Since the massively successful reception of the novel Wicked, now a Broadway musical lauded across the world, Gregory Maguire has cemented himself as a creative force to be reckoned with. The fourth and final book of the Wicked Years, Out of Oz, was published 10 years ago—but Maguire’s new work, The Brides of Maracoor, reenters the beloved world as the promising first book of a trilogy, taking place two generations prior to the events of Wicked.
The Brides of Maracoor live in an isolated society on a remote island in the middle of the sea, only interacting with each other aside from the Overseer’s yearly visit. They’re traditionally seven in number, ranging just as many decades in age, their methodic and rhythmic style of living and ritualistic weaving single handedly holding together the concept of time—so everybody’s been told. However, upon the bedraggled arrival of the young and green-skinned Rain (known to the reader to be the grandmother of Wicked’s Elphaba), they become eight, potentially threatening the existence of the world as everyone knows it. Cossy, the youngest bride at age 10, and Helia, the eldest bride well into her 80s, are both intent on Rain’s remaining on Maracoor, but Lucikles, the Overseer, is determined to remedy the situation so as to keep the brides seven, maintain his job, and ensure the stability of his family.
By writing from a myriad of perspectives in no regular order or cycle, Maguire situates the characters and their reactions as the most important driving force of the novel. The story doesn’t have a consistent movement to it as a result—accelerating at times, decelerating at others, and occasionally stagnating entirely as the characters grapple with their own uncontrollable situations. Notably, most of these characters are women and girls, a demographic often misconstrued and under-represented in the fantasy genre by male authors, but Maguire writes them well, realistically, and respectfully. In their scuffles, the brides aren’t deemed catty but instead as untangling genuine disparities in their beliefs. Cossy, a young and naive girl, is passionate, opinionated, and impactful. Rain arrives lost and confused but is simultaneously protective and smart. Maguire does all of this while also acknowledging that, in this world (and by extension, ours), their sex is significant and impacts how they’re treated throughout their lives. They are impacted by prejudices, but not defined by them. This is indeed the bare minimum for representation in fantasy, but Maguire still exhibits significant skill in portraying a variety of identities he isn’t or hasn’t been for a long time.
Plotwise, as aforementioned, the novel does occasionally lag, the pacing sometimes halting to situate the reader among the characters or the setting. The novel also does not achieve an entire arc—the first two-thirds of the book feel exclusively like exposition, slow and thorough. However, Maguire only meant for The Brides of Maracoor to serve as the first third of the story, the first establishment in a trilogy titled Another Day. It’s logical, then, that the first chapters spend copious time and energy on meandering descriptions and character-building moments. It’s only in the final section of the book that the story picks up energy, that the seemingly banal choices characters made earlier come back around. The last paragraphs of each perspective in particular hold most of the kinetic energy of the novel, leaving readers who might not have been enthralled by the majority of the story a promise—now, we begin, so you’d better keep an eye out for the second installment.
Maguire’s language and imagery are what makes The Brides of Maracoor, even without the rest of the trilogy, worth reading—his style mirrors the salty gray skies that hang over his island-dwelling characters, writing plainly and elegantly of the “bruised world” and the “cloudless dawn that follows a downright shroud of a night.” He incorporates offbeat and complex words into simple sentences, granting even the most energetic sequences a sort of pondering melancholy. It’s a book that’s meant to be sat down with for a while, to be dwelled on underneath thick blankets, not read in the odd short spurt. There are moments when the hypnotic nature of the language is interrupted—a well-respected figure in the world balking “ew,” or a sudden allusion to bawdy humor. It is jarring to come upon these passages, slamming the reader with a reminder that this is just a novel, but the passages do provide some grounding and reality to the world.
For a lover of Wicked as a novel, The Brides of Maracoor is a nostalgic read. It maintains a similar enough tone to that first book in this universe that they feel tied to one another, but it also demonstrates a significant evolution in Maguire’s storytelling capabilities. The Brides of Maracoor is standalone from the previous books in the same universe, so those who have never read or decidedly didn’t like Wicked can interact with it fantastically—Maguire does reward longtime fans by sprinkling references and tidbits throughout the pages, but not so much so that those without prior knowledge are missing an essential layer.
The Brides of Maracoor certainly isn’t finished, but it doesn’t pretend to be—Maguire’s significant efforts toward world, conflict, and character development show that. Every page of description is constructed so as to set the audience up for a smooth entrance into the second book, where the story really starts and where looming mysteries might become unveiled. Ultimately, The Brides of Maracoor is worth reading for any fan of gentle, innovative fantasy and well-rewards the effort in the final culminating moments.
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