53 pages • 1 hour read
Patti Callahan HenryA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Stories are at the heart of The Secret Book of Flora Lea, even being referenced directly in the title. In the closing Author’s Note, Patti Callahan Henry says, “This is the start of The Secret Book of Flora Lea, a reminder that we are a myth-making people; it is how we make meaning of the meaningless and sense of the senseless. It is why we tell stories” (347). In other words, this theme took shape for the author before the book was even written, and Hazel and Flora’s story evolved around it.
Even before the Linden girls are evacuated from their home by Operation Pied Piper (itself a not-so-subtle reference to a traditional storytelling motif), Hazel uses stories to make sense of the world around her. She clearly has a deep love for literature that she carries through her entire life, eventually leading her to work at a rare bookshop that specializes in the extraordinary. As a child forced into a maternal role that she isn’t adequately prepared for, Hazel finds strength in stories: “This was the answer to Flora’s distress and sleepless nights, her startling at every noise and siren—stories. This was how to get through the fear” (15). Although it feels like a small thing against an incomprehensibly dark time, Hazel recognizes storytelling as the one power she has at her disposal. It allows her to feel as though she is fulfilling her role as protector—an echo of earlier Bardic traditions.
Later, Hazel rejects this power when she blames it, and through it herself, for her sister’s disappearance. She recognizes, instinctually, that stories have a much bigger power than she initially guessed. Bridie summarizes this idea when she says, “The best stories are soul-making. But stories we tell about ourselves, and even the harrowing ones told by others about it, can also be soul-destroying. We have to choose what is good and true, not what will destroy” (186). She teaches Hazel that stories have the power to shape reality. This idea is echoed in Peggy Andrews’s Whisperwood book itself in the way the central characters use their knowledge of stories to rewrite happy endings for classic fairy tale characters. For Peggy, this story becomes a force of healing when her mother shares it with her after her father’s death. Much like the connection it forged between Hazel and Flora, Whisperwood becomes a guiding thread between Peggy and her mother. The very act of becoming a storyteller also gives Peggy the life she dreamed of and the opportunity to go on her own fairy tale adventure. Through sharing her story with the wider world, she opens a door between Hazel and Flora as well as between herself and Wren. In each of these moments, past traumas are resolved and reborn into new potential. Finally, in the closing chapters of the book, both Dot and Hazel share their own experiences through the lens of storytelling. This allows them to make peace with their past and repurpose it into a tool for growth.
Hope carries Hazel throughout the entire novel, believing that her sister can still be saved even decades after her supposed death. It gives her strength to carry on in the darkest of times, and indeed hope in periods of darkness is a pervasive and universal theme in literature that deals with the effects of war. However, this hope also has the potential to root a person in their past or in a future that is no longer within reach. In this way, it can be damaging to the present and prevent one from healing and growth. As Hazel struggles to repair her relationship with Barnaby, she reflects, “Her obsession with reasons and explanations, her desperate need to make meaning of the meaningless and sense of the senseless was destroying what she had right here, right now” (262). Ironically, this is the same perspective that the author echoes later in the author’s note, suggesting that hope and storytelling are intrinsically interwoven—that hope is a way of telling stories to oneself.
When Hazel’s lifelong hope is finally fulfilled—when she finds what she has spent two decades looking for—she comes to understand the deep and inescapable hold her hope has on her: “Hope, my God, it was such a strange word, so much larger than a wish. Hope had become life itself, for to discover the truth about Flora had been Hazel’s life’s wish and now that hope was flickering in the tentative eyes of a woman who had no idea who Hazel was” (287). By coincidence or by design, the first two uses of “hope” in this prior quotation are capitalized, which gives the concept an even greater divine weight. Much like love, hope has the power to both create and destroy, to incite into meaningful action and to break a person down.
To support this hope, Hazel jeopardizes everything she has built around her: her relationship with Barnaby, primarily, as well as her professional friendships with her prior coworkers, her upcoming career trajectory at Sotheby’s auction house, and even her personal safety as she risks arrest for her theft. This novel is intended to have an overall positive tone, so Hazel’s hope and loyalty to her cause does pay off for (almost) everyone involved; in another context, however, Hazel’s hope could have been the tragic flaw that led to her undoing. This highlights the dual identity of hope and its power to drive those who become beholden to it.
There is an undercurrent of religious piety and spirituality throughout the novel, depicted especially via the character of Bridie, whose open-minded embrace of multiple traditions sets her apart from her community. Initially, the novel portrays her as a pious person, as she prays before dinner the first night after Hazel and Flora arrive. The true breadth of Bridie’s spiritual influences soon becomes apparent as she explains the equinox via Greek mythology. Bridie’s open-minded embrace of various spiritual traditions—new and old, which she sees as different versions of the same story—causes tension between her and the rest of her community, particularly with the nurses Imogene and Frances. Bridie’s embrace of both paganism and Christianity is illustrated when she holds a ceremonial celebration for Imbolc, the first day of spring in the Gaelic tradition. This is a celebration that is still observed today on February 1. Its Christian equivalent, St. Brigid’s Day, is an official public holiday in Ireland and is widely observed throughout the United Kingdom. In this chapter, Bridie (whose name is derived from Bridgette) acknowledges both names and interpretations of the holiday. Her approach is less about any religious subservience than about an inner spirituality and awareness. When Hazel asks her why she observes this day, Bridie responds, “To honor the seasons, curious one. To honor each other. To gather. To remember that we are part of something much bigger than the petty things of today” (183).
While Bridie’s open-hearted belief causes contention with some of the other villagers, who see it as evidence of witchcraft, it influences Hazel in positive ways. Although Hazel isn’t a religious person and doesn’t directly interact with religion in her adult life, her devotion to finding her sister reflects a sustaining sense of faith. Bridie also contributes to and encourages Hazel’s tendency to view the world through myth and stories, providing her with lenses through which to see and overcome even frightening situations with strength. This tendency, combined with Bridie’s love and respect for nature that she also shares with Hazel, gives Whisperwood itself a sense of sacredness, even if secular in nature.
Toward the end of the novel, religion is presented as an antagonistic force when it becomes the root—or at least a scapegoat—of Imogene’s justification for stealing a child from her family. When Imogene’s sister lost her young child, Imogene saw Flora as a divine opportunity to repair their broken family. Even Flora’s new identity carries a religious connotation: “Your name—Dorothy—it means gift from God” (311). When confronted, Imogene hides herself in this religious fervor to shield herself from the responsibility of her actions: “I am perfectly sane and I understood what God required of me. Do you?” (311). Although it would be easy for the novel to frame religion as an instigator of harm and injustice, Imogene’s confession is a portrayal of what happens when one’s faith becomes corrupted by personal need.
Ultimately, the novel highlights the personal nature of spiritual beliefs and that, like stories and myths, religion and spiritual traditions can evolve with time and with personal need, providing flexible lenses through which each person can choose to see and explain the world, even if that’s finding sacredness in the comfortable and mundane.
By Patti Callahan Henry