A 2022 Mildred L. Batchelder Honor Book
“This Norwegian exposition on death and loss almost defies description. It is mesmeric and obtuse, alarming and atmospheric, and ultimately peaceful and unresolved—much like death and loss themselves. A child mourning her younger brother ventures into a wood with her brother’s spirit in tow, passing creatures familiar and menacing, to arrive in the presence of a lake-bound lady who recounts their story. The scratchy black-and-white figures move through dark, densely colored landscapes full of inexplicable detail on a propulsive quest for something, a hurried passage through the hardest part of their story, to come out the other side. Torseter’s imagery defines their journey, indelibly imprinting on the reader myriad confounding and consuming emotions, in tension with one another. We are left with many questions, but beneath them a definite sense of it’s-going-to-be-okay. This is what art is for.” —Calling Caldecott (a Horn Book blog)
“An intricate tale of tragic loss and fervent hope as Vera seeks help from a compassionate, magical entity who uses the wonder of story to bring the memories of a lost sibling back to life.” —American Library Association
“Thought-provoking narrative entwined with emotive illustrations create an enchanting story that can be appreciated by children of all ages.” —Dr. Marie A. Lejeune, 2022 Batchelder Chair
“‘Who is that running in the middle of the night? / Oh, it’s Vera.’ Vera steps out a window, eyes closed, into the snow. She glides forward, airborne, ethereal in her ‘light and billowy’ nightgown. Her long hair flows out behind her, ensnaring a boy in pajamas from a tree branch. His eyes, like Vera’s, are closed. Vera’s hair, still flowing behind her, cradles and carries him as they fly through landscapes of folklore and ghouls. Torseter’s fine-lined drawings are loose-handed, minimalist, and eerie. Tree roots in underground caves reach out; skeletons nestle; trees wail. Readers learn, obliquely, that this is a ritual that is reenacted repeatedly. When Vera and the boy, Salander, reach the lake this time, a huge woman rises out of the water, and Vera asks her to ‘tell…the most beautiful story.…The one where there is so much pain, but everything is fine in the end.’ Telling it, the woman brings Salander back to life. Vera can hear his heart now, and as she carries him home in her arms, ‘she feels his warm breath on her cheek.’ … Tjønn’s piece about processing grief is like fresh bereavement itself. A delicate, unnerving meditation.” —Kirkus Reviews
"Poetic and dreamlike, rushing, soaring, beautiful and sharp." —www.barnebokkritikk.no (Children's Book Criticism)
"This is a book you can read many times and discover new things each time. A classic book for all ages, in the sense that experienced readers will read into the text in ways that less experienced readers might not, but the youngest doesn’t feel cheated of anything because of that. Tjønn and Torseter’s fairy-tale world is a fascinating and moving universe." —Dagbladet (Daily Magazine)
2021-06-29
A girl flies through the night sky to bring her dead brother back to life.
“Who is that running in the middle of the night? / Oh, it’s Vera.” Vera steps out a window, eyes closed, into the snow. She glides forward, airborne, ethereal in her “light and billowy” nightgown. Her long hair flows out behind her, ensnaring a boy in pajamas from a tree branch. His eyes, like Vera’s, are closed. Vera’s hair, still flowing behind her, cradles and carries him as they fly through landscapes of folklore and ghouls. Torseter’s fine-lined drawings are loose-handed, minimalist, and eerie. Tree roots in underground caves reach out; skeletons nestle; trees wail. Readers learn, obliquely, that this is a ritual that is reenacted repeatedly. When Vera and the boy, Salander, reach the lake this time, a huge woman rises out of the water, and Vera asks her to “tell…the most beautiful story.…The one where there is so much pain, but everything is fine in the end.” Telling it, the woman brings Salander back to life. Vera can hear his heart now, and as she carries him home in her arms, “she feels his warm breath on her cheek.” His eyes never open, though, and he looks just as asleep as he’s looked all along. Readers learn almost nothing about how Salander died, only that he did die and that Vera pines for him to have been saved. Title notwithstanding, Tjønn’s piece about processing grief is mournful, closureless, and unsettling—like fresh bereavement itself. Characters have straight hair and skin the white of the page.
A delicate, unnerving meditation. (Picture book. 5-10)
