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Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague Paperback – April 30, 2002
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An unforgettable tale, set in 17th century England, of a village that quarantines itself to arrest the spread of the plague, from the author The Secret Chord and of March, winner of the Pulitzer Prize
When an infected bolt of cloth carries plague from London to an isolated village, a housemaid named Anna Frith emerges as an unlikely heroine and healer. Through Anna's eyes we follow the story of the fateful year of 1666, as she and her fellow villagers confront the spread of disease and superstition. As death reaches into every household and villagers turn from prayers to murderous witch-hunting, Anna must find the strength to confront the disintegration of her community and the lure of illicit love. As she struggles to survive and grow, a year of catastrophe becomes instead annus mirabilis, a "year of wonders."
Inspired by the true story of Eyam, a village in the rugged hill country of England, Year of Wonders is a richly detailed evocation of a singular moment in history. Written with stunning emotional intelligence and introducing "an inspiring heroine" (The Wall Street Journal), Brooks blends love and learning, loss and renewal into a spellbinding and unforgettable read.
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherPenguin Books
- Publication dateApril 30, 2002
- Reading age18 years and up
- Dimensions7.74 x 5.02 x 0.61 inches
- ISBN-100142001430
- Lexile measure1080L
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From the Publisher
Editorial Reviews
From The New Yorker
Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker
Review
Praise for Year of Wonders:
"The novel glitters . . . A deep imaginative engagement with how people are changed by catastrophe." —The New Yorker
“Plague stories remind us that we cannot manage without community . . . Year of Wonders is a testament to that very notion . . . [The villagers] assume collective responsibility for combating the plague, rather than seeing it as an act of God before which they are powerless.” —The Washington Post
"Year of Wonders is a vividly imagined and strangely consoling tale of hope in a time of despair." —O, The Oprah Magazine
"Brooks proves a gifted storyteller as she subtly reveals how ignorance, hatred and mistrust can be as deadly as any virus. . . . Year of Wonders is itself a wonder." —People
"A glimpse into the strangeness of history that simultaneously enables us to see a reflection of ourselves." —The New York Times Book Review
"Elegant and engaging." —Arthur Golden
"Year of Wonders has it all: strong characters, a trememdous sense of time and place, a clearly defined heroine and a dastardly villain." —The Denver Post
About the Author
Geraldine Brooks is the author of five novels: the Pulitzer Prize-winning March; the international bestsellers Caleb's Crossing, People of the Book, and Year of Wonders; and, most recently, The Secret Chord. She has also written the acclaimed nonfiction works Nine Parts of Desire and Foreign Correspondence. Born and raised in Australia, she lives on Martha's Vinyard with her husband, the author Tony Horwitz, and their two sons.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Apple-picking Time
I used to love this season. The wood stacked by the door, the tang of its sap still speaking of forest. The hay made, all golden in the low afternoon light. The rumble of the apples tumbling into the cellar bins. Smells and sights and sounds that said this year it would be all right: there'd be food and warmth for the babies by the time the snows came. I used to love to walk in the apple orchard at this time of the year, to feel the soft give underfoot when I trod on a fallen fruit. Thick, sweet scents of rotting apple and wet wood. This year, the hay stooks are few and the woodpile scant, and neither matters much to me.
They brought the apples yesterday, a cartload for the rectory cellar. Late pickings, of course: I saw brown spots on more than a few. I had words with the carter over it, but he told me we were lucky to get as good as we got, and I suppose it's true enough. There are so few people to do the picking. So few people to do anything. And those of us who are left walk around as if we're half asleep. We are all so tired.
I took an apple that was crisp and good and sliced it, thin as paper, and carried it into that dim room where he sits, still and silent. His hand is on the Bible, but he never opens it. Not anymore. I asked him if he'd like me to read it to him. He turned his head to look at me, and I started. It was the first time he'd looked at me in days. I'd forgotten what his eyes could do-what they could make us do-when he stared down from the pulpit and held us, one by one, in his gaze. His eyes are the same, but his face has altered so, drawn and haggard, each line etched deep. When he came here, just three years since, the whole village made a jest of his youthful looks and laughed at the idea of being preached at by such a pup. If they saw him now, they would not laugh, even if they could remember how to do so.
"You cannot read, Anna."
"To be sure, I can, Rector. Mrs. Mompellion taught me."
He winced and turned away as I mentioned her, and instantly I regretted it. He does not trouble to bind his hair these days, and from where I stood the long, dark fall of it hid his face, so that I could not read his expression. But his voice, when he spoke again, was composed enough. "Did she so? Did she so?" he muttered. "Well, then, perhaps one day I'll hear you and see what kind of a job she made of it. But not today, thank you, Anna. Not today. That will be all."
A servant has no right to stay, once she's dismissed. But I did stay, plumping the pillow, placing a shawl. He won't let me lay a fire. He won't let me give him even that little bit of comfort. Finally, when I'd run out of things to pretend to do, I left him.
In the kitchen, I chose a couple of the spotted apples I'd culled from the buckets and walked out to the stables. The courtyard hadn't been swept in a sennight. It smelled of rotting straw and horse piss. I had to hitch up my skirt to keep it off the muck. Before I was halfway across, I could hear the thud of his horse's rump as he turned and strutted in his confinement, gouging clefts into the floor of the stall. There's no one strong or skilled enough now to handle him.
The stable boy, whose job it was to keep the courtyard raked, was asleep on the floor of the tack room. He jumped when he saw me, making a great show of searching for the snath that had slipped from his hand when he'd dozed off. The sight of the scythe blade still upon his workbench vexed me, for I'd asked him to mend it long since, and the timothy now was naught but blown seed head and no longer worth the cutting. I was set to scold him about this, and about the filth outside, but his poor face, so pinched and exhausted, made me swallow the words.
Dust motes sparkled in the sudden shaft of sunlight as I opened the stable door. The horse stopped his pawing, holding one hoof aloft and blinking in the unfamiliar glare. Then he reared up on his muscled haunches and punched the air, saying, as plainly as he could, "If you aren't him, get out of here." Although I don't know when a brush was last laid on him, his coat still gleamed like bronze where the light touched it. When Mr. Mompellion had arrived here on this horse, the common talk had been that such a fine stallion was no fit steed for a priest. And people liked not to hear the rector calling him Anteros, after one of the old Puritans told them it was the name of a pagan idol. When I made so bold as to ask Mr. Mompellion about it, he had only laughed and said that even Puritans should recall that pagans, too, are children of God and their stories part of His creation.
I stood with my back pressed against the stall, talking gently to the great horse. "Ah, I'm so sorry you're cramped up in here all day. I brought you a small something." Slowly, I reached into the pocket of my pinafore and held out an apple. He turned his massive head a little, showing me the white of one liquid eye. I kept prattling, softly, as I used to with the children when they were scared or hurt. "You like apples. I know you do. Go on, then, and have it." He pawed the ground again, but with less conviction. Slowly, his nostrils flaring as he studied the scent of the apple, and of me, he stretched his broad neck toward me. His mouth was soft as a glove, and warm, as it brushed my hand, taking the apple in a single bite. As I reached into my pocket for the second one, he tossed his head and the apple juice sprayed. He was up now, angrily boxing the air, and I knew I'd lost the moment. I dropped the other apple on the floor of the stall and slid out quickly, resting my back against the closed door, wiping a string of horse spittle from my face. The stable boy slid his eyes at me and went silently on with his mending.
Well, I thought, it's easier to bring a small comfort to that poor beast than it is to his master. When I came back into the house, I could hear the rector out of his chair, pacing. The rectory floors are old and thin, and I could follow his steps by the creak of the boards. Up and back he walked, up and back, up and back. If only I could get him downstairs, to do his pacing in the garden. But once, when I suggested it, he looked as if I'd proposed something as ambitious as a trek up the White Peak. When I went to fetch his plate, the apple slices were all there, untouched, turning brown. Tomorrow, I'll start to work with the cider press. He'll take a drink without noticing sometimes, even when I can't get him to eat anything. And it's no use letting a cellar full of fruit go bad. If there's one thing I can't stand anymore, it's the scent of a rotting apple. * * *
At day's end, when I leave the rectory for home, I prefer to walk through the orchard on the hill rather than go by the road and risk meeting people. After all we've been through together, it's just not possible to pass with a polite, "Good night t'ye." And yet I haven't the strength for more. Sometimes, not often, the orchard can bring back better times to me. These memories of happiness are fleeting things, reflections in a stream, glimpsed all broken for a second and then swept away in the current of grief that is our life now. I can't say that I ever feel what it felt like then, when I was happy. But sometimes something will touch the place where that feeling was, a touch as slight and swift as the brush of a moth's wing in the dark.
In the orchard of a summer night, if I close my eyes, I can hear the small voices of children: whispers and laughter, running feet and rustling leaves. Come this time of year, it's Sam that I think of-strong Sam Frith grabbing me around the waist and lifting me into the low, curved branch of a gnarly, old tree. I was just fifteen. "Marry me," he said. And why wouldn't I? My father's croft had ever been a joyless place. My father loved a pot better than he loved his children, though he kept on getting them, year passing year. To my stepmother, Aphra, I was always a pair of hands before I was a person, someone to toil after her babies. Yet it was she who spoke up for me, and it was her words that swayed my father to give his assent. In his eyes I was but a child still, too young to be handfasted. "Open your eyes, husband, and look at her," said Aphra. "You're the only man in the village who doesn't. Better she be wedded early to Frith than bedded untimely by some youth with a prick more upright than his morals."
Sam Frith was a miner with his own good lead seam to work. He had a fine small cottage and no children from a first wife who'd died. It did not take him long to give me children. Two sons in three years. Three good years. I should say, for there are many now too young to remember it, that it was not a time when we were raised up thinking to be happy. The Puritans, who are few amongst us now, and sorely pressed, had the running of this village then. It was their sermons we grew up listening to in a church bare of adornment, their notions of what was heathenish that hushed the Sabbath and quieted the church bells, that took the ale from the tavern and the lace from the dresses, the ribands from the Maypole and the laughter out of the public lanes. So the happiness I got from my sons, and from the life that Sam provided, burst on me as sudden as the first spring thaw. When it all turned to hardship and bleakness again, I was not surprised. I went calmly to the door that terrible night with the torches smoking and the voices yelling and the men with their faces all black so that they looked headless in the dark. The orchard can bring back that night, too, if I let my mind linger there. I stood in the doorway with the baby in my arms, watching the torches bobbing and weaving crazy lines of light through the trees. "Walk slow," I whispered. "Walk slow, because it won't be true until I hear the words." And they did walk slow, trudging up that little hill as if it were a mountain. But slow as they came, in the end they arrived, jostling and shuffling. They pushed the biggest one, Sam's friend, out in front. There was a mush of rotten apple on his boot. Funny thing to notice, but I suppose I was looking down so that I wouldn't have to look into his face.
They were four days digging out Sam's body. They took it straight to the sexton's instead of bringing it home to me. They tried to keep me from it, but I wouldn't be kept. I would do that last thing for him. She knew. "Tell them to let her go to him," Elinor Mompellion said to the rector in that gentle voice of hers. Once she spoke, it was over. She so rarely asked anything of him. And once Michael Mompellion nodded, they parted, those big men, moving aside and letting me through.
To be sure, there wasn't much there that was him. But what there was, I tended. That was two years ago. Since then, I've tended so many bodies, people I loved and people I barely knew. But Sam's was the first. I bathed him with the soap he liked, because he said it smelled of the children. Poor slow Sam. He never quite realized that it was the children who smelled of the soap. I washed them in it every night before he came home. I made it with heather blooms, a much gentler soap than the one I made for him. His soap was almost all grit and lye. It had to be, to scrape that paste of sweat and soil from his skin. He would bury his poor tired face in the babies' hair and breathe the fresh scent of them. It was the closest he got to the airy hillsides. Down in the mine at daybreak, out again after sundown. A life in the dark. And a death there, too.
And now it is Elinor Mompellion's Michael who sits all day in the dark, with the shutters closed. And I try to serve him, although sometimes I feel that I'm tending just another in that long procession of dead. But I do it. I do it for her. I tell myself I do it for her. Why else would I do it, after all?
Product details
- Publisher : Penguin Books; Reprint edition (April 30, 2002)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0142001430
- Reading age : 18 years and up
- Lexile measure : 1080L
- Item Weight : 8 ounces
- Dimensions : 7.74 x 5.02 x 0.61 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #16,169 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #176 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #594 in Family Life Fiction (Books)
- #1,701 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Geraldine Brooks is the author of the novels The Secret Chord, Caleb's Crossing, People of the Book, March (which won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2006) and Year of Wonders, recently optioned by Olivia Coleman. She has also written three works of non-fiction: Nine Parts of Desire, based on her experiences among Muslim women in the mideast, Foreign Correspondence, a memoir about an Australian childhood enriched by penpals around the world and her adult quest to find them, and The Idea of Home:Boyer Lectures 2011. Brooks started out as a reporter in her hometown, Sydney, and went on to cover conflicts as a Wall Street Journal correspondent in Bosnia, Somalia, and the Middle East. She now lives on Martha's Vineyard in Massachusetts with two sons, a horse named Valentine and a dog named Bear.
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Through the eyes of Anna Firth, a young widow who is a servant to the minister and his wife, the happenings of that fateful year are recounted in excruciating detail, using the rhythms and language of that long-ago time. As her children and neighbors suffer and die, she is witness to the extremes to which people will go in a time of crisis. I winced at the some of the supposed cures as well as some of the barbaric customs and punishments. I watched her friendship with the minister's wife flourish. I felt the torments of the flawed human beings who struggle with dark inner turmoil. And understood the role of religion in their lives. These are deeply complex characters and unexpected secrets surfaced as I got more and more into the story.
I felt I was riding the wave of the book, unable to put it down and feeling I was walking right beside Anna in that small sad village with its shrinking population where fields lay fallow and apples rotted on the trees because everyone was either dying or tending to the sick. And then, just at the tide was turning and I felt the story was coming to a satisfactory conclusion, the author took me on yet another roller coaster ride as the last fifty pages changed directions, unearthing even more secrets and taking a turn that thrust Anna into a whole new adventure.
I recommend this book highly even though I understand it is not for everyone. It is indeed upsetting. But it also shows the resiliency of the human spirit and adds perspective to what is going on in the world today.
The book is rich in authentic detail and thoroughly researched. There is an overall darkness and almost claustrophobic mood rendered in the novel…the sense of being imprisoned by the boundaries of the town, the darkness of ignorance that pervades the inhabitants; the oppression of religious dogma, the degradation of women and the cruelty against those who were believed to practice witchcraft, the unjust class system as exemplified by the wealthy, selfish Bradford family, and the physical darkness of a world without much light. A world of dirt, hunger, impoverishment, plague-infested fleas, and death.
The writing is brilliant. So many poetic and richly observed lines such in the first paragraph: “The wood stacked by the door, the tang of its sap still speaking of forest. The hay made, all golden in the last of the afternoon light. The rumble of the apples tumbling into the cellar bins.” Here, as throughout, Brooks evokes our senses: visual, aural, smells, which is the hallmark of a great writer because these descriptions set the reader firmly into place.
“We live all aslant here, on this steep flank of the great White Peak. We are always tilting forward to toil uphill or bracing backward on our heels to slow a swift descent.” A brilliant observation! Or Anna’s cottage: “It was a tiny place, just one room propped upon another, so ill-built that the hatch sat rakishly atop the whole like a cap pulled crooked across a brow. The cottage was set hard into the side of the hill, crouching before the winter winds that roared across the moors.”
I greatly appreciated the skill with which Geraldine Brooks created this world. There were, however, some scenes I found very uncomfortable. While I can read a gory murder mystery without issue, the scene in which Anna Frith must deliver a baby made me extremely squeamish. This account was too extended and graphic, although it was a horrifically accurate portrayal.
The sermons delivered by Michael Mompellion were also unsettling to read. As a secular person (as is the author), I found these overbearing, pompous, and egotistical—as if he alone possessed superior wisdom. Even so, Brooks portrays Mompellion as a white hat until, suddenly, his hat turns black when his cruelty toward his kind and lovely wife, Elinor, is revealed. We learn that he refused to sleep with Elinor because, as a naïve teenager, she had been tricked into having sex with a man who promised marriage and then, when she was pregnant, left her, forcing her to abort the child. The fact that the rector deems her sinful and that she must be punished for her sins by never having sex with him…well, what about Charles, who seduced the young Elinor when he was older and more experienced? He didn’t seem to be a target of the priest’s vilification, nor does Mompellion seem disturbed by having illegitimate sex with Anna—okay for him but not for the woman? But then we have these lines uttered by Mompellion to Anna:
“What could she [Elinor] give in atonement for the life that, because of her actions, never could be lived? Because lust caused the sin, I deemed that she should atone by living some part of her life with her lust unrequited. The more I could make her love me, the more her penance might weigh in the balance to equal her sin.” And: “I had to be assured she was cleansed or else risk the loss of her for eternity.” In other words, once she was dead, they could have sex together in heaven?
When Anna asks, “And you?” Mompellion laughs and replies, “Do you know why women are the dregs of the Devil’s dunghill? When they [men] want a woman, they school themselves to turn their thoughts to all the vile omissions of her body.” And: “I, the husband, am the image of God in the kingdom of the home…and now it seems that there is no God, and I was wrong.” Poor self-involved fool!
I can think of no other novel except perhaps Hawaii by James Michener, which depicts another rapid minister, that so delineates the horrors perpetrated by men of the cloth. I wish Mompellion had been punished by the author rather than his wife, Elinor. My suggestion? Toss the guy in one of the local lead mines and let Anna and Elinor find a life together. If the author wanted an optimistic ending, this one would serve better the one in which Anna travels to Oran and is smoothly assimilated into the house of Ahmed Bey, learns medicine, and seems to suffer no difficulty with language or culture. This conclusion struck me as forced and tacked on…a quick fix to make a happy ending.
Even so, this is a masterful recreation of a dark, frightening period in English history.
Top reviews from other countries
Definitely a great read.
This is a magnificent novel.
However, I got a book with yellowed pages with pencil markings, which I do not like anyhow.
Keep reading. Keep engage in getting the orgasmes of the pleasures of reading a text.
I was inspired to read this book now, as someone at work has started an “iso” book group, and this was the chosen book. For anyone who reads this review in the future, this is because we are in the midst of the COVID 19 pandemic and have all been socially isolated and working from home. This book is appropriate then as it deals with the plague epidemic of 1665-6 in the UK, and specifically the plague village of Eyam in Derbyshire. This village was stricken by bubonic plague, and took the unusual step of cutting itself off from the rest of the world to stop the spread of the disease. The villagers themselves suffered greatly, and many died.
We now know a great deal about this disease and how it is spread, but that was not the case in the 17th century. The story is told by Anna, who is a survivor- not only of the plague, but of other tragedies in her life. Her husband Sam is killed in an accident in his lead mine, a common occurrence in those days. She becomes great friends with the minister’s wife, Elinor, who teaches her to read. Anna has a very hard life but ends up happy and fulfilled, albeit far away from Derbyshire.
This is a story of love and loss and triumph over the odds. It is also historically interesting, being based on a true story. I found that much of it resonated strongly with our own situation in the current pandemic and it almost could have been written last week, not in 2011.
Highly recommended, especially for lovers of Geraldine Brooks’s work.