>
WILHELMINA THE ILL-TEMPERED (CONTINUED)
That Wilhelmina considered the marriage of Roger to Wisdom of paramount importance may be seen in the concession she secretly granted the emperor: the elimination of Farina's tolls on imperial mail riders. (That she preserved the tolls for all other traffic illustrates her negotiating prowess.) The coupling of the duchy to Montagne constituted the cornerstone of her grand plan to elevate Farina to regal status, that her family might then make claim to the imperial throne. Nor was Rüdiger IV—an elderly campaigner by this juncture, and perhaps too concerned with Circus Primus—in any position to confront Wilhelmina's ambition. Farina's contributions to the imperial purse could not easily be disregarded, and the duchy controlled the very crossroads of the empire. Were Wilhelmina to close its borders, imperial trade would halt outright. The emperor therefore acceded to Wilhelmina's demand and commanded that the nuptials take place immediately; his act of officiation—a great honor, and irrevocable—would lock Montagne to Farina forever...
>
WILHELMINA THE ILL-TEMPERED (CONTINUED)
As per Wilhelmina's demands, Rüdiger the following day married the Duke of Farina to Wisdom of Montagne. Wisdom's collapse at the exact moment of the couple's nuptial kiss remains one of the great unsolved mysteries in the history of Lax. Alchemic investigation of the goblet and the wine with which the princess had enacted the traditional Farina wedding toast revealed no trace of poison, nor could the empire's physicians and autopsists explain her expiration. Yet all evidence pointed to Duchess Wilhelmina, who had filled the goblet, presented it to the bride, and forced her to empty the glass. Despite her most vehement protestations of innocence, the duchess was tainted forevermore by the scandal, and it is believed the term "the willies" derives from a vulgar threat to "give someone the Wilhelmina treatment"—that is, to poison them. However disgraced she may have been to her countrymen and peers, however, Wilhelmina was never tried for the crime; indeed, she succeeded in her objective of binding the Duchy of Farina in perpetuity to the throne of Montagne. Nor, it emerged, was this the full extent of her far-reaching and devious stratagem...
>
Bonus Encyclopedia Entry Imperial Encyclopedia of Lax, Ninth Edition
From the Author: I intended this as an epilogue to Wisdom's Kiss but ultimately decided against it, preferring that the book end with Puss in Boots. Besides, this entry was a little too meta, even for me. Who would pick up that this was ninth, not eighth, edition of the encyclopedia? Who would care who assembled the documents within Wisdom's Kiss? Who would want a detailed explanation of the Wisdom's Kiss title and its meaning —more detailed than what I already give? No one, I suspect. But here it is here anyway, just in case.
WISDOM'S KISS
A besting, particularly a besting in which an elaborate and possibly illicit stratagem fails the schemer. The idiom, briefly ubiquitous throughout the empire, is now heard only in the mountain countries of central Lax.
The common name for the circumstances surrounding the nuptial ceremony of Princess Wisdom of Montagne and Duke Roger of Farina, and the origin of the idiom.
The title bestowed on a collection of documents published late in the reign of Emperor Rüdiger IV and purportedly a recounting of the Wisdom's Kiss incident. Many of eight sources in the compilation were obtained illicitly, previously unknown, or assumed lost; publications of sterling truth, such as the eighth edition of the The Imperial Encyclopedia of Lax, were arbitrarily interspersed with preposterous works of fiction. > The compiler printed and distributed the volume anonymously, and despite a lengthy investigation and offer of a large reward, has never been identified. While acclaimed by the general public, the collection's fabrications—particularly its titillating endorsement of the supernatural and its insinuation that individuals and powers greater than the emperor exist within Lax—were soon recognized as a grave threat to the stability of the realm, and Rüdiger's son, upon ascending the throne, ordered the volume suppressed. Nevertheless, and despite the most stringent punishment of the lawbreakers, it is rumored that Wisdom's Kiss remains in illicit circulation; any citizen encountering a copy should at once submit it to the proper authorities so that it may be destroyed.
>
More Bonus Material: Fairy Tales & Songs, Recipes And Deleted Prose
Discussion Questions >
Mommy Buzzkill with Author Commentary >
Fairy Tale: "Puss in Boots" with Author Commentary
>
Fairy Tale: "Cat Whiskers" > Author Commentary on "Cat Whiskers" >
Fairy Tale: "The Dolorous Draper" >
"Pass the Bucket" >
Author Commentary on "Pass the Bucket" >
Deleted Prose: A Letter from Teddy to Ben >
Recipe: Cuthbert en croûte >
Recipe: Poches Celebres >
Recipe: Pumpkin Pudding >
Pitch letter with Author commentary >
Enhanced Materials Menu
Discussion Questions for Wisdom's Kiss
While many of these topics are discussed in the e-book enhancements—and of course in the book itself—I've purposefully avoided providing hints, e-links, or other shortcuts within this entry. It's your book now, peoples, and you need to wrangle out whatever answers you see fit.
"Truth requires many voices, for it is a relentless foe but a most unobliging mistress." Why does this epigraph open Wisdom's Kiss?
I think we can agree Wisdom's Kiss has a rather unusual format. How does this format contribute to the overall story? How would the story differ if it were told from only one point of view? Which point of view would it be?
Wisdom's Kiss is written in eight "voices": two memoirs, two diaries, two sets of letters, an encyclopedia, and a play. How did the author make each voice distinct and unique?
The Imperial Encyclopedia of Lax often reports histories and details at odds with the other voices. Why do you think there's such a disparity? Which versions do you think are correct?
The play Queen of All the Heavens was written by "Anonymous." Who might "Anonymous" be? Why would this person wish to remain unknown?
Wilhelmina is a truly awful person. What are some illustrations of this? What in her upbringing might have made her so?
Felis el Gato is also awful, in his own charming way. What do his personality and writing style contribute to Wisdom's Kiss? How would the book differ without him?
For a romance/fantasy, Wisdom's Kiss contains a lot of politics. What is transpiring within the Empire of Lax during this story? How do politics affect the private lives of Trudy, Dizzy, and Tips?
Wisdom's Kiss has very little magic—in fact, no magic whatsoever in the first two-thirds of the story. Why do you think this is? What role does magic play when it's ultimately introduced?
Who's your favorite character in Wisdom's Kiss? Which character do you most resemble? Which character would you most want to be? (Are your three answers the same or different? Why?)
From the beginning of the book, Tips has mixed feelings about Trudy. List some examples of his confusion and conflict.
How did you think the romance between Trudy and Tips would evolve? Why do you think it ended as it did?
If you could see one scene acted out, which would it be?
To those who've read Princess Ben: did you know, before beginning Wisdom's Kiss, who Nonna Ben was? If not, when did you realize? Why do you think this was kept a surprise?
To those who haven't read Princess Ben: do you have any interest in now meeting Ben as a fifteen-year-old? How might Wisdom's Kiss affect your appreciation of (or even interest in) Princess Ben?
What's your feeling on oysters?
More Bonus Material >
The Adventures Of Mommy Buzzkill With Author Commentary > >
> >
"The Adventures of Mommy Buzzkill" was originally published in the March 2009 Horn Book Magazine, a journal on children's literature that can also be found at www.hbook.com. I love this article,
and I still think it's 200 percent true. If I had to revise it, I would add only one additional thought: when mothers are present—in such books as Matilda and Masterpiece—they are so horribly incompetent that the adventure lies in finding a decent replacement, which both these heroes ultimately accomplish.
***
The Adventures of Mommy Buzzkill
by Catherine Gilbert Murdock
Here's an interesting game: name one children's adventure story—just one—in which the mother is present. A short list of things that wouldn't make the cut includes The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Madeline, The Secret Garden, "Cinderella," Eragon, the Bartimaeus trilogy, My Father's Dragon, James and the Giant Peach, The Phantom Tollbooth, "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle, and Nightbirds on Nantucket. In Crispin: The Cross of Lead, the mother dies in the first sentence; in The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp, on the third page. All we see of Eloise's mother are two size-three-and-a-half shoes. The parents in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe toil in London while their children travel to Narnia. The single mother in Half Magic works full time, missing all the magic, while Percy Jackson in The Lightning Thief lives mostly motherless at summer camp. In virtually every adventure story you can name, the mother is decidedly absent from her children's lives.
Given the ubiquity of maternal mortality in children's literature, one marvels that the human race has managed to survive at all. Countless fictitious mothers die in childbirth (often producing a foundling in the process) or perish in the book's opening pages. Many more stories feature a child away at sea, camp, work, or boarding school, or snatched by magic or kidnappers. An equal volume involve a living, attentive mother who just happens to be absent: the children experience adventure at school, on sidewalks, in the woods—somewhere beyond mother's sphere. The tale might begin with the young hero's conscious decision to cut the apron strings, particularly if the mother is close-minded or smothering. And of course—think Winnie the Pooh—some stories have mothers whose existence never even comes up.
Adventure stories can have fathers, of course. "Hansel and Gretel," Nancy Drew, The Red Wolf, Princess Academy, The Hardy Boys, The Penderwicks. And young heroes and heroines often have a female caregiver, such as Ole Golly in Harriet the Spy, Eloise's Nanny, and Madeline's Miss Clavel, not to mention the archetypal wicked stepmother or Harry Potter's odious Aunt Petunia: women who by definition are not mothers. But a real, full-time, flesh-and-blood mom? Not a chance.
This rampant literary exclusion, I used to believe, was a perfect example of maternity's lowly status in our culture. Are we mothers so awful that we must be blotted from every possible story? I even tried to write a children's adventure with a mom in it. But, strangely, it turned into an adventure about a mom, because whenever danger arose, she would step in to protect her child. Eventually, I put the story aside—its weaknesses extended far beyond my feminist projections—but the experience set me wondering.
Mothers in real life are giant, nonstop buzzkills. "Hold my hand ... Use the safety scissors ... Wear your helmet ... Get a napkin ... Finish your homework first ... Don't let the baby climb the stairs!" We are mama cats, constantly carrying our kittens back to the nest. Mothers in children's fiction, when present, act just as protectively. In the second Septimus Heap book, Septimus, only recently reunited with his birth parents, watches, stunned, as Mrs. Heap lambastes his employer for overworking him. "Marcia was amazed because no one ever spoke to her like that. No one. And Septimus was amazed because he didn't realize that that was what mothers did, although he rather liked it." Mrs. Weasley, too—the closest Harry Potter has to a mother—goes to extraordinary lengths to shield and even to baby him. The young hero of Artemis Fowl, while heartsick over his mother's mental illness, admits that her recovery "would signal the end of Artemis's own extraordinary freedom. It would be back off to school, and no more spearheading criminal enterprises for you, my boy." (Note that all three women spend the vast bulk of these stories apart from their children.) In The Mysterious Benedict Society, Mr. Benedict explains point-blank to his young charges that he employs only orphans because no parents would ever allow their children to face such danger.
Other adult caregivers don't carry this onus. Female guardians—witness the children's escapades with Mary Poppins, or the grandmother in The Witches—simply don't guard that well. Nor do dads. Septimus Heap's father starts a plague while playing a board game. Mr. Murry in A Wrinkle in Time, smart as he is, can't save Meg from IT. The single father in Evil Genius cares far more about power than about his son. A fictional father may be indulgent, distant, or cruel. But he isn't a buzzkill; not an effective one, anyway.
Even Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, a trilogy centered on maternal redemption, proves this rule. Heartless Mrs. Coulter transforms into her daughter's defender, whisking Lyra out of danger, yet still Lyra flees her. She does this not to save the world, as the plot would indicate, but for reasons far deeper and more universal. Lyra purely and simply must leave her mother's sphere in order for there to be a story. It is by definition the absence of a mother, for Lyra, and for every other hero, that makes the adventure feasible. The simple act of eliminating mom provides a venue where anything dangerous or magical or gallant can happen. Child heroes are then at liberty to discover, to their shock and satisfaction, that they can survive on their own abilities. In other words, these heroes grow up. And with them mature the books' consumers, as readers vicariously prove themselves heroic and competent.
This critical role of motherhood becomes even more apparent when one considers its antithesis. Imagine if you will a story in which the mother blithely observes her endangered child with nary a warning or gesture of concern. Could a fictional mother ever utter the words "Go whack that dragon, darling" without adding at the very least "be careful" or "wear your jacket" or "don't forget dinner's at six"? No. Inconceivable. As annoying as mothers may be, their obverse is downright terrifying. A mom who so casually abandons her children would no longer be a mother. That is, after all, a mother's primal task: to protect. The scant handful of stories that do feature maternal abandonment—The SchwaWas Here, Homecoming, The Great Gilly Hopkins, Because of Winn-Dixie—tend to make this the book's central theme, as protagonists struggle to understand the unfathomable.
Far from belittling motherhood, children's books embrace it, idealize it, deify it. Mothers are much too important to young readers—even to teen readers—ever to be considered as fallible as ... well, as dads. Even in these jaded times, we mothers cannot be present in any story in which the child needs protection, because the reader needs to believe without question that we would instantly overwhelm any quest.
There are lessons here, good lessons. Just consider Blueberries for Sal. Little Sal and a bear cub inadvertently switch places, much to their mothers' panic, though ultimately both youngsters return safe and well-fed. The story shows children that it's dangerous to leave your mother's side, but not that dangerous. You can survive for a bit without her. Its message to mothers is even more significant, particularly in this era ofhyper vigilant helicopter parents: regardless of your own fears, your young explorer will not be eaten by bears. That's, really, what all these books are saying. Your child can go anywhere, do anything, and ultimately find her way home. And, regardless of what she may sometimes do or sometimes say, she believes in you with all her heart.
Catherine Gilbert Murdock is the author of Dairy Queen (featuring a hard-working, absentee mother), its sequels The Off Season and Front and Center (Mom is injured, then away), and Princess Ben, in which the heroine's mother perishes on page 15.
Addendum: the three young heroes of Wisdom's Kiss lose their mothers in infancy (Tips; implied), to fever (Trudy), and to an errant flying broom (Dizzy), all before the story begins.
More Bonus Material >
"Puss in Boots" with Author Commentary
>
If you don't kn
ow the original fairy tale "Puss in Boots," you're not alone; many of the early readers of Wisdom's Kiss were equally baffled. Turns out I'm a rare P. in B. fan. But I can't understand why: the main character is smug, smart, determined, master of his universe ... a perfect depiction of a cat. Kudos to Shrek 2 for capturing the character so well (unlike some other Hollywood efforts I won't mention here...).
So why did I end Wisdom's Kiss with a fairy tale that pretty much nobody knows? Pigheadedness, mostly; for someone who takes pride in accepting criticism, I can be pretty darn obstinate. To be fair, no one ever came out and said, "Your concluding allusion to Puss in Boots makes no sense." Instead they said, "Who's Puss in Boots again?" and I'd send them Fred Marcellino's wonderfully illustrated version, and then they'd respond, "Oh, I get it ... I think."
See? That wasn't criticism; it was conversation.
I'm afraid I can't remember exactly when I decided to make Puss in Boots the ending, but I do recall being ridiculously thrilled, and I loved weaving into Wisdom's Kiss such details as Felis's name, and Tips's.
Whenever I write a book, I compose the final sentence very early in my writing process—certainly before I start actually writing. This gives me two very tangible goals: I have to keep writing until I finally get to say x, and once I finally do say x— whew!—then I know I'm done. Thus, the last line ends up having enormous significance; perhaps that's why I remain so committed to the Puss in Boots ending.
For those of you yet unfamiliar with the original fairy tale, here it is in its entirety. See if you can pick out all the connections to Wisdom's Kiss (it helps that Felis, in conclusion, actually lists them).
Wisdom's Kiss Page 42
