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A copy of this book was provided to me by the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. No external considerations went into this review.

In college, I flew to and from Portland, Oregon several times a year. I love flying, but I particularly love flying in over the Cascades and the Columbia River, seeing volcanoes out either window and the pine forest below, and looking west down the river as the plane turns for the final approach, knowing that the ocean is out there somewhere. There’s a feeling� it’s hard to describe. A lightness in my heart, a nerve-tingling energy, a feeling of rightness at returning to the Northwest.

That’s what I got from Summerlong.

It’s a rare book that strikes me this way. I read a lot of things I enjoy, and a lot of things I love, but far fewer that feel like puzzle pieces fitting into a space I didn’t know existed. Summerlong resonated deeply with me - its setting, its subtle unconventional magic, its complicated and idiosyncratic characters. Absolutely everything about it was lovely and absorbing, and I don’t just say that because Beagle’s rich, loving descriptions made me homesick for Seattle and Puget Sound. (Though that’s definitely a plus; there’s a deep sense of place running through this book that really brings it alive.)

Tachyon Press describes Summerlong as ‘literary speculative fiction�, which I find apt in the way it suggests a slowness of plot and a meditative quality not found in most fantasy novels. It’s about ordinary people, who are nonetheless marvelous in their quirks and variations, whose lives are disrupted by something subtly extraordinary. In particular there are three players: Abe, a retired history professor; his sort-of girlfriend Joanna, an aging Sicilian flight attendant; and Joanna’s daughter Lily, a young journalist with consistent bad luck in the women she dates. They’re a family unit without all the usual trappings: Abe and Joanna’s relationship is committed and caring, but not formalized; Joanna and Lily struggle to get along, but are deeply loyal to one another; Abe is something of a fond uncle to Lily. They all feel incredibly real, and I found myself getting drawn into and invested in their lives almost before I noticed.

And then there’s Lioness, she who disrupts the status quo:

Thick and heavy and desert-colored, her hair caught the candlelight and gave it back with the added rawness of a living thing when she turned her head.

Ohh, that description.
Having read the synopsis, I was actively trying to figure out who or what Lioness was, and it took me less than a fifth of the book to be certain. However, it didn’t feel like Beagle was trying to keep this a secret from the reader, who’s primed to expect something of the fantastical in this novel; in fact, I enjoyed picking out all of his subtle hints and references after I knew the secret more than figuring it out in the first place. There was another interesting side effect, too: knowing that Lioness herself was extraordinary, I found myself guessing at every side character. Were they supernatural as well, or just unusual humans? It made me question the value of making such a distinction at all.

Lioness is� not a non-entity, but by necessity not as vividly characterized as Abe, Joanna, and Lily either. Her role in the story is to be a disturbance; she is a stone thrown into calm water, disturbing the status quo for better or worse by introducing ineffable magic to this small corner of the world. It’s not dramatic, but neither could it be prevented. From the moment of her arrival, the lives of humans around her change course, and much of the book is just watching those new courses play out. Change necessarily brings loss, though, and there is an eventual� collapse at the end of the book that took me by surprise.

One of the themes that many fantasy novels have explored is the idea that darkness and light must exist in a kind of symbiotic balance. “To light a candle is to cast a shadow,� writes Ursula K. LeGuin in A Wizard of Earthsea - a book which, at its heart, affirms that darkness is just as natural and as necessary as light. Summerlong presents similar dualities - courage and fear; love and rejection; growth and loss. The question it seemed to be asking is this: knowing what it may cost, would it be better not to experience magical things at all?

I’m still not sure what my answer is.

((Aside: I admit that I particularly appreciated the part of this book in which there were whales. However, I felt there could have been more whales. There are never enough whales.))