The Enchanter Heir

The Enchanter Heir
by Cinda Williams Chima
Recommended Ages: 14+

The fourth book of the Heir Chronicles adds a new dimension to the world of magic that now orbits around Trinity, Ohio. In addition to Wizards, Sorcerers, Enchanters, Seers, and Warriors, there is now a new category of gifted that crosses the boundaries between these guilds: the Savants. Created in a disaster, or massacre, or mass poisoning, that wiped out all the adults and most of the children in an experimental commune called Thorn Hill, each of the surviving kids has unique powers—as well as weaknesses. Some of them are profoundly disabled. Many of them are destined to die young. And those who die have a tendency to become wandering shades, possessing the bodies of the recently dead—and sometimes killing people just to take over their bodies.

Among the higher-functioning Thorn Hill survivors are a few kids strong enough, and dangerous enough, to work as assassins. Assassins specializing in slaying the undead. These powerful yet broken misfits, held in suspicion by the mainline guilds, live together at a special school in Cleveland called the Anchorage, run by a charismatic music promoter named Gabriel Mandrake. Under his command is an elite group of sexy young savants: high school students by day, members of a rock band by night, and ready to travel anywhere at any time to slay zombies and lay shades to rest. The most efficient of these killers is a drop-dead gorgeous boy named Jonah Kinlock—an apt description for a guy whose very touch is lethal. One brush of his hands or lips, and you die with a blissful smile on your face.

This kid has the makings of the ultimate brooding, beautiful loner: tortured by the memory of inadvertently killing his own sister, forced to hold everyone at arm's length (with gloves on), and no longer sure he's doing the right thing. After all, the shades he slays were once his friends, kids whose lives were ruined by Thorn Hill. He is already starting to have doubts when a shade named Lilith, who is organizing a zombie rebellion, tries to tempt him over to her side. The result of this inner conflict is that Jonah's days as a member of Nightshade (the slayer squad) come to an end. And the timing couldn't be worse, as someone is trying to frame the savants for a string of wizard murders. With the wizards out for blood, the undead menace growing, and suspicion and unrest brewing among the other guilds, the Anchorage could be in a tight spot.

Meanwhile, a girl who narrowly escaped being part of the Thorn Hill disaster—and yet somehow turns out to be a savant—comes to town after her grandfather's suspicious death. Emma Greenwood, a 10th grade student at risk of dropping out of school, only wants to build guitars and play the Blues. Suddenly she meets the father she never knew. Just as suddenly she loses him again. And amid the horror and blood and violence, she also loses a piece of her memory. On waking she only knows that her survival depends on escaping the clutches of a wizard who wants answers. But when her escape leads her into the arms of Jonah, her troubled young life achieves a new level of danger and pain. As Emma falls for Jonah, he keeps pulling away from her—not only for the reasons you can guess, but because of even darker secrets still. The temptation and torture of being together at the Anchorage only increases as they both become members of the same band. The doom dangling over them finally comes to a head during a musical gig in Trinity, at a house full of the gifted Weir.

And so the intense entertainment of The Warrior Heir, The Wizard Heir, and The Dragon Heir continues. In fact, it moves so briskly that, unless you brush up on the previous three books, it might leave you behind. It is sometimes a challenge to sympathize with Jonah, who is physically superhuman for one thing, and morally deeply compromised for another. His humanity is mainly felt through his pain... and his relationship with his brother Kenzie, who gets to deliver such lines as, "I'm sorry I was ablaze when you arrived. Thank you for putting me out." Really it is Emma whose point of view grabs the reader in this book, and that furnishes the emotional punch of the book's climax. Unlike the previous three books, however, this one does not tie up its thrilling plot in a neat package. As you'll realize with increasing dread as the final page closes in, this installment is a cliff-hanger. To find out how it all turns out, you'll have to wait until 2015 and the fifth book, The Sorcerer Heir.

Tacky Hymns 49

Finally wrapping up the hymn selection in Evangelical Lutheran Worship!!

826 "Thine the amen thine the praise" is a popular Herbert Brokering (b. 1926) hymn, set to the catchy tune THINE by Carl Schalk (b. 1929). I think the tune deserves better than the associations of banality it takes from this hymn, which looks even more tohu wa vohu¹ than strictly necessary under this hymnal's editorial guidelines banning unnecessary capitalization and punctucation. The word "thine" prefaces 5 stanzas worth of words and phrases, offering to God the whole series of images and concepts without more meaningful comment than "Thine (is)..." And some of the phrases make me want to hide my face in embarrassment. Stanza 1: "Thine the glory, thine the story"—a phrase so precious that it is repeated in Stanza 4. Occasionally "gone" replaces "Thine," as in Stanza 2: "Gone the sighing gone the dying," etc. Face it, it's just plain gone. Sometimes "then" replaces "Thine," as in Stanza 5: "Then the holy holy holy celebration jubilee"—a line that wouldn't sound out of place in a book of Shel Silverstein poems. Stanza 3 warps out into an even higher orbit above the gravity well of meaningful language, with statements as opaque to grammatical analysis as "thine the truly thine the yes." And of course, with "table" and "cup" and other imagery harkening to the sacraments, some Lutherans will go ape over it without stopping to ask whether it asserts anything really significant about them, like "This bread is Thine body." Suckers.

827 "Arise, my soul, arise" (Nyt ylös sieluni) is a stirring Finnish hymn dating to the 18th century, set to its own tune. In addition to two stanzas in English, the first stanza in the original Finnish is also provided. So, once again, space in the pew book is invested in a text that very few people using this book will ever sing, and whatever the reasons for this decision may be, there is a stench of triumphalism about it. Add to that the inequality with which these "celebrating the cultural diversity of the church" moments are applied—only one stanza of the Finnish, versus whole hymns in some other languages that have less historic connection with the Lutheran church—and we behold a multifaceted gem of hymnal tackiness. Still, I would recommend getting to know it—in English, mind you—not just because it is a valuable piece of our diverse religious heritage (which it is), but because of its time-proven quality, its strength, and its distinctive beauty.

829 "Have you thanked the Lord?" is a ditty by Bill LaMotta (1919-80), a composer from the Virgin Islands (which sums up all the information I can find about him). In fine revival-meeting style it harangues the listener (or allows the congregation singing it to harangue themselves) with a sort of "worship guilt-trip." As I write this in the middle of a Saint Louis snowstorm, I wonder whether such lines as Stanza 2's "Paradise we taste where we are" don't apply too specifically to their author's homeland. Certainly the next line's reference to "winter warmth" has a very Caribbean ring to it, unless we're to praise God for central heating. Which suddenly inspires me to volunteer a new stanza for Brokering's "Earth and All Stars": "Ductwork and pipes, loud banging boilers, sing to the Loooord a new song!" Sorry. I know it's next to blasphemy to make fun like this. But I have to do something to raise my spirits after being browbeaten by a praise hymn: "Have you knelt in prayer, and rejoiced that, rain or shine, our God is there?"

I only want to take a poke at the tunes of the next two featured hymns: 832 "My Lord of light"² and 836 "Joyful, joyful we adore thee"³. The former is set to the tune of the English folksong "Barbara Allen," in an arrangement by the great choral arranger Alice Parker (b. 1925). In my opinion, even quite a good hymn is a waste of a significant work of art like this, which should be left alone to be what it is. I raise a similar objection to the latter hymn's use of a smoothed-over and squared-in arrangement of the Ode to Joy theme from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, only with the added reason that the hymnal arrangement strips the melody of some of its strong character. Would I still object to the forced baptism of secular tunes, even those of the richest cultural pedigree, if there weren't so many brilliant tunes written specifically to fit texts like these? Probably. If another nearly-as-good tune didn't exist to fit the words, I would either write one or commission someone else to do so. Mixing up a hymn with the tune best left to Schiller's paean to humanistic ideals only creates confused associations that, in my view, harm both the hymn and the symphony.

837 "Many and great, O God, are your works" is a paraphrase of a hymn first published (and probably written) by a French Bible translator and missionary to the Dakota Indians, named Joseph Renville (1779-1846). Admirable as this document is, and credible as its excuse may be for having parallel fifths in its harmony (an indulgence usually denied to composers in our culture), I can't help but notice that it doesn't have Christ in it. It wouldn't be the only hymn in this "Praise, Thanksgiving" section of the hymnal to focus mostly on God's "First Article" gifts (the beauties of creation, etc.). But when this hymn goes as far as to ask God to "come unto us and dwell with us," for with Him "are found the gifts of life," there seems to be no excuse for going all the way and mentioning Christ and the cross.

844 "Praise to the Lord, all of you" (Louez l'Eternel) is a remarkable instance of a hymn written in English, which the hymnal editors went to the trouble of having translated into French so they could print it in both languages. In an anglophone hymnal, I needn't remind you. The text and tune are by Ron Klusmeier (b. 1946), who was apparently going for something like the style of an African-American spiritual, complete with rhythmic complications and textual irregularities that might frustrate attempts to sing it as a congregation.

846 "Amen, we praise your name, O God" (Amen siakudumisa) joins the hit parade of cultural diversity tokens, with a South African text and tune recorded from oral transmission through the same Gobingca George Mxadana whose strains have been heard before in this hymnal. Again, there is one stanza in English and one stanza in the original language, ready-fit for Multicultural Pride Sunday and requiring a soloist ("Leader") to sing in alternation with the choir or congregation ("Assembly"). Again, we'd best leave it to the choir, what with the distinctive rhythms and textures of African music in it. And again, neither the length of the hymn nor the content of the text offers much of an inducement to choose this song to serve the purposes of a hymn in public worship, in preference to many other hymns that have so much more to say.

849 "Yours, Lord, is the glory" (Tuya es la gloria) is a four-stanza hymn, authored by "traditional," and presented in full in both English and the original Spanish. Ditto everything I customarily say about hymns fitting this description, and move on...

852 "Golden breaks the dawn" (Qing zao qilai kan) is a Chinese hymn, paraphrased in English, with one of its three stanzas added in a Chinese transliteration. Even printed in Roman letters, however, it probably isn't safe to assume you can pronounce it correctly without guidance from an expert, or at least a native speaker. It's a pretty tune, in a stereotyped Chinese way; and the text is a nice morning prayer. It seems very appealing until you ask whether you would choose this text over others on the same subject, on its merits as a text, without any knowledge of its cultural background. After running that test on it, you tell me whether this hymn isn't really about pride in our Chinese connections. Because, face it, your Chinese sister church has its own hymnal—or it should.

857 "Lord, I lift your name on high" is the chorus, and maybe one stanza, of a popular Christian soft-rock song by Rick Founds (b. 1954). Even if you're going to spiritually poison your parishioners (and especially the youth) with songs like this, you might as well admit that you're going to do it with a soloist or a select group of singers, and drop the pretense of expecting the congregation to sing it. What I'm trying to say is: It doesn't need to be in the pew hymnal.

859 "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty"—wait for it—is a "composite" translation of the Joachim Neander classic, printed alongside Catherine Winkworth's translation of the same hymn as #858. Why would the hymnal editors bother? Again, it's sinful to speculate about other people's motives. Therefore, I sin boldly by speculating that it has something to do with gender-inclusive language. This is the only explanation my puny mind can come up with for such alterations as changing "if with his love he befriend you" (stanza 3) to "infinite Love here befriends you." So also in Stanza 1, instead of saying "O my soul, praise him, for he is your heatlh and salvation," the new translation goes, "My heart is longing to offer up sweet adoration." The reference to "his temple" a couple lines later is drowned out in a list of musical instruments in the new version; the examples could go on and on. I don't think it's an accident that the focus of the updated translation seems to be less on God and more on Me. After all, it's bound to happen when we set about re-shaping God in our image...

860 "I'm so glad Jesus lifted me" is an African-American spiritual which, uncharacteristically for this book, appears with its melody only. This only accentuates the tune's challenging rhythm, without grounding it against a steady throb of harmony. Like many other examples of this type of hymn that I have picked on in this survey, it has very little to say, and it takes a lot of time saying it through relentless repetition. As an art form and a piece of history, I give it an A plus. As an alternative to singing a hymn full of rich biblical teaching, I give it an Incomplete. And finally, why is it in the pew book? So people can follow along as the soloist or choir sings it?

861 "When long before time" (a.k.a. "The Singer and the Song") by Peter Davison (b. 1936) is a cute poem about creation built around a running metaphor of singing. Stanza 2: "The silence was broken when God sang the Song..." Stanza 3: "The Singer was pleased as the earth sang the Song..." Stanza 4 argues that "down through the ages the Song disappeared," which is hard to interpret specifically as a reference to man's fall into sin. Likewise, then, when "The Singer comes to us," it is hard to say exactly what biblically revealed event is in view. When the last line of the stanza mysteriously hyphenates "Our God-is-with-us in the world now as then," it sounds just as likely to be teaching some general notion of divine immanence as to be confessing the incarnation of Immanuel. Sure, Stanza 6 comes out and says "Song Incarnate," but the damage has been done: the hymn has proven that a running metaphor can only go so far before it opens up vistas of interpretation that, surely, a Christian hymn writer would not intend.

862 "Praise, praise! You are my rock" is a mediocre Herbert Brokering text set to a tune by Rusty Edwards (b. 1955) that, for all its genuine merit and appeal, is not structured so as to make friends with the average congregation—what one may call the musical laity. They will try to sing it, but fail as the tune loses them in its challenging intervals and chromatic surprises. But let's get back to the text. Like many Brokering hymns, it irritates me. "Praise, praise!" rubs me one way. The repetitions at the end of most of the stanzas, such as "have met, have met" or "are healed, are healed," rub me another way. The lack of a clear confession that when "we break the bread, we drink the cup," it is Christ's body and blood, rubs me in still another way that this book has rubbed me so many times already, and all these ways I am being rubbed are the wrong way. And the hymn's reliance on suggestive imagery to carry weight better handled by clear and direct statements, exasperates me as only Brokering can. Stanza 5: "The Easter grave is sealed; you roll the stone—you, God, alone—then sin and death are healed" only suggests, but does not assert, that the man Jesus rose bodily from the dead. Stanza 6: "You stood high on a hill. A holy cloud; you are on high." This bit of nothing functions in lieu of an Ascension narrative. The reader's, hearer's, singer's imagination is left to connect what dots it will. Pointillistic hymnody!

864 "Praise, my soul, the God of heaven," is the late Walter Bouman's (1927-2005) rehab of the classic hymn on the facing page, 865 "Praise, my soul, the King of heaven" by Henry Lyte (1793-1847). Because, don't you know, 19th century English is so impenetrably ancient that we can't understand what the language is talking about! With all due respect to an author who also notably translated C. F. W. Walther's Proper Distinction Between Law and Gospel, I cry Phooey (because this is a family site) on his alterations to a blameless hymn by a poet who can no longer speak up for his own work (though neither can Bouman, for that matter). Again, sinning boldly, I opine that the only conceivable rationale for Bouman's tampering is Gender Inclusive Language. So "King" becomes "God" in the first line; "To his feet your tribute bring" becomes "Joyfully your tribute bring"; "God's" replaces "his"; and the problem of what to rhyme with "sing" is solved by changing "Praise the everlasting King" with "Praises everlasting ring!" And that's just Stanza 1. The other three stanzas contain much more of the same, and a blow-by-blow would be everlastingly dull and discouraging. Stanza 3 is all but unrecognizable; the whole thought had to be approached anew with words entirely of Bouman's making. Boo! Hiss! Can God not be "He" and "King" any more? Is His revelation of Himself no longer the first and last word? And if there's nothing wrong with a hymn, but it needs to be changed to suit us, doesn't that suggest that there's something wrong with us??

866 "We are marching in the light of God" (Siyahamba) is another piece of South African traditional song, propelled into our cultural consciousness by the 1980s struggle against Apartheid. As some have argued of the African-American spiritual, one could argue that this song is relevant mainly as a political symbol. The present book permits it to be sung either in English or in its original language, and provides a separate line of text for the harmony parts, which often move while the melody is holding a long note. After one long stanza repeats the above line of text at least six times (not counting fragmentary repetitions), the note at the end of the two-page spread suggests adding stanzas ad lib.: "We are dancing... We are praying... We are singing..." So it could go on, like, all afternoon!

869 "We have seen the Lord" (Niwemwona Bwana) is a Tanzanian traditional hymn; which, though this hymnal frequently omits to name the language the hymn was translated from, means that in this case, the italicized text is in Swahili. It's call-and-response music, with a Leader's part singing antiphonally to the Assembly, and characteristically African rhythms and part-singing, combined with another text that has very little to say other than "God is powerful, God is merciful, God is wonderful," and "Lord, God with us, Jesus Christ." Again, it will probably be sung by the choir rather than the congregation. Again, the gratification one gets from demonstrating this bit of cultural diversity must be weighed against the investment of time and energy that could be directed toward a hymn that more deeply and richly teaches the faith.

872 "Praise ye the Lord" is a modern gospel anthem by J. Jefferson Cleveland (1937-86). Essentially a paraphrase of Psalm 150, it assumes that the effective performer(s) will be proficient in singing the rhythms of gospel music. In the context of mostly white midwestern Lutheran parishes, that means the choir or the Sunday school will present it, with or without a flair for the culture it derives from. In some areas, the sad results may provoke thoughts like, "Gee, the Baptists do this better."

875 "Praise, praise, praise the Lord!" is a Cameroon traditional hymn. Besides the usual rhythmic wrinkles that put it well across the line between congregational hymnody and music best left to the choir, it actually has a descant part written in small notes above the melody line—just to strike a death-blow to any real chance of getting the congregation to sight-sing it. No worries, though. All they're missing is four repetitions of "Praise, praise, praise the Lord! Praise God's holy name. Alleluia!"

878 "Soli Deo gloria" (first line: "O God of blessings, all praise to you!") is by Marty Haugen (b. 1950), and has five stanzas in English concluding with the Latin refrain meaning "To God alone be glory." I think there is something awkward about Haugen's musical setting, especially where the rhythm of the stanza connects with that of the refrain. I also sniff disdainfully at such phrasings as "to preach and witness with hearts on fire" (Stanza 2), which emphasizes something much less important than the inspired content of the prophets' message; and "May we live your gospel call" (also Stanza 2), which muddies the sense of the gospel call as the invitation to believe and, potentially, perhaps, the distinction between law and gospel. Stanza 4's description of Jesus being given "in bread and wine" still does not satisfy hunger for a clear statement about what the Lord's Supper is; its depiction of him as "priest, teacher, prophet in time and space" sounds a bit Star Trekkie. I guess no contemporary sacred poem is going to be without its perilous points, where the line between affected antiquarianism and the banality and barbarism of modernity is whisker-thin; but after looking at loads of material by Haugen, I am inclined to be ruthlessly wide awake to his slips. And while "time and space" is only a problem if you're looking for one, the other glitches I pointed out are more troubling.

880 "O God beyond all praising," by Michael Perry (1942-96), is again set to Holst's tune THAXTED, about which I have previously held forth with eloquent bitchiness. When I discussed it as a monument to British nationalism, I meant to refer to the text most people associate with the tune: "I vow to thee, my country," a patriotic anthem by Sir Cecil Spring Rice, inspired by the British losses in World War I. Several people have mentioned to me that this is the text this tune always brings to their mind. Me, I'm still hung up on it being the chorale theme from "Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity," Movement 4 of Holst's The Planets—not merely a classic work of secular art, but actually an evocation of astrological spirituality. I have often argued with my colleagues about the fitness of this tune for worship, particularly when those same colleagues would object to hearing the wedding marches by Wagner or Mendelssohn played in church. Their answer is that the music of Wagner and Mendelssohn is much more widely known than that of Holst. I beg to differ. Times have changed. Holst's Planets is one of the most frequently performed and popular pieces of orchestral fine-art music today. I see Mendelssohn losing favor with the public, and Wagner increasingly becoming the acquired taste of a select few; but Holst's orchestral showpiece plays to sold-out houses everywhere, all the time. When someone gets the bright idea of setting the Te Deum to the tune of In taberna from Orff's Carmina Burana, my disgust will only be of the same order of magnitude as what I feel on seeing this tune in a Lutheran hymnal.

881 "Let all things now living," by Katherine Davis (1892-1980), is set to the Welsh folk tune THE ASH GROVE. In the unlikely event that I haven't mentioned it before, this tune also has its drawbacks. One lady of my acquaintance told me that whenever she hears it, she is reminded of girl scout campfire singalongs. In my recollection, its use (in another hymnal) for a post-Communion hymn lent an atmosphere of glib indifference to the end of the holiest of Christian rites.

882 "My soul does magnify the Lord" is a gospel-style setting of Mary's Magnificat, paraphrased and composed by Grayson Warren Brown, a "liturgical composer, author, recording artist, and speaker" who (according to his online bio) travels the country, promoting an "authentic and spirit-filled experience of worship." For what it's worth. Expect gospel rhythms and a few ossia notes (where the number of syllables per line varies from one stanza to another), challenges that may force this song across the line between congregational hymnody and the choir's repertoire. I welcome debate as to whether his paraphrase of the text is of the best quality. I see a number of weak points in it. If I had to choose between the many hymnal-style settings of the Magnificat, I can think of several that I would choose before this one.

885 "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow" is an updated-language redaction of the "Common Doxology" by Thomas Ken (1637-1711). The original version is printed separately as Hymn 884. Holding them up side by side, it isn't difficult to make out the difference. In lines 2 and 3, the altered version changes "Praise him" to a second iteration of "Praise God." You would think, if they were just modernizing the language, the redactors would do something about the word "ye"—but no. Their only concern is to eliminate masculine pronouns referring to God. If they were consistent about it, they would have to do something about the words "Father" and "Son" in the last line. Let's call that a preview of things to come in the next hymnal.

887 "This is my song" is the first hymn in a new section of the book titled "National Songs." The tune is FINLANDIA by Jean Sibelius, about which enough has already been said. The text is an amalgamation of stanzas by Lloyd Stone (1912-93) and Georgia Harkness (1891-1974), which one would think is a strange thing to set to a musical symbol of Finnish nationalism. But this hymn is so far from being an American or Canadian nationalistic song as to admit in Stanza 1 that "other hearts in other lands are beating with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine." So it's sort of an anti-nationalistic song. Stanza 2 develops this idea further into a prayer for world peace, and in Stanza 3, for world unity under God. It's a patriotic anthem for a post-patriotic age.

At this point I am inclined to consign the whole topic of National Songs to the scrap-heap of tackiness. One of my rules of thumb for evaluating the spiritual value of a hymnal has long been to consider it in inverse proportion to the number of nationalistic songs stuck on at the end. The present book shrinks not from 888 "O beautiful for spacious skies" (America the beautiful), 890 "Mine eyes have seen the glory" (the Battle Hymn of the Republic), 891 "God bless our native land" (God Save the Queen warmed over), and 892 "O Canada." There is also a hymn by Francis Scott Key (893 "Before you, Lord, we bow"), author of The Star-Spangled Banner; and 889 "The Right Hand of God" with words by Patrick Prescod and music by Noel Dexter, copyrighted by the Caribbean Conference of Churches. Unsurprisingly, this last number includes rhythmic and textual references to "these Caribbean lands," so celebrants in the U.S. must be careful not to pick this hymn at a causal glance for Memorial Day weekend services, etc. Setting these songs apart from hymns per se is a sense, which I think even the editors of ELW acknowledge, that they belong more in the sphere of civic religion than in the Christian church. Hail Caesar! and whatnot.

And so we come to the end of Evangelical Lutheran Worship. Thank you for your time. Next hymnal on deck: the Lutheran Service Book (Concordia Publishing House, 2006). Because not all tackiness comes from the far left wing of American Lutheranism! Or perhaps, because the wing represented by ELW isn't as much farther to the left as we think...

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¹Formless and void; Genesis 1:2.
²Text by Christopher Idle (b. 1938).
³Text by Henry van Dyke (1852-1922).

The Last Dragonslayer

The Last Dragonslayer
by Jasper Fforde
Recommended Ages: 12+

In a twisted alternate world, the Dragonlands are situated between the Kingdom of Hereford and the Duchy of Brecon, in the west of a balnkanized version of England and Wales known as the Ununited Kingdoms. It's a world where magic is slowly dying out, its practitioners reduced to delivering pizzas on flying carpets and rewiring houses by spell. A world where knights in shining armor are TV celebrities, where foundlings are placed in indentured servitude, and where widespread premonitions of the death of the last dragon triggers mass hysteria. Suddenly thousands of people are camped outside the magical force-field that contains the Dragonlands, waiting to stake their claim on the pristine wilderness and develop it for, say, the Consolidated Useful Stuff LLC.

In the middle of it all is a remarkable young woman—barely more than a girl, really—named Jennifer Strange. That's not her real name. She doesn't know her real name, being a foundling and probably an orphan from the Fourth Troll War. She manages Kazam, a service that matches magical talent to clients' needs. A high-rise residential block full of tetchy wizards comes with the deal. Jennifer is really only an apprentice, but her boss has gone missing and no one else wants the job. Soon enough she has an apprentice of her own—another plucky foundling with the unlikely name of Tiger Prawns. A phantom moose, a razor-fanged Quarkbeast, and an elderly Volkswagen round out the family circle. It's not much of a life, but it's hers. How rotten of an event called Dragondeath to mess it all up.

With the demise of Maltcassion, the last surviving dragon in Britain, scheduled for high noon on Sunday, Jennifer doesn't have much time to work out what is to be done. Whatever it is, she will be the one to do it. For, on top of everything else, Jennifer has been chosen as the Last Dragonslayer. It's a side-job with some perks, such as a house, a heavily armored Rolls Royce, a personal assistant, and a sword. But with it comes responsibility to act in accord with the centuries-old Dragonpact. That's what worries Jennifer. What with human greed turning Dragondeath into a land rush, and King Snodd IV threatening to have Jennifer outlawed (or worse) if she doesn't support his plans to invade neighboring Brecon, and everybody wanting to cash in on the Dragonslayer brand, Jennifer doesn't know what's the right thing to do. But when evidence turns up that Maltcassion has crossed the line and deserves to be put down, Jennifer is pretty sure the dragon is being framed.

Will she be able to do the right thing? Can she slay the dragon and save magic too? Or does she have to do one to ensure the other? Whatever happens will be full of danger and suspense, offbeat humor and quirky magic, alternate-history weirdness and cultural satire. This book is an amazing gift to young adult readers from the author whose grown-up titles include the Thursday Next series, the Nursery Crime novels, and the devastatingly original Shades of Grey. Tying it all up in a pretty ribbon is the delightful news that this is the first book of (at least) a trilogy. Book 2, The Song of the Quarkbeast, has already been published. Book 3, The Eye of Zoltar, is due to hatch in October 2014.

Alto Clef Anxiety

So I'm picking out pieces to play at a special church service this evening, and I run across a really fine and timely work by a favorite 20th century composer. It looks like it might be fun to play, too. The only problem is the clef-sign for the left-hand part (shown at left). It may be news to singers (other than those proficient in Gregorian chant), keyboard players, and most other musicians except those specializing in a few instruments such as the viola, but this funky, stylized capital K looking thing is officially known as the Alto Clef. Sometimes one doesn't bother distinguishing between the Alto, Tenor, and Soprano Clefs (and perhaps others), but simply speaks of the "Movable C-Clef." This is because the crook of the stylized capital K looking thing always straddles the line that represents Middle C, regardless of which line it is positioned over. This is in contrast to the Treble Clef (a.k.a. G-clef, because the curly bit curls around the line for G) and the Bass Clef (a.k.a. F-clef, which curls around the line for F), which are mostly fixed in one place on the staff and only move up or down in rare instances. So the notes on the lines and spaces of the Alto Clef are thus:

This is a new wrinkle for those of us who had the notes of the Treble and Bass Clefs drilled into us from an early age, until we could play any note on or near the staff on sight without thinking about which note it was. I'm a little long in the tooth to be learning new tricks like this, so playing a piece with one or more staves in a C-Clef is a matter of continual, agonizing effort. It doesn't happen often enough to become routine. And one reason for this is the dumbing down of performance editions.

If you go back to the Urtext of many keyboard works by Bach, Buxtehude, Pachelbel—and even some by Brahms!—you will find many instances where at least one staff is notated in a C-Clef. These composers evidently assumed that performers would be as proficient in reading C-Clefs as Treble and Bass. Most modern performance editions, however, play to the deficiencies in present-day piano and organ pedagogy. They start the first system of the piece with a depiction of the original clef signs and key signature, then translate that into modern G- and F-Clef notation, possibly transposing the piece to an easier or lower key as well. This key-change business happens particularly with chorale preludes, where between the rising of concert pitch and the sinking of the average singer's vocal range, hymn tunes have gradually been transposed into lower and lower keys. The editors, loath to leave well enough alone, seem devoted to the idea of the prelude being in the same key in which the hymn would be sung.

But the clef-change bit simply feeds off the apparent consensus of editors and pedagogues that keyboard players cannot read C-Clefs as fluently as Treble and Bass. And this consensus is correct, for the reason that pianists and organists seldom if ever have to read music notated in a C-Clef. This, in turn, is so because editors keep changing the original notation into Treble- and Bass-Clef notation, depriving players of either the necessity or the opportunity to learn C-Clef reading. It's a vicious circle. But at the bottom of it all is the dirty secret that, at some point, the leading authorities in piano and organ pedagogy decided to stop teaching their students how to read C-Clef notation. The outcome is a new generation of scores translated into the Treble and Bass Clefs... and the occasional spot of bother with pieces by 20th century composers, like Helmut Walcha for instance, who sometimes still wrote keyboard parts in a C-Clef, and whose works are still being published that way.

As a beneficiary of the new pedagogical practices that pointedly omit C-Clef reading from the curriculum, I must admit that I'm miffed. Miffed at the system of teaching that denied me the opportunity to learn C-Clef reading when my brain was a sponge. Now I can play Treble- and Bass-Clef notes on sight without having to think about which notes they are. But I'm not likely ever to have that level of proficiency with C-Clefs, partly because I'm older and my brain has stiffened up, and partly because I'm not faced with the need to read C-Clefs very often. Not often at all. And when I do, my emotional reflex will be to become miffed at the composer and/or editor who, at this hour of the day, left me wrestling with a notational wrinkle that makes my brain overheat. I mean, isn't it cruel that I can read Buxtehude in modern notation, but I have to struggle with C-Clefs in Walcha?

I'm going to have to take steps. Steps to lick this C-Clef problem once and for all. To start with, I'm going to have to do the kinds of memory tricks that helped me through the first-grade Note Spellers by John W. Schaum, way back when I was starting piano lessons at age eight. You know: "Every Good Boy Does Fine" (or Deserves Fudge) for the lines of the Treble Clef, bottom to top; F-A-C-E ("Face") for the spaces; "Great Big Dogs Fight Animals" for the lines of the Bass Clef; and "All Cars Eat Gas" (or Cows/Grass) for the spaces. I'm starting by inventing new mnemonics for the Alto Clef, where the crook of the K embraces the third line of the staff.

The lines: "Freaking Alto Clef! Eat Giblets!!"
The spaces: "Gold Bricks Don't Fly."

But until this sinks in, and I can work on other exercises for recognizing the notes on sight, I will have to continue doing what I have been doing. With constant, wearying effort, I will have to THINK about every single note on the Alto-Clef staff, and either (1) pretend that it's in the Treble Clef, transposed down a seventh; or (2) pretend that it's in the Bass Clef, transposed up a seventh; or (3) think, "OK, the third line is middle C, so this note is..." And ultimately, I'm going to have to keep practicing the piece until I've got the left-hand part learned by heart, because reading the notes is just going to confuse me. And I'm going to hate it, because I thought I had put that problem behind me in, like, third grade!

EDIT: A more "G-rated" version of the lines: "Fie, Alto Clef! Eat Giblets!" Tenor Clef lines: "Don't Fret About Cracked Eggs." Spaces: "Eggs Go Bad Daily."

Tacky Hymns 48

Approaching the end of Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Augsburg Fortress, 2006), we continue to stumble (choking with laughter) over hymn selections that, in the context of Lutheran congregational singing, are just plain silly.

801 "Change my heart, O God" is a one-stanza hymn, with refrain, by Eddie Espinosa (b. 1953), copyrighted in 1982. It has the rhythm of a pop song, and so it will be of interest mainly to soloists who like that style, or perhaps a well-drilled vocal ensemble. This is not what congregations are catechized to sing. It is probably too tricky for them to perform without sounding embarrassingly lame. And its four lines of text (expressing a desire for sanctification, but with no gospel in view) don't seem to put the time set aside for a hymn to very good use. I mean, unless this is an excerpt from a much longer number, it would have to be repeated quite a few times just to last long enough to serve a real purpose.

805 "Lead on, O King eternal" by Ernest Shurtleff (1862-1917)¹ is another hymn that prays for sanctification without speaking one word of gospel. It depicts the Christian walk, the struggle against sin, etc., in imagery of an army marching to war. The closest it comes to hinting at the means by which Christ enables us to overcome is a reference, late in the third stanza, to the "cross... lifted o'er us." Such hymns may have their uses, but I think one of them may be to wring the last drop of Christianity out of devout churchgoers.

808 "Lord Jesus, you shall be my song" (Jésus, je voudrais te chanter) is another notable example of this hymnal's attempt to make multiculturalism pass for catholicity, only with perhaps a slightly less useless token gesture than some of the others (given that some of the Ev. Lutheran Church in Canada's congregations and missions worship in French)—though one or two hymns in an otherwise anglophone hymnal are no substitute for the francophone book those folks really need. Yes, all four stanzas are printed in both English and French. Again, unsurprisingly amid the "Commitment, Discipleship" section of the hymnal, it is a hymn that offers Jesus one's devotion and witness throughout life's journey. The pleasant surprise comes in stanza 3, which actually confesses that Jesus "saved me by giving [His] body and blood," which puts it in a class above the previous two hymns, at least; though Stanza 4 is a little fuzzy as to how we locate Jesus' presence in our lives ("the sound of your steps by my side" just doesn't have a sacramental ring to it, in my opinion). In spite of the awkwardness of its meter, its musical setting makes it a very touching little piece. Perhaps the fact that it was composed by a Roman Catholic religious sisterhood, which has ecumenical ties to Taizé among other communities, highlights the even greater tackiness of many hymns supposedly representing evangelical voices in this book. I mean, how galling is it that a community devoted to good works gives us more gospel than half a dozen Protestant hymn writers put together?

809 "Send Me, Lord" (Thuma mina) is a South African traditional hymn whose English translation dates back to a 1984 album of "songs of praise and protest." Its three stanzas (not counting one in the original tongue) fall into the pattern "Jesus, ____ me, Jesus, ____ me, Jesus, ____ me, Lord," with the words send, lead, and fill each filling the blank for one stanza. There's a leader's part (hearkening to the "call and response" tradition) and some simple harmonies and rhythms characteristic of African music. Other than that and the flush of pride in our church's multicultural pretensions, there isn't much to be said in favor of singing this hymn during the worship hour.

810 "O Jesus, I have promised" is by John Bode (1816-74). This hymn grates on my sensibilities from Line One, simply by opening with "my" promise to the Lord as opposed to His promises to me. Later in Stanza 1, Bode boasts that "I" will not waver or wander so long as Jesus remains "by my side"/"my guide." This strikes me as a pretty weak confession of faith compared to Paul's "it is not I who live, but Christ lives in me" (Galatians 2:20). Stanza 2 begs Jesus to "let me feel you near me," also a far cry from the sacramental faith that says, "As Thou livest in me, let me also live in Thee," etc. Stanza 3 does well to ask Jesus to "let me hear you speaking," because until now one might have taken the impression that this Jesus we keep singing about is an imaginary comforter, molded to suit our needs. Stanza 4 does, finally, come down on the "Jesus, you have promised" note that should have sounded at the top. But in the second half of this stanza, we revert to discussing what I have promised, in a sort of reciprocal agreement with Jesus. How nice it is to have a god who meets you halfway.

812 "Faith of our fathers, living still" is the hymn by F. W. Faber that I sneered at much earlier in this thread. While no more needs to be said about that "anthem to a vague sense of religious conservatism," its first stanza crops up again in hymn 813, followed by three newly-written stanzas by Joseph Alfred (b. 1947). The new stanzas include one beginning with "Faith of our mothers," another with "Faith of our sisters, brothers too," suggesting that someone on the editorial board had fits over the sexism of the language of "fathers" and, missing the whole point of the hymn, felt that it could only be corrected by giving equal time to both genders. Perhaps this is an uncharitable flight of imagination, however; but whether it is or not, an unexpected consequence of it is a new wine that might actually deserve better than the old wineskin. Gender politics aside, the new stanza 2 emphasizes the spreading of God's word, stanza 3 the witness of those suffering today for the Christian faith, and stanza 4 the fact that faith is "born of God" and unites all who share "the struggle of the cross." In my opinion, the tackiest thing about Alfred's hymn is that he wasted the quality of his thoughts on a cheap knockoff of a classic hymn (or worse, an attempt to rehabilitate it by correcting its political deficiencies). When in doubt, err on the side of originality!

814 "Take, oh, take me as I am" is a John Bell (b. 1949) ditty in one brief stanza. Again, it is either an excerpt of something too long to print in the pew book, or a mantra to be repeated until the congregation reaches a suggestible state. Perhaps both. But... it is not a congregational hymn. Its text does not have the scope to be really useful as a teaching tool; its music comes to an inconclusive conclusion. It prompts thoughts in my head such as, "If the committee was so desperate to put the bottom half of this page to good use, why didn't they just print a nice block quote, or a prayer, or a half-plate illustration?"

815 "I want to walk as a child of the light" is by Kathleen Thomerson (b. 1934). Copyrighted in the 1970s, I've seen it around in some other books, so I'm surprised to find that I haven't touched on it before. Basically a harmless little piece, it troubles me for a few minor reasons. Firstly, in spite of its sweet and childlike appeal, it is really quite uninspired and could even be difficult to learn, once the congregation must come to grips with the length of its through-composed stanzas and the irregular way the text fits the notes. Secondly, very little of what it says or how it says it is at all striking. What little there is strikes me as putting too much emphasis on "my" own decisions and resolutions.

816 "Come, my way, my truth, my life" is a gorgeous poem by 17th century divine George Herbert, set to a really fine tune by Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958). The tune is deceptively simple yet poignantly attractive, though the long melisma in its last phrase may either make it or break it for the musically unwashed. More troubling, however, is the prospect of singing this hymn as a congregation. There is no speed at which it could practicably be sung that would not cause the words and images of Herbert's lines to fly by too fast for most minds to grasp. To make it at all useful to the congregation, one would have to introduce the hymn with a lengthy dissertation on its structure and the intended meaning of some its allusions. I love that people get to see this hymn, just as I love the brave way The Evangelical Lutheran Hymnary put John Donne's poem "Wilt Thou forgive the sin" out there for all to see. But both poems might more usefully be published in a supplemental volume of devotional poetry, complete with explanatory prefaces.

817 "You have come down to the lakeshore" (Tú has venido a la orilla) is a bilingual (Spanish and English) Bible-school ditty by Cesário Gabaráin (1936-91). In this sung narrative, the singer plays the role of one of the fishermen-apostles whom Jesus called to be a fisher of men. Singing it as a group presents difficulties, beginning with the very soloistic nature of the tune, and proceeding to the appropriateness of dramatic role-playing as congregational hymnody. In concept it blurs the boundaries between metaphor for an experience we are all supposed to have shared and testimonial of an unspecified individual's experience—and besides this ambiguity, there arises the question whether the experience here described applies to each Christian individually, or to the church as a whole, or to the ministry in particular. While you're tamping all these questions into your pipe, take a drag on this question: In what sense can everyone singing this truthfully say the words of the refrain, "Sweet Lord, you have looked into my eyes; kindly smiling," etc. I don't dare ask you what to make of the reference to "my fish nets" in Stanza 2, because I know you'll make a dirty joke out of it. And I won't even mention Stanza 4's line "You who have fished other waters," for the same reason. Granted, I'm a jerk for insisting that we interrogate each nice little ditty in this nit-picking way. On the other hand, you're a jerk for expecting me to swallow this bait without choking. After so many centuries of beautiful, churchly, and doctrinally clear hymnody, are we to make pew-book-room for such an awkward piece of trivial conceit as this?

818 "O Master, let me walk with you"² is by Washington Gladden (1836-1918), a American Congregationalist minister who played an early leading role in both the Progressive and Social Gospel movements. These facts, together with the substance of his hymn, promote the depressed feelings that have grown throughout the survey of this section of the hymnal. If the editors had set out to replace any semblance of Lutheranism with an entirely different religious outlook, they couldn't have chosen a better selection of hymns whereby to do it. While asking Jesus to let us walk with him in paths of service toward others, Stanza 1 blurts out, "Tell me your secret"—but without specifying any further, it permits one to imagine that the secret in question is how "to bear the strain of toil, the fret of care." Since the application of forgiveness through Word and Sacrament isn't even remotely suggested, one gathers that this secret-telling is a transfer of moral rectitude that will take place via a direct working of the Holy Spirit within one's heart. Stanza 2 asks Christ to "help me the slow of heart to move by some clear, winning word of love," suggesting not so much the living and active power of the divine word proclaimed as the tact to say just the right thing at the right time, and in the right way. Stanza 3 again requests a more intimate sharing of Christ's presence, yet without any hint of sacraments; also, its phrasing "work that keeps faith sweet and strong" rather puts the cart before the horse.

819 "Come, all you people" (Uyaimose) is a Zimbabwean ditty in three stanzas, plus one stanza in the original language. As with several examples we have seen in this book, its music is written in the style of orally-transmitted harmony that African choirs, and even whole congregations, will readily sing, but that may find American Lutherans stumbling and blushing and mumbling in a most embarrassing way. The words and harmonies are very simple; the rhythms, not so much—not from the perspective of a realistic assessment of your congregation's musical abilities. The simplicity of the one and the difficulty of the other may lead put-upon parishioners to question—perhaps even aloud—whether it was worth all the hassle.

With hymn 819, the hymns' topical designation switches to "Praise, Thanksgiving"—a category that promises, if not deeper theology, at least fewer specific errors.

820 "Shout to the Lord" (first line: "My Jesus, my Savior") is a Christian pop song by Darlene Zschech (b. 1965), presupposing a congregation that can sing offbeat rhythms, wide intervals, and decorative flourishes in unison. Or maybe the assumption is that they'll just follow along with their eyeballs while a soloist or select ensemble sings it at them. Don't feel bad, CoWo fans. I would be just as unsparing of a classical tune that I thought was beyond the reach of a large group of musically untrained and unrehearsed singers. Those who stuff a hymn-book with such tunes have evidently lost sight of the reason hymn tunes, as such, were invented.

823 "Praise the Lord! O heavens, adore him" is set to Haydn's tune AUSTRIA, a.k.a. the Imperial Hymn, a.k.a. Deutschland über alles, for what it's worth. I happen to like the tune. But after witnessing the meltdown of a holocaust survivor upon hearing a different hymn set to this tune, I would advise hymnal editors to let it rest a while longer before re-introducing it. In the meantime, there are plenty of handsome alternate tunes that don't conjure newsreel footage of goose-stepping Nazis.

This segment of ELW ends with 825 "You servants of God," a blameless hymn of praise by Charles Wesley (1707-88), based on the angelic strains in the Book of Revelation, and set to a catchy tune by Michael Haydn (Joseph's little brother). I mention it only because of the fact that this hymn was a breath of fresh air. And when I am relieved to find a kernel from one of the fathers of Methodism sown among Lutheran furrows, it can only testify to the strain the last 25 hymns have placed on my composure, my dignity, and my philosophical outlook. To say nothing of my Lutheran good taste...

---

¹Tune: LANCASHIRE by Henry Smart (1813-79). Many American Lutherans may recognize this as a tune to "The day of resurrection."
²Tune: MARYTON by H. Percy Smith (1825-98), a rather pale and uninspired specimen.

Brisingr

Brisingr
by Christopher Paolini
Recommended Ages: 13+

Many things discouraged me from reading the third book of the Inheritance Cycle. There was the backlash against my mixed review of Book 2, Eldest—almost, but not quite, the harshest feedback I have received. There was the disappointment of the film based on Book 1, Eragon—a hint that there would be less pressure from Fandom in General to stay on top of this series. And finally, there was the thickness of this book, which was supposed to be the finale of a trilogy—whereas, in spite of its length, it turned out to be the third movement in a quartet. This suggested that, at some crucial stage in its development, the storyline lost some of its planned momentum.

So, even with a hard copy of the book on my shelf, I felt no hurry to re-enter the world of Alagaesia, where there be dragons as well as elves, dwarves, magicians, and other wondrous things. I only felt its pull again when an audiobook narration by Gerald Doyle materialized, in answer to a prayer for something to play on the car stereo while driving several hours a day. And before I say anything else, let me be clear: Doyle delivers a fine performance. He even manages to make his repertoire of British dialects sound right for the story and its characters, though they sprang from the mind of an American author.

Also, the interview between Paolini and his editor at the end of the performance is a highlight of the album. It reminded me of the strength of the novel's themes, the subtlety of its structure, the depth of its background (including the fabrication of several languages), and the vividness of the author's insight into his characters, all of which tempted me to reconsider the mean things I had already planned to say about the book by that point. But although the tempo picked up a good bit toward the end of the book, my main impression of it remains the same. To wit: It has the potential to be a terrific book, if only it weren't so dashed slow-paced and talky.

To put it another way, here is a conversation I had with myself at more than one point during at least the first two-thirds of this book:

QUESTION.
Oh no, are they really going to have this conversation now?

ANSWER.
Yes, they really are.

(A Bit Later)
QUESTION.
Are they really STILL having this conversation?

ANSWER:
Yes, indeed.

(A Bit Later)
QUESTION.
Is something interesting going to happen soon?

ANSWER.
Er...

I jotted this dialogue down at about the same time as the following snarky comments: "1) It's like a great short novel, crammed into the dimensions of a long one. 2) Even when something exciting does happen, it seldom moves the series perceptibly closer to its final crisis. So it comes across as a book that the series as a whole could do without. 3) It has magic, bloodshed, horror, romance, mythical creatures, beautiful made-up languages, and a hero sworn to fight against an evil emperor. It's amazing how the author manages to fit all these things in and still have room for points 1 and 2." I now feel somewhat repentant about these jibes, though not repentant enough to keep them to myself. You should see the paragraphs I deleted. Well, no. You shouldn't.

Actually, the book did get better after the point when I jotted down those notes. And by the end, young hero and dragon-rider Eragon had indeed made important progress towards his eventual goal (to be faced in Book 4, Inheritance) of ridding Alagaesia of its dark lord, Galbatorix. His cousin Roran also sees much development as a second-string hero, executing eye-popping feats of warriordom and proving (once again) to be far better at leading than following. Then there's the big reveal about who Eragon's father really is—and this after he has spent the whole book wrestling with the previous big reveal laid on him by his estranged friend (and brother?!) Murtagh at the end of Eldest. Whatever the truth is, these guys are going to have some serious issues to work out between them in the next book.

Nevertheless, a ruthless wit might say of this book that it can be boiled down to one line, which Eragon repeats several times: "I need a sword." Indeed he does; and that need is driven home to him again and again until he himself is driven home (so to speak). And what a difference it makes when he gets the sword he needs. Everything else in the book could, by the same process of reduction, be described as irritating detours and intricately detailed accounts of what is going on "meanwhile, back at the camp." The camp where the war to retake Alagaesia from Galbatorix's Empire is heating up, and where the politics of the allied forces of humans, elves, and urgals proves to be dangerously hot already. Speaking of politics, there is also a side-trip to the kingdom of the dwarves, where a new king must be elected before the most ancient race in the land can decide whether to take part in the conflict of the age. And of course, Eragon must still learn new things about dragons, their riders, and what makes Galbatorix tick. There are a lot of threads to keep in play, a complex weave continuing to take shape. But my goodness, what a lot of talking goes on between the fits of violence and mayhem that make it all seem worthwhile!

Will Eragon be ready by Book 4 to face Galbatorix on his own? In a sense, he had better be. In another sense, he won't have to be—because he won't be alone. Besides his faithful dragon Saphira, he will also have friends and comrades from every race in the land, fighting behind him and beside him. But only he (or she) who makes it through some frustrating and (one might think) unnecessarily long conversations will appreciate just how ready and/or unready Eragon is at the end of this book. Don't take this the wrong way. I have a better feeling about this series after reading this book than I did before. But no recommendation of this book would be completely honest without reminding you that the inner dialogue quoted above took place several times. For what it's worth...

Pegasus

Pegasus
by Robin McKinley
Recommended Ages: 12+

She has won the Newbery Medal (for The Hero and the Crown). She has won the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award (for Sunshine). She has entertained us with tales of vampires, fairies, dragons, and Robin Hood, as well as folk tales spruced up as novels. As the wife of Peter Dickinson, she dwells in a reactor-core of magic and beautiful storytelling that could reach critical mass at any time. All that being said, if she doesn't produce a sequel to this book, I will be seriously miffed with her.

Pegasi are somewhat like horses with wings. But they are also somewhat unlike horses as well—and not only because of the wings. A noble, highly intelligent race, their delicate and graceful beauty makes them a source of awe to the humans of the neighboring kingdom of Balsinland. The two countries have been allies since the founding of Balsinland some eight hundred years ago: allies against the encroaching monsters of the surrounding wilds, such as wyverns, ladons, norindours, and taralians. And rocs. One mustn't forget the rocs!

It is widely held that the prosperity of Balsinland depends on their friendship with the pegasi. The pegasi, meanwhile, would not have survived without the help of their stronger human allies. So down to the time of Princess Sylviianel, there is a tradition of each important personage in the human kingdom being paired with a pegasus of similar importance. These bound pairs are often together while at court—the human court, that is. For while the pegasi often visit Balsinland, humans never visit pegasus country. And the two species never touch each other. And humans never, ever fly on pegasus-back. It's a matter of respect, apparently. Or maybe it's another aspect of the barrier that keeps humans and their pegasus bond-mates from ever becoming very close. For another thing that separates them is language. They can't seem to learn how to speak to each other, somehow. They rely on magicians to interpret for them.

But then, on her twelfth birthday, Sylvi meets her bond-mate: Ebon, who like her is the fourth child of his people's king. The moment they meet, they find themselves communicating clearly through the type of mind-speech that the pegasi share. You would think this would be good news for a kingdom—two kingdoms—entering a time of crisis, as their borders are threatened by increasingly frequent sightings of taralians and norindours. More open communication could be the very thing they need. But no! Sylvi's rapport with Ebon threatens the power of the magicians, and especially of an ambitious magician named Fthoom.

Fthoom overreaches himself, and his disgrace gives Sylvi and Ebon a few years of reprieve. During this time, while Sylvi prepares for whatever role she will have as the fourth child of the king, or as baby sister of the king after him, the two friends push the boundaries of what is considered acceptable behavior for a bond-pair. They touch each other affectionately. They fly together (in secret). And finally, Sylvi becomes the first human in history to be invited to visit the pegasus kingdom of Rhiandomeer, and the sacred Caves where their history is preserved. She breaks through even more barriers between the races, only to return home to a more tense and dangerous situation than she left. And then—when Sylvi is within striking distance of a chance to change the world—when the kingdom is in its most precarious position in centuries—when the survival of both peoples lies at the point of a sword—when Fthoom is ready to make his next and deadliest move—that is when it becomes clear that Robin McKinley will write a sequel to this book. Or else.

The way Fantastic Fiction lists this book (as part one of a so far one-part series) suggests that my ideas on this are not original. Nevertheless, Ms. McKinley has published at least one book since this: 2013's Shadows. I have yet to catch up on some of her recent titles, including Dragonhaven and Chalice. I have yet to be disappointed by any of her books. And apart from the ending, which will break my heart if there isn't a sequel, I couldn't be happier with this book. Its fantasy world is a fascinating place to immerse oneself. Its lyrical beauty stirs the heart. Its language cries out to be quoted, though none of the passages I wanted to quote were short enough for the purposes of this review. And the friendship between Sylvi and Ebon is so wonderful that you may feel yourself becoming an invisible third partner in it, loving both characters and caring about their destiny. I advise her to unleash it (sequel! sequel!) before its pent-up energy causes the area around her and Mr. Dickinson's home to glow in the dark.