The Bees, by Laline Paull

The Bees is a most unusual book. Although billed primarily as an innovative and chilling dystopian thriller (which it is), what stood out for me most strongly were the rhythms of life and nature, the rhythms of the hive through the seasons.

This is the story of Flora 717. We meet her as she is born to consciousness and follow her through her life in the hive and her encounters with the world. As she goes about foraging for nectar, feeling the air on her wings and using the air currents to speed her along, Flora forms a symbiotic relationship with the flowers and plants: they yearn for her touch as much as she yearns for theirs.

The outside world is packed with enemies, though, enemies both natural and man-made: the Myriad - spiders and birds and wasps – as well as cars and pesticides and cell phone towers. Thus, as well as being a song to nature, The Bees stands as a warning too: an alarm call to the devastating effect human technology has on the natural world, how they unbalance the ecosystems and race through the food chain, how what might seem minor or unnoticable by you or me is devastating to wildlife.

But enemies reside not only in the outside world, they are in the hive too. For this is not some softly cushioned place but a dystopian horror. The society of the hive is divided rigidly into caste levels, each bee ‘kin’ kept in their place by the Melissae priestesses who use scent barriers and antennae controls to keep the bees in their places, and the Queen who extends her love through the hive like some sort of addictive drug. Information is limited, freedom is an essentially unknown concept, individuality is restricted and dissent or deviation is punishable by death.

What is different about this dystopia, though, is our protagonist: unlike the typical dystopian hero, Flora 717 does not actively seek out change, does not intend to question the laws of the hive; rather these things just seem to happen by some other force of nature. There are secrets hidden everywhere, but Flora doesn’t look for them because she wants to challenge the hive or the Queen or the Melissae, she looks for them only to answer her questions about the world or only when she needs the knowledge. Flora loves the Queen as much as every other bee; it is the Melissae who frighten her.

So when Flora commits the ultimate act of rebellion, the greatest sin of the hive, what will the consequences be? What exactly are the implications of the Melissae’s most closely guarded secret: that of feeding? The Melissae are undoubtedly in control, but what will happen if the icon of the Queen is lost? How tight will their grip on the hive be then?

This is a fairly ingenious idea by author Laline Paull; I would be interested to know what inspired her story and to learn how close the relationship is between the functioning of Flora’s hive and non-fictional hives. How is it, for instance, that Flora is able to commit this act of sin – and so unintentionally too? I wasn’t completely enraptured by The Bees, perhaps because it doesn’t hold the same level of pace as I’m used to from YA dystopias, but it is a wonderful and thoughtful song brought lovingly to life.

I especially loved the relationship Flora had with the outside world and the symbiotic relationship the bees have with the hive itself; I loved the rhythms of the hive, the dancing of foraging directions, the encoding of knowledge within the structure of the hive itself. This perhaps make it sound like a very airy and light book: it is not. The passages involving the spiders were especially creepy; there is terrifying visit to a greenhouse with carnivorous plants; and I’m sure I felt as sick as Flora did when she got trapped by the cell phone tower - though nothing is as shocking to all involved as the Obeisance to the Males. I did find it kind of fascinating that the males were given such an elevated place in the hive, despite it purportedly being a matriarchal society, though their greed and their demands were sickening enough for me to feel more than a little smug once it became clear what the Obeisance rite was really all about.

The final denouement is satisfyingly dramatic: will the Melissae lose their grip? And what fate awaits the hive? If you’re looking for something different to read this summer, The Bees is it.

MaddAddam, by Margaret Atwood

The simply-worded opening pages of MaddAddam form the perfect introduction to this crazy world (or not so crazy?) that Margaret Atwood first introduced us to ten years ago in Oryx and Crake. 'The Story of the Egg' recounts how the Crakers were born in the Egg, brought to life by Oryx and Crake, surrounded by the Chaos until Crake washed the Chaos away, and perfectly encapsulates the essence of the Crakers and of the storyteller, Toby. The Crakers' history, their penchant for singing and praise, and their idealised view of the world is laid out alongside Toby’s frustration with the Crakers’ quirks and yet simultaneous desire to maintain their innocent view of the world.

Simultaneously bringing the reader up to speed with previous events whilst giving us a taste of where the story is going to go - the Crakers’ world and the Crakers’ worldview - even if you haven't read any of the series before you'll surely be hooked, wanting to find out what it all means and what on earth the author is thinking. MaddAddam is everything I expected and hoped it would be - the continuation of this strange, potential future world that in some ways is a warning alarm for our own suspect future, whilst also being a proper kick-ass read and a thought-provoking piece of speculative fiction from one of the masters of the genre.

Unlike The Year of the Flood, the 'sisterbook' which ran alongside Oryx and Crake, detailing the same world and the same timeframe, but with mostly different characters, MaddAddam ties the two together, the stories from the first two books converging here into a single narrative; like two forks in the road becoming one path. Although, actually, to describe MaddAddam as having a single narrative would be entirely wrong. Rather, it is a collection of stories and perspectives and pieces of the jigsaw:

Toby continues the narrative in present time, keeping us apprised of the events going on in and around the new MaddAddam compound, where, a little less than a year on from the Waterless Flood, the survivors have converged – a mixture of God’s Gardener’s, MaddAddamites, Crakers, and Snowman-the-Jimmy. Woven into this timeline is Zeb’s story, the man whom Toby loved from afar in The Year of the Flood, and as he tells his history, we begin to see how intimately linked it is with everything that has happened so far. And then there are the stories the Crakers persuade Toby to tell them each evening - they want to know the histories too, how Zeb ate a bear, of Zeb’s birth, of Zeb and the Snake Women. And so we hear the ‘real’ version, or Zeb’s version, and then the simplified version that Toby tells the Crakers.

Through Toby's narrative we see how this band of survivors are trying to make a new life, to find food, to protect themselves in the aftermath of the Waterless Flood. Alliances and dalliances are formed, jealousies diverted, human assumptions are challenged. But fears are ever-present: fear for the future, fear of the Painballers, the roaming Pigoons, and whatever else might be lurking outside the compound they’ve set up home in. And Zeb is sure that Adam is still alive, but can he find him?

The backbone of MaddAddam, though, are the Craker stories; there is the distinct sense that, continuing on from where Snowman-the-Jimmy began in Oryx and Crake, Toby is creating a mythology for the Crakers, something they will hold onto and repeat through the generations. But myths, of course, twist and turn the truth, building gods and heroes out of ordinary people, creating explanations for un-understandable events – if these are the tales that will be passed into the future, then the kernels of truth from which they began will be lost as Crake and Oryx, Zeb and Toby and Jimmy become new beings, beings to be semi-worshipped rather than beings whose actions are, by Toby’s standards and by ours, questionable, morally debatable and, sometimes, fearsome. Is this a good thing or a bad thing?

And for every new thing that Toby tells the Crakers, every new thing she introduces them to or tries to explain to them, is she changing who they are and who they will become? Is she removing their innocence? Would it be better to leave them uninfluenced? It's just one of Toby's many worries, and a relevant one, but in the end it’s perhaps irrelevant because from the moment, at the beginning of MaddAddam, that the Crakers and the humans begin to properly interact with one another, the Craker evolution is inevitably set on a new path.

I would have liked there to have been a bit more about Adam and the beginning of MaddAddam and the God’s Gardeners, as I don't feel completely aquainted with the history of this part of the story - but in the long run perhaps these inner details aren’t relevant, or aren’t relevant to the formation of the Craker mythology, on which MaddAddam is focused. Or perhaps if I re-read Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood again, the pieces will be filled in for me there. What I especially enjoyed, though, was the way in which Atwood challenged our human assumptions about certain aspects of this new world and how, gradually, the Crakers, instead of relying on Snowman or Toby,  begin to take over the formation of their stories for themselves. Towards the end of the book we see 'The Story of The Battle' and 'The Story of Toby' only through Craker eyes, a subtle reflection of the new world order as it gradually comes about.

I could have gone right back to the beginning and started reading MaddAddam all over again as soon as I finished it. But what I want to do even more now is go to the very beginning, back to Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood and read all three parts of the trilogy again, to see how all the dots connect up, how the threads of all the different stories and characters weave and warp together. MaddAddam is a wonderful conclusion to this immense and foresightful story. It is full of human drama, human weakness, and human strength. By turns humorous and poignant, I can't for all my friends to read it as well so that we can gather round and 'discuss'...

White Dolphin, by Gill Lewis

I am very impressed by White Dolphin. For some reason – and I’m honestly not sure why – I was expecting an average tale of frustrated childhood made right by saving wildlife via clunky writing. What I found was a deftly crafted and real story that encompassed a whole lot of different issues, yet presented in a simple and straightforward style that simultaneously respected every character whilst summoning on the page the intricate and intertwined feelings of childhood and growing up.

Kara is angry, and she has every right to be. All the things she holds close to her heart are in the process of being ripped away. Kara lives by the sea, in a small fishing town in Cornwall, though she also lives by the sea in another sense too – the ocean, the tides, and the marine life beneath the waves are a part of who she is. But it all seems to be disappearing before her eyes: not only will the lifting of a dredging ban destroy this hidden world, but her father must sell their boat, Moana, one of the last things Kara has to connect her to her disintegrating family life. And when she finds a young dolphin beached on the shore, fishing wire wound around its mouth, it only adds to her devastation and frustration with the world. Will the white dolphin help knit back together this divided community, or will all that she represents tear it further apart?

There is so much going on this book it could be overwhelming, but while each of these ‘issues’ are important and have a role to play, author Gill Lewis doesn’t give them loose rein. Rather, they take their place within the story, balancing it out in much the same way that all of these things are ever-present in everyday life. This, I think (along with her natural, free-flowing writing style), is what makes White Dolphin feel so real.

As well as the obvious environmental issues and the debate over fishing sustainability – the balance of livelihood against environmental protection – there is small-town politics, grief, disability, and social concerns. One of the most impressive things for me, though, is the way in which Lewis confronts disability. Kara has dyslexia and her new friend Felix has cerebral palsy, yet both of these things are simply incidental to the story. I really like that while these characters each have a disability this is not a book about overcoming it, or being a champion despite it. It is simply incidental – and that is the best thing ever, because I think that is how disability should be viewed (and represented in literature, movies etc): as incidental. For us to tackle any inequalities around disability, it has to be shown that it really doesn’t matter – and one of the best ways of doing that is to not make a thing out of it, which is exactly what Lewis does. The differently abled-ness is there, but it doesn’t have any impact at all on the greater storyline.

Secondly, I really like how Lewis deals with the storyline around Kara’s mother. It would have been really easy for her to write in some miracle solution, some stroke of luck, but she doesn’t. Instead it is tentatively resolved in a real-world way. Because in White Dolphin the characters make their own luck; change comes about because they do what is necessary to make it happen rather than relying on some benevolent external force to look kindly upon them.

I picked up White Dolphin because of its Cornish setting – the county where I live and work – and Lewis, on top of everything else, brings this place to life as successfully as she does everything else, from the sounds and scents of the sea to the social difficulties of towns and villages which are divided by the gap between both the wealthy tourists/retirees and the low in-county wages, as well as the clash between environmental and business needs. While it could be said that much of this might be incidental to the book’s target audience of 9 to 12 year olds, what it does do is softly introduce such intricacies to them whilst creating a story that feels very real and whole. Plus, of course, it’s a great ride – action, debate, friendship - and everything is tied up in a most satisfying manner at the end. Brilliant.

Flight Behaviour, by Barbara Kingsolver

I read so many fantastic books during 2012, adult and children’s fiction both, that to pick one as ‘the best’ is an impossible task. Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour, though, would have to be near the top. Kingsolver is an award-winning author, perhaps most famous for The Poisonwood Bible and The Lacuna, both of which I own but have yet to read. Flight Behaviour is her latest offering and, following the hideous weather patterns exerted upon us over recent weeks and months, its theme of climate and global warming is exceedingly apt.

Kingsolver’s storytelling is extraordinary. This is not a book full of scientific terms and global warming doom-mongering; instead it subtly reveals the small everyday impacts of  real climate change, things that each on their own may not seem like a global catastrophe, but when added to the whole, show an entirely new picture. This is a book about hard-working people, the lives they lead, and the judgments they - and we - make.

Dellarobia is a young mother trapped into her life by a series of poor choices and bad luck.  Pregnant as a teenager, she married her child’s father to become the farmer’s wife, effectively entrapped by her judgemental and controlling in-laws. This is the Bible belt, the farming belt; hicktown, the people at the bottom of the pile. Every day is jeopardy in her life, the farm is failing, her marriage is failing, it’s an economic showdown and the future is questionable. It almost seems like kismet, then, when she discovers what appears to be a miracle on her mountainside. The moment of its discovery is enough to save her from another bad decision; perhaps it will be enough to save the farm too? But this ‘beautiful and terrible marvel of nature’ is tragically representative of greater, worldwide issues. Climate change was already in Dellarobia’s backyard in the shape of storms and torrential rains eating away at the farmland and her family’s traditional farming practices; they just didn’t know that that was what it was. The ‘miracle on the mountain’, though, introduces the idea with a certainty that makes it inescapable.

Equal parts social study and middle finger to climate skeptics, Flight Behaviour also touches on consumerism, greens, politics, soft racism. Some might say Kingsolver tries too much, but I think she has gotten the balance just right. Through Dellarobia’s eyes the absurdity of many modern lifestyles and attitudes are highlighted, whilst Ovid, the scientist who turns up to study Dellarobia’s miracle, uses quiet language and clever metaphors to demystify media and skeptic-generated global warming confusion. His likening of global temperature rise to a child’s fever stands out, as does his and Dellarobia’s discussion of the ability to believe in things you can’t see: “A photo cannot prove a child is growing, but several of them show change over time.”

One of best parts is perhaps Dellarobia’s run-in with a man named Leighton Akins, who’s made it his mission to get people to sign a sustainability pledge to reduce their carbon footprint. When he reads the pledge’s suggestions to her, it quickly becomes apparent how absurd the lifestyle assumptions are. In most categories listed, Dellarobia and her family already comply completely, simply out of a necessity of survival. They cannot afford to eat out, so taking tupperware to a restaurant for leftovers is hardly relevant; ditto for the use of bottled water and the purchase of red meat. “Find your local re-use stores,” he tells her - but she only shops in second-hand stores anyway; ‘new’ is an unimaginable luxury.

Dellarobia’s fight to save her mountain miracle, and everything she learns about the world and about herself along the way, reflects the fight she is in to save herself, her marriage, her children. Is it all worth it? Throughout, Kingsolver weaves together her different strands into a carefully considered tapestry, before winding up her story and then - wham, hits us with a dramatic and mind-reeling end that serves to make us question everything the future has to hold.

Things We Didn't See Coming, by Steven Amsterdam

Things We Didn’t See Coming follows a nameless narrator as he navigates his way through the 21st century. It begins on the eve of the millenium, the narrator a nine-year-old boy torn between his father, who is panicking and paranoid about the Y2K bug, and his mother, who is trying to maintain a semblance of normality. Chapter by chapter, the story moves through the following thirty or so years, jumping about five years at a time, as he encounters an increasingly devastated world.

The overall feeling I took away with me after finishing Steven Amsterdam’s debut was one of bleakness. The chapters are peopled with floods and drought, plagues and cancer, medical advancements and societal deterioration. Nevertheless, the blurb on my copy describes it as mesmerising, and this is a description I would have to agree with. I had to keep reading to find out what was going to happen next - would he find peace and contentment? Would he be able to stop moving,? Would the world sort itself out? Would I ever learn the bigger picture?

Ultimately the bigger picture is not revealed. This is one man’s story and, as thus, it is highly biased toward his lone perspective. Consequently, there is never a clear outline of the state of the country or its government, or an explanation of why the narrator is caught up in these devastating events. Only the ‘how’ as he sees it is covered: its the way of the world he is living in, its impossible to escape, and he is simply trying to find the best way to survive. I can only assume the ‘why’ is that this is a world racked by climate change.

Even the ending is ambiguous and left open to interpretation. It’s strange that sometimes, when reviewing books that I didn’t massively enjoy, thinking about how they are put together, I find myself awed by the author’s approach, their technique and story building. Although I certainly didn’t dislike Things We Didn’t See Coming, it was so overwhelmingly bleak that I couldn’t really categorise it as an enjoyable reading experience. But: it is well written and is interesting and has made me think. From a writer’s perspective I find it has a lot of value.

This is a book that has been likened to Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (which is, incidentally, incredible), and I can see the link: a desolate world with little to hope for. Yet somehow The Road leaves you with a feeling of hope, and the love between the man and his child is heartbreakingly beautiful and pure. Because these positive emotions are stronger, so the feelings of tension and danger and anticipation are stronger. Things We Didn’t See Coming doesn’t quite manage to strike the same line - even though the world still functions (in The Road it does not), it is more depressing. Our narrator seems permanently lonely and struggling, even when he has a partner. The only hope I have is that the other citizens of the narrator’s world have a more hopeful and love-filled tale to tell.

Things We Didn’t See Coming is certainly one to add to anyone’s wish-list of apocalyptic fiction. As someone who is fairly obsessed with this particular genre, as well an interest in environmental catastrophe, I am left thinking of a small speech the narrator’s father makes in the opening chapter. Although he is referring to Y2K, its a speech that, to me, resonates very strongly when put in the context of climate change: “This whole thing is symbolic, symbolic of a system that’s hopelessly shortsighted, a system that twenty, thirty years ago couldn’t imagine a time when we might be starting a new century. That’s how limited an animal we are... We are arrogant, stupid, we lack humility in the face of centuries and centuries of time before us... What we know now is that we didn’t think enough. We know we aren’t careful enough and that’s about all we know.” (pg. 22-23) Should we be afraid?