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352 pages, Hardcover
First published October 29, 2013
Otter, Kestrel, and Cricket belong to the Shadow People, where everyone has a calling. Otter is destined to be a binder, weaving knots to keep her people safe from danger. Kestrel is a ranger, expert in forest lore. And Cricket is a story teller. But the forest is haunted by the dead, and no one is truly safe. When tragedy strikes, it will take all three talents to finally try to break the curse.This book is very hard to describe. It's set in a magical North America, somewhere just to the east of the Cascade Mountains (I'm guessing), and seems inspired by Native tribes without actually being specific. The story is essentially horror ... and yet it's so much more. This is one of the most beautifully written and emotional books I've read in a long time. It's dark and heartbreaking, but balanced with wonder and discovery. I loved every word of it.
"She says everything is too tight but the rope is rotting."
The cornmeal gave a last great glub, like someone drowning.
A silence tightened, and Fawn said: "She says it will be soon."
"Cricket had a story - do you know it? - about the lost woman who was starving, and wished that everything she touched would turn to meat? And then she found her children…"
Otter tried to breathe deep, but each breath made her shudder and shudder. Kestrel put her hand between Otter's shoulders: steady. The summer stones were rough and warm to the touch. They were not alive, but if they were dead, it was a simple kind of dead: They were only themselves. They needed nothing.
Otter was thinking this and not watching the world, and so when someone moved just behind her, her heart leapt like a startled grasshopper. She spun and had her bracelets thrust up before she saw who it was.
"What happened?" said Cricket.
"Once our dogs were wolves," said Cricket, when no one answered him, "and though we loved them, we watched them carefully."
Kestrel half laughed. "They're watching Willow."
"No, they're sure she's rabid." He turned to Otter. "They're watching you."
Otter trailed along the edge of the sunflower row, away from the lodges and the open space of the palm. She could feel the eyes of the pinch on her back. "I didn't do anything," she said. "It's only that I'm—I'm—" This girl is a binder born. "—her daughter."
Slowly they walked away from the lodges of Westmost, as if they were deer browsing. As if they were not afraid. Kestrel put out her hand and skimmed it along the top of the grass as the meadow became wilder.
"What happened?" said Cricket again. "Have mercy on a storyteller: Tell me a story."
"It's not just a story," said Otter. Something broke out of her that sounded like anger.
"They never are," said Cricket softly.
"Oh my gosh, this book is so good." (A phrase I often utter to him, unsurprisingly.)
He nodded appreciatively as he continued to make his sandwich. (A gesture he often does toward me, and YES he makes his own sandwiches.)
"It's like... like Laini Taylor and Victoria Schwab -- two of my favorite authors -- combined!"
"Oh, wow," he said, tying the bag of bread closed. "That's good!"
"No... it's like Laini Taylor, Victoria Schwab, Neil Gaiman -- and Diana Wynne Jones -- combined! It is so GOOD!"
He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded again, letting me know that he was excited for me.
(I snuck in another chapter while I waited for him to finish eating. I couldn't help myself.)