Silver on the Tree, Susan Cooper

Silver on the Tree combines all the best of the other books of the sequence: the magic, the genuine moments of terror and alarm, the weaving of legends and the everyday, the mysteries that leave you to wonder, the sense of place… And more than any of the others it combines both sadness and joy; in that, it’s the most adult of the sequence.

I especially enjoy little touches like Bran getting to meet Owain Glyndŵr; one thing I did miss was Barney not having more of a reaction to actually meeting King Arthur who he’s idolised since before the first page of the first book. I can’t remember having noticed it before, but that jarred me, this time. Also, I remember someone mentioning to me how much it bothered them that this book plays into the betrayal of a woman theme (as does The Dark is Rising, in the form of Maggie Barnes, “a sweet face” to lure people into the Dark). Thinking about it this time, I see their point, even though the White Rider is otherwise ambiguously gendered. It’s as if women can somehow hide their allegiance to the Dark behind womanly charms, where the men are immediately picked out (Mr Mitothin doesn’t fool Will for a moment; Maggie Barnes, however, has to act wickedly to get him to realise, and “Blodwen Rowlands” fools John entirely until the very end).

We do have some great female characters in these books — the Lady and Jane, mainly, with Will’s sisters, mother and aunt and other such minor characters — but it’s a bit nasty that the alluring side of the Dark is pretty unambiguously female.

Still, that’s not enough to ruin the books, and nor is it suggested as something all women could/would do. It’s just something that may bother you, particularly if you forget how old these books are.

I think I’ve ended my reviews of this book with this quotation before, but it’s still true. The book ends with a call to arms to all of us, to stop relying on anyone else to change the world and know that we are, alone, responsible for our own choices.

“For Drake is no longer in his hammock, children, nor is Arthur somewhere sleeping, and you may not lie idly expecting the second coming of anybody now, because the world is yours and it is up to you.”

The Grey King, Susan Cooper

Normally, The Grey King would be my favourite of the five books that make up this sequence. Something about the setting in Wales, and Bran’s loneliness and arrogance, and of course the tie-in with Arthuriana, and the way that it begins to bring in some more moral ambiguity when John Rowlands questions the coldness at the heart of the Light. Somehow, I didn’t love it as much as usual this time — possibly because I’d just spent a lot of time debating the merits of Greenwitch with various people, and thus missed some of the stellar things about that book (more involvement of female characters, more mysteries like the various hauntings of Cornwall, contact with the Wild Magic) when reading this one, which is more straightforward in some ways. If you’ve read the series before, then there’s little mystery about who Bran is and what role he has to play.

Still, it’s a lovely book, with Susan Cooper’s usual understanding of people and lyrical way of describing things so that the sound of the words is an important part of the experience for me. The relationship between Owen and Bran, with that lovely section so near the end; the levels you can see, particularly depicting Owen and in the character of John; the touches of mystery there are like the issue of the Grey King himself — all of it is as wonderful as ever on what must be at least my tenth reread, and probably more than that.

And, of course, there’s Cafall — the courage and loyalty, and the heartbreak. That whole section brings a horrid lump to my throat every single time.

The Dark is Rising, Susan Cooper

This book has maybe one of my favourite ways of looking at England, the country and people:

“He saw one race after another come attacking his island country, bringing each time the malevolence of the Dark with them, wave after wave of ships rushing inexorably at the shores. Each wave of men in turn grew peaceful as it grew to know and love the land, so that the Light flourished again.”

It doesn’t quite work, I think: there’s the issue of colonialism, which was arguably wave after wave of the Dark coming out of our island (and the English, Welsh, Scottish and Irish have never yet sat perfectly comfortably together, there’s still colonialism at work there). And there’s, well, the BNP and the EDL, etc. But recognising that that is Britain’s identity — our genetic makeup, our language, our history — is something a lot of people forget. We can’t say “get out, foreigners”; most of us have ancestors from elsewhere, somewhere along the family tree.

I’ve loved The Dark is Rising a long time, so I doubt there’s anything new or critical I can say about it as a whole, but each time these small fragments of the narrative catch at me and make me think about them as I haven’t before. That was one of them; there are other snippets, like Will’s sudden understanding of the difference between a child’s fear and an adult’s fear (made up of understanding and care for others).

The Dark is Rising is, I think, one of those books that have a number of layers, and more so through each book. There’s a simple layer of plot, and then there’s all sorts of other stuff about understanding feelings and fears, and if you watch for it, some moral ambivalence. We’re seeing this world through Will, essentially, and he’s one of the Old Ones but he’s also a young boy, and in his horror at what Merriman has done to Hawkin, you can see a subtlety of dealing with the things the Light has done. And then Merriman turns around and shows his human face too, and just — I might, to some extent, be too willing to give these books wiggle room. Too willing to bring my own needs to the table and see the book in those terms. But I think that stuff is there — particularly as it comes up more in the person of John Rowlands in The Grey King and Silver on the Tree.

Over Sea, Under Stone, Susan Cooper

It’ll surprise no one who knows me that I’m rereading this set of books at this time of year: Over Sea, Under Stone is more of a summer book, I suppose, but the one most rooted in a particular time of year is The Dark is Rising, the second book, in winter. (The runner-up would be The Grey King, set in the autumn around Samhain.) So I imagine that a few more reviews of these books will be added to my total before the end of the year…

I read Over Sea, Under Stone in one go, this time. There are still a couple of things that bother me, aside from the Enid Blyton-esque tone of the boys-own-adventure stuff. Like, why would Merriman leave them alone up on top of the hill? Why wouldn’t he ask more questions about who is attacking them? Why —

But it’s probably best not to ask those questions of this book, the earliest and least subtle. There are many subtle touches which I love later in the sequence, but this book is decidedly less mature. Which is not to say that it doesn’t have some very powerful sections: the last two chapters have an unbearable build up of tension that gets to me even at twenty-four years old. Mostly, I love that the characters feel real, squabble and support each other and have fears and weaknesses like real kids, real siblings. Simon’s such a superior brat, but he’s the more real for it. Jane’s a little bit stereotyped, I think: she’s more easily frightened than the other two, carries around “practical” things like a roll of cotton (but no mention of a sewing kit of any kind?), isn’t interested in male pursuits like fishing and sailing, etc. But even that isn’t so bad — she’s not Blyton’s Anne or George, but something closer to a rounded individual.

(Has anyone written an essay where each member of the Famous Five reflects a facet of a single psyche, or something? Because I just came up with that idea on the spot, and I’m too lazy to explore it myself.)

And, finally? Barney’s “cleversticks” is still the best pseudo-insult ever.