Madsi the True

by S. J. Taylor

Overview

In this “warmhearted” (Kirkus Reviews) fantasy adventure set in 1700s Norway perfect for fans of Frozen and Rick Riordan’s Magnus Chase series, a girl and her unlikely companions brave the wilds and encounter legendary creatures as they seek to rescue her sister from the Northern Lights.

Madsi has always loved the stories that her clever, strong-willed sister, Lisbet, told her late at night in their cabin. Madsi never expected Lisbet to become one of those tales. But last year, her sister disappeared in the night, snatched away by the Northern Lights.

This year when the Lights appear in the sky, Madsi begs them to free her sister—and a girl falls to earth right in front of her. But it’s not Lisbet. This girl’s name is Torin, and she demands that Madsi take her to a witch who can put her back into the Lights, where she went by choice. Madsi doesn’t know what to believe—but if she takes Torin to the witch’s mountain, maybe she can get Lisbet back. They set off, joined by Espen, an annoying (but surprisingly helpful) boy from Madsi’s village.

Madsi has never thought of herself as brave, but as they endure the wilds and face monsters she’s only heard about in tales, she finds unexpected strength. Can she also find the truth of what happened to her sister?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781665938822
Publisher:	Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Publication date:	09/17/2024
Pages:	304
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x 1.20(d)
Age Range:	8 - 12 Years

About the Author

S. J. Taylor writes stories steeped in folklore and magic, where young protagonists tackle big adventures and bigger questions. Although she grew up in Arizona’s desert, her heart yearns for the Nordic lands. When she’s not writing, she can often be found knitting yet another sweater (sweater weather is the best weather). She lives with her family in Connecticut. Visit her at SJTaylorbooks.com.

Read an Excerpt

Madsi’s 1st

When your family refuses to talk about something sad, that something grows and grows until it’s the biggest thing in the room.

Griddle-cake days are the best ones of the year. My older sister, Lisbet, and I would gobble down those cakes faster than the neighbor’s wolf dogs snapping at table scraps. But if Lisbet were here now, she’d say that these ones I have sizzling—all right, scorching—in the pan look like something those dogs chewed up and spat back out.

I’m trying. But no matter what I do, every cake I pour into the three-legged iron pan burns. With the little shovel, I scrape more hot embers from the fireplace onto the stone hearth, then set the pan back over them. The next batch is runny inside when I cut into them. Then, after one cake finally cooks through properly—betrayal! When I take a bite, it’s as bitter as medicine.

“Goat droppings!” I hiss, then stomp toward the kitchen table, reaching for the sugar and flour sacks to make another batch.

“Madsi, you’ve used enough of my sugar,” Mamma calls from the other side of the log cabin. She’s sitting by one of our two windows, using the last of the daylight to finish a skirt for me. The one I’m wearing has started showing more of my ankles than is proper. And this new skirt has long stripes of blue and yellow—my favorite colors. When I saw that fabric, I gave Mamma the biggest hug.

But right now, I wish she’d kneel here at the hearth and help me make more griddle cakes.

“These cakes need to be perfect,” I say while measuring barley flour along with a little sugar, just enough for flavor, into a wooden bowl.

Mamma pauses sewing. Purses her lips at me. “You’ll eat them however they turn out. We can’t waste food.”

“The griddle cakes aren’t for me,” I say.

Today is my sister Lisbet’s fifteenth birthday. And birthdays mean griddle cakes. I don’t want today to be different... even though everything is.

Mamma puts down my skirt on her lap. Draws a long breath through her nose and lets it out through her mouth. I wait for her to look back at me, but she doesn’t lift her head. Only stares at my skirt, squeezing that blue-yellow wool in her hands.

I peer toward Pappa, slouched in the far corner of the cabin beside our other window, hoping he might say something to convince her.

In our tiny cabin, he has to hear us. Small spaces are easier to keep warm, he always says. But they don’t keep many secrets. He doesn’t look up, though, or even glance toward us. He’s slumped in his chair beside the carving tools dangling from pegs in the log walls. Those tools are getting dusty. Pappa’s looking dusty. He sits with his whittling knife in hand—the only tool he picks up anymore—but he’s not carving. He just hacks off slivers from the wood in his hands until he’s left with nothing.

That’s all I’ll have, too, if I don’t get some decent griddle cakes out of this pan.

Mamma opens her mouth, but no words come. I know what she’d say anyway: Lisbet isn’t here anymore.

It’s all wrong, this day coming without my sister. I kept hoping I’d wake to find her snuggled beside me in our cozy box bed built into the log wall. But if I make these griddle cakes—she’ll know it, right? She’ll see that I haven’t forgotten her.

She’ll see that I’m sorry.

“Please, Mamma.” I step around the kitchen table toward her. Beneath my thick socks, the floorboards groan and moan like I’m the biggest bother. But I keep walking to Mamma’s side.

“Be a good girl, Madsi.” Mamma avoids my eyes again. I’m not sure if that’s because she’s about to cry or yell. She never did much of either until... well, a few months before Lisbet disappeared.

I should listen to Mamma. Should go back to the hearth, scrub out the three-legged iron pan, and warm up mutton and pickled cabbage for supper. If this were any other day, I’d do just that. Be Mamma’s Good Girl, like she wants.

But that isn’t today’s story.

“Mamma.” I reach out a hand, touch her shoulder.

She doesn’t look at me. Only hunches over the almost-finished skirt, brushing a fingertip along the deep blue and yellow crossing stripes—so, so pretty, like spring has come early. And Mamma looks like the queen of spring, with her golden hair in a perfect braid crown, all glowing in the amber sunlight leaking through the window. Pappa used to stick flowers in her braid crown during spring and summer. Fire-colored leaves during autumn. And in winter, sometimes he’d stick icicles in her hair, then spin her around until she laughed.

Will we ever be happy like that again?

“Mamma. Please.” I let go of her shoulder and reach for her hands clutching that skirt.

She stands so quickly, I stumble back. “We need water. From the well,” she says. “Before the sun is gone.” Dropping my beautiful new skirt onto the chair, she slips on her sheepskin boots by the door, then snatches the wooden bucket with the rope handle. I barely have time to throw her green wool shawl over her shoulders before she’s gone.

Pappa glances up as the door thumps shut, then turns back to the wood he’s carving—if it can be called that. We used to look for stories hidden in the wood, me and him. Sometimes he’d start with a plan in mind—an item one of our neighbors had asked him to make. Usually, though, he’d let the wood guide him, carving and whittling with long pauses in between.

“There’s a story hidden inside every piece of wood,” he’d tell me. “Our job is to find that story, help the wood become what it was meant to be.”

All I know right now is that our flour and sugar are meant to become griddle cakes. But when I turn back to the table and pick up a wooden spoon, I realize we haven’t got any eggs left. Going without them will only ruin these cakes, too.

After tying on my sheepskin boots and wrapping my shawl around me—it’s getting thin in places, but I love it for the tiny gray rabbits woven on each corner—I hurry outside. Maybe one of our neighbors has eggs to share.

Editorial Reviews

2024-07-04
Three young people set out on a quest through enchanted woods.

In 1750 Norway there are a lot of superstitions about the Northern Lights: Grown-ups say that standing under them will burn your hair off or that they’ll “grab you and drag you right up into the sky.” A year ago Madsi’s older sister, Lisbet, went to see the Lights and never returned. Madsi, who’s desperately missing her and feeling guilt-ridden about the argument they had the night she left, sneaks out to ask the Lights to give Lisbet back. But the Lights respond by sending another girl down from the sky instead. Torin has glowing hair the same brilliant green as the Lights, and she very much wants to return to them. So, joined by Espen, the annoying boy who lives next door to Madsi, the girls set off to ask the witch of Innerdalstårnet mountain for help. Along the way, they encounter monsters and enchanted creatures including giants, trolls, a gnomelike nisse, the undead gjenganger, and a beautiful huldra. They also befriend a nomadic, reindeer-herding brother and sister, Dánel and Ruvsá, who are Indigenous Sámi people. The book brings 18th-century Norway to life, immersing readers in the folkloric setting. Over the course of the journey, each character learns to reframe stories they’ve long believed about themselves, gaining strength and letting go of guilt along the way. The bittersweet ending leaves room for hope.

A warmhearted historical adventure embedded in Nordic folklore.(Adventure. 8-12)

Kirkus Reviews

"Each chapter begins with a truth Madsi has gleaned from her journey, and the action-packed plot and cliff-hanger moments make the story compulsively readable. Madsi's adventure helps her uncover forgotten aspects of her world and encourages readers to tell stories and find the courage to speak their truth. With a strong-willed main character, sisterly bonds, and fantastical elements, this is a great pick for fans of Hilda and Frozen."

Booklist

"The book brings 18th-century Norway to life, immersing readers in the folkloric setting . . . A warmhearted historical adventure embedded in Nordic folklore."

Kirkus Reviews

"Bittersweet elements and loving but difficult family relationships will resonate with readers who know life isn’t a fairy tale. Pair with Kelly’s Lalani of the Distant Sea to highlight their shared focus on how stories shape lives—and the power that lies in how we tell our own stories."

Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books