Hunter

Unlike most of her family, 14-year-old Jordan takes an interest in her Māori heritage. So when she and her younger brothers are stranded on an isolated beach with few necessities for survival, she doesn’t question the voice which addresses her by her Māori middle name, advising her of plant lore and how to live off the land. This is Hunter, a slave from an earlier era, gifted with visions. Until now, he has used his visions only to keep himself alive, by being useful to his captors – can he now use them to save the young white woman with whom he feels such a bond?

The two central characters are engaging, and their separate stories intertwine plausibly enough. In spite of this, I found this book disappointing, considering it had won the national Book of the Year award. I found several main premises extremely unlikely and poorly explained: Why could the children not fly home as planned? Why was the moa Hunter was tracking still alive? I usually enjoy reading fiction with Māori content, but this story felt inauthentic, as though the Pākeha author (whom I greatly esteem) was not at ease with her material. Where Māori vocabulary was included, it was translated, often (to my mind) unnecesarily and inelegantly (e.g. “Lightning was the moko of Rangi… the tattoo on the face of the sky god” p. 25). In addition, insubstantial minor characters and poor editing leaves me describing Hunter using Jordan’s over-used teenage vocable: “stink”.

Cowley, J. (2005). Hunter. Auckland, NZ: Puffin.

Fade

13-year-old Paul wants to be a writer. The reader also sees Paul twenty-five years later, when this ambition has been fulfilled, and beyond his death. Through three different narrating voices the reader is presented with questions regarding the nature of fiction and imagination, and the power of both. 

Paul narrates, frankly and realistically, his teenage concerns and development over the course of one summer: his large Catholic family, industrial action at his father’s factory, and the joy and the shame of his sexual awakening. In addition, he describes his initiation to a secret ability that affects one in every generation of his family: he learns to fade -to make himself invisible at will.

In spite of this one element of fantasy, the story seems completely realistic. For many teenagers, to fade would be the realisation of a fantasy: with so much they want to know but are embarrassed to ask, if only they could observe their world –especially girls!– without being seen! His ability should likewise be a great asset to a writer, yet Paul repeatedly finds that fading instead exposes him to things that he would prefer not to have known. By the end of the book the fade seems to have become an independent character, a manifestation of the worst impulses of the human condition.

 

Cormier, R. (1990). Fade. London, England: Collins.

contains explicit sexuality and violence

Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter

In Matt’s Forest, two rival robber clans dispute their territory among gray dwarfs, rumphobs, murktrolls, and wild harpies. Some of these creatures are more dangerous than others; and geographical features such as Greedy Falls and Hell’s Gap likewise pose threats to a child in this environment.

All the same, Ronia grows up in the forest and learns its ways while practising not being frightened. These skills are needed when a matter of principle forces her to move out of the robbers’ fort and into a cave in the forest to be with her sworn brother, Birk, who is the son of the rival chieftain. While this is a great adventure for children of their age, the characters must deal not only with the elements and the forest’s other inhabitants, but with human concerns such as homesickness and short tempers. 

With the development of characters and relationships conveyed chiefly by their words and actions rather than direct description, the reader becomes well-acquainted with Ronia, her tempestuous father, wise old Noddle-Pete, and her unflappable mother. As Ronia’s bond with Birk is strengthened each time one saves the other’s life, the reader confronts the themes of forbidden love and failure to meet parents’ expectations, and the conflicts arising from these circumstances.

Lindgren, A. (1985). Ronia, the robber’s daughter (P. Crampton, trans.). New York, NY: Puffin.

Where Is the Green Sheep?

This book’s simple ‘plot’ is conveyed by its title. Each page introduces a new sheep, with a new adjective, which is paired with the sheep on the next page either by opposite[1] or by association[2]. After every rhymed couplet, the question is reiterated[3]. In the end, of course, the tension is resolved as “our green sheep” is found, and contentment prevails.

The appeal of this sturdy, almost-square hardback will endure throughout early childhood. Once familiar, it lends itself to independent ‘reading,’ as few pages have more than six words, most of which are repeated frequently and predictably throughout the text. The unrepeated vocabulary is provided by the illustrations, which are clearly linked to their captions.

Each sheep is exuberantly illustrated, having fun (for example the rain sheep is unmistakably singing in the rain, as it dances around a lamppost twirling a rainbow-coloured umbrella). Older children will find careful observation of the illustrations rewarding, as many details visually connect the sheep pairs. Just before the end of the book, more than twenty of the flock are depicted in one illustration, engaged in a further variety of unlabelled pursuits. There is plenty of thought and discussion to be generated by the words and the pictures, making this an ideal book to be enjoyed either shared or alone.

Fox, M. (2004). Where is the green sheep? (J. Horacek, illus.). Melbourne, Australia: Penguin.

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[1] e.g. “Here is the near sheep. And here is the far sheep.”

[2] e.g. “Here is the moon sheep. And here is the star sheep.”

[3] “(but) where is the green sheep?”