “You are a good girl, Susan. I mistook you for being flighty and silly. I am sorry I was not kinder.”

I stared at her in astonishment.

“I have my wits about me, even though I do not think I will survive this winter. I know what is going on.” She beckoned to me to come closer. “Never let him ruin you. Keep fighting back.” She sank back onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

While his wife suffered in silence upstairs, Mr. Clayton spent an enormous amount of time planning for a Christmas ball,  to which he was going to invite all the local gentry. I found myself being asked for my opinion on all manner of things.

“What do you think?” He fingered the blue velvet drapes that adorned the dining room windows.

“It is not my place—“ I began.

“Of course it’s your place if I say so.” He squeezed my arm.

“Maria thinks—.“

“Susan!” he exploded. “You’ve been avoiding me!”

My face flamed. What could I say? I certainly couldn’t repeat Martha’s advice. Somehow, all my devising had come to naught. I had to say something, so I lifted my chin and looked him in the eye.

“You are a married man.”

“And?” His tone had a dangerous edge to it.

I swallowed. “I think you should stop courting me.”

“Courting you? Is that what I’m doing?”

[To be continued.]

THE EVENING & THE MORNING (KINGSBRIDGE #4) by Ken Follett, narrated by John Lee

Ken Follett offers up another marvelous story in this volume, about the hunger, cruelty, power politics and Viking raids that beset the small community of Drane’s Ferry (sp? – I only heard this.)

A Norman Noblewoman arrives from Cherbourg to marry the local nobleman.

A skilled boatbuilder loses everything in a Viking Raid.

A monk arrives from Glastonbury, and is shocked by what he finds amongst the clergy in this remote outpost.

These three stories coalesce in the most magnificent way to provide a story full of life, drama and heartache.

The only problem I have with this book is its misleading promotional blurb put forth by the publisher, in which it claims that this volumes brings us right up to the beginning of THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH. This is NOT true. THE EVENING & THE MORNING takes place over a 10-year period, from 997 to 1007. PILLARS starts in 1121, with the sinking of the White Ship, and the consequent anarchy that over-swept England. The distance between 1007 and 1121 is 114 years, which represents at least six generations. Plenty can happen during that time.

But that is not the author’s fault, nor does it detract from this marvelous volume. Five stars.

THE MYSTERY OF MRS. CHRISTIE by Marie Benedict, narrated by Nicola Barber

This volume gripped me from beginning to end, enhanced greatly by narrator Nicola Barber.

We learn about the meeting between Miss Agatha Miller and Subaltern Archibald Christie at a ball in 1912, when she was 22 and he was 23. Of course, Miss Miller, being upper-crust and a member of Torquay society is already engaged, to safe & reliable Reggie. But she doesn’t feel anything for Reggie (a friend since childhood) other than a rather pallid affection. It doesn’t help that Reggie is the perfect gentleman, and never puts a foot wrong.

Archibald Christie, on the other hand, is always violating what is proper. He bluntly tells Agatha how attracted he is to her at their first meeting. He ensures that the band is playing something jazzy, modern and not-quite-proper as they take their first turn on the floor. And later (about a month later) he blurts out that he has to have her and they should marry immediately. His sexuality is raw and unfiltered by any gentlemanly concerns.

Needless to say, Miss Miller’s family is not impressed, and Mummy ensures her daughter’s ears are filled with dire predictions. She is followed in this opinion by her eldest daughter Madge, ten years older than Agatha, whose sarcastic pronouncements have the inevitable effect of making younger sister Agatha bristle.

Archie is SO FASCINATING. He’s an enigma. He’s not quite proper. He’s definitely NOT suitable as he’s an impoverished subaltern, unable to support his wife-to-be in a fashion that her family desires.

So she marries him, against the wishes of both her family and his.

Everything would have gone swimmingly, since these two young people are genuinely in love, but for the First World War. Like millions of women, Agatha has to cope with the husband who returns to her in 1919 being a broken version of the man she married in 1914. Archie has PTSD, has acquired a smoking habit, a drinking habit, and a bottomless pit of rage. He is enraged when his wife announces she is expecting a baby.

Author Marie  Benedict does a wonderful job of depicting the mores of 1910s and 1920s England, when well-bred young women were encouraged to deny their own feelings and sacrifice their time and other relationships to making sure that The Husband is paramount, that his needs & wishes are the intense focus of their lives.

Of course, such behavior ensures that a pleasant young man, with mild mental health issues, becomes a monster of entitlement, fueled by his experiences of a horrifying war. Agatha tries and tries to please her husband, submerging her natural exuberance in the service of meeting his needs. But the more she tries, the more enraged he becomes.

One day, he announces that he wants a divorce. Of course the reason is because he has met someone else. Agatha is devastated, especially as this bombshell occurs on the heels of the death of her beloved mother. She becomes angry. She suddenly acquires a spine. They have a dreadful row, because Agatha decides NOT to give her husband the easy divorce he wants. No, no no. If HE wants a divorce, she demands that he names the other woman, Nancy Neele, as an adulteress.

Naturally Archie is enraged. He cannot believe his doormat of a wife has suddenly become demanding. He stomps out of the house, and Agatha Christie (who by now has written THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES and THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD) stages her own disappearance, in the knowledge that the police investigation will uncover husband Archie’s infidelity, so that the Whole World (including daughter Rosalind) will know that her mother tried everything to save the marriage, and that it is her father’s fault that it ended.

The staged disappearance involves lots of blackmail and lies (including the lie that Agatha Christie was in a fugue state) but Archibald Christie has no choice but to go along with this. If he doesn’t, Agatha will use the novelist’s lethal weapon, a fictionalized account of what happened, which is plausible enough to be believed by everyone. The manuscript (which Archie has read) will blacken his reputation FOREVER.

How delicious to see the comeuppance of this entitled child-bully of a man! Five stars.

LINEAGE OF GRACE by Francine Rivers narrated by Winona Owen

In LINEAGE OF GRACE, Francine Rivers explores the lives of five women who lived in the Middle East during the time of the Old Testament. I never expected to enjoy this volume so much, but author Francine Rivers does a magnificent job of  imaginatively reconstructing the past from scant lines in the bible.

My favorite story is the first, about Tamar, a young woman of great dignity whose husbands (the sons of Judah) die suddenly within a year of each other. Of course people whispered. Of course, her mother-in-law wanted her out of the house. Of course Judah’s third son was refused to her. So Tamar is forced to return to her father’s house in disgrace. Calmly outfacing his wrath, she manages to convince him that turning her out of his house would injure his relationship with Judah, and therefore her possible marriage to the third son. But matters are not easy, and eventually she is obliged to resort to subterfuge in order to gain what is rightfully hers.

Rahab is a prostitute living in the pagan city of Jericho, when a couple of Jewish spies arrive. She takes them in, hides them from the soldiers and sends them on their way into safety. For that, she and her family are saved from the total destruction of her city, which kills everyone she knows.

The third, fourth and fifth stories – about Ruth & Boaz, Bathsheba & King David, and Mary & Joseph – were stories that I know, but nevertheless, I enjoyed Francine River’s fresh take on them, helped by telling these stories from the women’s point of view, as well as all the luscious details she adds that makes their lives come alive. Five stars.

Reading Sundays: THE END OF CHILDHOOD (Part 6), a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

I could almost feel a storm gathering in the prickles going up and down my neck. Leave, a small voice whispered. I frowned and shook myself. Don’t be ridiculous, I whispered back. Where would I go? Papa had sold the fine house he’d had when Mama was alive, and gone to live in a room in a tavern near Chatham dockyards, saying he wanted to save up all his money to get me a good marriage. I had to stay and do my best to navigate the tricky waters ahead. It was my duty.

Mr. Clayton continued his attentions, often seeking me out for conversation. I was both pleased and embarrassed, unsure of exactly how to respond, conscious that everyone was watching us.

“I’ve been noticing what’s going on,” Martha the cook remarked one day, out of the blue, as I dug my spoon into her delicious apple and blackberry crumble. October was now approaching, and the last of the apples were being picked. “You be careful Miss, or you’ll end up in trouble.”

I raised my eyes to her face. “What do you mean?”

She sat next to me at the kitchen table, her hands and arms white with flour and lowered her voice. “Do you remember that day when the French Lady visited you for the first time?”

My face burned. I’d woken up that morning to find blood all over my sheets and I’d cried out, believing someone had stabbed me. Mrs. Clayton had come in, wrinkled up her noise in disgust, and left me crying in my soiled sheets. It was Martha who’d come upstairs with clean rags for me to wear, who’d held me in her plump arms and told me not to worry, saying that it meant I was a woman now who could have babies.

“I can see the master has taken a fancy to you,” she continued, “but you need to be careful. Under no circumstances must you ever meet a gentleman in his bedchamber, and you certainly must not disrobe in front of him.”

“You mean take off all my clothes?”

She nodded.

“But why would I do that? It would be so embarrassing.”

She gave a short, sharp laugh. “You might do it if he ordered you to.”

I gazed at my plate. “I suppose so,” I said after a minute. “But why would he want to see me naked?”

She laughed again, then put her floury hand on mine. “It’s dangerous for a girl like you to be such an innocent,” she whispered. “I oughtn’t to tell you such things, it’s not my place. But you have no mother to advise you, and the mistress—well, she has her mind on other things. You must promise to keep it to yourself because well-brought-up ladies are not supposed to know.”

I nodded and leaned in closer.

“The reason why you must never disrobe is because it makes men so excited. It makes that lump of flesh between their legs hard, hard enough to put into that place where your blood comes from.”

I recoiled. “It sounds disgusting. Surely a gentleman like Mr. Clayton wouldn’t do that.”

She looked around and lowered her voice even further. “How do you think babies are made? Of course the master does it. He likes doing it. Haven’t you noticed how the mistress breeds every year? How do you think that happens?”

I looked at my hands folded in my lap, my face on fire. I just couldn’t understand how Mr. Clayton, with all his courtly manners, could do something so—so savage.

“But now the doctor has told him she cannot have more children,” whispered Martha. “So he’s turning to you. Men have these physical needs, it’s a fact of life. If they can’t find a wife, they’ll turn to vulnerable girls. Or they’ll go to the brothel.”

“Really?” I gazed into her face. “But he seems like such a gentleman.”

“All men are like that,” Martha said. “You’re growing up now, it’s time you realized that men will do anything to get you into bed. Especially someone like you.”   [To be continued.]