91. The Ogress and Orphans

The Ogress and the Orphans. Kelly Barnhill. 2022. [March] 400 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Listen. This is a story about an ogress. She is not who you might think she is. (But really, is anyone?) The Ogress lived in a crooked house at the far edge of town. She enjoyed baking and gardening and counting the stars. Like all ogres, the Ogress was quite tall—even sizable adults would have to crane their necks and squint a bit to say hello. She had feet the size of tortoises, hands the size of heron’s wings, and a broad, broad brow that cracked and creased when she concentrated.

No matter how I describe the plot or premise of this one, I won't be able to do it justice. I could say it is set in the town of Stone-in-the-Glen. (Because it is). And the town has fallen on very hard times. (It had). No one feels the hardship more than the orphans. (Definitely true.) The town's biggest loss is the loss of kindness, compassion, empathy, neighborliness. The Mayor certainly doesn't promote any of these virtues. (Far from it.) But someone hasn't forgotten the town of Stone-in-the-Glen. That someone is the Ogress....

The Ogress and the Orphans had me at hello. I wasn't sold on the cover. It didn't scream out read me, read me. If I'm honest (which I strive to be) then the opposite is true. An Ogress???? Why would I read a book, a long book at that, about an ogress? But the opening chapter(s) won me over completely. There's a chapter about an Ogress, a chapter about the Dragon, and a chapter about the town, and perhaps a chapter about the orphans. (Unless the orphans are part of the town chapter???) But with just a few pages, I was HOOKED. 

I loved the narration. I loved the narrative style. The writing is excellent--above and beyond excellent. (Mind you, I'm not saying it is excellent "for a children's book." I make no distinction in excellence. It is excellent period. I do think readers of any and every age could very well fall in love with this one just as I have. 

I am not an expert in distinguishing between a parable and an allegory. I'm not sure there is a distinct, definite difference. I don't feel this is a story where you can say this character stands in for so-and-so and this symbolizes that. I do think it paints grand, broad pictures that are timeless and universal. The main theme of the novel is WHAT IS A NEIGHBOR? 

Quotes:

Like all ogres, she spoke little and thought much. She was careful and considerate. Her heavy feet trod lightly on the ground.
This is also a story about a family of orphans. There were fifteen orphans living in the Orphan House at the time our story begins, several years after the Ogress first arrived in town. There were too many children for one house, but they made do. Their names were Anthea, Bartleby, Cassandra (who preferred Cass), Dierdre, Elijah, Fortunate, Gratitude, Hiram, Iggy, Justina, Kye, Lily, Maude, and the babies, Nanette and Orpheus. They were good children, these orphans: studious and hardworking and kind. And they loved one another dearly, ever so much more than they loved themselves.

The Ogress, too, was hardworking and kind and generous. She also loved others more than she loved herself. This can be a problem, of course. Sometimes. But it can also be a solution. Let me show you how.

 

This is also a story about a dragon. I do not like to talk about him much. I don’t even like to think about him.
I should clarify: It is not my intention to speak ill of dragons generally. It is a terrible practice to prejudge anyone, be they ogres or orphans or dragons or nosy neighbors or assistant principals or people with unusual manners. It is important, always, to treat everyone with compassion and respect. This is well known.
As for dragons in particular, they are as diverse in their dispositions as any other creature.
He delighted in discord and sowed acrimony wherever he went. These are all large words, and I apologize for them. But my feelings about this dragon are large.
Listen.
I would like nothing more than to tell you that every person—human, dragon, or any other kind of creature—is fundamentally good. But I can’t tell you that, because it is not in my nature to lie. Everyone starts fundamentally good, in my experience, and nearly everyone stays mostly good for the most part. But some . . . well. They choose to do bad things. No one knows why. And then a small number of those choose to stay bad. I wish it weren’t true. But it’s best you know this now, at the beginning of this book. Every story has a villain, after all. And every villain has a story.

The children in the Orphan House grew up next door to the remains of the Library. They could smell the smoke and ash. At night, the ghosts of old books haunted their dreams.
After the Library burned, the town’s school, too, burned down. A tragic coincidence, everyone agreed. They held on to one another and grieved. Soon after, several other buildings burned as well—homes, shops, beloved spaces—in a rash of fires that spanned a little more than a year.

If you were to ask the Ogress how long it took her to finish building her crooked little house, she would likely be baffled by the question.
It isn’t that time works differently for ogres—how could it? Time is time.
And yet.
We might think time is stable and consistent—seconds and minutes assembled like marks on a ruler—but that isn’t true at all. Time stretches and bunches and wobbles about. It loops and twists, and sometimes lays itself flat and sometimes ties itself in knots. A stone buried in the earth experiences time differently than a comet hurtling through space.

“Have you visited the Library yet?”
If the answer was no, then the people would grasp at their hearts and say, “Oh, but you must! Let us go this very minute!”
If the answer was yes, then the people would grasp at their hearts and say, “Oh, but only one time? That isn’t nearly enough! Let us return at once!”
It was said that the Library housed the heart of the town. And the mind of the town. It had stately towers of carved stone, and wide windows, and books so numerous they seemed to bend both space and time. What a lucky town, people said, to have such a marvel in their midst! How lucky indeed.
So imagine, then, what the town must have felt like on the night of the fire. I was there. I heard each heart crack, one by one. I heard the guttural cries as they watched the building collapse into an ashy heap on the ground.
On that terrible night, before the panicked townsfolk arrived with their buckets, I saw the shine of a dragon emerging at the foot of the building. I saw the glint of malevolence in its eye.

Anthea’s face produced tears and snot in great waves that poured onto her dress. Myron gave her a handkerchief, which she soaked through almost immediately. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Being hungry can profoundly disrupt the mood. Perhaps you need something to eat.”

Dragons, as we all know, are as unique as snowflakes, as unique as fingerprints, as unique as a particular baby’s laugh to its particular mother. Some dragons are funny. Others are known for their prodigious kindness. Some dragons are shy. Some are studious. Some are generous. Dragons, by and large, have glittering personalities: they are quick-witted, erudite, and persuasive. They are in possession of a small amount of magic, which assists them as they move about their days. Their magic allows them to fly, breathe fire, and camouflage their great bodies to blend in with their surroundings. It comes at a physical cost, of course—it gives them dreadful dyspeptic stomachaches, for starters, and it starts to whittle away at their health and vigor, and, over time, even their size—which is why they use it rarely.

The orphans, as I mentioned before, were curious children. And the Orphan House’s collection was surprisingly large—there were more books than the space seemed to allow.
This is not unusual. Books, after all, have their own peculiar gravity, given the collective weight of words and thoughts and ideas. Just as the gravitational field around a black hole bends and wobbles the space around it, so, too, does the tremendous mass of ideas of a large collection of books create its own dense gravity. Space gets funny around books.

Your neighbor, you see, is anyone. A person. A person who thinks and breathes and worries and loves. That person is your neighbor.

What is a neighbor? the book asked, yet again. A neighbor is similar to you. Or they are different from you. Or they are equal parts similar and different. A neighbor shares all your values. Or some of them. Or none of them. A neighbor is someone you care about anyway. A neighbor is someone who helps you for no reason at all.
A neighbor exists without condition—if I were to declare that this person is my neighbor and that person is not, then it is I, and not they, who have failed at neighborliness. It is only by claiming all as your neighbors, and behaving as though all are your neighbors, that we become good neighbors ourselves. The act of being a good neighbor must always begin with us.

The people of Stone-in-the-Glen thought about the many times that they had passed by the Ogress’s house and didn’t say hello. How they didn’t offer her welcome when she arrived. They thought about the no more ogres sign, and they felt ashamed. They thought about the books are dangerous sign, too, and they started to wonder.

One by one, the people of Stone-in-the-Glen looked up. They looked one another in the eye. They waved. They noticed for the first time there was a bit of a ruckus near the center of town. The sound of children laughing with one another. The sound of crows calling and calling and calling. One by one, the people of Stone-in-the-Glen stood and followed the sound.

What is a neighbor? the book asked. A neighbor is someone who brings soup. Or bread. Or open arms. A neighbor is ready to help with the roof that has caved in, or the garden that needs turning, or with safe shelter during a terrible night. Your neighbor, you see, is anyone. A person. A person who thinks and breathes and worries and loves. That person is your neighbor.

 

 

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