A Northern Light

A Northern Light

by Jennifer Donnelly


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Now with a fresh new look and introduction, comes Jennifer Donnelly's astonishing, Printz Honor-winning debut—the story of a young woman's coming-of-age and the murder that rocked turn-of-the-century America.​​

A Printz Award Honor Book

"A contemporary classic. Jennifer Donnelly is the master of historical fiction!" ­—Ruta Sepetys, New York Times best-selling author and winner of the Carnegie Medal

Sixteen-year-old Mattie Gokey has a word for everything, and big dreams of being a writer but little hope of seeing them come true. With the fresh pain of her mother’s death lingering over her and the only out from her impoverished life being marriage to the handsome but dull local rich boy, Maddie flees from her home. She takes a job at the Glenmore, where hotel guest Grace Brown entrusts her with the task of burning a secret bundle of letters. But when Grace's drowned body is fished from Big Moose Lake, Mattie discovers that the letters could reveal the grim truth behind a murder.

Set in 1906 in the Adirondack Mountains, against the backdrop of the murder that inspired Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy, this Printz Honor-winning coming-of-age novel effortlessly weaves romance, history, and a murder mystery into something moving, and real, and wholly original.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780358063681
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date: 05/07/2019
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 362,717
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.30(d)
Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

About the Author

Jennifer Donnelly is the author of eleven novels including the Waterfire Saga, The Tea Rose series, Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book, and A Northern Light. She grew up in New York State, in Lewis and Westchester counties, and attended the University of Rochester where she majored in English Literature and European History.


Twitter: @JenWritesBooks

Read an Excerpt

When summer comes to the North Woods, time slows down. And some days it stops altogether. The sky, gray and lowering for much of the year, becomes an ocean of blue, so vast and brilliant you can't help but stop what you're doing-pinning wet sheets to the line maybe, or shucking a bushel of corn on the back steps-to stare up at it. Locusts whir in the birches, coaxing you out of the sun and under the boughs, and the heat stills the air, heavy and sweet with the scent of balsam.

As I stand here on the porch of the Glenmore, the finest hotel on all of Big Moose Lake, I tell myself that today-Thursday, July 12, 1906-is such a day. Time has stopped, and the beauty and calm of this perfect afternoon will never end. The guests up from New York, all in their summer whites, will play croquet on the lawn forever. Old Mrs. Ellis will stay on the porch until the end of time, rapping her cane on the railing for more lemonade. The children of doctors and lawyers from Utica, Rome, and Syracuse will always run through the woods, laughing and shrieking, giddy from too much ice cream.

I believe these things. With all my heart. For I am good at telling myself lies.

Until Ada Bouchard comes out of the doorway and slips her hand into mine. And Mrs. Morrison, the manager's wife, walks right by us, pausing at the top of the steps. At any other time, she'd scorch our ears for standing idle; now she doesn't seem to even know we're here. Her arms cross over her chest. Her eyes, gray and troubled, fasten on the dock. And the steamer tied alongside it.

"That's the Zilpha, ain't it, Mattie?" Ada whispers. "They've been dragging the lake, ain't they?"

I squeeze her hand. "I don't think so. I think they were just looking along the shoreline. Cook says they probably got lost, that couple. Couldn't find their way back in the dark and spent the night under some pines, that's all."

"I'm scared, Mattie. Ain't you?"

I don't answer her. I'm not scared, not exactly, but I can't explain how I feel. Words fail me sometimes. I have read most every one in the Webster's International Dictionary of the English Language, but I still have trouble making them come when I want them to.

Right now I want a word that describes the feeling you get-a cold, sick feeling deep down inside-when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that you will never again be quite the same person you were.

I imagine it's the feeling Eve had as she bit into the apple. Or Hamlet when he saw his father's ghost. Or Jesus as a boy, right after someone sat him down and told him his pa wasn't a carpenter after all.

What is the word for that feeling? For knowledge and fear and loss all mixed together? Frisdom? Dreadnaciousness? Malbominance?

Standing on that porch, under that flawless sky, with bees buzzing lazily in the roses and a cardinal calling from the pines so sweet and clear, I tell myself that Ada is a nervous little hen, always worrying when there's no cause. Nothing bad can happen at the Glenmore, not on such a day as this.

And then I see Cook running up from the dock, ashen and breathless, her skirts in her hands, and I know that I am wrong.

"Mattie, open the parlor!" she shouts, heedless of the guests. "Quick, girl!"

I barely hear her. My eyes are on Mr. Crabb, the Zilpha's engineer. He is coming up the path carrying a young woman in his arms. Her head lolls against him like a broken flower. Water drips from her skirt.

"Oh, Mattie, look at her. Oh, jeezum, Mattie, look," Ada says, her hands twisting in her apron.

Sssh, Ada. She got soaked, that's all. They got lost on the lake and...and the boat tipped and they swam to shore and she...she must've fainted."

"Oh, dear Lord," Mrs. Morrison says, her hands coming up to her mouth.

"Mattie! Ada! Why are you standing there like a pair of jackasses?" Cook wheezes, heaving her bulky body up the steps. "Open the spare room, Mattie. The one off the parlor. Pull the shades and lay an old blanket on the bed. Ada, go fix a pot of coffee and some sandwiches. There's a ham and some chicken in the icebox. Shift yourselves!"

There are children in the parlor playing hide-and-seek. I chase them out and unlock the door to a small bedroom used by stage drivers or boat captains when the weather's too bad to travel. I realize I've forgotten the blanket and run back to the linen closet for it. I'm back in the room snapping it open over the bare ticking just as Mr. Crabb comes in. I've brought a pillow and a heavy quilt, too. She'll be chilled to the bone, having slept out all night in wet clothing.

Mr. Crabb lays her down on the bed. Cook stretches her legs out and tucks the pillow under her head. The Morrisons come in. Mr. Sperry, the Glenmore's owner, is right behind them. He stares at her, goes pale, and walks out again.

"I'll fetch a hot water bottle and some tea and...and brandy," I say, looking at Cook and then Mrs. Morrison and then a painting on the wall. Anywhere and everywhere but at the girl. "Should I do that? Should I get the brandy?"

"Hush, Mattie. It's too late for that," Cook says.

I make myself look at her then. Her eyes are dull and empty. Her skin has gone the yellow of muscatel wine. There is an ugly gash on her forehead and her lips are bruised. Yesterday she'd sat by herself on the porch, fretting the hem of her skirt. I'd brought her a glass of lemonade, because it was hot outside and she looked peaked. I hadn't charged her for it. She looked like she didn't have much money.

Behind me, Cook badgers Mr. Crabb. "What about the man she was with? Carl Grahm?"

"No sign of him," he says. "Not yet, leastways. We got the boat. They'd tipped it, all right. In South Bay."

"I'll have to get hold of the family," Mrs. Morrison says. "They're in Albany."

"No, that was only the man, Grahm," Cook says. "The girl lived in South Otselic. I looked in the register."

Mrs. Morrison nods. "I'll ring the operator. See if she can connect me with a store there, or a hotel. Or someone who can get a message to the family. What on earth will I say? Oh dear! Oh, her poor, poor mother!" She presses a handkerchief to her eyes and hurries from the room.

"She'll be making a second call before the day's out," Cook says. "Ask me, people who can't swim have no business on a lake."

"Too confident, that fellow," Mr. Morrison says. "I asked him could he handle a skiff and he told me yes. Only a darn fool from the city could tip a boat on a calm day..." He says more, but I don't hear him. It feels like there are iron bands around my chest. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, but it only makes things worse. Behind my eyes I see a packet of letters tied with a pale blue ribbon. Letters that are upstairs under my mattress. Letters that I promised to burn. I can see the address on the top one: Chester Gillette, 171_2 Main Street, Cortland, New York.

Cook fusses me away from the body. "Mattie, pull the shades like I told you to," she says. She folds Grace Brown's hands over her chest and closes her eyes. "There's coffee in the kitchen. And sandwiches," she tells the men. "Will you eat something?"

"We'll take something with us, Mrs. Hennessey, if that's all right," Mr. Morrison says. "We're going out again. Soon as Sperry gets the sheriff on the phone. He's calling Martin's, too. To tell 'em to keep an eye out. And Higby's and the other camps. Just in case Grahm made it to shore and got lost in the woods."

"His name's not Carl Grahm. It's Chester. Chester Gillette." The words burst out of me before I can stop them.

"How do you know that, Mattie?" Cook asks. They are all looking at me now-Cook, Mr. Morrison, and Mr. Crabb.

"I...I heard her call him that, I guess," I stammer, suddenly afraid.

Cook's eyes narrow. "Did you see something, Mattie? Do you know something you should tell us?"

What had I seen? Too much. What did I know? Only that knowledge carries a damned high price. Miss Wilcox, my teacher, had taught me so much. Why had she never taught me that?

frac o tious

My youngest sister, Beth, who is five, will surely grow up to be a riverman-standing upstream on the dam, calling out warnings to the men below that the logs are coming down. She has the lungs for it.

It was a spring morning. End of March. Not quite four months ago, though it seems much longer. We were late for school and there were still chores to do before we left, but Beth didn't care. She just sat there ignoring the cornmeal mush I'd made her, bellowing like some opera singer up from Utica to perform at one of the hotels. Only no opera singer ever sang "Hurry Up, Harry." Least not as far as I know.

So it's hurry up, Harry, and Tom or Dick or Joe,

And you may take the pail, boys, and for the water go.

In the middle of the splashing, the cook will dinner cry,

And you'd ought to see them hurry up for fear they'd lose their pie...

"Beth, hush now and eat your mush," I scolded, fumbling her hair into a braid. She didn't mind me, though, for she wasn't singing her song to me or to any of us. She was singing to the motionless rocker near the stove and the battered fishing creel hanging by the shed door. She was singing to fill all the empty places in our house, to chase away the silence. Most mornings I didn't mind her noise, but that morning I had to talk to Pa about something, something very important, and I was all nerves. I wanted it peaceful for once. I wanted Pa to find everything in order and everyone behaving when he came in, so he would be peaceable himself and well-disposed to what I had to say.

There's blackstrap molasses, squaw buns as hard as rock,

Tea that's boiled in an old tin pail and smells just like your sock.

The beans they are sour, and the porridge thick as dough-

When we have stashed this in our craw, it's to the woods we go...

The kitchen door banged open and Lou, all of eleven, passed behind the table with a bucket of milk. She'd forgotten to take off her boots and was tracking manure across the floor.

"A-hitching up our braces and a-binding up our feet."

"Beth, please!" I said, tying her braid with a ribbon. "Lou, your boots! Mind your boots!"

"A-grinding up our axes for our kind is hard to beat..."

"What? I can't hardly hear you, Matt," Lou said. "Cripes' sake, shut up, will you?" she yelled, clapping a hand over Beth's mouth.

Beth squealed and wriggled and threw herself back against the chair. The chair went over and hit Lou's bucket. The milk and Beth went all over the floor. Then Beth was bawling and Lou was shouting and I was wishing for my mother. As I do every day. A hundred times at least.

When Mamma was alive, she could make breakfast for seven people, hear our lessons, patch Pa's trousers, pack our dinner pails, start the milk to clabbering, and roll out a piecrust. All at the same time and without ever raising her voice. I'm lucky if I can keep the mush from burning and Lou and Beth from slaughtering each other.

Abby, fourteen, came in cradling four brown eggs in her apron. She carefully put them in a bowl inside the pie safe, then stared at the scene before her. "Pa's only got the pigs left to do. He'll be in shortly," she said.

"Pa's going to tan your ass, Beth," Lou said.

"He'll tan yours for saying ass," Beth replied, still sniffling.

"Now you've said it as well. You'll get a double tanning."

Beth's face crumpled. She started to wail all over again.

"That's enough! Both of you!" I shouted, dreading the thought of Pa getting his strap, and hearing the whack of it against their legs. "No one's getting a tanning. Go get Barney."

Beth and Lou ran to the stove and dragged poor Barney out from behind it. Pa's old hunting dog is lame and blind. He pees his bed. Uncle Vernon says Pa ought to take him out behind the barn and shoot him. Pa says he'd rather shoot Uncle Vernon.

Lou stood Barney by the puddle. He couldn't see the milk, but he could smell it, and he lapped it up greedily. He hadn't tasted milk for ages. Neither had we. The cows are dry over the winter. One had just freshened, though, so there was a little bit of milk for the first time in months. More were due soon. By the end of May, the barn would be full of calves and Pa would be off early every morning making deliveries of milk, cream, and butter to the hotels and camps. But this morning, that one bucket was all we'd had for a long while and he was no doubt expecting to see some of it on his mush.

Barney got most of the milk cleaned up. What little he left, Abby got with a rag. Beth looked a little soggy, and the linoleum under her chair looked cleaner than it did elsewhere, but I just hoped Pa wouldn't notice. There was an inch or two left in the bucket. I added a bit of water to it and poured it into a jug that I set by his bowl. He'd be expecting a nice milk gravy for supper, or maybe a custard, since the hens had given four eggs, but I'd worry about that later.

"Pa'll know, Matt," Lou said.

"How? Is Barney going to tell him?"

"When Barney drinks milk, he farts something wicked."

"Lou, just because you walk like a boy and dress like a boy doesn't mean you have to talk like one. Mamma wouldn't like it," I said.

"Well, Mamma's not here anymore, so I'll talk as I please."

Abby, rinsing her rag at the sink, whirled around. "Be quiet, Lou!" she shouted, startling us, for Abby never shous. She didn't even cry at Mamma's funeral, though I found her in Pa's bedroom a few days after, holding a tin likeness of our mother so hard that the edges had cut her hand. Our Abby is a sprigged dress that has been washed and turned wrong side out to dry, with all its color hidden. Our Lou is anything but.

As the two of them continued to snipe, we heard footsteps in the shed off the back of the kitchen. The bickering stopped. We thought it was Pa. But then we heard a knock and a shuffle, and knew it was only Tommy Hubbard, the neighbor boy, hungry again.

"You itching, Tom?" I called.

"No, Matt."

"Come get some breakfast, then.Wash your hands first."

Last time I'd let him in to eat he gave us fleas. Tommy has six brothers and sisters. They live on the Uncas Road, same as us, but farther up, in a shabby plank house. Their land divides ours from the Loomis's land on one side, notching in from the road. They have no pa or they have lots of pas, depending on who you listen to. Emmie, Tommy's mother, does the best she can cleaning rooms at the hotels, and selling the little paintings she makes to the tourists, but it isn't enough. Her kids are always hungry. Her house is cold. She can't pay her taxes.

Tommy came inside. He had one of his sisters by the hand. My eyes darted between them. Pa hadn't eaten yet and there wasn't so much left in the pot. "I just brung Jenny is all," he said quickly. "I ain't hungry myself."

Jenny had on a man's wool shirt over a thin cotton dress. The shirttails touched the floor. The dress barely made it past her knees. Tommy had no overclothes on at all.

"It's all right, Tom. There's plenty," I said.

"She can have mine. I'm sick to death of this damned slop," Lou said, pushing her bowl across the table. Her kindnesses often took a roundabout path.

"I hope Pa hears you," Abby said. "Mouth on you like a teamster."

Lou poked her tongue out, displaying her breakfast. Abby looked as if she'd like to slap her. Luckily, the table was between them.

Everyone was sick of cornmeal mush. Myself included. We'd been eating it with maple sugar for breakfast and dinner for weeks. And for supper, buckwheat pancakes with the last of fall's stewed apples. Or pea soup made with an old ham bone that had been boiled white. We would have loved some corned beef hash or chicken and biscuits, but most everything we'd put in the root cellar in September was gone. We'd eaten the last of the venison in January. The ham and bacon, too. And though we'd put up two barrels of fresh pork, one of them had spoiled. It was my fault. Pa said I hadn't put enough salt in the brine. We'd killed one of our roosters back in the fall, and four hens since. We only had ten birds left, and Pa didn't want to touch them as they provided us with a few eggs now and would make us more eggs-and chickens, too-come summer.

It wasn't like this when Mamma was alive. Somehow she provided good meals all through the winter and still managed to have meat left in the cellar come spring. I am nowhere near as capable as my mother was, and if I ever forget it, I have Lou to remind me. Or Pa. Not that he says the sorts of things Lou does, but you can tell by the look on his face when he sits down to eat that he isn't fond of mush day in and day out.

Jenny Hubbard didn't mind it, though. She waited patiently, her eyes large and solemn, as I sprinkled maple sugar on Lou's leavings and passed the bowl to her. I gave Tom some from the pot. As much as I could spare while still leaving enough for Pa.

Abby took a swallow of her tea, then looked at me over the top of the cup. "You talk to Pa yet?"

I shook my head. I was standing behind Lou, teasing the rats out of her hair. It was too short for braids; it only just grazed her jaw. She'd cut it off with Mamma's sewing scissors after Christmas. Right after our brother, Lawton, left.

"You going to?" she asked.

"Talk about what?" Beth asked.

"Never mind. Finish your breakfast," I said.

"What, Matt? Talk about what?"

"Beth, if Mattie wanted you to know, she'd tell you," Lou said.

"You don't know, neither."

"Do, too."

"Mattie, why'd you tell Lou and not me?" Beth whined.

"Because you can't never keep quiet," Lou said.

That started another round of bickering. My nerves were grated down bald. "It's can't ever, Lou, not can't never," I said. "Beth, stop whining."

"Matt, you pick your word of the day yet?" Abby asked. Abby, our peacemaker. Gentle and mild. More like our mother than any of the rest of us.

"Oh, Mattie! Can I pick it? Can I?" Beth begged. She scrambled out of her chair and raced into the parlor. I kept my precious dictionary there, out of harm's way, along with the books I borrowed from Charlie Eckler and Miss Wilcox, and my mother's Waverly Editions of Best Loved American Classics, and some ancient copies of Peterson's Magazine that my aunt Josie had given us because, as it said in its "Publisher's Corner," it was "one of the few periodicals fit for families where there are daughters."

"Beth, you carry it but let Lou pick the word," I shouted after her.

"I don't want no part of baby word games," Lou grumbled.

Any, Lou. Any part," I snapped. Her carelessness with words made me angrier than her dirty mouth and the filthy state of her coveralls and the manure she'd tracked in, combined.

Beth returned to the kitchen table, carrying the dictionary as if it were made of gold. It might as well have been. It weighed as much. "Pick the word," I told her. "Lou doesn't want to." She carefully flipped a few pages forward, then a few back, then put her index finger on the left-hand page. "Fff...fraaak...fraktee...frakteeus?" she said.

"I don't think there's any such word. Spell it," I said.


"Frakshus," I said. "Tommy, what's the meaning?"

Tommy peered at the dictionary. "'Apt to break out into a passion...snappish, peevish, irritable, cross,'" he read. "'P-per-verse. Pettish.'"

"Isn't that just perfect?" I said. "Fractious," I repeated, relishing the bite of the f, teeth against lip. A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping. "Your turn, Jenny. Can you make a sentence from the word?"

Jenny bit her bottom lip. "It means cross?" she asked.

I nodded.

She frowned, then said, "Ma was fractious when she chucked the fry pan at me 'cause I knocked her whiskey bottle over."

"She chucked a fry pan at you?" Beth asked, wide-eyed. "Why'd she do that?"

"Because she was out of sorts," Abby said.

"Because she was drinking," Jenny said, licking bits of mush off her spoon.

Jenny Hubbard is only six years old, but the growing season is short in the orth Woods, and children, like the corn, have to come up fast if they are to come up at all.

"Your mamma drinks whiskey?" Beth asked. "Mammas shouldn't drink whiskey-"

"Come on, Beth, let's go. We're going to be late," Abby said, hurrying her up from the table.

"Ain't you coming, Matt?" Beth asked.

"In a few minutes."

Books were gathered. Dinner pails, too. Abby bossed Lou and Beth into their coats. Tommy and Jenny ate silently. The shed door slammed. It was quiet. For the first time that morning. And then, "Matt? Come here a minute, will you?"

"What is it, Lou? I've got my hands full."

"Just come!"

I walked into the shed. Lou was standing there, ready to go, with Lawton's fishing pole in her hand.

"Lou, what are you doing?"

"Can't eat no more mush," she said. Then she took hold of my ear, pulled my face to hers, and kissed my cheek. Hard and sharp and quick. I could smell the scent of her-woodsmoke and cows and the spruce gum she was always chewing. The door slammed again and she was gone.

My other sisters, like me, take after our mother. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Lou takes after Pa. Lawton, too. Coal black hair, blue eyes. Lou acts like Pa, too. Angry all the time now. Since Mamma died. And Lawton went away.

When I came back in, Tommy was working his spoon around his bowl so hard I thought he'd take the paint off it. I hadn't had more than a few bites of my mush. "Finish mine, will you, Tom?" I said, sliding my bowl over to him. "I'm not hungry and I don't want it wasted." I plugged the sink, poured hot water into it from the kettle, added a bit of cold from the pump, and started washing. "Where are the rest of you kids?"

"Susie and Billy went to Weaver's. Myrton and Clara went to try at the hotel."

"Where's the baby?" I asked.

"With Susie."

"Your ma's not good today?"

"She won't come out from under the bed. Says she's scared of the wind and can't bear to hear it no more." Tommy looked at his bowl, then at me. "You think she's crazy, Mattie? You think the county'll take her?"

Emmie Hubbard certainly was crazy, and I was pretty sure the county would take her one day. They'd almost done so on two or three occasions. But I couldn't say that to Tommy. He was only twelve years old. As I tried to figure out what I could say-to find words that weren't a lie but weren't quite the truth, either-I thought that madness isn't like they tell it in books. It isn't Miss Havisham sitting in the ruins of her mansion, all vicious and majestic. And it isn't like in Jane Eyre, either, with Rochester's wife banging around in the attic, shrieking and carrying on and frightening the help. When your mind goes, it's not castles and cobwebs and silver candelabra. It's dirty sheets and sour milk and dog shit on the floor. It's Emmie cowering under her bed, crying and singing while her kids try to make soup from seed potatoes.

"You know, Tom," I finally said, "there are times I want to hide under the bed myself."

"When? I can't see you crawling under no bed, Matt."

"End of February. We got four feet in two days, remember? On top of the three we had. Blew onto the porch and blocked the front door. Couldn't get the shed door open, either. Pa had to go out the kitchen window. The wind was howling and wailing, and all I wanted to do was crawl under something and never come out. Most of us feel like that from time to time. Your ma, she does what she feels. That's the only difference. I'll go over to her before school. See if I can find a jar of apples to take and a bit of maple sugar. Think she'd like that?"

"She would. I know she would. Thank you, Mattie."

I packed Tommy and Jenny off to school, hoping that by the time I got to the Hubbards', Weaver's mamma would already be there. She was better at getting Emmie out from under the bed than I was. I finished the washing, looking out the window as I did, at the bare trees and the brown fields, searching for spots of yellow among the patches of snow. If you can pick adder's-tongue in April, spring will come early. I was awful tired of the cold and the snow, and now the rain and the mud.

People call that time of year-when the root cellar is nearly empty and the garden not yet planted-the six weeks' want. Years past, we always had money come March to buy meat and flour and potatoes, and anything else we might need. Pa would go off logging at the end of November up at Indian or Raquette Lake. He'd leave as soon as the hay was in and stay there all winter, hauling logs cut the previous summer. He drove teams of horses hitched to jumpers-low flat sledges with big runners. The loads were piled as high as a man standing on another man's shoulders. He took them down off the mountains over icy roads-relying on the weight of the logs and his own skill to keep the jumper from hurtling down the hills and killing the horses and anything else in its way.

Come March, the snow would melt and the roads would soften, and it became impossible to drag the heavy loads over them. As it got toward the end of the month, we would look for Pa every day. We never knew just when he would arrive. Or how. In the back of someone's wagon if he was lucky. On foot if he wasn't. We often heard him before we saw him, singing a new song he'd learned.

We girls would all run to him. Lawton would walk. Mamma would try her best to stay on the porch, to hang back and be proper, but she never could. He would smile at her, and then she was running down the path to him, crying because she was so glad he was home with his hands and feet and arms and legs all still attached. He'd hold her face in his hands, keeping her at arm's length, and wipe her tears away with his dirty thumbs. We'd all want to touch him and hug him, but he wouldn't let us. "Don't come near me. I'm crawling," he'd say. He'd take his clothes off in back of the house, douse them with kerosene, and burn them. He'd douse his head, too, and Lawton would comb the dead lice from his hair.

Mamma would be boiling water while he did all this, and filling our big tin tub. Then Pa would have a bath in the middle of the kitchen, his first one in months. When he was clean, we would have a feast. Ham steaks with gravy. Mashed potatoes with rivers of butter running down them. The last of the corn and the beans. Hot, fleecy rolls. And for dessert, a blueberry buckle made with the last of the put-up berries. Then there were presents for each one of us. There were no stores in the woods, but peddlers knew to make their rounds of the lumber camps just as the men were paid for the season. There might be a penknife for Lawton, and ribbons and boughten candy for us girls. And for Mamma, a dozen glass buttons and a bolt of fabric for a new dress. A cotton sateen the exact shade of a robin's egg, maybe. Or a butterscotch tartan. An emerald elveteen or a crisp yellow pongee. And once he bought her a silk faille the exact color of cranberries. Mamma had held that one to her cheek, looking at my pa as she did, then put it away for months, unable to take the scissors to it. We'd all sit in the parlor that night, in the glow of the cylinder stove, eating the caramels and chocolates Pa had brought, and listen to his tales. He'd show us all the new scars he'd picked up and tell us the antics of the wild lumberjacks, and how wicked the boss was, and how bad the food was, and all the tricks they'd played on the cook and the poor chore boy. It was better than Christmas, those nights that Pa came out of the woods.

He hadn't gone into the woods this year. He didn't want us by ourselves. Without his logging money, things had been hard indeed. He'd done some ice cutting on Fourth Lake over the winter, but the pay wasn't as good as logging money, and the yearly tax bill on our land took it all, anyway. As I stood there drying the dishes, I hoped the fact that we were flat broke and would be for some weeks yet, until Pa could sell his milk and butter again, would make him listen to what I had to say and tell me yes.

I finally heard him come into the shed, and then he was in the kitchen, a small snuffling bundle in his arms. "That devil of a sow et four of her piglets," he said. "Every one except the runt. I'm going to put him in with Barney. Heat'll do him good. Lord, this dog stinks! What's he been eating?"

"Probably got into something in the yard. Here, Pa." I put a bowl of mush on the table and stirred maple sugar into it. Then I poured the watery milk over it and hoped to God he didn't ask for more.

He sat down, looking thunderous, no doubt toting up the money he'd lost on the dead piglets. "Cost your mother a whole dollar secondhand, that book," he said, nodding at the dictionary still open on the table. "Never spent a penny on herself and then throws away a whole dollar on that thing. Put it up before it's covered in grease."

I put it back in the parlor, then poured Pa a cup of hot tea. Black and sweet, just the way he liked it. I sat down across from him and looked around the room. At the red-and-white-checked curtains that needed washing. At the faded pictures cut off calendars from Becker's Farm and Feed Supply that Mamma had tacked on the walls. At the chipped plates and yellow mixing bowls on the shelf over the sink. At the cracked linoleum, the black stove. At Barney licking the piglet. I looked at everything there was to see and some things twice, practicing my words in my head. I'd just about worked up the nerve to open my mouth when Pa spoke first.

"I'm sugaring tomorrow. Sap's flowing like a river. Got about a hundred gallons already. Wait any longer and it'll all spoil. Weather's unseasonable warm. You're to stay home and help me boil tomorrow. Your sisters, too."

"Pa, I can't. I'll fall behind if I miss a day, and my examinations are coming up."

"Cows can't eat learning, Mattie. I need to buy hay. Used up most everything I cut last fall. Fred Becker don't take credit, so I'll need to sell some syrup to get it."

I started to argue, but Pa looked up from his bowl and I knew to stop. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You're lucky you're going at all this year," he said. "And it's only because the notion of you getting your diploma"-it came out French-sounding, dee-plo-MA, as his words do when he's angry-"meant something to your mother. You won't be going next year. I can't run this place by myself."

I looked at the table. I was angry with my father for keeping me home, even for a day, but he was right: He couldn't run a sixty-acre farm alone. I wished then that it was still winter and snowing night and day and there was no plowing or planting, just long evenings of reading and writing in my composition book, and Pa with nothing to say about it. Fractious, I thought. Cross, irritable, peevish. Fits my father to a T. It was useless to try and soften him up with sweet tea. Might as well try and soften up a boulder. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"Pa, I want to ask you something," I said, hope rising in me like sap in one of our maples, though I tried not to let it.

"Mmm?" He raised an eyebrow and kept on eating.

"Can I work at one of the camps this season? Maybe the Glenmore? Abby's old enough to get the meals and look after everyone. I asked her and she said she'd be fine and I thought that if I-"


"But Pa-"

"You don't have to go looking for work. There's plenty"-there it was again, his accent, plain-tee-"right here."

I knew he'd say no. Why had I even asked? I stared at my hands-red, cracked, old woman's hands-and saw what was in store for me: a whole summer of drudgery and no money for it. Cooking, cleaning, washing, sewing, feeding chickens, slopping pigs, milking cows, churning cream, salting butter, making soap, plowing, planting, hoeing, weeding, harvesting, haying, threshing, canning-doing everything that fell on the eldest in a family of four girls, a dead mother, and a pissant brother who took off to drive boats on the Erie Canal and refused to come back and work the farm like he ought to.

I was yearning, and so I had more courage than was good for me. "Pa, they pay well," I said. "I thought I could keep back some of the money for myself and give the rest to you. I know you need it."

"You can't be up at a hotel by yourself. It's not right."

"But I won't be by myself! Ada Bouchard and Frances Hill and Jane Miley are all going to the Glenmore. And the Morrisons-the ones managing the place-are decent folk. Ralph Simms is going. And Mike Bouchard. And Weaver, too."

"Weaver Smith is no recommendation."

"Please, Pa," I whispered.

"No, Mattie. And that's the end of it. There are all sorts at those tourist hotels."

"All sorts" meant men. Pa was always warning me about the woodsmen, the trappers, the guides, and the surveyors. The sports up from New York or down from Montreal. The men in the theatrical troupes from Utica, the circus men from Albany, and the Holy Rollers that followed in their wake. "Men only want one thing, Mathilda," he was always telling me. The one time I asked, "What thing?" I got a cuff and a warning not to be smart.

It wasn't the idea of strange men that bothered Pa. That was just an excuse. He knew all the hotel people, knew most of them ran respectable places. It was the idea of somebody else leaving him. I wanted to argue, to make him see reason. But his jaw was set firm, and I saw a little muscle jumping in his cheek. Lawton used to make that muscle jump. Last time he did, Pa swung a peavey at him and he ran off, and no one heard from him for months. Until a postcard came from Albany.

I finished the dishes without a word and left for the Hubbards'. My feet wereas heavy as two blocks of ice. I wanted to earn money. Desperately. I had a plan. Well, more a dream than a plan, and the Glenmore was only part of it. But I wasn't feeling very hopeful about it just then. If Pa said no to the Glenmore, which was only a few miles up the road, what on earth would he say to New York City?

Copyright © 2003 by Jennifer Donnelly

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
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or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive,
Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

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A Northern Light 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 292 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I chose this book as my summer reading for school and at first I thought this was going to be a dull book just like all my other summer reading was. This book blew me away! It's plotline was rich with mystery, romance, and glimpses of life in the 1900s. The only thing wrong with this book was the confusing flashbacks she had.Because of this, I couldn't fully comprehend the plot at times. Also I wouldn't recommend this book for anyone under 13 for it contains sexuality, brief language, and racial slurs that even surprised me, a 15 yr old!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Young Mattie Gokey uses words as shields, she stores them away in her mind as buffers against her hard scrabble existence in the early 1900s. Due to the unexpected death of her mother the raising of her younger sisters falls to Mattie. Add to that seemingly never ending, arduous farm chores. Her dull days aren't even relieved by romance as Royal Loomis is handsome but boring. Accomplished Broadway actress and active film performer (About Schmidt, Hearts In Atlantis) gives memorable reading to Mattie's thoughts and aspirations, her hopes of attending college in New York City. Thoughts of her future are pushed aside when the body of a young drowning victim, Grace Brown, is found. As it turns out it was only hours before her death that Grace gave Mattie a packet of love letters. These letters are a landmark in Mattie's life. Based on a turn of the 20th century murder case that was also the inspiration for Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy, A Northern Light is a compelling coming-of-age tale woven of history, mystery, and love.
alyssaxr More than 1 year ago
Truth is, I did not want to read this book at all when I first picked up, but I chose it for a school project since there was really nothing else that was there. I was so surprised when I found myself reading nonstop in order to find out what happens. The story takes place in the 1900s from the point of view of Mattie who has to take care of her family. Mattie is a great character which is very relatable to all kinds of people and I personally, did not care much for the letters she found but how the letters affected Mattie and the choices she makes in the future. And boy, does she have to make tough choices. I like it because, at the time, women weren't exactly treated equal so Mattie has a tough choice since she is such an independent character that wants more for herself. Also, the other characters in the story are very interesting as well. I highly recommend this book!
Guest More than 1 year ago
a great story though i wouldn't recommend it because of language and mature sexual themes so probably for high school and up.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was my first book by this author and I will looking for more.
ladyhawke28 More than 1 year ago
I recommend this book not just for young adults but for all adults. The book is very descriptive and has excellent character development. While reading I was really able to put myself into the story and "see" the time this young girl was living in and picture the people and the surroundings. I was hoping for a little more about the murder and investigation being one that loves to read those kind of novels, but this story is going to focus mostly on the main character and the struggles she must face as she comes of age. Wasn't quite what I was expecting, but a good read none the less.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A nothern light has really challanged and profected my reading skills. It has brought into prespective, how enjoyable and fun reading and liturature can trully be. This novel is a page turner, you won't be able to put it down. Some words can't prove everything, is the lesson that i learned from this romantic book. But of course with my love of liturature and poetry, some words can prove everything. Jennifer Donnelly is an awsome and talented author. Her stories can and will inspire all, one day! If they haven't already. She has inspired and encouraged me to go after my dream of someday becoming an author or a poet. An amazing woman is what she is in my mind... She did an outstanding job!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read the back and thought it sounded like an interesting murder mystery. There is no mystery because the dead girl's letters reveal everything. They aren't very interesting letters either. The book only deals with the dead girl for a few chapters. Instead, it focuses on a life of a 16 year old girl who wants to go to college, but is trapped in her life on the farm. It also portrays her choice of the exciting world of books or the horrible burden of being a wife and mother. It's a teenage woman lib. book that is very boring and stupid. A good example is her friend gives birth, has cracked bloody nipples, a dirty house, and her husband wants to 'ram' another baby into her. I still gave it 2 stars because I never thought about not finishing it, but I would recommend not starting it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Easy to read and follow along but I really wanted more to the story. I loved Mattie's character and would recommend this for summer reading or YA/teen readers.
fromthecomfychair on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
For me, this book had it all. A great story and great writing, historical fiction whose characters speak in the voices of their time, the year 1906, the place, the Adirondacks. A young woman comes of age under difficult circumstances, trying to help her widowed father run a farm and care for the younger children, while harboring her own dreams of college and a writing career. Connolly brings Mattie Gokey and all the other characters to life, and although the book is young adult fiction, it is just as satisfying for an adult reader. I had the additional pleasure of listening to the book on CD, read by the actor Hope Davis, who renders the voices of each of the characters quite believably, male and female, especially the Irish hotel cook. I would like to go back and read the words and compare my reactions to the book.
ladybug74 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed this book and would not mind reading more books by this author. I liked the main character, Matt, as she grew more independent throughout the book and I loved the school teacher, Mrs. Wilcox, as a role model for Matt. It was interesting to read in the author's notes that Grace's story was based on a true story.
Tatiana_G on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
An excellent YA novel. It didn't make me bawl my eyes out however, therefore only 4 stars.Set in 1906, the book follows an important period in a 16-year old girl's life, when she faces the dilemma of what her future will be. Mattie is an aspiring writer and yearns to attend university, but her family responsibilities hinder her dreams. Will she choose to risk it all and try to find her own independence or will she succumb to her family's wishes and abandon her aspirations to instead become a farmer's wife? A crime committed against a young woman might finally push Mattie to make this important choice.A Northern Light is an interesting blend of historical fiction, murder mystery, and commentary on sex, race, and social status at the beginning of the 20th century, but mainly this story is feminist at its core (but not in an "in-your-face"/bra-burning way). Ultimately, A Northern Light is about how limited life choices for women were and how hard it was to assert independence. It presents an honest portrayal of the positions women occupied a century ago, the hardships of their lives, the limitations of their freedoms, and the price they had to pay to pursue their dreams.I would recommend this book to any reader looking for a quality YA story that doesn't involve vampires, fairies, TSTL heroines and abusive boyfriends.
susiesharp on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Jennifer Donnelly has a beautiful way of writing characters you care about. The one storyline I didn¿t really understand is the dead woman and her letters it¿s almost like it didn¿t fit in or wasn¿t really needed to advance the story. I enjoyed all the bookish talk and her word of the day. The one thing the death of Grace Brown did do is make me want to read An American Tragedy. I felt so bad for Mattie I found myself wanted to yell Get Rid of Royal he¿s awful and will just bring you down forever! Go to school become an author!! I enjoyed the characters but would like to know what ever become of the teacher did she get away and get her divorce or did she end up in an asylum, she was such a big influence on Mattie that I wanted to know more.I liked this one just not as much as I liked Revolution.4 Stars
silva_44 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really wanted to like this book, and I did enjoy certain aspects, but for the most part I feel that it's nothing more than a diatribe against being a wife and mother. Once again, as in so many coming-of-age novels featuring a female protagonist, the author seems to overtly convey the message that a girl is nothing if she is not educated, and is not primarily concerned with her own fulfillment. The only redeeming portion of the book was the Grace Brown storyline; I wish that the author would have explored her story further.
anniegrace720 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was overall a very good book, however there were some things I didn't love. For example I was looking forward to and particularly enjoyed the mystery aspects, however they were not very frequent. The mystery seemed to me to remain unsolved. I did enjoy it though because of its extreme honesty, even to the harsher parts of life in this time period-disease, land, families, starvation, racial discrimination, etc.
peptastic on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
There was a lot to like about this book. The setting was clearly well researched and the characters very realistic. The protagonist Maddie works at a nearby hotel as a maid during the tourist season. A guest gives her a stack of letters to destroy but before she gets the chance to the girl is discovered dead. I'm too old for the intended audience for the book I'm afraid. I also grew up in a more cynical time. I had a hard time believing an avid reader such as Maddie didn't realise a few things about her crush or the neighbours problems.I won't fault the author for using these reveals since they are done to death for a reason.
santli on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
One of the best novels I've ever read. I'm not sure if it is because it combines two of my favorite genres: historical fiction and mystery, or if it is because Donnelly is one of the few YA authors I've come across that can write beautiful, lyrical prose in a non-stuffy fashion. I listened to the audiobook version read by Hope Davis and it both added and detracted from the experience of the novel. First, the negatives: I think to really appreciate the language Donnelly uses, especially the vocabulary Mattie comes across, you have to have the book in front of you and be reading and seeing the words to absorb them just as Mattie does. There were also scenes that I wish I could have spent extra time reading (the one in the library with Ms. Wilcox comes to mind). The positives, however, are significant: Hope Davis does a spectacular job bringing life to a large cast of characters. From Weaver to Royal, Minnie to Cook, and Mattie herself, you really begin to feel as if you are a part of the family in North Woods. Reading versus listening to A Northern Light provides a distinctly different experience, so I can't wait to pick up the book in the future and settle into its lyrical depths. This is a book all YA should have to read, because I imagine it will become a classic.
joermailloux on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
While I really did enjoy this book, I don't feel it can really be dubbed a mystery novel. I am drawn to novels that are set in local areas, and the fact that the story takes place in the Adirondacks, more specifically Lake Placid, intrigued me. I found the main character, Mattie Gokey,  wonderful. She faced woman's conflict of being drawn between work, family, and dreams, and I could really relate to it. Using the murder as a catalyst for Mattie's ultimate decision to leave and follow her dream to become a writer was clever. Enjoyable, disturbing at times, but completely believable for the time period.
Whisper1 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Using Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy as a springboard, Jennifer Donnelly weaves a rich tapestry of history, romance, poverty, the desire to succeed, the love of books, and a turn of the century murder.When young Mattie Gokey's mother dies, she is overburdened by the needs of her father and siblings. Longing to escape poverty and the back woods of upstate New York, Mattie's love of books propels her forward to a dream of education and fulfillment of her dream.Highly recommended.
Luli81 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Please read anything you find about this author. It's so good that I couldn't stop reading.
framberg on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Donnelly's novel, based on the true story of a young woman murdered at a hotel in the Adirondacks in 1906, features a young protagonist caught between her promise to her dying mother, and her desire to pursue her own dreams. While some of the characters seem stock - the inspirational teacher with a secret of her own, the dedicated friend with with his own demons to face, the disapproving father with a soft heart - in Donnelley's hands what could have been trite becomes vivid, genuine, humorous and heart-wrenching. This novel is a window into a particular time and place, but the human emotions and struggles it portrays are eternal.
wagner.sarah35 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A Northern Light charts the tale of Mattie Gokey, a talented young farm girl who dreams of being a writer. Throughout the novel, Mattie struggles with the circumstances of her life, her family, and her time. It takes the murder of one of the guests at the hotel where Mattie works to give her the courage to strike out on her own path. I liked Mattie as a character and the ending of the novel made me happy for her as she finally decides to pursue her own dreams. I enjoyed A Northern Light, although I found some of the secondary characters to be somewhat frustrating and some questions are left unanswered by the novel's conclusion.
BookAddictDiary on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A Northern Light is Jennifer Donnelly's first YA novel. Though it was originally published in the early 2000s, the book has recently enjoyed a resurgence in popularity (or well, more popularity than ever before) due to the explosion in the YA market and the recent release and popularity of Donnelly's other YA historical, Revolution.Let me begin by giving you a brief history of my relationship with Donnelly. A few years ago I read her adult historical, The Tea Rose, which I found pretty painful to read and not particularly interesting. Though the novel has spawned sequels, I could never force myself to pick them up -mostly because I have a long list of considerably more interesting books to read first, so these books ended up dropping off the list and being forgotten.But, after seeing Donnelly's Revolution everywhere, I thought I'd give her another try in the YA market. I am so glad that I did. A Northern Light is a well-written, moving tale of beauty, romance and mystery that's impossible to forget. Though at times a tiny bit slow, A Northern Light is a delightful read for fans of YA historical romance.It's 1906 and young Mattie lives up north near the Adirondack, where she works at a local hotel to help provide for her family and save up to one day move to New York City for a new life. When a young couple disappears on a rowboat who stayed at the hotel -and one of them turns up dead -Mattie finds herself with a collection of love letters between the two. Though she was told to burn them, Mattie finds the key to the woman's disappearance and death, and a fascinating mystery begins to unravel about the woman named Grace and about Mattie's own past, present and future.I have never before seen writing of this quality from Donnelly. The way she weaves the story of Grace into Mattie's story is amazing, feels real and gives Mattie's character a strong three-dimensional feel that makes her easy to relate to and draws the reader into the story.Beautiful and moving, A Northern Light gave me renewed confidence in Donnelly and made me even more excited to check out Revolution -she knows how to do YA right!
allureofbooks on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Lyrical. Captivating. Haunting. All the different facets of this novel add up to make one of the best stories I have ever read. From the very first page, Mattie Gokey's zeal for words makes the pages of the book turn themselves. Weaved throughout Maggie's fictional struggles is the real life story of the death of Grace Brown, as seen through Mattie's brief (and fictional, of course) interaction with her, and letters that she left behind (the letters are real, by the way). This is not an idyllic coming of age story full of flowers and happy, skipping children. It is a story of racism, hatred, marital infedelity and a family left imbittered by the death of their mother from breast cancer. Jennifer Donnelly doesn't sacrifice real life to make the story more pleasant. Childbirth is described with horrifying detail, sickness and starving children are common threads to the story, and marriage isn't viewed as the grand ideal. In fact...there IS no grand ideal. Just a community of people surviving as best as they can. Mattie's love for books and writing is one of the best parts of the story. My favorite part of the novel is a scene where Mattie sees her teacher's library for the first time-more books then she has ever seen or heard of that inspires her into a passionate speech about writing. Well, it seems to me that there are books that tell stories, and then there are books that tell truths...The first kind, they show you life like you want it to be. With villains getting what they deserve and the hero seeing what a fool he's been and marrying the heroine and happy endings and all that. Like Sense and Sensibility or Persuasion. But the second kind, they show you life more like it is. Like in Huckleberry Finn where Huck's pa is a no-good drunk and Jim suffers so. The first kind makes you cheerful and contented, but the second kind shakes you up... Why don't they tell the truth? Why don't they tell how a pigpen looks after the sow's eaten her children? Or how it is for a girl when her baby won't come out? Or that cancer has a smell to it? All those books...I bet not one of them will tell you what cancer smells like... I don't mean to be coarse. I just...I don't know why I should care what happens to people in a drawing room in London or Paris or anywhere else when no one in those places cares what happens to people in Eagle Bay." Her teacher then tells her Make them care, Mattie, and don't you ever be sorry. I like to think that is what Mattie will end up doing, after the end of the story. Through the reading of the losses Grace Brown suffers before her death, Mattie realizes where her destiny really lies.
09prisca on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book is the second best book i have ever read for this summer so far.A 16 year old girl sacrififcing her life to never break her mothers promise but in the end she fulfills her dreams and goes to new york.