I read Swordbird mainly on the prompt of Robert’s response to the title and cover illustration you see above: A giant white dove holding a broadsword in its claws, and two birds fighting each other with their own weapons of choice. I would say it’s a blatant display of an over-abundance of testosterone and proving whose manhood is bigger, but I can’t knowing that this was written by a twelve-year-old girl with a penchant for birds and a hope of peace who laced this story with a malleable layer of religious undertones and hippie morals.
I just can’t go there. So here’s my review anyway.
Deep in a forest called Stone-Run, segregated by territories and species, a one-eyed hawk is planning domination. Not only that, but he’s drinking fermented grapes and eating roasted fish. I’ll tell you one thing, this forest is the most diverse and resourceful I’ve ever seen. I know I may not know a whole lot about the agriculture and botany of wooded areas, but I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to find grapes, acorns, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, boysenberries, rhubarb, carrots, apples, cherries, potatoes, salmon and trout in one single forest.
Granted, the map on the inner pages of the book shows that the land that Swordbird is based in is pretty vast, but I’m pretty sure all these things (plus the ones I can’t remember off-hand) can not be found all in one area. Actually, I’m pretty sure these assorted fruits, vegetables, nuts, and fish are regional and adapt to specific climates and times of the year. But again, it was written by a precocious twelve-year-old with no sense of geography and a patronizing writer’s tone that may or may not be on purpose, so I suppose she deserves a break.
There are also quotes at the beginning of each chapter that are cited from two separate sources known as the Old Scriptures, and the Book of Heresy. Which sometimes I found myself accidentally reading as the Book of Hershey and wanting to get some chocolate, but that’s neither here nor there, or even over there. There are such inspirational quotations as, “The road to success is paved with thorns,” and even a journal entry of some random bird character recalling a conversation he had with another bird about theatre arts. It wasn’t always the best advice and seemed to be more of a clue of what you were to expect in the following chapter.
Turnatt is a hawk twisted by a childhood that wronged him and an ambition to be something greater and have a life more fulfilling than having to follow the same routine every day. That sounds reasonable enough, until he starts enslaving birds smaller than him to build him a home he calls Fortress Glooming, and hiring crows and ravens for soldiers, generals and captains. This is a man – I mean, bird, sorry – that knows exactly what he wants and won’t stop at anything until he gets it.
I guess now would be a good time to let you know about the word replacements in the character dialects. Pronouns such as “nobody” and “no one”, or “anyone” and “anybody”, and even “someone” and “somebody” being replaced with “nobird”, “anybird” and, you guessed it, “somebird”. That was the first thing that threw me off. I understand the point in wanting to keep the reader aware that these are avians, but I’m pretty sure “no one” would still be an acceptable term no matter what the species was.
But I digress on my little tangent. The main bird characters of this book are two tribes known as the Bluewingle (Blue Jays) and Sunrise (Cardinals) tribes. Apparently they used to be BFF but then someone stole from someone else and it was on. Little did they know it was sneaky Turnatt who stole their eggs so that he could achieve immortal life by eating one wood birds’ egg a day. I guess this is a form of cannibalism and, therefore, is why this nugget of wisdom is found only in the Book of Hershey. I mean heresy.
Anywhottzle, with Turnatt’s slave-catcher’s as daft as they are, one of the slaves known as Milton (a bedraggled robin who is built up to be brave and courageous… only to have it all crash down in vain towards the end) cooks up a simple scheme to escape the fortress and get help from the neighboring birds. Not succeeding in the least bit, Milton at least comes in contact with a female blue jay, Aska, who was hiding from some slaver crows. She agrees to pass along the message, which would surely stop the two tribes from warring. Once it’s safe, she takes off into Stone-Run to alert the others.
Upon doing so, everyone kisses and makes-up and starts plotting against the tyrant, but not before indulging in a Pagan-type celebration of the coming spring solstice and giving thanks to Swordbird through song and dance via a traveling band-slash-acting troupe. During the course of the giety, Turnatt’s goons attempt to ambush the party but, through a twelve year-old display of food fights countered with the cunning (and also highly improbable) use of plant sap as a sticky web to trap enemies, they are driven off, much to their own chagrin and self-loathing. We are left with a scene that both depicts success in battle through affection and joy, as well as failure through the scene of dead birds smoldering with arrows that were once lit a-fire or suffering stab wounds, off to join what is aptly named Sky Land.
Shortly after, the slave birds regroup and manage to escape the fortress and slip somewhat undetected underneath the crows’ beaks as they trudge back to the castle covered in gravy and pie filling. Finding the way to the tribes post-celebration and after some deliberation, it is decided that Swordbird needs to be summoned and the only way to that is finding an ultra-rare Leasorn gem, which is fabled to be the crystallized tear of Swordbird him/itself. Good ol’ Milton pipes up and says his little congregation of fellow robins just so happens to have one lying around and offers to go get it – with Aska, who offers to go instead of letting stronger and more capable warrior birds to go.
So off they go! Milton with an injured wing due to being caught in the cross-fire, and Aska with little else to offer to a trek than her nagging falsetto voice (well, that’s how I imagine it would sound, anyway). They fly over some mountains, get chased by some anarchic birds, catch a ride on a boat with a decrepit robin (yes, apparently birds can steer boats as well as sail them, it goes along with their keen baking and tea-brewing skills) and reach Milton’s home in time for him to say his hellos, and die.
Okay, so he doesn’t die right away, but it was pretty damn fast. If this were a story that contained human characters rather than birds, the guy would survive just fine with an injured arm – he just wouldn’t be very adept at using a gun or masturbating, is all. But this useless feathery failure just can’t hold on and passes away in his bed. I wonder if it was a goose-down mattress, because then at least he would have died in comfort. Plus I like the visual I get when I imagine little robins pecking away at a giant goose and ripping its feathers off barbarically and clicking their tongues like African tribesmen.
Retrieving the gem and being escorted back home to Stone-Run by Milton’s dad and another bird, they await just the right moment when Turnatt is ambushing the two tribes with the remainder of his crew before they summon the supposedly mythological bird with a hymn and the gem offered towards the sky in Aska’s mouth like some sort of crude offering. I’m sure if they sacrificed a goat it would have been just as good, but I guess that would have been going a bit too far considering the author and intended readership of this book.
Lo and behold, Swordbird (also known as Wind Voice), floats down from an array of bright colours and song, like Jesus descending from his throne in heaven to deign upon his servants, and with his mighty sword that he wouldn’t possibly be able to wield were he any other dove (or bird for that matter) in the real world, he smites Turnatt for the second time (the missing eye is evidence of their first chance ‘meeting’) then unceremoniously leaves. Hoorah. How… anti-climactic.
Then again, this was written for children by a child, so who am I to criticize her?
Oh, right. Me, that’s who.
And thus, the Bluewingle tribe and the Sunrise tribe are once again at peace with the world. Or forest, or whathaveyou, and the eggs that weren’t deliciously and savagely devoured by the now-dead Turnatt hatch and grow up to hear the new tales of Swordbird and the glory of his blinding rays of light.
Amen.
For a twelve year old, not a bad start. Though as a semi-adult reading this book, there were times when I found myself rolling my eyes (a lot) and raising an eyebrow at certain scenes or depictions. Nancy Yi Fan’s book was inspired by a dream she had following the 9/11 tragedy, and I am disappointed that there weren’t any burning buildings (or trees, rather) and birds flinging themselves to their deaths in a pond or something to escape the fires. Again, perhaps that’s asking for too much brutality, but that first big battle scene seemed pretty harsh. I bet her Post Traumatic Stress-suffering uncle helped her write that bit.
And do you want to hear the best thing of all about Swordbird?
There’s going to be a prequel.
