The Washington Post
The Snow Childby Eowyn Ivey
Alaska, 1920: a brutal place to homestead, and especially tough for recent arrivals Jack and Mabel. Childless, they are drifting aparthe breaking under the weight of the work of the farm; she crumbling from loneliness and despair. In a moment of levity during the season's first snowfall, they build a child out of snow. The next morning the snow child is gonebut they glimpse a young, blonde-haired girl running through the trees. This little girl, who calls herself Faina, seems to be a child of the woods. She hunts with a red fox at her side, skims lightly across the snow, and somehow survives alone in the Alaskan wilderness. As Jack and Mabel struggle to understand this child who could have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, they come to love her as their own daughter. But in this beautiful, violent place things are rarely as they appear, and what they eventually learn about Faina will transform all of them.
The Washington Post
"The real magic of The Snow Child is that it's never as simple as it seems, never moves exactly in the direction you think it must...Sad as the story often is, with its haunting fairy-tale ending, what I remember best are the scenes of unabashed joy."Ron Charles, Washington Post
"Full of wonder, longing, hope, pain, and beauty...The Snow Child will keep you frozen in its spell until the very last word."Sarah Willis, Cleveland Plain Dealer
"Ivey sets up the two most powerful forces in any story: fear on the one hand, potential for the miraculous on the other."Susan Salter Reynolds, Newsday
"A magical yet brutally realistic tale."Karen Holt, O, the Oprah Magazine
"Bewitching."Meganne Fabrega, Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Captivating."San Francisco Chronicle
"Spellbinding."Gill Hudson, Reader's Digest
"If Willa Cather and Gabriel Garcia Marquez had collaborated on a book, THE SNOW CHILD would be it. It is a remarkable accomplishment -- a combination of the most delicate, ethereal, fairytale magic and the harsh realities of homesteading in the Alaskan wilderness in 1918. Stunningly conceived, beautifully told, this story has the intricate fragility of a snowflake and the natural honesty of the dirt beneath your feet, the unnerving reality of a dream in the night. It fascinates, it touches the heart. It gallops along even as it takes time to pause at the wonder of life and the world in which we live. And it will stir you up and stay with you for a long, long time."Robert Goolrick, New York Times bestselling author of A Reliable Wife
"THE SNOW CHILD is enchanting from beginning to end. Ivey breathes life into an old tale and makes it as fresh as the season' s first snow. Simply lovely."Keith Donohue, New York Times bestselling author of The Stolen Child
"A transporting tale . . . an amazing achievement."Sena Jeter Naslund, New York Times bestselling author of Ahab's Wife
"THE SNOW CHILD is a vivid story of isolation and hope on the Alaska frontier, a narrative of struggle with the elements and the elemental conflict between one's inner demons and dreams, and the miracle of human connection and community in a spectacular, dangerous world. You will not soon forget this story of learning to accept the gifts that fate and love can bring." Robert Morgan, author of Gap Creek
"Eowyn Ivey's exquisite debut transports the reader away to a world almost out of time, into a fairytale destined to both chill and delight. Her portrayal of an untamed Alaska is so detailed you can feel the snowflakes on your own eyelashes, even as her characters' desperate quest for, and ultimate redemption by, love will warm your heart."Melanie Benjamin, author of Alice I Have Been
"Magical, yes, but THE SNOW CHILD is also satisfyingly realistic in its depiction of 1920s homestead-era Alaska and the people who settled there, including an older couple bound together by resilient love. Eowyn Ivey's poignant debut novel grabbed me from the very first pages and made me wish we had more genre-defying Alaska novels like this one. Inspired by a fairy tale, it nonetheless contains more depth and truth than so many books set in this land of extremes."Andromeda Romano-Lax, author of The Spanish Bow
"This book is real magic, shot through from cover to cover with the cold, wild beauty of the Alaskan frontier. Eowyn Ivey writes with all the captivating delicacy of the snowfalls she so beautifully describes."Ali Shaw, author of The Girl with Glass Feet
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Read an Excerpt
Wolverine River, Alaska 1920
Mabel had known there would be silence. That was the point after all. No infants cooing or wailing. No neighbor children playfully hollering down the lane. No pad of small feet on wooden stairs worn smooth by generations, or clackety-clack of toys along the kitchen floor. All those sounds of her failure and regret would be left behind and in their place there would be silence.
She had imagined that in the Alaska wilderness silence would be peaceful, like snow falling at night, air filled with promise but no sound, but that was not what she found. Instead, when she swept the plank floor, the broom bristles scritched like some sharp-toothed shrew nibbling at her heart. When she washed the dishes, plates and bowls clattered as if they were breaking to pieces. The only sound not of her making was a sudden "caw, cawww" from outside. Mabel wrung dishwater from a rag and looked out the kitchen window in time to see a raven flapping its way from one leafless birch tree to another. No children chasing each other through autumn leaves, calling each other's names. Not even a solitary child on a swing.
There had been the one. A tiny thing, born still and silent. Ten years past, but even now she found herself returning to the birth to touch Jack's arm, stop him, reach out. She should have. She should have cupped the baby's head in the palm of her hand and snipped a few of its tiny hairs to keep in a locket at her throat. She should have looked into its small face and known if it was a boy or a girl, and then stood beside Jack as he buried it in the Pennsylvania winter ground. She should have marked its grave. She should have allowed herself that grief.
It was a child after all, although it looked more like a fairy changeling. Pinched face, tiny jaw, ears that came to narrow points; that much she had seen and wept over because she knew she could have loved it still.
Mabel was too long at the window. The raven had since flown away above the treetops. The sun had slipped behind a mountain, and the light had fallen flat. The branches were bare, the grass yellowed gray. Not a single snowflake. It was as if everything fine and glittering had been ground from the world and swept away as dust.
November was here, and it frightened her because she knew what it brought -- cold upon the valley like a coming death, glacial wind through the cracks between the cabin logs. But most of all, darkness. Darkness so complete even the pale-lit hours would be choked.
She entered last winter blind, not knowing what to expect in this new, hard land. Now she knew. By December, the sun would rise just before noon and skirt the mountaintops for a few hours of twilight before sinking again. Mabel would move in and out of sleep as she sat in a chair beside the woodstove. She would not pick up any of her favorite books; the pages would be lifeless. She would not draw; what would there be to capture in her sketchbook? Dull skies, shadowy corners. It would become harder and harder to leave the warm bed each morning. She would stumble about in a walking sleep, scrape together meals and drape wet laundry around the cabin. Jack would struggle to keep the animals alive. The days would run together, winter's stranglehold tightening.
All her life she had believed in something more, in the mystery that shape shifted at the edge of her senses. It was the flutter of moth wings on glass and the promise of river nymphs in the dappled creek beds. It was the smell of oak trees on the summer evening she fell in love, and the way dawn threw itself across the cow pond and turned the water to light.
Mabel could not remember the last time she caught such a flicker.
She gathered Jack's work shirts and sat down to mend. She tried not to look out the window. If only it would snow. Maybe that white would soften the bleak lines. Perhaps it could catch some bit of light and mirror it back into her eyes.
But all afternoon the clouds remained high and thin, the wind ripped dead leaves from the tree branches, and daylight guttered like a candle. Mabel thought of the terrible cold that would trap her alone in the cabin, and her breathing turned shallow and rapid. She stood to pace the floor. She silently repeated to herself, "I cannot do this. I cannot do this."
There were guns in the house, and she had thought of them before. The hunting rifle beside the bookshelf, the shotgun over the doorway, and a revolver that Jack kept in the top drawer of the bureau. She had never fired them, but that wasn't what kept her. It was the violence and unseemly gore of such an act, and the blame that would inevitably come in its wake. People would say she was weak in mind or spirit, or Jack was a poor husband. And what of Jack? What shame and anger would he harbor?
The river, though -- that was something different. Not a soul to blame, not even her own. It would be an unfortunate misstep. People would say, if only she had known the ice wouldn't hold her. If only she'd known its dangers.
Afternoon descended into dusk, and Mabel left the window to light an oil lamp on the table, as if she was going to prepare dinner and wait for Jack's return, as if this day would end like any other, but in her mind she was already following the trail through the woods to the Wolverine River. The lamp burned as she laced her leather boots, put her winter coat on over her house dress, and stepped outside. Her hands and head were bare to the wind.
As she strode through the naked trees, she was both exhilarated and numb, chilled by the clarity of her purpose. She did not think of what she left behind, but only of this moment in a sort of black-and-white precision. The hard clunk of her boot soles on the frozen ground. The icy breeze in her hair. Her expansive breaths. She was strangely powerful and sure.
She emerged from the forest and stood on the bank of the frozen river. It was calm except for the occasional gust of wind that ruffled her skirt against her wool stockings and swirled silt across the ice. Farther upstream, the glacier-fed valley stretched half a mile wide with gravel bars, driftwood, and braided shallow channels, but here the river ran narrow and deep. Mabel could see the shale cliff on the far side that fell off into black ice. Below, the water would be well over her head.
The cliff became her destination, though she expected to drown before she reached it. The ice was only an inch or two thick, and even in the depths of winter no one would dare to cross at this treacherous point.
At first her boots caught on boulders, frozen in the sandy shore, but then she staggered down the steep bank and crossed a small rivulet where the ice was thin and brittle. She broke through every other step to hit dry sand beneath. Then she crossed a barren patch of gravel and hiked up her skirt to climb over a driftwood log, faded by the elements.
When she reached the river's main channel, where water still coursed down the valley, the ice was no longer brittle and white but instead black and pliant, as if it had only solidified the night before. She slid her boot soles onto the surface and nearly laughed at her own absurdity ? to be careful to not slip even as you prayed to fall through. She was several feet from safe ground when she allowed herself to stop and peer down between her boots. It was like walking on glass. She could see granite rocks beneath the moving, deep-turquoise water. A yellow leaf floated by, and she imagined herself swept alongside it and briefly looking up through the remarkably clear ice. Before the water filled her lungs, would she be able to see the sky?
Here and there, bubbles as large as her hand were frozen in white circles, and in other places large cracks ran through. She wondered if the ice was weaker at those points, and if she should seek them out or avoid them. She set her shoulders, faced straight ahead, and walked without looking down.
When she crossed the heart of the channel, the cliff face was almost within arm's length, the water was a muffled roar, and the ice gave slightly beneath her. Against her will, she glanced down, and what she saw terrified her. No bubbles. No cracks. Only bottomless black, as if the night sky were under her boots. She shifted her weight to take another step toward the cliff, and there was a crack, a deep, resonant pop like a massive Champagne bottle being uncorked. Mabel spread her feet wide and her knees trembled. She waited for the ice to give way, for her body to plunge into the river. Then there was another thud, a whoompf, and she was certain the ice slumped beneath her boots, but in millimeters, nearly imperceptible except for the awful sound.
She waited and breathed, and the water didn't come. The ice bore her. She slid her feet slowly, first one, then the other, again and again, a slow shuffle until she stood where ice met cliff. Never had she imagined she would be here, on the far side of the river. She put her bare palms to the cold shale, then the entire length of her body, until her forehead was pressed to it and she could smell the stone, ancient and damp.
Its cold began to seep into her, so she lowered her arms to her sides, turned from the cliff face, and began the journey back the way she had come. Her heart thudded in her throat. Her legs were unsteady. She wondered if now, as she made her way home, she would break through to her death.
As she neared solid ground, she wanted to run to it, but the ice was too slick beneath her boots, so she slid as if ice-skating and then stumbled up the bank. She gasped and coughed and nearly laughed, as if it had all been a lark, a mad dare. Then she bent with her hands on her thighs and tried to steady herself.
When she slowly straightened, the land was vast before her. The sun was setting down the river, casting a cold pink hue along the white-capped mountains that framed both sides of the valley. Upriver, the willow shrubs and gravel bars, the spruce forests and low-lying poplar stands, swelled to the mountains in a steely blue. No fields or fences, homes or roads; not a single living soul as far as she could see in any direction. Only wilderness.
It was beautiful, Mabel knew, but it was a beauty that ripped you open and scoured you clean so that you were left helpless and exposed, if you lived at all. She turned her back to the river and walked home.
The lantern was still burning when she returned; the kitchen window glowed as she approached the cabin, and when she opened the door and stepped inside, warmth and flickering light overcame her. Everything was unfamiliar and golden. She had not expected to return here.
It seemed she was gone hours, but it was not yet six in the evening and Jack hadn't come in. She took off her coat and went to the woodstove, letting the heat sink painfully into her hands and feet. Once she could open and close her fingers, she took out pots and pans, marveling that she was fulfilling such a mundane task. She added wood to the stove, cooked dinner, and then sat straight-backed at the rough-hewn table with her hands folded in her lap. A few minutes later, Jack came through the door, stomped his boots and dusted straw from his wool coat.
Certain he would somehow know what she had survived, she watched and waited. He rinsed his hands in the basin, sat across from her and lowered his head. "Bless this food, Lord," he mumbled. "Amen."
She set a potato on each of their plates beside boiled carrots and red beans. Neither of them spoke. There was only the scraping of knives and forks against plates. She tried to eat, but could not force herself. Words lay like granite boulders in her lap and when at last she spoke, each one was heavy and burdensome and all she could manage. "I went to the river today," she said.
He did not lift his head. She waited for him to ask why she would do such a thing. Maybe then she could tell him.
Jack jabbed at the carrots with his fork, then swabbed the beans with a slice of bread. He gave no indication he had heard her.
"It's frozen all the way across to the cliffs," she said in a near whisper. Her eyes down, her breath shallow, she waited, but there was only Jack's chewing, his fork at his plate.
Mabel looked up and saw his wind-burned hands and frayed cuffs, the crow's feet that spread at the corners of his down-turned eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had touched that skin, and the thought ached like loneliness in her chest. Then she spotted a few strands of silver in his reddish-brown beard. When had they appeared? So he, too, was graying. Each of them fading away without the other's notice.
She pushed food here and there with her fork. She glanced at the lantern hanging from the ceiling and saw shards of light stream from it. She was crying. For a moment she sat and let the tears run down either side of her nose until they were at the corners of her mouth. Jack continued to eat, his head down. She stood and took her plate of food to the small kitchen counter. Turned away, she wiped her face with her apron.
"That ice isn't solid yet," Jack said from the table. "Best to stay off of it."
Mabel swallowed, cleared her throat.
"Yes. Of course," she said.
She busied herself at the counter until her eyes were clear, then returned to the table and ladled more carrots onto Jack's plate.
"How is the new field?" she asked. "It's coming." He forked potato into his mouth, then wiped it with the back of his hand.
"I'll get the rest of the trees cut and skidded in the next few days," he said. "Then I'll burn some more of the stumps out."
"Would you like me to come and help? I could tend the stump fires for you."
"No. I'll manage."
That night in bed, she had a heightened awareness of him, of the scent of straw and spruce boughs in his hair and beard, the weight of him on the creaky bed, the sound of his slow, tired breaths. He lay on his side, turned away from her. She reached out, thinking to touch his shoulder, but instead lowered her arm and lay in the darkness staring at his back.
"Do you think we'll make it through winter?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Perhaps he was asleep. She rolled away and faced the log wall.
When he spoke, Mabel wondered if it was grogginess or emotion that made his voice gravelly.
"We don't have much choice, do we?"
Meet the Author
Eowyn LeMay Ivey was raised in Alaska and continues to live there with her husband and two daughters. She received her BA in journalism and minor in creative writing through the honors program at Western Washington University, studied creative nonfiction at the University of Alaska Anchorage graduate program, and worked for nearly 10 years as an award-winning reporter at the Frontiersman newspaper. This is her first novel.
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It's really gratifying to come across a book that evokes the senses to such a degree that its flavor is brought to the palate. Such is the case with Eowyn Ivey's debut novel, The Show Child. Infused with aspects of pine boughs, mountain herbs, woolen mittens and inspired by happenstance, it breathes new life into an old Russian children's tale Ivey stumbled upon in her bookstore. We come to know of aging Jack and Mabel through their childless sorrows, playful intense love and survivalist fortitude all cruxing on a belief in dreams and a touch of magic. Through imagery spun with such crispness as to leave a skiff of snow on your heart and the bite of cold wilderness air in your lungs, it's nearly impossible not to fall deeply into the story of Faina and her enchanted sudden appearance. And I must say, the skill with which Ivey works your emotions, ebbing and flowing like tides with each of Faina's disappearances, belies the fact this is her first book. I found myself really believing Jack, Mabel, Faina and the cast of supportive neighbors--pragmatic George, boisterous Esther and their helpful wide-eyed son Garrett--existed somewhere, somehow. I can only leave you with this: when you bring this book into your world, carve out time to give it your full attention. Then make a space for it on your shelf of favorites, it belongs there.
Expertly crafted, beautifully written -- a tale I will long remember, wish the story could go on forever
This was a wonderful story. Could not put it down and was sad when it ended. It was like taking a trip to the wildernes of Alaska.
This is one book worth marking as a to-read for 2012! Jack and Mabel married a little on the late side and experienced a miscarriage. The sad couple moved to Alaska and tried to bury their unhappiness over their inability to have children. One night, when the two are particularly sad and feeling a little frivolous, they build a snow girl, complete with all of the fixings. The next day, the snow child is gone and footprints are left in her place. The couple do think that this is a little odd, but they must always focus on their own jobs and the event begins to drift from their minds. When the two are going about their business, they begin to see these glimpses of a girl in the woods. It is interesting for the reader to try to decide whether there may be some magic or if the whole event is just a coincidence, the author leaves this up to the readers' imagination. The author manages to convince the reader that the girl is wild, free, and slightly lonely. The young girl, Faina, is certainly a strong main character, but she feels more like a wisp of a character at times-many scenes do not even require her presence, but the reader remembers her nonetheless. The other characters help pull the novel together and move the plot along, they are fun to get to know. The setting was richly described, the author is very good at painting a picture in the readers' mind. The mystery of Faina will remain in the readers' mind long after finishing this book, the mark of a good author is to leave the reader thinking about his/her book long after finishing it. The shift between the real and the magical is barely there, but the reader is always aware of the dividing line, but likely will vacillate between either side. This book is highly recommended to young adult/teen readers.
Vividly described and set in the 1920's, this story’s magic transcends imagination while still giving a realistic look at how hard “homesteading” in Alaska was. This book is jammed full of love, loss, suffering, trust, but also joy. Jack and Mabel need a change. They are missing the child they lost and it is too painful to be around all the bad memories. They make a life-changing decision to move and try to make a life in Alaska away from their tragedy. After a heavy, wet snow they build a child out of snow. The next morning the snow child is gone but a trail of tiny footsteps lead into the woods. For weeks they catch glimpses of something moving in the woods but both of them think they are imagining things. Then a little girl shows up at their door. The beautiful tale begins. The story doesn't drag anywhere and will hold your attention on every page of this heart-warming novel.
A beautiful story that I will remember and choose to read again and again. The perfect book for a snowy afternoon in front of the fireplace.
I loved this book! I truly think this will be a classic. Going to buy the real touchable book to have on my real book shelf. One of the top 10 on my all time fav. List..
What a lovely story full of so many emotions. Is Faina a snow fairy or a real child? The author allows you to decide. She fills her story with lots of suspense too, which makes it hard to put the book down. In fact, I felt a sense of sadness when I finished cause I wasn't for it to end.
Loved the story. Authors descriptions of the scenes put me right there in Alaska with the characters. Recommend highly.
I really enjoyed this book. It was very usual but kept my attention the entire time. It is sweet & fairytale-like but at the same time has some wonderful lessons about life & family. Highly recommend!
I thoroughly enjoyed this exceptional tale. Hands down,the best book I've read in a while. Looking forward to future books by Eowyn Ivey, whose name will be renowned after this stunning debut.
This book was very well written, offering the reader a vivid visualization of a rugged Alaska in the 1920's. I could actually feel the cold dampness of the snow and frigid temperatures as the snow child came to life and drifted in and out of Jack and Mabel's lives. Eowyn Ivey described each character with such detail and clarity, that I felt as though I knew them and shared in their struggles with nature, life and the unforgiving landscape of their homestead. George and Esther, along with their boys, were the neighbors who befriended Jack and Mabel and offered such a rich and colorful portrait of what true friendship really is, and is so rare to find. I truly felt as though I got to know the characters in this book and I didn't want it to end. It was such a bittersweet journey of life, love and the undying devotion of people who are intertwined. I hope Eowyn Ivey writes more inspiring books like this one.
A truly beautiful book. It touched my heart in so many ways.
What a beautiful tale of love, friendship and adventure in the wild Alaskan frontier. Jack and Mabel a childless middle aged couple left it all behind in the east, including family and friends. Mabel wanted more from life than family get together's and gossip, she wanted to connect with her husband. Although we do not get much detail as to how Jack feels about this move Alaska. There they are, a lonely couple who has only become more estranged amongst themselves. Leading Mabel at times with feelings of desperation at even attempting a conversation with Jack. Mabel worries she has made the wrong choice coming to this wild expansive cold climate that has now left her and Jack barely able to make it through their first winter. But then something magical happens. What are first only footprints in the snow later turn out to be a child. But is she real, a life flesh and blood child, or just a spirit -just a dream? This child named Faina turns the couples life around in ways they could never have imagined. If you believe in fairy tales, if you believe in miracles, if you believe in the innocent love of a child, than this story is for you. I was left breathless at the depictions in this story. The beautiful snow covered mountains, the frozen ponds, the wild flowers, the trees. The hunting and gathering, the way of life in this unforgiving wilderness brings not only changes emotionally, but understanding. The author Ivey brings forth orientation, in a way that anyone who does not live in this type of desolate, expansive, unrelenting climate, feels as if they are truly there. Running through the snow, watching the frozen tundra melt and become a muddy muck in the spring, picking berries and setting traps for wild game. The Snow Child is one of those books one cherishes, sets on the bookshelf and reads year after year, by the crackling of a fireplace. A book one does not lend, for the fear it may never be returned.
I finished reading The Snow Child a few days ago, and I'm still thinking about it. I loved it. It's sad and sweet and magical and lush. This story pulls at your heart in so many ways. The author does an amazing job of developing the characters so that you get to know each of them, and grow to love them. I didn't want the book to end, to say good-bye. Ivey' description of the 1920s Alaska wilderness is also amazing and the novel is worth the read for that alone.
This was a great book to read from beginning to end. I was sad the story had to end, it was that good! I loved the way she incorporated an old fairy tale into it. She also had great characters you could connect with. This book won't disappoint.
One of those books that will leave u daydreaming long after the book is read. Book is full of vivid descriptions, its like being there in person! Such a great read! Loved it!
My main thoughts on this book: - The novel has a sweet, almost fairytale-like plot but is still grounded. - It is very well written. The author took me there emotionally and physically. This is one of very few books that kept me reaching for the kleenex out of sadness at times and joy at others. - My only complaint is that it did feel slow at times. It's a fairly long read, and I had to push myself through the middle.
Wow. That was really good. Keep going!
Is this based on middle earth? As in te hobbig, lord of the rings, and sermillion? It's fantastic!
I entered the hut as quietly as possible, but there's really no way to avoid your mother when she's actually sitting in a rocking chair and staring at the door. Even if you are half-elven. With a sigh, I resigned myself to a scolding. My mother is a tall women with curly auborn hair and a pretty but definitely tired face.<br>"Arya, where were you?" She demanded, arms crossed and eye glaring. "I've told you more times than I can count to stay inside at night."<br>I mimicked her posture. "Seriously, I was only outside for 20 minutes." I replied. Suddenly unable to contain my enthusiasm any longer, I grabbed my mother's hand and pulled her over to a window. "Mother, it's so beautiful tonight! You can just feel how alive the forest is. The leaves whispered their secrets to the wind, the grass was soft under my feet, the blossoms perfumed the air, the breeze swept back my hair..." I traile off as I became aware of my mother's blank stare.<br>"No wonder your hair's tangled." My mother remarked. She sighed and ran her fingers through my hair, just like she used to when I was a child. "All of this... wandering of yours, well, it needs to stop. You're almost of marrying age, and you should be focusing on that."<br>She smiled at me, but when I kept my gaze fixed sullenly on the ground, she frowned and bustled into the kitchen. I stalked over to my bed, changed, and flopped down. My shoulders and back were aching from the days work of digging up potatoes. The bruise on my jaw from Ron, an older village boy and his cronies, hurt like mad. I don't really blame him for it, because I started the actual fight, but that doesn't mean I don't hate him. I despise most of the villagers anyway. All they're concerned about is how their crops are doing or who they will marry. I want... skies, I don't know what I bleeding want. But there has to be more to life than this.<br>"Arya?" A soft voice called from the other side of the room.<br>A flood of warmth swept through me at the sound of my five year old half-brother's voice. "What is it, Harold?" I asked.<br>"You forgot to say good-night!" He announced in an accusing tone.<br>"All right, Harold." I whisper, smiling. "Good-night." As I closed my eyes, his persistent voice continued.<br>"Father will be back soon." He said. "Mother said his trading party should be home anyday now. I can't wait.!"<br>A shiver of dread went down my spine at the mention of my stepfather, Frederick. As far as I could, although I'd only met him inbetween his frequent trading trips, Frederick was a violent man who definitely did not enjoy my company. "That's great, Harold." I replied, trying to keep the lie out of my voice. "Now go to bed." Harold let out a contented sigh and then closed his eyes. Right before I slipped into sleep, I couldn't help but wonder if I was ever that innocent or free. If I was, I honestly can't remember it.<p>thanks for reading! Please leave a response.<br>~Shieldmaiden of Rohan
This book combines a retelling of the medieval fairy tale “The Snow Child”, with an early twentieth-century Alaskan setting. Mabel and Jack are building a new home on their homestead, the work is hard but fulfilling, and the only thing that prevents their happiness is the previous loss of a child. A little girl appears, hovering between real and supernatural, and they fall in love with her. A modern setting for retelling of a fairy tale is not unique, but the wilderness homesteaders setting certainly is! I would have enjoyed the book just because of the whole “working the land” and building up a home, but I LOVE new versions of fairy tales! Very well-written, characters are very well developed. The book had me spellbound the entire time. Mabel and Jack's love and longing for the child, regardless of reality, are superbly done. Really enjoyed this book!
Eowyn Ivey's THE SNOW CHILD was a wonderful blend of legend and realism . . . beautiful, evocative, satisfying.
Loved every minute
Gorgeous writing, harshly beautiful subject matter, flirts knowingly with magical realism. A lovely, absorbing read.