A Review of No Such Thing as Dragons by Philip Reeve

This is the mind that came up with the Darkling Plain Chronicles, dystopian YA steampunk books in which entire cities roam a devastated future Europe on enormous tractor feet, devouring lesser towns. Also the mind that created a humorous steampunk middle grade sci-fi series, starting with Larklight. But Reeve's new book is arguably more influenced by another of his books, Here Lies Arthur, in which he re-imagines the legendary king as a brutal, conniving man made noble only by the storytelling abilities of Mrrdin (Merlin), a trickster bard. In other words, Reeve married the Arthurian legend to the vicious reality of life in the Middle Ages, in which kings and noblemen were originally bandits and warlords, raping and pillaging their way across the land. (Note: In a similar vein, a recent study showed that a high percentage of individuals in Russia and western China share a common genetic marker, thought to come from Genghis Khan and his sons.)

So what does this have to do with Reeve's new middle grade novel, No Such Thing as Dragons? Well, here again Reeve deals with con men and the origin of legends in the context of the realities of life in the Middle Ages. He gives us Brock, a knight in rusty armor who goes from village to village conquering dragons—or rather, the fear of dragons (as one of his more educated and cynical clients puts it). Somewhere along the way, Brock purchases a young mute boy named Ansel, who comes to believe the pseudo-knight's assurances that dragons aren't real.

Until at last they come to a little village high on the mountainside, where the sly villagers have already sacrificed a young girl to appease the dragon they claim roosts up on the icy peaks. Accompanied by another con man posing as a friar, the dragon fighting team goes up the mountain, planning to pretend to vanquish the beast and then claim the spoils of victory.

To Brock's astonishment, there really is something up there. But here again, Reeve imagines what might be the real thing—not the sentient, romanticized creature of fairy tale fame, but a vicious and terrifying animal. The little group suffers as they confront the creature, even as they must battle the bitter wintry conditions on the highest slopes.

There's an adventure here, but Reeve seems just as interested in character, if not more so. He wants to know why Ansel is mute, and whether the boy will ever speak again. He wants to think about how a man like Brock might have good in him as well as ill. He wants to consider the fear of the villagers as well as their communal ruthlessness in response to that fear. He wants to show us unlikely feats of courage, although not precisely the ones you would expect. And that, more than the plot itself, is what makes this a very good book.

In addition, No Such Thing as Dragons offers us the joy of reading the work of a talented wordsmith. Reeve's language is delicious. Here's a sample in which he describes a medieval painting. Note the gentle satire, aimed at the romance of the artist's depiction:

Riding north with Brock, Ansel remembered the painting of St. George he'd seen in the big church in town. The saint had been all in armor, but bareheaded, with a golden halo balanced jauntily on his curls. The poor princess he'd come to save had a wide white forehead and yellow hair, and she looked surprisingly calm for someone who'd been sent out into the wilds as dragon food. She wore cloth-of-gold, and she carried a bunch of tall white lilies, perhaps as a sort of garnish. As for the dragon itself, Ansel recalled that it had looked like a bald green chicken with a lizard's head and the wings of a bat. Its wide-open mouth was vermilion red, and so was the blood that uncurled like red fern fronds from its breast as it leaned helpfully onto the point of the saint's lance.
He wondered if St. George had had a boy to serve him, and if so, why the boy had not been in the picture. Was it that he was just not important enough? Or was it, perhaps, that he was in the beast's belly?

Yes, Ansel's worth caring about. And what beautiful language! (The garnish line alone is worth seventeen bucks.) As if Reeve weren't talented enough, he provides the interior illustrations for the book, too, elegant little pen-and-ink pieces that start each chapter.

I also like the way Reeve includes common tropes about dragons, but gives them his own spin, making, for example, their reputation for hoarding treasure more of a magpie characteristic than a human one.

Plus, the author does intense things with setting, using the snowstorms and glaciers, rockslides and freezing nights on the mountain to pummel his characters—and his readers. Like the dragon, the mountain is unforgiving and utterly inhuman, yet natural. The cathedral scene, with its evocation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and even, dare I say, King Kong, is another wildly successful use of setting.

No Such Thing as Dragons is a short book at 186 pages, but it's well worth it: a compact, well-told tale combining the best of historical fiction with a sprinkling of fantasy, besides touching on themes like freedom and even animal rights. Reeve gives us a story that feels entirely true, up to and including its (non-)title character.

Note for Worried Parents: This book is for middle grade readers, but it does have a couple of horrific descriptions of a man and a horse being devoured by a monster, also various scenes of peril, some hard-hearted villagers, and a couple of con artists. The overall message is one of kindness, courage, and hope, however, as exemplified by the main character, Ansel.

FYI: Image above is of UK cover art, which I happen to prefer.

Update: Read another review at Charlotte's Library!

A Review of Mothstorm by Philip Reeve

I wonder if I can typeset the title of Philip Reeve's third book in this steampunk series correctly. Yes, it's Mothstorm: The Horror from Beyond Uranus Georgium Sidus. When your older sister is a proper Victorian lady—or likes to think she is—she will surely be unwilling to use the term “Uranus,” even if she is running the engineering room of your spaceship.

Reeve is probably best known as the author of The Hungry City Chronicles, a dystopian sci-fi series for teens in which Earth’s cities roll around on ginormous tractor feet devouring smaller cities. His more recent book, Here Lies Arthur, casts a cynical eye on Arthurian legend and is a Carnegie Medal winner.

Larklight: A Rousing Tale of Dauntless Pluck in the Farthest Reaches of Space, Starcross: A Stirring Adventure of Spies, Time Travel, and Curious Hats, and now Mothstorm, are positively rollicking in comparison to Reeve’s work for older readers. Reeve, surely one of today’s most innovative children's book writers, has imagined a world in which stoic British children ride spaceships and encounter B-movie aliens in the skies over Victorian England. (Mere matters like how to breathe are blithely set aside, just so you know.) Within this context, Reeve has a great deal of fun, throwing in icthyomorphs of the high aether (space fish) as well as pigheaded bureaucrats, old salts and helpful aliens of various kinds. There are a lot of muttonchop sideburns and elegant moustaches in these books—the latter so elegant, in fact, that the twirling ends of one such moustache are supported by small helium balloons. Which should give you an idea about the writer's sense of humor.

Reeve casually makes the children’s mother a Shaper, essentially a goddess. And while the setup is wonderful, the best thing about Mothstorm and its predecessors is those children, Art (Arthur) and his older sister, Myrtle. Art recounts most of their adventures, but occasionally throws in a chapter by his sister. So you get, for example, “Chapter Eighteen: In Which I, Miss Myrtle Evangeline Mumby, Shall Take Up the Reins of This Narrative, Since Art Was Too Affected by the Sad News I Brought from Mothstorm to Observe Anything Which Happened During Our Voyage to Mercury,” and then you come to “The Real Chapter Eighteen: Our Voyage to the Tin Moon, as Told by Art Mumby, with None of the Slushy Bits.” I should note that Myrtle is much inspired by Miss Whipham's A Young Lady's Primer, while Art draws courage from The Boys Own Journal. He explains at one point, "Remember, Charity, we are British, and there is nothing that good old British Pluck cannot accomplish!"

As in the first two books, the intrepid Jack Havock plays a part—think Indiana Jones, only a teenage boy with a somewhat begrudging crush on Myrtle. Most of Art’s dreaded “slushy bits” have to do with Jack and Myrtle’s romance, which is usually interrupted by a battle or the need to rescue people.

Mothstorm recounts the story of a mysterious cloud appearing out by Uranus (AKA Georgium Sidus). The two known colonizers of that planet, a missionary named Cruet and his daughter Charity, have sent a warning message and then lost contact with the rest of the British space empire. Art and his family soon set out to discover what has happened to the Cruets, and they find themselves at war with a new alien invasion, one specifically targeting their mother and her work.

Philip Reeve wraps up so many ongoing plot threads here that I can’t help wondering if the series is finished. We even get to meet Queen Victoria herself, although that stately woman nearly foils Art’s attempt to save the world while she is suspended upside down from her own Christmas tree. Which reminds me—I forgot to mention the holiday setting of this third book. A few pages into Mothstorm, you’ll know you’re in for a good time when Mr. Mumby whispers, “Thank Heaven you’ve arrived! A most vexing thing has happened. The Pudding has gone Rogue!”