Ellen Booraem Book Title: The Unnameables Publication Date: October 1, 2008 Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Children's Books ISBN: 978-0-15-206368-9 Author's Website: http://www.TheUnnameables.com

Description of Book:

Medford lives on a neat, orderly island called--simply--Island.

Islanders like names that say exactly what a thing (or a person) is or does, and nothing less.

Islanders like things (and people) to do what their names say they will. Nothing more.

So what would you expect of a thirteen-year-old foundling called Medford Runyuin? Not much. In fact, you might want to keep your eye on him.

Medford's been keeping a big secret, one that could get him banished forever from Island and the only life he's ever known.

Enter the Goatman, a nameless, smelly wanderer who calls the wind but can't control it. And who can't keep a secret to save his life.

This is a whimsical fantasy about belonging, the dangers of forgetting history, the Usefulness of art, and the importance of wind control.

A Junior Library Guild selection starting October 2008.

About the Author:

After two decades as a reporter and editor for small-town weeklies, Ellen Booraem quit her day job to write The Unnameables. She lives in Downeast Maine with a cat, a dog, and an artist, in a house they (meaning the humans) built with their own hands.

She has the beginnings of a web site at www.TheUnnameables.com. She is attempting to blog at ellenbooraem.blogspot.com.

Excerpt:

When he opened the door, the Goatman was leaning on his staff in the dim morning light, gazing out to sea.

“Nice da-a-ay,” he said when Medford stepped out onto the porch. “No wind.”

Medford swallowed and freed up his voice. “I don’t mind wind,” he croaked. He swallowed again. “A breeze, anyways. I like the leaves to move.”

“You do?” The Goatman turned around. Apparently Medford had said something smart again. “Can you make it do what you wa-a-ant?” He leaned forward on his staff, examining Medford’s face.

“Make what do what I want?” Medford asked, backing up.

“Th e wi-i-ind,” the Goatman said. His eyes were the most startling blue, even brighter than Prudy’s. “The breeze. Can you make it do what you wa-a-ant?”

“Cry mercy, of course not,” Medford said.

The Goatman sighed and turned back to the ocean. “Neither can I,” he said.

Change the subject, Medford’s brain said. “Wouldst thou take tea?”

“Everyone e-e-else can do it,” the Goatman said. “Not me, though. Call it up, I can do tha-a-at. But then it does what it wa-a-ants. And I can’t make it go awa-a-ay.”

“Perhaps some bread and butter?” Medford said.

“I don’t understa-a-and. I think all the right things, move my ha-a-ands right.”

 “With honey, perhaps.”

“In the city they ha-a-ave gizmos for it. I looked in a window and a lady poked her finger at a thi-i-ing with blades and then she had wi-i-ind in her face.”

Ah, Medford thought, ’tis a Mainland thing, like a motorwagon. “So you poke something with a finger,” he said.

“Almost,” the Goatman said. “I do this.” He faced the ocean, then stuck his forefinger in his mouth to wet it. He held the finger up, waggled it a little as if beckoning someone who was already paying attention.

Medford heard a distant whup-whup-whup coming from Mainland. He looked out at the water, which was smooth as varnished Sapwood at this early hour.

they neared land. The Pitch Trees lining the field across the road began to dance.

“Uh-oh,” the Goatman said.

Medford barely had time to say “What . . . ?” Then a blast of wind hurled him to the floor and back against the side of the cabin. He could hardly open his eyes, the wind was so strong. The Goatman was beside him, flung against the door, his robe up around his waist. It occurred to Medford that this would be a good chance to see how far up the goat parts went but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough.

The dog yelped, sounding far away. Something crashed inside the cabin. Medford remembered that he’d gone to bed yesterday without closing up his workshop.

palm grimy, the nails long and thick and yellow, with matted gray hair between the knuckles.

“He-e-ere,” the Goatman said. “Let me help you.”

The hand hovered there. If Medford touched it, the world would tilt.

Th e Goatman snorted. He threw down his staff, hauled Medford to his feet, and staggered back against the porch rail.

Medford’s head throbbed. Tea with Tonic Root, he thought. Th ere were fresh roots in the cupboard.

“My sta-a-aff .” The man was scowling, clinging to the rail.

various swirls danced and curled and whirled down the staff.

The swirls are the wind, Medford thought. He frowned at himself and shook his head. Wind is invisible—how could something look like wind?

“Bweh-eh-eh-eh,” the Goatman said.

“Oh, beg pardon.” Medford handed the man his staff. A question, an important one, caught in his windpipe.

“My uncle ca-a-arved the goat heads,” the Goatman said. “I did the wind swirls.” The blue eyes were kind, although there was a tinge of . . . what was it, foreignness? Creatureness?

Unnameableness, Medford’s brain suggested.

Reviews:

Kirkus Reviews, September 1, 2008 (STARRED)

On Island, "thou art thy name." At age 14, residents receive their names and their vocations from the Council. A cook becomes Cook, a tanner becomes Tanner and everyone follows the rules set forth in Capability C. Craft's Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores (1680). Thirteen-year-old foundling Medford Runyuin hopes to be designated Carver, like his foster father. He also hopes no one will discover the Unnameable objects he's created and hidden under his bed: They could cause his exile to Mainland forever. The Council puts off naming him, however, and he must continue to work hard for acceptance. When someone nameless and possibly Unnameable enters his life, all his plans-and the islanders' way of life-could be in for drastic changes...but after 300 years, is that necessarily a bad thing? Booraem's debut is an ever-surprising, genre-defying page-turner. Realistic characters deal with philosophical problems in vivid, flowing prose that is evocative and often funny. A sort of combination of witch-trial-era Salem and The Giver, this book offers a treat with nearly every page turn. (Fantasy. 10-14)

Kirkus Reviews, Best Children's Books of 2008, November 2008

On the puritanical Island, life is conducted under the auspices of the 325-year-old good book, Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores, and your name defines you, no more, no less. As all things must have a practical purpose and name, foundling Medford is odd man out, and if he keeps carving simply for the sake of it and reading what he ought not to, well, he's looking at banishment. Enter the Goatman, a pungent, unruly wayfarer, and trouble. "It took several tries to give the Goatman the right level of contrariness," says Ellen Booraem. "First, he was nearly human, with feet instead of hooves and no wind-calling ability.Much later, I made him more goatish, adding an association with the wind, our least-controllable element. Then I went too far-he became so grumpy and dangerous, why would Medford keep him around? It took my favorite characterization technique-a journal-to settle him into someone likable, but hard to control." It is a book of meaty issues, including art, joy and governance, and subtle turnings. A starred review in Kirkus found that "[r]ealistic characters deal with philosophical problems in vivid, flowing prose that is evocative and often funny." (Ages 10-14)

Indiebound, Kids' Next: Inspired Recommendations for Kids from Indie Booksellers, Winter 2008-09

The well-ordered, rigid home of foundling Medford Runyuin is an island called "Island" because names should identify and usefulness is imperative. Feeling like an outcast, he struggles to conform until two very unconventional stinky" new friends enter his world and send everything awhirl. This is a marvelous tribute to change and creativity!
—Kathy Carrigan, Harry W. Schwartz Bookshop, Brookfield, WI 

School Library Journal, November 8, 2008