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Narrated by Juliet Stevenson
Sally GardnerUnabridged — 7 hours, 30 minutes
Narrated by Juliet Stevenson
Sally GardnerUnabridged — 7 hours, 30 minutes
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In our Best Books citation, PW wrote, "A first-time British novelist coats England's turbulent Commonwealth era with a layer of magic, in this stunning story narrated by Coriander Hobie." Ages 10-up. (Mar.) Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information.
Gr 6-8-Known for her picture and chapter books, I, Coriander (Dial, 2005) is Sally Gardner's first venture into YA fiction. Written in the first person, Coriander Hobie describes both the ordinary and extraordinary events that occur in her life in 17th-century London. The unexplained appearance of a beautiful pair of silver shoes that fit Coriander perfectly set into motion an inexorable chain of events. Traveling via her silver shoes between the puritanical time of Oliver Cromwell and her mother's mystical fairy kingdom, Coriander's voice is strong and true. The juxtaposition of Puritan and fairy, fear and fantasy, make this detailed tale come to life. A strong sense of setting pervades the novel; London Bridge and the Thames River are lovingly described, as is the Summer Palace of the fairy king. Truly a book meant to be read aloud, British stage actress Juliet Stevenson does the story justice with her wonderful sense of timing and cadence, easily differentiating between the characters with different inflections and tones. An interview with the author rounds out this audiobook that's sure to be a hit with fantasy as well as historical fiction lovers.-Charli Osborne, Oxford Public Library, MI Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Coriander is nine when her story begins (15 when it closes), living by London Bridge on the Thames during Cromwell's time. She writes by the light of seven candles, one for each section, and in her gentle voice tells of the sudden death of her mother, whose silver shadow is kept in a box, and her father's quick remarriage to a piggy Puritan named Maud, as vicious to Coriander as she is to her own daughter, Hester. Coriander's father vanishes, sought by the Roundheads, and Maud and a crooked man stuff Coriander into the box where her mother's shadow was kept. In the silver world she falls into, Coriander finds that three years pass, and she glimpses the power of that shadow and the sight of her own true love. She returns, however, to find her father, restore her house, see the Restoration of Charles II and her love from the silvered land. Deft and dulcet language, a cast of supporters not the least of whom is Coriander's loving stepsister Hester, and the tie to a grim historical season will hold readers fast. (historical background) (Historical fiction/fantasy. 10-14)
Sally Gardner's novel (winner of the 2005 British Nestlé Children's Book Prize) is a coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of Cromwellian England and a mirror-world of fairies, magic, and evil queens. Young Coriander must cope with her splintered family, the revelation that her mother was a fairy, and the sinister machinations of her Puritan stepmother and the preacher Arise Fell. With a dreamy narration that befits the fantastical nature of the story, Juliet Stevenson skillfully adjusts her British accent to depict different characters and classes--and even the scratchy, menacing voice of a talking raven. Listeners will also be interested in an interview at the end of the book in which the author discusses her writing process and her struggle with dyslexia. J.M.D. © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine
| BN ID: | 2940169263190 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/10/2006 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Age Range: | 8 - 11 Years |
A Tale to Tell
It is night, and our old house by the river is finally quiet. The baby has stopped its crying and been soothed back to sleep. Only the gentle lapping of the River Thames can be heard outside my window. London is wrapped in a deep sleep, waiting for the watchman to call in the new day.
I have lit the first of seven candles to write my story by. On the table next to me is the silk purse that holds my mother's pearls and beside it is the ebony box whose treasure I am only now beginning to understand. Next to that, shining nearly as bright as the moon, stands a pair of silver shoes.
I have a great many things to tell, of how I came by the silver shoes and more. And this being my story and a fairy tale besides, I will start once upon a time . . . .
My name is Coriander Hobie. I am the only child of Thomas and Eleanor Hobie, being born in this house in the year of Our Lord 1643. It is just a stone's throw from London Bridge, with the river running past the windows at the back. To the front is my mother's once beautiful walled garden that leads through a wooden door out on to the bustling city street. The garden is all overgrown now; it has been neglected for too long. Once it was full of flowers and herbs of all description whose perfume could make even the Thames smell sweet, but now rosemary and nettles, briar roses and brambles have reclaimed it as their own.
It was this garden, the like of which no neighbors had ever seen, that first set tongues wagging. My father had planted it for my mother, and built her a pretty stillroom that backed on to the wall of the counting house. My mother in her quiet way knew more about herbs and their powers than anyone else, and together with her waiting woman, Mary Danes, she would spend hours in the stillroom, making all sorts of potions which were distilled and stored in tiny bottles. When I was small I used to hide under my mother's petticoats and listen to friends and neighbors as they brought their ailments to her like posies of sorrows, to be made better by one of her remedies. Later on, when I was too big to hide, they came to ask her other things, for by this time her reputation as a cunning woman with magical powers had spread as thistledown does, blown on the hot winds of gossip.
My first memories are of the garden and of this, my old bedchamber, whose walls my mother painted with fairy places and imaginary beasts. She wrote under each one in her fair script, and for every picture she had a story, as bright in the telling as the colors in which they were painted. When I was small I used to trace the letters with my finger, to feel how the spidery writing was raised above the wood paneling, and I would say the names to myself like a magic charm to keep harm at bay. All the pictures, like the garden's blooms, are gone now, washed and scrubbed away. Only the faintest trace of the gold letters remains. They still shine through, like the memories.
I used to believe that my mother's life had started with me and that before I made my entrance into this world there was nothing. Nothing, that is, until the midsummer's day when my father, Thomas Hobie, first saw my mother standing under an oak tree on a country lane.
This is the story he told me, and the story I loved the best. When he was a young merchant with a head full of dreams, he put his hard-earned savings, together with what money his father had left him, into a ship bound for Constantinople, banking on her returning with a cargo of silk. Alas, news reached him that she had been lost in a great storm at sea, so that now he owned nothing but the clothes on his back.
In despair, my father walked out of the city and some ten miles into the country, on the chance of being able to borrow money from a distant cousin, a Master Stoop. When he arrived he found that Master Stoop had given up the never-ending struggle with the living and had joined the ranks of the dead, leaving a wife and several small Stoops to be looked after.
My father had not the heart to ask for anything. Having paid his last respects, he set out mournfully on the road to London, resigned to his fate.
It was getting late when he met a strange-looking man with a long beard tied in a knot, holding a lantern as round as the moon. The stranger told him he had been robbed by a highwayman who had taken all he had owned, leaving him just the lantern. My father felt sorry to hear of this misfortune and offered him his cloak to keep the chill off. The stranger accepted it with thanks.
"Young man, to travel with an open and loving heart is worth more than all the gold coins in a treasure chest," he said. "Tomorrow your kindness will be rewarded."
My father wished the fellow well and hoped that nothing more would befall him. Then he set off again, with only the light of the moon to show him the way. As he walked, a wave of tiredness came over him and he lay down to sleep.
Next morning he had not gone far when he thought he might be lost, for in the dawn light everything looked different.
At this point I, having heard the story so many times that I could repeat it to myself word for word, would interrupt and say, "But you were on the right road." He would laugh and reply, "It was the road that would lead me to your mother, so how could it be wrong?"
To my childish way of thinking, it seemed that he met and married my mother in the space of one day. They arrived back in the city after the wedding to be greeted with the astonishing news that his ship had returned safe and sound with a cargo of fine silk.
From that day forward my father's life had been charmed with love and good fortune. No other merchant's ships fared as well. Untouched by pirates, wars, or tempests, his ships sailed unmolested in calm seas, bringing back bounty fit for a king. Before long, my father was wealthy enough to be able to build this house for us by the river, where we lived in great luxury, having a cook and servants to look after us as well as Sam, my father's faithful apprentice.
It was no surprise to me that all this should happen so fast. It never entered my head to ask what my mother's family thought of their daughter marrying a young man who was penniless, or even if she had any family to mind. All these questions and many more besides only occurred to me much, much later when there was no one left to ask.
My father had two miniature paintings done of them both shortly after their wedding. My mother's portrait shows her wearing a cream gown beautifully embroidered and oversewn with tiny glimmering pearls. I imagine that this is how she looked when my father first saw her that midsummer's day under the oak tree. Wild flowers are woven into her hair and in her hand she is holding an oak leaf.
The background of this tiny painting always fascinated me. It is as if you are a bird looking down from a great height, seeing the land mapped out below. There, in a forest of oak trees, is a clearing in which there is a grand house with formal gardens. In the distance a tower stands tall over the trees, and I could just make out a figure at the top of the tower watching over the landscape, searching for something or someone. On the edge of the forest is a hunting party with dogs. Compared to the house and the tower, they look oddly large. A hawk sits on the outstretched arm of one of the riders. Another rider is standing up in his saddle blowing a horn. I looked at this painting many times before I spotted the white horse and the fox hidden in a thicket. For some reason that I cannot explain, their discovery worried me greatly. It gave me an uneasy feeling, as if somehow nothing was safe.
My father's portrait shows him looking young and handsome. He is clean-shaven, wearing breeches and a linen shirt embroidered in the same pattern as my mother's dress. The scene behind him could not be more different. It is a view of a city with the river running through it like an opal green ribbon. You could be forgiven for thinking it a picture of London, except that the houses are brightly painted and mermaids and sea monsters can be seen in the water amongst a fleet of tall ships with full-blown golden sails.
Even then, these two miniatures looked to me strangely out of time, as if they had been painted long, long ago in another world entirely. I know now what they mean. I know why my mother kept silent and why, at my darkest moment, her past claimed me, leading me back to something that could no longer be denied.
