By Laura McGill
Imagine a pre-teen Horse Girl. (No, not literally. I mean the sort of girl who doodles ponies in the margins of her homework. It’s a thing.) After fighting with her friends, she discovers a fantasy world full of Horse People. (Yes, literally. They’re centaurs.) There’s a quest, of course, lessons on friendship, a showdown with an evil queen—you’ve heard this story before.
It’s the plot from The Wizard of Oz and The Chronicles of Narnia. It neatly checks all the boxes for a good middle-grade chapter book; yet it is not for children.
Seanan McGuire knows what she’s doing. This Wayward Children series alone won the Hugo, Nebula, Alex, and Locus awards. She gives us a deceptively straightforward tale of a kid on a quest in a fantasy world. Then she gives us something extra. There’s this clever narrative voice, this sense of looking back on one’s own past, that makes the story wiser, darker, almost gentle with the perspective of an adult speaking about a child.
Not every book about kids is for kids. Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Book Thief are each about children—and yet they are each lousy gifts for a 9-year-old. It’s not the nihilism, racism, and death that turn these books into adult literature; it’s the narrative voice.
In Across the Green Grass Fields, our Horse Girl hero, Regan, wants to pet a snake. Her friends fight about whether or not snakes are gross (but really, they’re fighting about gender norms.) The snake bites Regan and slithers away. It’s not complicated and it would easily fit into a children’s tale. Except for the way it’s told.
“Beads of blood had welled up on her index finger, and Regan had stared at them, transfixed.
This is what it costs to be different, she’d thought, the words clear and somehow older than the rest of her, like she was hearing the voice of the woman she was eventually going to become.” Ch. 1 Pg.12
This flash of insight is a treat. It invites the adult reader to consider their own past, old injuries half-forgotten, their own history of conformity and rebellion. It’s the extra layer that makes reading satisfying as an adult.
At the same time, the author never dismisses the drama of childhood. She respects her character and invites the reader to remember just how scary it was to be different on the playground.
“That was something adults couldn’t understand, not even when they understood other things, like a love of horses or a burning need to go to the state fair, lest a lack of funnel cake lead to gruesome and inescapable death. They thought that children, especially girl children, were all sugar and lace, and that when those children fought, they would do so cleanly and in the open, where adult observers could intervene. It was like they’d drawn a veil of fellow-feeling and good intentions over their own childhoods as soon as they crossed the magic line into adulthood, and left all the strange feuds, unexpected betrayals, and arbitrary shunnings behind them.” Ch. 1 Pg. 10
This story succeeds because of the emotional complexity. There’s often a delightful disconnect as characters lie, make a false assumption, or view the whole world through a distorted lens. In a simpler book, the narrative voice might stage whisper “That’s not true. Just wait and you’ll see how untrue this statement is.” It takes skill and restraint to allow the story to explain itself. The author trusts that the reader is savvy and alert.
The author doesn’t tell you how to feel. Everything from the setting, to the body language, to the dialogue subtly points you toward an emotion. With no context and just the following quote, you have enough information to feel something about the character speaking.
“You mean the centaurs you’ve been living with? They’re animals, beasts. They don’t feel the way we do. They don’t love the way we do.” He scoffed. “Nothing I did to them had to happen. It was your fault, for not coming to me when you were first called into this world. If you’d been a better hero, none of this suffering would have taken place.” Ch. 16 pg. 164
I don’t need to tell you to hate and distrust him. The reader feels that automatically when he dismisses the feelings of others, scoffs, and then finds someone to blame.
Like every book in the Wayward Children series, Across the Green Grass Fields is a masterclass in writing about children for an adult audience. It describes a young girl who feels authentic, unique, and recognizable, but describes her with beautifully crafted language, devastating insight, and a kindness that comes from experience.
Add Across the Green Grass Fields to your reading list on Goodreads. It is available on Amazon, or you can support your local bookstore by purchasing your copy on IndieBound.