Writing in the Shadow of J.K. Rowling

From Michael Bouman, Missouri Humanities Council

Part of the fun of reading the three "prequels" to the Peter Pan story is watching the writers sweat the details. I mean, who in the "young adult" audience doesn't know ALL of the Harry Potter stories by J.K. Rowling?

When Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry set about writing fantasy literature, they had to figure out how to navigate a literary playing field that Rowling had redrawn. At least I think they did. I haven't asked them, fantasy always having more attractive power than fact!

Peter Pan, as I understand from reading summaries of the original stories, loses his shadow in the originals. Pearson and Barry "tasked themselves" (a dreary, modern way of saying "assigned themselves the task of...") with imagining a pre-story to explain the shadow problem.

Since their narrative begins with a miraculous light, called Starstuff, the authors bring us the forces of Darkness in the person of "Lord Ombra" in the second installment of the trilogy, Peter and the Shadow Thieves. Readers of J.K. Rowling will recognize in Ombra and his like a genetic similarity to the Death Eaters in the Harry Potter stories.

Thinking of this connection didn't diminish my reading pleasure, it added some relish to it. The writing itself has much to enjoy. Here is the passage that introduces the character known as "Lord Ombra." The noseless Captain Nerezza (a name derived from the word for "nose") is taking Ombra to Mollusk Island to seize the stash of Starstuff. Nerezza and Mr. Slank have just sighted the island in the distance:

It was then they felt the chill. Every man on the ship had felt it; every man dreaded the sound of the voice that was sure to accompany the chill. The tropical sun still hung bright in the sky, but it was as though the air around the ship had gone cold and dank, like in a dark London alley near the docks in December. There was a smell, too--a faint but distinct odor of decay.

The sailors--trying to look casual about it, but clearly terrified--moved forward, away from the quarterdeck; one of them crossed himself. The man at the wheel, who coult not leave his post without being flogged, went rigid and pale, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Nerezza and Slank also stiffened, neither daring to turn toward the companionway behind them, the companionway that led down to the officers' cabins.

The crew had been ordered to keep away from that companionway, but no orders were necessary. No sailor on the ship would go down there, not for a year's pay. Not with the rumors that had been scurrying around the ship since the . . . visitor had boarded the ship, at sea, in the dead of night, under very strange circumstances.

Pearson and Barry have established a narrative method based on sensory offenses sure to charm the gross-out sensibilities of pre-teens. Here is the experience of Slank, assigned to be the point person on a recon patrol through the jungle of Mollusk Island...

Head of the line was not a place of honor. Slank knew that if the natives were unfriendly, he would be the first to take an arrow or spear. His eyes nervously roamed the darkness ahead. A lifelong sailor, he'd never taken to land, especially when he could barely see it. He didn't care for the squishy things underfoot, the crying things in the darkness overhead.

Another step, and he shuddered as his face was suddenly caught in an invisible, clinging, and sickeningly sticky spiderweb. He clawed at it, trying to untangle himself, spitting to keep the acrid taste out of his mouth. Just then, its creator--a hairy spider the size of his hand--landed on his head, apparently planning to eat him.

Slank grabbed at the spider, felt its thick fur and scrabbling legs. He was about to emit a most un-seamanlike scream when he felt something touch his hand from behind . . . something very cold. In an instant, the spider stopped twitching and slid from Slank's head. A dead thing now, it landed on the jungle floor with a muffled thud.

Forces of light, forces of darkness, supernatural creatures, humans who can speak to animals, these are the stuff of fantasy, from Star Wars to what we think of as "normal life." I imagine I can speak to my cats, Topper and Molly, and distinguish a request for fresh water from an inquiry about their confinement. Lola the Poodle is another matter entirely. When she translates from Chinese, I am lost, but I speak to her as if she can understand me, and there is every indication that she either does or pretends to be interested in the prospect.

What makes this "young adult" literature is the awakening of, shall I say, "interest in the gender" of another person in the story. For this element, all writers have the deep well of memory as a reliable reference. Can't we recall when we noticed, for the first time, that someone's expression was a tad more than interesting; that their way of moving, or laughing, or dancing, or opening a book, was something not only to notice, but to consider? Consider how? Ah, there is a question as deep as life itself, and you will reexperience it in this wonderful book.