The
Bear and the Nightingale
by
Katherine Arden
For Readers:
If ever a place and time begged for fairytales, it’s mid-evil
Northern Russia. In The Bear and the
Nightingale, American author Katherine Arden makes use of both retelling a
very old tale. The result is stunning.
“Peter Vladimirovich,”
Arden writes, “was a great lord: a boyer,
with rich lands and many men to do his
bidding.”
His beloved wife, Marina, is very ill but determined to
carry her last child to term, maternal instinct telling her that this child
will inherit the talents of her grandmother, a woman who can see into the
future and communicate with animals.
The beauty of the story after the birth of Vasilisa, or
Vasya as her family calls her, is the description of her rearing, the frazzled
efforts of her loving family to keep track of her meanderings and protect the
headstrong girl. And oh! the winters––frostbite, chilblains, hunger as winter
stores diminish, the rub of snow beneath sodden woolen boots, and window
openings set with blocks of ice to keep out the cold wind. Eventually, worse
challenges appear. An evil demon and a misguided priest endanger Vasya and her
village, forcing her to gather her courage and confront the danger from the
back of a mighty and magical stallion.
Texas born Arden’s knowledge of Russian folklore pays off in
the authentic feel of the novel. She lived in Russia for a time and studied
Russian and French literature at Middlebury College in Vermont. It’s always fun
to analyze a writer and try to figure out the secret to their success. There
are plenty of clues that she’s not so very unlike Vasya: intelligent, creative,
independent, and now, successful.
Del Ray, an imprint of Random House
ISBN: 9781101885932
ISBN: 9781101885932
ISBN: 9781101885949 (e-book)
For Writers:
Katherine Arden’s use of descriptive sentences shines, as
in this excerpt:
It was late winter in
Northern Rus', the air sullen with wet that was neither rain nor snow. The
brilliant February landscape had given way to the dreary gray of March, and the
household of Pyotr Vladimirovich were all sniffling from the damp and thin from
six weeks' fasting on black bread and fermented cabbage. But no one was
thinking of chilblains or runny noses, or even, wistfully of porridge and roast
meats, for Dunya was to tell a story.
In that one paragraph, we are introduced to clues about the
era (porridge, roasted meats, chilblains, fasting). We can guess that many of
Pyotr’s household are children, and that Dunya is not only the storyteller, but
likely beloved. A picture forms in our minds of “sullen” weather, sniffling
children with empty stomachs—and yet their considerable discomfort doesn’t
lessen their expectation of enjoying a good story. I don't know about you, but
I was intrigued.