The Otherwhere Emporium (Nowhere Emporium 3) by Ross MacKenzie

Cover: Manuel Sumberac

So far . . .

Having recently read (and enjoyed) some quite intense and reflective children’s books, it was a refreshing change  to come again to an action-packed, imagination-fest of a story. However, in the end, this one turned out to be something rather more too.

I was very excited by the first book in this series, The Nowhere Emporium, when it was published a few years ago. (See my review from May ‘15). It was one of my children’s fantasy highlights of that year and deservedly won popular awards. Ross MacKenzie followed it up by an excellent stand-alone fantasy horror novel, Shadowsmith, before returning with a second enjoyable Emporium title. Then, again, he penned a stand-alone, spine-tingler, Evernight, before returning to his Emporium sequence.

. . . so good

However, I am delighted that he has now added a further title to complete the trilogy. Although the two intervening stand-alone books are hugely enjoyable, it is his creation of this world of the Emporium, that, for me,  marks him as one of today’s most enchanting writers of compelling fantasy for children.

Those who have not yet discovered the ‘Nowhere Emporium’, need to envisage a creation that stands somewhere towards the middle of a (highly speculative) spectrum stretching from Enid Blyton’s Magic Faraway Tree to Erin Morgenstern’s Night Circus. That is to say it provides a portal to a transient and sometimes rather elusive world of diverse wonders. However, in this case, the world conjured is far more thrillingly imaginative than the lands at the top of Blyton’s tree, whilst not as adultly sophisticated as Morgenstern’s circus. Against this background, Ross MacKenzie tells what is essentially the classic tale of MG fantasy, that of an orphan child  discovering that they have magical powers and filling a special destiny, often saving the world on the way. 

The early books in the sequence therefore press many of the most crucial buttons for a hugely successful children’s fantasy, and, inevitably, leave the question as to how effectively the author can develop and ultimately resolve his narrative in a ‘series finale’. However Ross MacKenzie achieves exactly this with successful skill in The Otherwhere Emporium.

Before

This third book is built around an interesting structure that interleaves a narrative from the relatively recent past with one happening in the present. 

Over a period of years a girl called Susie makes periodic visits to the  Emporium where she encounters Daniel, the protagonist from the earlier books, who is  now its ‘owner’. Susie too is developing magical powers, perhaps even stronger that Daniel’s. In fact there is a pivotal chapter in this final novel (Chapter 10) that seems, in many ways, to represent the apotheosis of children’s fantasy. In it Susie begins to come to terms with her beloved grandfather’s death when, revisiting the Emporium, she is able to create a very special new ‘wonder’ in his memory. It is a relatively straightforward, but beautifully sensitive piece of writing, where, by beginning to discover her own magic, Susie essentially takes over from Daniel as the archetypal protagonist for all children’s fantasy.

However Susie’s relationship with Daniel and the Emporium is far from straightforward, and becomes increasingly dark and disturbing as the influence of an evil magician, Sharpe, begins to intrude upon Daniel’s control of the ‘wonders’.

Now

In the present, Mirren, who copes wonderfully with life despite having lost most of one arm in an accident, is joined by two companions, sympathetic Luke and difficult, edgy Robyn, in a quest to rescue Mirren’s  mother, who seems to have become trapped in the Emporium. The three adventure through the now rather corrupted world of wonders, somewhat like a cross between the Pevensey children and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It is all very exciting and engaging stuff, and as the connections between the two strands of the story begin to emerge, Ross MacKenzie pulls everything together with both imagination and masterly storytelling, a riveting climax and satisfactory resolution to the whole are indeed achieved.

More 

However, The Otherwhere Emporium is not simply about children’s discovery of their magic, but about the fragility, the transience of that particular period in their growth; of how the wonders of imagination can potentially be lost, as well as found. This elevates it from being another fine example of conventional children’s fantasy to something more, something somewhat deeper and more resonant.

It is particularly pleasing to see a mainstream children’s book promoting a positive image of a ‘disabled’ child, who is, in fact, not disabled by their ‘disability’ at all. This, together with the book’s many other qualities, should make it, and indeed the whole completed trilogy, a very welcome addition to the reading diet currently offered to children of around 9-12 years.

Catching up on Sharon Creech

Unmissable US children’s author

Sharon Creech is a US author with a fully deserved international reputation. Her best known novel, Walk Two Moons, from back in 1984,  won the Newbury Medal. It would  unhesitatingly go onto my list of greatest children’s books and is one of those that I hope that every child will encounter sometime during their growing  years (and come back to later, as well). It is not one jot less fine, moving or memorable a read now than when it was written.

She went on to become the first ever American author to win the UK’s prestigious Carnegie Medal in 2002, for Ruby Holler. With now more than twenty stand-alone titles to her name,  many quite individual in character, it is inevitable that some will be more to some readers’ taste than others. However she is a truly fine writer and everything she crafts carries her own distinctive mark of quality. Yet, despite her reputation, she is not always as prominent in British homes and classrooms, as I think her writing merits. A couple of brand new UK editions make this a great time to catch up.

A good feeling about Sharon Creech

Sharon Creech generally writes feel-good books. Even when they genuinely and realistically treat of children with issues, as they often do, they are basically warm-hearted. But, you see, the thing  about feel-good books is that they make you feel good. And surely that’s a very good thing. Sometimes we seem to think that to be really great a book has to put us through the emotional wringer, fling us hard into the face of life’s many unpleasant realities. And, yes, we do I suppose need some books like that. But we should not scorn books that make us feel good. Feel-good books can be a wonderful tonic for those feeling low and a security for those feeling vulnerable. 

‘When she  was feeling as if everything was dark and scary and putrid, Dallas would paint word pictures that would fly into her mind and scatter the dark scary things.’ (Ruby Holler, p 196)

And feeling good about life, about our selves, often puts us in a stronger position to try to do something about those bad things.  Feel-good is only a problem if writers leave us wallowing in saccharine sweetness, and Sharon Creech never does that. 

Just out: One Time

Illustration: Jori van der Linde

A lot to teach

Way back when I was a young teacher, I was very influenced by a little book from the early 1960s, a short discourse about her experience in the classroom by Margaret Langdon, called Let the Children Write. I found it very relevant then and actually believe it still has much of value to say, even though the school context described now seems somewhat old fashioned.*

That book was brought strongly back to mind because Sharon Creech’s latest, One Time, also paints a wonderful picture of how much good can be done by a sensitive teacher who understands that children need to be freed to write rather than constrained to do so. Even though this book is more about prose writing rather than poetry, in this respect it has a close link to her earlier  title, Love that Dog. (See below.) It also makes it at least a distant cousin of another wonderful work of children’s fiction about inspirational teaching, Mrs Bixby’s Last Day, by John David Anderson. (Reviewed here March 2019.)

A lot to learn

One Time is a quiet, gentle book. It contains no rollercoaster adventures, no dastardly villains, no magical superpowers. It is a book about a young person and her everyday experiences. Yet through a simple, relatively uneventful narrative it explores life and in a deeply affecting way. It explores people and the way they affect each other, and how some people and some relationships become part of what you are. It explores who we are and what we can become all the more meaningfully for doing so quietly. It uses words to explore words. It uses life to explore life. And in its gentle way, it is quite wonderful.

Themes and influences

Interestingly, in this little book, Sharon Creech draws together many themes and images from her other work. Here there is a boy who appears and then goes again, an Italian angel, a special teacher, a noisy, ramshackle family. But then perhaps, after all, it is the other way around. I will not spoil the end of this very special book by giving it away, but I think those who know this author’s work well may start to get there before she does. They will only love and value this very special book the more if they do. 

May her many influences influence many others, like the reflection of  moonlight on water, when each enhances the other. I feel sure they will.

Much of this story revolves around daily life in an American School. The behaviours and routines of both children and teachers will feel strange to many young U.K. readers. But dig just a little beneath the surface and the children themselves and what affects them will affect our children too.

Another recent book: Saving Winslow

Illustrations: Sarah Horne

Even by Sharon Creech standards, this relatively short book, published in the UK only a few weeks ago,  is something very special. It is certainly a classic feel-good and there is, indeed, much about this story of a boy trying to raise a sickly baby donkey that could have been sentimental.  But it is a deeper, richer, more sensitive story than might appear from a bland synopsis.  And it is so for several reasons.

Louie

One of the principal reasons is the boy, Louie, himself,  for he is a boy who responds deeply and sensitively to the world around him. He is moved  equally by seeing an indigo bunting perched atop a sunflower and by observing a thin, unkempt man lying on a brown wooden bench. He is a boy awakened by strong moonlight, who needs to be reassured that it is nothing unusual. He is a boy who was born very prematurely and believes that he almost remembers the experience. He is a boy who deeply misses his older brother, recently gone off to the army, even though the two are very different in temperament.

In Louie, Sharon Creech creates a character of depth and persuasive humanity to whom the reader cannot help but be drawn.

Nora

Further riches are added in the story’s second protagonist (if you don’t count the donkey, Winslow, in this role, which, actually, you probably should). Nora is a superficially edgy, angsty girl, drawn into what becomes a three-way relationship with Louie and Winslow. Much of her back story is implied as much as stated, but nevertheless has a strong contribution to make to both the impact of the book, and the thoughtfulness that lies behind and within it. 

Simply splendid 

And then there is this highly experienced author’s incredibly skilful use of language. Never heavy or pretentious, in fact  apparently very simple, it draws the reader in with vivid and visceral effectiveness, so that you live so many moments of this touching story with its characters. Never more so than when Louie has to give regular injections to the sick little donkey.  You feel the needle in the animal’s flesh just as vividly as you experience the young boy’s trepidation about performing the procedure. 

This is a book that can please at many levels, from a totally endearing story of a boy’s attachment to a young animal, to an deeply human exploration of separation and loss, common experience dealt with in an individual way. It is another book that as a teacher I would have just loved to share with a class (Y4 or Y5 perhaps?) and one which I believe would lead them into deeper understanding of both literature and life, in the kindest, the most generous of ways. It is a true little gem of a book. Saying something simply is not at all the same as saying something simple. 

Nappies?

Sarah Horne’s illustrations are delightful, and will undoubtedly add to the appeal of the book for many, although they relate more to the superficial charm of the characters that to their rich depths. 

It is relatively rare for an American book to be re-edited for a UK audience (although I think the reverse is rather more common) but this one seems to have been. Perversely, I found it rather disconcerting for American children to be talking about the baby donkey wearing ‘nappies’ rather than ‘diapers’. Nevertheless we should be grateful to Guppy Books for bringing us this big little treasure. 

Too good to miss: The Great Unexpected 

Illustrations: Zdenko Basic

‘How is it you can be close friends with a person, deeply close friends, closer than sisters maybe, and then one day you want that person to disappear off the face of the earth?’ (p 97)

One of the things that impresses me so much about Sharon Creech is that she has written so many different books; not simply that there are so many, but that they are all so very different. Almost all her novels being stand alone, it is hard to say she writes a particular style, or particular type, yet she certainly has a signature. And that signature involves a set of characteristic qualities, the most significant of which is her outstanding skill as a storyteller. In this particular respect she reminds me of the UK’s own Geraldine McCaughrean.

I love many of Sharon Creech’s titles, but if I had to perform the rather silly task of selecting a favourite, it would probably be this one.

The Great Unexpected is something of a book of two halves. Further it is a book of two halves in more ways than one, if that makes sense. Firstly it is a split narrative, split between a story of two ‘adopted’ orphans in a small US town, ‘Blackbird Tree and it’s cocoon of protection and its people rooted to that small patch of earth.’ (p 153). The other part of the narrative concerns an elderly woman and her companion living through the same period in an Irish country mansion, known as Rooks Orchard. Both parts of the tale evoke a great deal of mystery and intrigue, in their different ways, without initially appearing to have any connection with each other.

The other way the story splits for me is that its first half is a quite simply feast of delightful entertainment. The two principal protagonists of the main Blackbird Tree narrative are young girls of contrasting character: quiet, thoughtful Naomi and loquacious, emotional Lizzie. Their lifelong friendship (thus far) is thrown into some disarray when an unknown but charming and good looking boy, Finn, literally falls out of a tree in front of them. The relationship and the way it is explored is a joy, their banter, is constant amusement, and Sharon Creech exploits their small-town naïveté as a vehicle for no little wit of her own. Only rarely do books make me guffaw aloud, but this one did.

In contrast, the later part of the book, introduces much more genuine pathos  and the dark mystery of the narrative threads real sadness through the lives of characters the reader has come to invest in emotionally.

Yet this is most certainly not a book of two separate halves. Quite the reverse. It is a book where the separate elements are cleverly and quite beautifully woven together. In fact connections are very much at its heart and the way they are made the essence of its greatness. 

And perhaps, after all, I should have said it is a book of three halves. For just when Ireland and the ‘New World’ come together in what promises to be as sweet an ending as might be found in one of Eva Ibbotson’s more sugary romances, things slip again and in creeps just a hint of magic, the magic of ‘Old Ireland’. Two worlds remain, perhaps, more connected that one might think, but are they the Old World and the New, or are they the mundane world and that of faery?

It is a book that asks possibly one of the most important questions of all: ‘What is “real”?’ (p 188)

Oh, and it manages a strong shout out for feminism too!

Well worth a catch up: Ruby Holler

UK cover.                             US cover

‘“How do we know who we are?” (Dallas) asked Florida. “How do we know what we will be?” . . .

“We might be big and clumsy and stupid like we are now,” she said, “or maybe we’ll get some brains and turn into geniuses or something. How the crawly crud should I know?”’ (p 44)

I am not sure if this title, first published in 2002, actually counts as recent (I suppose it depends on how old you are), but it is the book that won the UK Carnegie Medal, and is possibly one of the most feel-good of all Sharon Creech’s novels, as well as being one of the most appealing . So I am going to include it anyway. 

Boxton Creek

In some ways, this story about a pair of orphan twins, who, after a darkly difficult life, find themselves living in the wild but beautiful countryside with a caring older couple, is a strange mixture. But it is a mixture that, surprisingly, works beautifully. Florida and Dallas, though with all the closeness of twins, have interestingly contrasted characters, and their dialogue is consistently entertaining and often very funny. Mr. and Mrs. Trepid, the horrendous couple who run Boxton Creek, the children’s home where Florida and Dallas initially live, are exaggerated monsters, They might be the American cousins of The Dursleys, from Harry Potter, but are perhaps even more akin to some of the child-hating adult figures in Roald Dahl’s children’s books. Their later antics in the story, grossly amusing in their avaricious stupidity, also belong in the same, almost comic book, category. It is gleefully gratifying when they finally receive their due comeuppance,

Ruby Holler 

In contrast, Sairy and Tiller, the old couple from Ruby Holler, have a warm truthfulness about them, particularly in their relationship to one another and in the poignant way they miss their grown-up children. Similarly the actual location of Ruby Holler is evocatively conjured with the sensitive pen of one who knows and loves wild places. Even if life there is a little idealised, it still feels richly and genuinely desirable.

Narratively speaking, the characters of the twins might have stretched uncomfortably between these two worlds, but thanks to skilful writing, they actually bridge them seamlessly. The book amuses and entertains just as easily as it pulls at the heart strings. Sharon Creech once again saves what could have been sugary sentiment, with both lightness and genuinely human concern. We very much feel for the twins, whether they are being berated by the dastardly Trepid, or nourished, both physically and emotionally, by the deeply caring Sairy.

Love to the loveless

In fact, there is much to learn here for teachers, social workers, parents and other carers - and of course for children too, who are the teachers, social workers and parents of the future. The story overall is an object lesson in how it is kindness and love, not meanness and punishment, that makes ‘difficult’ children better: ‘Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be.’ 

It is interesting to compare this novel with Patricia Reilly Giff’s Pictures of Hollis Woods, Lauren Wolk’s Beyond the Bright Sea, and even our own Michelle Magorian’s Goodnight Mister Tom. All have themes in common as well as much individual and special to say.  

Unmissable for teachers: Love that Dog

Cover: Nathan Burton

‘I don’t want to 

because boys

don’t write poetry.’ 

For don’ts, won’ts and can’ts

If I’m going back as far as the early 2000s, then I have to mention this book too, because it is a miniature masterpiece. In a short, often amusing, but hugely effective (and affecting) story, a young boy who is initially reluctant to write poetry grows in confidence in response to an inspired and inspiring teacher. The clever narrative is told entirely through the boy’s own attempts at writing, supplemented only, at the end, with the actual poems his teacher has used as stimuli. It is an object lesson in inference as well as in the potential of poetry, yet it is gloriously accessible and renders the quite challenging poetry quoted less obscure too.

Were I still teaching upper KS2 and wanting to explore the writing of poetry (as opposed to verse) as a way of capturing experience, thoughts and feelings (which I certainly would be), then this little gem would constitute an essential resource. Inspiration for me as well as my children. 

Sharon Creech later produced a follow-up, Hate that Cat. It was never going to have quite the same impact as the first book, but is also excellent.

Coming soon: Moo

We are finally back to what is indisputably a recent book in Moo.

I have  several times seen this new title hailed as a successor to Love that Dog and Hate that Cat as the story is told through a mixture of prose and (largely) free form poetry. However, unlike those earlier books, Moo, is not really about the poetry itself or about writing poetry. In fact it had more to say about art, about drawing, than about poetry itself. Rather here the poetry is simply used as a storytelling medium. And how very effective are both the story and its telling.

The tale itself is one that you might call archetypal Sharon Creech. A young girl is uprooted from the city home in which she has grown up, and moved to Maine. The landscape and atmosphere of this area of New England are beautifully evoked, but much of her life suddenly changes. The process of adapting is considerably helped for her by a developing relationship with a very difficult (‘onery’) cow, not to mention the beast’s elderly and, in her way, equally difficult owner.

At heart it is a story about change. About accepting change, taking advantage of change; change in circumstances, but also change as a person. It is a most endearing story but also a gently challenging one,

The format does not make it difficult to read. In fact, quite the reverse. However, it does serve to enhance the storytelling very considerably. The poetic text adds a flow to the language and an intensity to events and their underlying emotions. It is often very funny too. Whilst I am a great enthusiast for reading aloud (to children), this particular text does need be seen, rather than heard -or at least both. Layout and typography are significant contributors.

I started this post discussing Sharon Creech as a feel-good writer, and I do not retract from that in the slightest. However, she does not draw back from the difficult issues of life, or skimp in addressing some of the challenging questions about our lives and humanity. Rather, she takes a positive, supportive line through our difficulties and weaknesses. She helps us find a way forward, with sympathy and compassion, helps us see the good in our lives, and helps us find it when it seems to be missing. Young readers everywhere should be enormously grateful to her for it. As should we all.

It appears that Moo is due to be published in the UK, again by Guppy Books, in April 2021. Look out for it. It will hopefully be in (independent) bookshops around then, and is a moo-st read. (Sorry.)

Note: 

*At the time of writing there seem to be quite a few used copies of the Margaret Langdon book available fairly inexpensively from AbeBooks.

Two stunning books by new Children’s Laureate, Joseph Coelho

Illustrations: Freya Hartas                       Illustrations: Kate Milner

Differently the same 

A: Zombierella

Sometimes, you know, you can tell a book from its cover.

Within its vibrant, flap-folded cards

chockablock with every 

spooky

Halloweney

whatever-you-do-don’t-go-into-that-housey 

(I told you not to)

hide-under-the-bedclothesey 

sort of image 

(drawn by Freya Hartas quite delightfully)

this is

A

kid pleaser.

teacher scarer

parent shocker

you can’t read that

choose a proper book

sort of book.

A

scary funny

funny scary

laugh yourself into

an early grave

sort of book.

A 

story you know 

but not as you know it

(though perhaps as you always wanted to

without knowing it)

sort of book.

A 

bring you up short

jolt to your thinking

just occasionally rhyming

sure fire best seller

Zombierella

sort of book

As grim as Grimm.

More so than Perrault.

It is

a

feast of a book that will go down a treat

with kids

who will gleefully 🤪

lap up the trickling blood of severed legs

devour words that conjure resurrected flesh 

gnaw the rattling bones of a long dead steed

savour the fetid stink of a fungal coach.

A

super-imaginative 

joy

of a book

for which the aforementioned Freya

must share the credit.

But wait.

It is written out in

little

short

lines

as if it were a poem.

Perhaps it is.

Despite its lines

it is not quite Revolting Rhymes.

Kids scared by the book (in a good way)

may

in consequence 

be less scared of poetry

And that is most certainly

a good thing.

But don’t  go yet.

There is more.

Its language is evocative.

There is real pathos

amid the scares.

This Zombie girl

has lost a father

she loved

and loves still

lost a horse

she loved

and loves still.

This graveyard tale

had depth

beneath its gravestones

life in its corpses

in more ways than one.

Form. 

          Images. 

                      Humanity.

It really is a

poem

and a very special one.

B: The Girl Who Became a Tree

In a book near you

Not just a novel but a collection

of very fine 

very special poems.

Not just a collection of poems but

a very fine

very special novel.

Optical Verbal illusion

Here is 

sensitivity

that lies at the heart

of sensitivity.

Sensitivity that lights images

we have seen before

and never seen before.

Sensitivity 

true poets know

and know to share.

Here is 

involvement

empathy

with someone other

who may not be other at all.

Involvement

that turns pages

compells us to know more

travel further

reach the end

and never reach the end.

Involvement 

true storytellers know

and know to share.

Sometimes before

we have been gifted 

fiction in verse

sometimes

narrative poetry

but rarely (if ever)

a book with

such fine poems

making such fine fiction

both.

It moves

more than either

enriches

more than either would.

Images too

of nightmare passion 

and compassion

from Kate Milner

are essential 

to the glory.

Daphne

This is a girl of legend

from the resonance of time.

A story told long ago

that lives on and on 

through the screens of mobile phones,

library computers

Xboxes

iPads 

at the heart of all her suffering.

Library

Grief acted out

in a theatre of books.

Childhood lost

in a forest of pages.

Haiku

A girl’s private pain

seeping out between the cracks

of his poem’s lines

A mobile rings

Although it is demanding

although it is never trite

simplistic

although  it is deeply painful

this book charts a journey 

through the forest and out again

beyond childhood and into

life.

It is a book for all daughters

and fathers

not least soon gone ones 

(don’t I feel it)

and mothers

sons too.

It is the trauma at the heart of joyous life.

It is the trauma that gives joyous life.

It is a great

book

in so many ways.

A + B

So here you have it.

One book for kids 

(whoever they may be)

one book for teens

(or whoever may read it).

Each book about a girl who becomes a tree.

(If you doubt me,

just see Zombierella clad all in leaves.)

Each a girl 

with a father dead and gone.

Each a girl

with a zombie life.

And in the end 

each a girl 

who rides away 

with a new old love

she knows already

and has only just found.

How much more the same

Can two such different stories be?

Sensitive.

Involving.

Drawn all in images

(verbal visual)

that draw us

                      in

                          and through

                                              and out.

Two portraits

of one and the same.

One girl

painted by Picasso

and Rembrandt?

No.

Not that.

One hand.

One mind.

One wild imagination free.

One remarkable poet

Two remarkable books

Like us

So differently the same.

Note:

For any who don’t already know it, Joseph Coelho’s earlier collection of poems Overheard in a Tower Block (also illustrated by Kate Milner) is another must read, as well as a must for classroom poetry shelves.