Children's Book Reviews: Week of 8/27/2007

Radiant mixed-media art by a debut illustrator captures the warmth and candor in Jenkins's (Five Creatures) sparkling slice-of-life tale, narrated by a much-loved child in Brooklyn. From the moment she wakes up all the way to her bedtime, the unnamed girl describes everything that happens on Wednesdays, along the way giving a sense of her personality (“Today is not a kissing day,” she reminds her parents several times), her neighborhood (she knows all of the dogs by name), her school and, especially, her joy in her routines. “Then we go down the steps, up the block where we once saw an umbrella caught in a tree, past the bakery where we got that chocolate croissant,” she says, and readers can almost hear her pointing these landmarks out to her mother, whose hand she holds in Castillo's collage. Intriguingly, Castillo shows the mother/daughter pair several times on this spread, forcing readers to follow them along the route. Not that the audience needs a push—Castillo makes the scale unusually friendly, the colors mild and the lines agreeably soft, while her figures and trees look drawn from crayon or pencil and then cut and pasted in, rendered almost like the work of children. The girl's apartment proves especially inviting, with large areas (wallpapers, bedspreads) collaged from patterned paper. Throughout, the artist shows real skill with color, punctuating urban grays and browns with the girl's red clothes. But for all the various touches, the look is unified—and extremely effective. Ages 3-6. (Aug.)

On a moonlit night, in the chilly, black-and-white tiled interior of a suburban house, the family cat Hurricane senses danger: “Something strange has gotten into his house and things are beginning to change.” Although readers don't yet know it, a baby fairy has flown into the house, creating magical chaos. Dolls, toys, paintings—nearly everything in the fairy's trail comes alive. But it's an uneasy kind of aliveness the big-eyed creatures of these realistic pastels look bewitched. Hurricane, his features shown in a series of alarming close-ups, looks into the aquarium; two goldfish have sprouted tiny human limbs. “Hurricane does not like change!” Winged insects, freed from their collection boxes, take up lanterns and write with quill pens. Hurricane slowly relaxes and at last he perceives the truth: “This strange thing is a young thing. This strange thing is a lost thing! It belongs some otherwhere.” In Lee's final tableau, the tiny, goat-footed, dragonfly-winged fairy returns to its parents. While the implicit message is uplifting—fear and suspicion may blind us to magic and wonder—younger readers may be overpowered by the eeriness of the fearful imagery at the beginning. Australian author Carmody's (the Obernewtyn Chronicles) career as a fantasy writer may explain the book's pacing; it may find a warmer welcome among older picture book enthusiasts. Ages 4-6. (Aug.)

Bean (The Apple Pie That Papa Baked; reviewed below) creates almost magical rhythms in this pitch-perfect story. As the opening pages describe bedtime at the main character's urban house (“At night, after her brother and sister went to bed/ long after her parents whispered “Good night, happy dreams!” and went to sleep”), square watercolor panels move from scenes in the emptying hallway and into the girl's room. There, readers learn, she lies “AWAKE,” and the blank space surrounding the single, jarring word contains all the feeling in the close-up of the girl's face, seen for the first time on the opposite page. The plot is so quiet it would escape a lesser writer: lured by a breeze, the girl brings pillows and bedding up to the roof, followed by her cat (and, unbeknown to her, by her mother). Bean makes a visual poetics of this concept as the square panels now yield to full-spread illustrations. The artist supplies luminous aerial scenes of the roof garden amid a friendly, well-lit cityscape, then zooms out for more panoramic views (“She thought about the wide world around her and smiled”). His eye returns to rest on an image of the girl and her cat, comfortable at last in an improvised bed, at home in the world. The story breathes reassurance and adventure at the same time—just in case, after the girl has fallen asleep, the mother appears by her side. Ages 4-8. (Aug.)

Thompson (Polar Bear Night) and Bean (At Night, reviewed above) cook up a delicious homage to vintage children's books. Describing the eponymous pie, the author replicates with natural grace the cumulative structure and rhythm of “The House That Jack Built”—“This is the tree, crooked and strong,/ that grew the apples, juicy and red,/ that went in the pie, warm and sweet,/ that Papa baked.” Bean—who names his influences as Virginia Lee Burton and Wanda Gág—unfolds the action on a ramshackle farm, limiting his palette to three colors, black, ochre and a splash of red. Visual excitement comes from the textures of rough bark and rolling hills. The farmer father, his daughter with her tight braids and feedsack dress, and their farm look a lot like renderings from WPA-era woodcuts and lithographs. The family livestock and lean black cat peer hopefully through the window as Papa and daughter peel apples into a pie plate. All the characters, human and animal, appear in silhouette at sunset in a resounding finale: “This is the world,/ blooming with life,/ that spins with the sun, fiery and bright,/ that lights the sky, wide and fair....” The last page indicates an unexpected guest dropping by for the last piece of pie. This tribute to the artists of an earlier age should take its place among bedtime favorites; if it persuades families to explore picture book classics, so much the better. Ages 5-up. (Aug.)

Fifty years ago, in 1957, Althea Gibson became the first African-American to win at Wimbledon and Forest Hills (a feat she repeated in 1958). In rhythmic, conversational prose and vibrantly impressionistic pictures (rendered with a combination of digital imaging and acrylics), Stauffacher (Bessie Smith and the Night Riders) and Couch (Wild Child) brilliantly capture Gibson's trajectory from feisty, undisciplined tomboy to poised champion. Stauffacher appreciates that flawed heroes are the most interesting (they also make for eye-catching titles): “It took time, a good long time, but slowly Althea learned that wanting to slug her opponent as soon as she started losing her match made her a worse tennis player than if she kept her cool.... Althea realized she could dress up in white and act like a lady, and still beat the liver and lights out of the ball.” Stauffacher also skillfully handles the many supporting players in Gibson's life; her discussion of Buddy Walker, who first put a tennis racket in Gibson's hand, deepens the narrative and beautifully conveys how the giftedness of one individual can inspire generosity in others. Couch is a terrific match for the author, partnering her plainspoken text with vivid visual lyricism. In one of the most interesting elements in his consistently stunning compositions, a delicate but dynamic rainbow aura swirls around Althea wherever she goes; it's a sharp evocation of her spirited and appealingly prickly personality. Boys and girls of all levels of athleticism will find much inspiration in these pages. Ages 5-8. (Aug.)

In her first children's book, Dean takes a reportorial approach to the Althea Gibson story and strives to give readers a sense of how the tennis star's extraordinary accomplishments fit within the context of segregated America and the white world of professional tennis. Unfortunately, her ambitious, sweeping approach drains this biography of much of its humanity and particularity. The prose, too, can distance readers: “She became a curiosity to many spectators and officials,” reads a typical passage. “Some objected to her participation and doubted that she was any good.” Many of Brown's (My Family Plays Music) highly stylized pictures, which combine cut paper with other media, have the verve of an urban street mural and give the book visual oomph. But only one spread, which employs a multiple-exposure effect, imparts a sense of Gibson's athletic power. Elsewhere, static, mask-like portraits keep Gibson a remote figure, never suggesting the drive or exuberance for which Deans celebrates her. Ages 4-8. (Aug.)

In retelling a popular Cuban folktale, Deedy (The Yellow Star) shares a secret closely guarded by Cuban grandmothers—at least, by Cuban grandmothers of cockroaches. When you spill coffee on your suitor's shoes, Abuela tells her 21-day-old granddaughter Martina Josefina Catalina Cucaracha, his reaction tells you all you need to know about what sort of spouse he will make. And events prove her right. “¡Ki-ki-ri-kiiii!” storms Don Gallo, the rooster, who seconds before has proposed very prettily to the six-legged beauty. “Clumsy cockroach! I will teach you better manners when you are my wife!” Don Cerdo the pig and Don Lagarto the lizard fare no better (“You are much too cold-blooded for me,” Martina tells the lizard, who reveals in his irritation that he has actually planned to eat her). As a note on the book jacket explains, Cuban cockroaches are a lovely green, and Austin's (The Horned Toad Prince) lime-colored Martina, in high heels and a lace mantilla, appears the picture of maidenly charm. (“Daintily, she sat down/ and crossed her legs,/ and crossed her legs,/ and crossed her legs,” quips Deedy.) Austin's cockroach dwelling is a desirable piece of real estate, with its stairs made of gum wrappers, its wrought–plastic comb railing, and its exclusive mid-Havana address (it's a lamppost). A friendly sprinkling of Spanish words, warmly drawn relationships and a lot of puns all widen the audience for this spirited story. A Spanish-language version is available as well. Ages 6-10. (Sept.)

From the Gaiman/McKean school of storytelling comes this dystopian picture book, set in a shadowy, depopulated city at an indeterminate time. As in The Wolves in the Walls, paranoia reigns, but the solitary protagonist, Ben, corrects those who mistake his “woolvs” for “luvlee wyld creechis, running in the woods.” Judging from a view of barbed wire, a sooty wooden gate and menacing silhouettes, his woolvs are of the two-legged variety. Ben spends his days “scrooched up... in a mustee basement,” and readers see his hooded face in candlelit close-ups; his only company is the woman upstairs, who eventually vanishes. He peers out on a sickly sky of roiling rust-orange and gray clouds (“the seesons are topsee-turvee”), and someone paints a trompe-l'oeil “bloo sky with soft wite clouds” on a wall, perhaps to trick him. Wild and Spudevilas, Australian co-creators of Jenny Angel, conjure an atmosphere suggesting widespread surveillance. Writing in the phonetic style of Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker, Wild keeps readers guessing about Ben's (and his society's) immediate history. Spudevilas's rough charcoal sketches of deserted streets and vacant interiors slash the full-bleed spreads, and watercolor washes of sour yellow, blood red and toxic green imply apocalypse. Nevertheless, no “woolvs” appear, and when Ben ventures outside in the closing pages (“Joyn me,” he says), the situation remains undeveloped. Wild's fragmentary graphic narrative establishes an ominous mood akin to Gary Crew and Shaun Tan's The Viewer, but reads more as a prequel to a thriller than as a tale in its own right. Ages 10-up. (Sept.)

Schlitz (The Hero Schliemann) wrote these 22 brief monologues to be performed by students at the school where she is a librarian; here, bolstered by lively asides and unobtrusive notes, and illuminated by Byrd's (Leonard, Beautiful Dreamer) stunningly atmospheric watercolors, they bring to life a prototypical English village in 1255. Adopting both prose and verse, the speakers, all young, range from the half-wit to the lord's daughter, who explains her privileged status as the will of God. The doctor's son shows off his skills (“Ordinary sores/ Will heal with comfrey, or the white of an egg,/ An eel skin takes the cramping from a leg”); a runaway villein (whose life belongs to the lord of his manor) hopes for freedom after a year and a day in the village, if only he can calculate the passage of time; an eel-catcher describes her rough infancy: her “starving poor [father] took me up to drown in a bucket of water.” (He relents at the sight of her “wee fingers” grasping at the sides of the bucket.) Byrd, basing his work on a 13th-century German manuscript, supplies the first page of each speaker's text with a tone-on-tone patterned border overset with a square miniature. Larger watercolors, some with more intricate borders, accompany explanatory text for added verve. The artist does not channel a medieval style; rather, he mutes his palette and angles some lines to hint at the period, but his use of cross-hatching and his mostly realistic renderings specifically welcome a contemporary readership. Ages 10-up. (Aug.)

Launching the My Sister the Vampire series, this predictable if cute caper opens on Olivia's first day of eighth grade at a new school. Perky Olivia, who hopes to join the cheerleading squad, notices an abundance of white-faced, black-clad goths; in her pretty pink dress, she looks “like a lollipop in a graveyard.” Charlotte, the snooty self-appointed cheerleading captain, befriends Olivia, as does “ultra Goth” Ivy, who feels strongly that she has met the new girl before. And indeed she has: when she spies the emerald ring on Olivia's finger, identical to the one Ivy wears around her neck, the two figure out that they are twins, adopted at the age of one by different parents. In the inevitable Parent Trap–esque move, they decide to change places, but just at school. How long will it take for Ivy to confess that she and her pals are vampires? Long enough for Olive to want to stand by her, because “blood is thicker than water” (to which her twin responds, “And better tasting, too!”). For those who crave vampire lite, the novel features likable heroines and comical scenarios. Ages 8-12. (Aug.)

Jonell's (the Christopher and Robbie picture books) first novel is a lustrous affair, a droll fantasy with an old-fashioned sweep and a positively cinematic cast. The beginning will hook readers right away: the class pet, a rat, mocks the protagonist for being too good. “It doesn't get you anywhere,” he tells her. “The only thing that happens is, you get ignored.” When the teacher doesn't even seem to see the girl a few pages later, the rat has made his case for being bad, and Jonell has launched a truly labyrinthine plot involving prodigally endowed rodents and nefarious schemers with entangled pasts. Emmy, the heroine, must face down evil nanny Jane Barmy and win back the love of her parents, former booksellers who, since inheriting Great-Great-Uncle William's fortune, spend all their time jet-setting and buying themselves the very best of everything. Her challenge increases when the rat—freed by Emmy, one of the few characters who can hear him talk—accidentally shrinks her to his size. Jonell's villains aren't too frightening to be good targets for jokes, and the rat serves as an excellent comic foil. Occasionally the eccentricities of the plot sidetrack the action or otherwise bog down the pacing, but for the most part the narrative proceeds at an assured clip. To top off the fun, Bean (At Night and The Apple Pie That Papa Baked, both reviewed above) decorates the margins with drawings that produce a flip-book effect: the rat falls from the bough of a tree, covering his eyes as he somersaults backward in mid-air to land in Emmy's outstretched hand. Ages 9-up. (Aug.)

Easton (Aftershock) starts off strong but juggles one too many plot lines in this overly ambitious novel narrated by four different characters. Fifteen-year-old Chrissie has moved from rural Vermont to Los Angeles, where her mother has landed a job—complete with fancy condo and wealthy employer turned fiancé—but Chrissie still pines for her late dad and her best friend back “home.” Enter two witches, Yvonne and Karen, who welcome Chrissie into their coven. They have problems of their own: Yvonne's father kidnapped her away from her incompetent Gypsy mother in Europe years earlier; and Karen, pretty but none too bright, doesn't seem to realize when guys are using her. Now Karen thinks she's in love with Jimmy, the fourth narrator, but he'd rather hook up with Yvonne, who's not interested; on the other hand, Jimmy drinks so heavily that he doesn't care all that much anyway. The author doesn't draw enough connections among the spells cast by the girls, their behavior and a rapid succession of shocking events: Karen's quasi–suicide attempt, Jimmy's arrest on a felony charge and the sudden appearance of Yvonne's mother. While there are good ideas here, as well as the keen observations that Easton's admirers can expect, the characters are not developed enough to support the dramas they are made to play out. Ages 12-16. (Aug.)

The National Book Award–winning author of The Canning Season reprises many of her trademark themes in a novel even more idiosyncratic than its predecessors. Meline, the first of several narrators, begins the story just after a social worker has told her that her parents have been killed in Zimbabwe, where they were scouting for property. Her aunt and uncle were also killed, but her cousin, Jocelyn, traveling with them, has survived. Before long Meline and Jocelyn, strangers to each other, are on their way to live with their reclusive, ridiculously rich uncle Marten Knockers, a self-styled scholar, who has built a mansion on an island off British Columbia accessible only by helicopter. (Marten has deliveries dropped off—literally—by helicopter; often the contents shatter.) Much to Marten's displeasure, the household expands to include a cook, the bitter Mrs. Mendelbaum, an Austrian Jewish widow whose four sons have died; and the silent, all-knowing butler, Humdinger. All have been parted from their pasts—whether by quiet renunciation, bold repudiation or, like Meline and Jocelyn, by having it violently torn from them. Horvath's prose has rarely been more incisive: she understands the workings of grief and conveys them with uncanny accuracy and sympathy. The dark, unrestrained wit of her best writing, however, goes missing here, the humor flattened into joyless caricatures of Marten and the Yiddish-speaking Mrs. Mendelbaum. In its place, perhaps, the author offers a complex and sustained metaphor that appears to be about doomed flight; a climactic revelation broadens its scope to illuminate another Horvath specialty, the family secret. Unsparing, often grim, this book rejects false hopes in favor of fragile strivings for truth. Ages 12-up. (Aug.)

Inspired by French fairy tales, Tomlinson's first novel takes the motif of the “swan maiden”— a beautiful young woman who can assume the form of a swan—and embroiders it into an elaborate romantic fantasy. Doucette, the 16-year-old daughter of a count, longs to be a swan maiden like her two older sisters, Azelais and Cecilia, who can perform sorcery, but for the past six years her parents have led her to believe that she was born without a “swan skin.” While her sisters spend each summer with Tante Mahalt perfecting their magic, Doucette undergoes year-round tutelage from their domineering mother in running a noble household—until she discovers the swan skin her mother has hidden from her since birth. Tomlinson presents Doucette's subsequent adventures as a series of forks in the road: Stay with her mother or fly to Tante Mahalt? Marry her true love, the shepherd Jaume, or be made queen? Sacrifice her swan self, and her magic, in exchange for love? The prose rarely rises above the serviceable (“Soft as milk, as clouds, as snow, the dappled swan skin enveloped her in a luscious warmth”); rather, it's the fast-moving plot that will engage readers. Fans of Shannon Hale's Goose Girl and Juliet Marillier's Daughter of the Forest form the likeliest audience. Ages 12-up. (Aug.)

When Caroline Darcy heads off to college, the theater major from small-town Ohio dyes her hair from “blah, beige blonde” hair to “Havana Brown” and pretends she is half-Cuban—never mind that her Cuban connection comes entirely via her late great-grandmother, the dashing Nana Ellie. Caro sprinkles Spanish into her speech, wears tighter clothes and enjoys the attention she gets from being “exotic,” even starting a relationship with“smooth” fraternity boy Erik. The plot takes a jarring turn when one of Erik's friends rapes Caro in her dorm room, despite the efforts of her Cuban friend from across the hall, Peter, to save her. Retuning to school in the fall, Caro stops pretending to be Carolina, but decides to research Nana Ellie's family, which alters the direction of the story. Readers may grow frustrated wondering where Ferrer (Adiós to My Old Life) is going next, besides building to the inevitable romance between Caro and Peter. But the book achieves a real richness: Caro not only learns unexpected secrets about Nana Ellie, but hears many revealing life stories. The elderly Cuban women who talk about their journeys prove especially moving. In the end, this twisting book amply rewards readers. Ages 12-up. (Aug.)

Readers who enjoy a novel with a subversive streak will relish the gamesmanship in this idiosyncratic, genre-hopping story from the author of Dead Connection. As the novel begins, Ben Mander, a junior, rushes into the high school office, where his psychotic mother, in the middle of a loud, delusional episode, is attacking a secretary: “She... is a Lizard!” All but abandoned by his father, Ben feels a kinship with Marco, a youth he meets in the lobby of the psychiatric hospital as both wait for their mothers to be admitted. Price takes care with the details—the father's slow backing away, the social workers and their limits, hospital and insurance policies—and he slowly builds a sense of Ben's growing isolation and immersion in adult problems. Meanwhile, Ben meets Marco again, and becomes engrossed in the stories Marco tells, about a future 2,000 years away that offers hope for people like Ben's mother—but that also overlaps, to an alarming degree, with the substance of Ben's mother's delusions. The pace quickens and the plot grows increasingly complex as the author blurs (for readers as well as for Ben) the distinctions between Ben's experiences and his expectations that they are valid, that he has not crossed over into his mother's illness. Raising questions about time travel and using extremes of mental health, Price's story taps into classic teenage feelings of alienation and gives them an original exploration. Ages 12-up. (Aug.)

Jones's (Nailed) proficiency at message-driven novels with hot teen issues is apparent in this latest offering, in which rape, drugs, sexual harassment and poverty take center stage. Living in economically depressed Flint, Mich., is hard enough for 17-year-old Christy, even without her horrible secret: as readers eventually learn, her older brother, Ryan, has been raping her since she was in sixth grade. “Everybody's got their secrets,” she declares. “I carry mine like a jagged stone inside my shoe.” Her friends make plans to go away to college, but Christy sees no similar escape route for herself, because her family cannot afford it. A suicide attempt lands Christy in therapy, where she acquires the support she needs to confront Ryan. Incidents from Christy's disturbing past (her father's premature death, a brother's life sentence, etc.) interrupt the main narrative, creating a burdensome structure for a story that already suffers from too many issues. Readers who enjoy problem novels, however, are likely to appreciate Jones's sympathetic depictions of teen culture and to overlook a number of predictable situations in order to cheer on the characters. They will especially identify with Christy as she exacts an unexpected revenge in the cathartic finale. Ages 14-up. (Aug.)

Told from the perspectives of Rosa, a physician's privileged daughter, and Alonso, a poor cholo (Indian) teenager, this first novel takes a harsh look at the cruel regime in late 20th-century Peru and the violent tactics of the Communist guerilla insurgency, the Shining Path. Rosa's father and Alonso's mother run a health clinic near Lima, which makes Dr. Pablo suspect in the eyes of the government and Magda a target for the Shining Path. “Alonso, if the bourgeoisie can cushion the People's misery... don't you think they will? Your mother played right into that. She became what we call a useful fool,” says a party leader, explaining why the Shining Path blows up the clinic when Magda is inside. Magda's murder shatters the community, but before long graffiti everywhere defames Magda. As Alonso's father descends into heavy drinking, and as Rosa's father sees no way to reopen the clinic, Rosa and Alonso begin navigating separate and dangerous paths. Crushed, confused and regularly beaten by his heartbroken father, Alonso briefly joins the terrorists. Schmidt does a credible job of showing the seduction of terrorism in an impoverished society, and she broadens the audience by framing much of the action as a romance between Rosa and Alonso. Poetic language punctuates much of the violence: “If he opened his mouth, would words come out? Or just mist? Mist that dampened their hair and wet the dust. Everything sank like death into the ground.” Ages 14-up. (Aug.)

With a smooth storyteller's pacing and an eye for kid-friendly detail, Langton (The Fledgling) retells the legend of how Saint Francis of Assisi used kindness to negotiate peace between the people of Gubbio and the wolf that was terrorizing their village. Though many tales of Francis's good deeds and selfless service are well known, children especially will gravitate to this story and its elements of suspense. Children stay indoors, warned that “The wolf will gobble you up”: the farmer, the miller and the baker, suffering their own hardships from the menacing beast, frantically express their concern for Francis. And the hungry wolf “licked its chops, dreaming of fat sheep,” while the villagers cower. As a complement to the dramatic tension, the young friar's Dr. Dolittle–like communication with animals also holds much appeal. The book's design goes far in capturing the flavor of Saint Francis's Italy. The font suggests, in a more humble style, the sturdy forms of calligraphy and illuminated letters of the day. On each spread, Plume (The Bremen-Town Musicians) alternates spot illustrations of flowers and plants with slightly larger scenes of Gubbio framed in Renaissance-inspired shapes. Her delicate lines and sunny watercolor palette depict the flourishing flora, fauna and stone dwellings of the Italian countryside. A brief biography of Francis is included, and his “Canticle of the Sun” appears on the end papers. All ages. (Oct.)

Hanft and Chwast here craft a jaunty picture-book companion to their Miracles of Passover. Hanft quickly gets to the heart of the matter in his one-page retellings of such familiar Bible stories as “Daniel in the Lion's Den” and “Jonah and the Fish” and “Noah's Ark.” He also includes such dramatic episodes as the parting of the Red Sea and the conquests of Samson and David. Each vignette includes a Bible quote and notation and is decorated with a small detail illustration. But it's Chwast's full-page-and-more compositions, rendered in creamy, pastel-toned ink-and-watercolor that stand out—literally. A number of these illustrations, in Chwast's signature comics-influenced style, appear on fold-out pages that boldly expand the scene, vertically or horizontally. Children will likely flock to this hands-on reading experience. Ages 4-8. (Oct.)

How does one explain to a child a girl's ability to see mystical visions? In this intriguing picture book biography of the 12th-century German scientist, musician and Christian heroine Hildegard von Bingen, the mother-and-son Winters use a blend of crisp, expository acrylic illustrations and a text that blends emotion and historical perspective. Young Hildegard knows her place as a girl growing up in the “Dark Ages.” She doesn't speak of the vivid scenes of flames, stars and angels that appear inside her mind for fear of retribution, even though maintaining her secret causes her various ailments. But when she hears the voice of God and receives a commandment to share her visions with the world, everything changes. Jonah Winter employs a refrain “And there was grayness/and silence and sorrow,/ though a light shone brightly inside her,” reminding readers of the spiritual aspects of Hildegard's faithful, obedient life. His direct writing style makes Hildegard's confusion, suffering and ultimate rejoicing palpable for young readers. Jeanette Winter uses bold graphic imagery, rich, earthy tones and distinct facial expressions in her elegantly composed, neatly framed paintings, conveying a sense of drama and reverence throughout. A concise profile and bibliography further illuminate Hildegard's many outstanding achievements. Ages 4-8. (Sept.)

As its title implies, this collection of Bible stories focuses on the appearance of angels to humans, as messengers of God. Each straightforward entry has a theme describing the angel's particular function, e.g., “Delivering a Promise,” is the title of a retelling of Moses hearing an angel “speaking in God's voice” as he encountered the burning bush. Daniel, spared from the lions, falls under “Delivering from Death” and Mary, receiving news of her impending pregnancy from the Angel Gabriel, has the heading “Bringing Glad Tidings.” The simple language and concise plot lines, blended with the miraculous nature of angels, should prove inviting to a wide readership. The original Scripture citations are provided as well. Throughout, Baboni's fuzzy, jewel-toned acrylic paintings create a dreamlike mood. Her paintings feature textured brush strokes and stylized forms, helping maintain the mystery of the subject matter. Ages 5-10. (Sept.)

Zalben (Paths to Peace) offers a creation story inspired by a 16th-century midrash (“a legend based on biblical text,” she explains in her author's note) told by the kabbalist rabbi Isaac Luria. In this pulsing-with-energy version, the Creator made the world and all its flora and fauna but, “as a finishing touch,” the Creator aims to paint everything with a special, extremely powerful light that is stored in a jar. But the plan goes awry when the jar shatters into shards and sparks of light scatter far and wide. The Creator makes people to help search for the shards—finding the light in every living thing and in themselves—and eventually make the world whole again. Zalben's take on this tale can be read as a metaphor for healing our troubled earth. In a note about her sweeping mixed-media illustrations she discusses imagery and technique (she uses crayon, acrylics, oils and even a bit of Windex on rough canvas). But even without any explanation, young readers will find plenty to pore over in the arresting spreads. Ages 5-up. (Sept.)