1 False Gods and Unnatural Passions Asta Hedstrom Gunnar's arm was gone--everything below the elbow. Though Erlend's mama had bundled it in calico bandages, I kept imagining his injury and what he must've endured during the accident--the sound of the snap, the jolt of pure agony, the hours he'd likely suffered until Herr Doktor Engen arrived to treat him. Gunnar Fuglestad was my best friend since childhood and one month ago he'd almost died. The bleeding didn't do him in, but the septic infection nearly did and now his skin shone pale as a corpse. Gunnar: a corpse. The vision struck me like a rifle-ball to the gut. I had to sit down. Near the foot of Erlend's four-poster stood a dainty slipper chair. Quietly, I pulled it close to the side of the mattress, nearest to where Gunnar lay beneath the quilts. As I settled onto the ornately patterned seat, I wondered why Erlend had asked me to come to his house to resume our theater rehearsals if my scene partner remained not only abed, but also terribly debilitated. Looking over Gunnar once more, I sighed in relief at the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Though it'd only been a month since the accident, it felt like an eternity since I'd last seen him--the longest we'd been apart since we first became friends. Erlend's parents, the Fourniers, had taken him in upon hearing about the calamity at the Fuglestads' farm, but each time I had tried to visit, Fru Fournier insisted Gunnar was quite unwell and quite unable to see anyone. Now, finally, I knew what she meant. Quite unwell meant Gunnar's arm was quite missing and the rest of him quite unconscious . I wiped my sweating palms on my skirt. Breeze from the Norwegian Sea usually subdued our summer heat, but this morning's air settled into an oppressive swelter. Despite the temperature, Gunnar slept beneath a blanket of silk jacquard, his head tilted to the side, his ginger lashes heavy and still. A scab, shaped like a falcon in flight, spanned the width of his forehead; a yellowing bruise marred one cheekbone. Sweat sheened upon his brow and corded his blood-red hair, and yet, somehow, he still smelled like cinnamon and rain. With my brown huckaback pinafore and Gunnar's many-hued wounds, the two of us seemed so out of place in the expanse of Erlend's bedroom--double doors on one side, portière on the other, imported piano, ski medals, rococo mirrors. The refined luxury forced me to find things I hadn't noticed about Gunnar Fuglestad before: the rough orange stubble on his jaw, oddly precocious for a boy who'd only just turned seventeen, and the hardness that remained on his face even in slumber. With a steaming forehead and a twinge of guilt, I found myself thinking about the play. If Gunnar were to recover in time, his Benedick would have one arm. It might still work. Much Ado began with men returning from war, so Benedick could've lost his limb in battle. Gunnar would likely have a number of clever ideas on how to play the part one-handed. He'd make it brilliant. The tip, top, tip of Erlend's slippers echoed through the bedchamber. A flush of heat invaded my chest. Sounds coming from things I couldn't see always made me anxious as a cornered hen. I was born with an unhearing left ear, so I'd developed a habit of turning to the right until I'd find the source of a sound. Erlend tried to keep me from doing it on stage. An actress needs to face the audience, he'd say. But even after weeks of rehearsals, I still fought the urge to face my castmates. And in real life, where I'd be unrehearsed and unscripted, I'd always turn right, then right again, and right once more until I could finally identify the location of the noise-maker. Twisting in my chair now, I spotted Erlend standing in the doorway, script pages folded in his hand. Erlend. Glorious Erlend. Only recently, during rehearsals, did I realize he was handsome. Before, I'd have used other words to describe his face: pleasant, kind, sweet. From his French papa, he'd inherited a deep bronze complexion--an anomaly in this land of sunburn and freckles. "Thank you for coming, Asta." His tense gaze landed on Gunnar's sleeping figure. "Has Fuglestad dozed off again?" I nodded. "Hell." I turned back to Gunnar. Above his wraps, the short sleeve of his undershirt stretched thin and tight around his bicep. A rumple of pulled-away blankets revealed the beige twill of his trousers. He must've dressed prior to my arrival. Perhaps the effort of it had been too much. "Look." Erlend shoved the pages into his desk. "I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't rehearse today. Clearly, he needs more rest." If only I'd known he was this bad. If only I could've done something. I got up and joined Erlend on the far side of the room. Hoping not to wake Gunnar, I kept my voice so quiet I nearly mouthed the words. "Has he been like this since the accident?" "He looked better this morning," Erlend whispered. "That's why I sent for you. Fuglestad insisted--he wanted to start rehearsing again." Gunnar insisted? How could he insist on anything? The poor boy lay still as a carcass. "Erlend"--I spoke as softly as I could--"what happened to him?" What little I knew came from town gossip: Something occurred up at the Fuglestad farm; Sigrid died and her two boys, Fred and Gunnar, were injured. When the Fourniers ventured up there to see how they could help, they came home with Gunnar, who lingered near death for almost a month while Fru Fournier tended to his sickness--clearly the result of his mysteriously mangled limb and Herr Doktor Engen's befouled amputation. "Erlend?" "I don't know," he said. There were a million other questions I wanted to ask, but the strained look on Erlend's face dissuaded me--for the moment, at least. While I liked to think of Erlend as my friend, being the theater's director separated him from the rest of us. Maybe it was the mystique of his family's wealth, the precision of his tailored garments, or the way he seemed so much older than his eighteen years, but something about Erlend Fournier remained beyond reach. Watching me, Erlend bit his lip. "His mama was killed." "Yes, I'd heard that." It was what everyone in town had been saying, but no one would tell me how. Now, Erlend's unease suggested he didn't know anything more than I did. He'd gone to their farm, though. Surely he had to have seen something. "And his younger brother?" I asked. "They say he was injured as well." "Papa and I told him he'd be welcome to come here, but the boy maintained he needed to stay at the farm and tend to the animals." All this uncertainty surrounding the Fuglestads pulled my insides into knots. I needed Gunnar to be safe, forever--away from whatever tragedy unfolded at his family's place up on Old Viking Road. Erlend would protect Gunnar. Of that I had no doubt. But what about Erlend's parents? They were wealthy and generous, but that didn't mean they'd be interested in taking in this ginger-haired heathen as their permanent ward. "Will he stay here?" I pressed. "Will you get to keep him?" "Keep him?" "He can't go back." Though I'd never been to the Fuglestads' farm and didn't know much about their family life, I did know what everyone said about Herr Fuglestad--that the man was a drunk. Was he violent? Had his fury been what injured Gunnar? I made my voice firm. "He can't go back to his papa." The rustle of bedclothes stopped me from saying more. "Asta." Gunnar's deep voice rattled like pebbles inside a tin can. "You're making me sound like an orphaned kitten." I rushed back across the room and to his bedside. "Baby kitten!" I squealed, attempting to pet him, attempting to bring a smile to his bruised and sleep-swollen face--attempting to quell my own worry. He shielded himself with a pillow as I pawed his head. "Yes, and this kitten"--the pillow muffled his words--"has caused the Fourniers too much trouble." Erlend stepped closer. "You're not the trouble, Fuglestad. It's Pastor Odegard. He's the troublemaker." "Odegard wouldn't be making trouble if your parents hadn't brought a heathen into their home." Smiling now, I lowered myself back into the seat. Gunnar's family never attended church and, much to the town's dismay, didn't hide their pagan practices. "Making trouble?" "Since Mama's been taking care of Fuglestad," Erlend explained, "we haven't been to church and Odegard's been saying things about the theater." My smile fell. Anything Odegard had to say about the theater wouldn't be good. With its opulent fittings and spacious foyers, the Fourniers' playhouse was the only structure in town made of white stone rather than wood. During the warm seasons, enormous planters of red roses lined its portico while a cast-iron fountain dribbled melodiously upon the shaded terrace--such a contrast to the surrounding plain houses, which weren't adorned with anything more elaborate than a few small window boxes stuffed with myrtles. Had it not been for Herr Fournier's fortune and unending desire to provide his only son with such spectacular indulgences, the theater would've never been built, much less produce enough kroner to remain in operation. Was the pastor's dissatisfaction over the extravagance of its appearance, the antics of its players, or the fact Erlend Fournier--the eighteen-year-old theatrical genius who'd served as our leader for the past five years--favored art over hunting or fishing, and made no effort to hide his interest in literature while other boys engaged in roughhousing and team sports. With Odegard knowing Erlend's influence on so many of us, the pastor once remarked on the dangerous trend toward softness amongst the young men of our generation and, though he didn't mention Erlend's name, the reference was undeniable. Perhaps I noticed such things because I, too, was quite different from everyone else in town. When I was a schoolgirl, the other children asked if I was an elf or a fairy. Mama said it was because I had thin lips, as if the large space between my unmatching eyes and the white chunk in my brown hair weren't far more talked about than the fact my mouth lacked a Cupid's bow. Herr Doktor Engen called what I had a condition , but never gave it a name or a remedy. Not that I needed one. I had something better than two working ears and same-colored irises. I had my best friend, Gunnar Fuglestad, to keep me company. Excerpted from The Reckless Kind by Carly Heath All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Publishers Weekly Review
Heath's debut unfolds against the vividly drawn backdrop of 1904 Norway, tracing the lives of three teens intent on finding their own way. Born with Waardenburg syndrome, asexual Asta Hedstrom, 18, has been taught that she should be grateful for her betrothal to Nils, a local man willing to overlook her "flaws." Though she wants only to continue acting in the village theater, she resigns herself to her fate, until Nils attacks her best friend, Gunnar, in a fit of jealousy. The moment of violence forces Asta to acknowledge the truth: she cannot marry Nils. Instead, she moves with Gunnar, who has depression as well as a spinal injury and a partial arm amputation, and his half-French boyfriend, Erlend, whose anxiety is causing ulcers, to an isolated cabin. But to maintain their freedom, the trio must first win the village's annual horse race--and its 2,000-kroner prize. In a book that frequently focuses on relationships over narrative tension, smooth writing brings the historical background to life while, through Asta and Gunnar's dual narration, delicately exploring themes of disability, independence, found family, and various forms of love. Elegant, folk-style illustrations by Perrin top each chapter; "Historical and Medical Notes" contextualize "the limitations of the language of the time" vis-à-vis representation. Ages 14--up. Agent: Stephen Chudney, the Chudney Agency. (Nov.) |
School Library Journal Review
Gr 9 Up--It's 1904, near the Norwegian Sea, and budding actress Asta's parents think that because of her single-sided deafness, she should marry horrid Nils. Asta, however, longs for queer-platonic intimacy beyond marriage with her one-armed best friend Gunnar and his secret boyfriend, the young theater director Erlend. When jealous Nils attacks and wounds Gunnar, the three friends flee to a remote farm. They abandon the theater, and their solution to financial precarity is for Asta to train as a farrier, tame a wild horse, and win a Christmas sleigh race. This emotionally grounded queer fairy tale is anchored by Asta and Erlend's attempts to protect their shared object of desire. Asta is mischievous and scrappy; Erlend is princely. Both the blindness of his privilege and his greatness of heart allow him to abandon luxury for love. And Gunnar? Using Asta and Erlund--but not Gunnar--as narrators produces surprising revelations. The book excels when depicting Gunnar's life with chronic pain, without miraculous cures. The writing and description are vivid; however, there's an ambiguity as to whether Asta lives in a historical or a semi-fantastical context. The afterword provides useful information on the novel's representation of medical conditions, yet sources for local details like Valkyrie sapphires and marriage horses would be enriching, not to mention information on the period's queer culture. VERDICT This work will tug the heartstrings of anyone who loved Mackenzi Lee's The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue and wished Frozen lived up to its queer potential.--Katherine Magyarody, Texas A&M Univ., College Station |
Booklist Review
In 1904, off the coast of Norway, 18-year-old Asta escapes a marriage to her repulsive betrothed, leaving her best friend, Gunnar, with a serious injury, and the two find a new home with Gunnar's secret boyfriend, Erland. As outcasts from their traditional small town, the queerplatonic trio determine to win the annual Christmas race in order to save Gunnar's family farm. Debut author Heath manages to tackle a number of topics in this historical novel, exploring themes of identity, found family, sexuality, and disability. Additionally, asexual Asta has Waardenburg syndrome, Gunnar struggles with depression after a partial arm amputation, and Erland shows signs of anxiety. The historical details and cast of characters keep the momentum going, and the plot never feels heavy-handed. A great addition for inclusive coming-of-age stories and found family where the characters are not defined by what makes them different. |
Kirkus Review
Three young Scandinavians seek ways to live nontraditionally. Set in a small village in an unspecified Nordic country in 1904, this story is narrated by 18-year-olds Asta and Erlend. Asta is engaged to be married but is not sure she wants to marry her intended--or anyone at all. Half French Erlend is a promising young actor willing to give it all up (a romantic move but perhaps not the best life lesson) to be with handsome outcast Gunnar. The plot is engaging, but the real magic lies in the characters and their relationships. Each has a condition that they struggle with to varying degrees: asexual Asta has Waardenburg syndrome; Gunnar has a partial arm amputation, a spinal injury, and depression; Erlend has anxiety and ulcers. (Heath is careful to avoid anachronism by eschewing labels or diagnoses that would not have been available to individuals at the time.) Their disabilities have a material impact on their lives--and on the story--but, crucially, don't define them. The author explores their experiences with care and reminds readers that no one is "perfect"; the line between able and disabled is socially constructed and movable. Although the characters face discrimination for their queerness, they also find love and support that are uplifting without being excessively idealistic. Perrin's Norwegian rosemaling-style art enhances the opening page of each chapter. A tender tale of queer love, disability, and self-discovery. (historical and medical notes) (Historical fiction. 14-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission. |