Publisher Description

Acclaimed by critics and readers on its first publication in 1987, winner of the Locus Award for Best First Novel, Emma Bull's War for the Oaks is one of the novels that has defined modern urban fantasy. Eddi McCandry sings rock and roll. But her boyfriend just dumped her, her band just broke up, and life could hardly be worse. Then, walking home through downtown Minneapolis on a dark night, she finds herself drafted into an invisible war between the faerie folk. Now, more than her own survival is at risk--and her own preferences, musical and personal, are very much beside the point. By turns tough and lyrical, fabulous and down-to-earth, War for the Oaks is a fantasy novel that's as much about this world as about the other one. It's about real love and loyalty, about real music and musicians, about false glamour and true art. It will change the way you hear and see your own daily life.

Back Cover

"A contemporary fantasy classic."-- Publishers Weekly "Emma Bull is really good."--Neil Gaiman Acclaimed by critics and readers on its first publication in 1987, winner of the Locus Award for Best First Novel, Emma Bull's War for the Oaks is one of the novels that has defined modern urban fantasy. Eddi McCandry sings rock and roll. But her boyfriend just dumped her, her band just broke up, and life could hardly be worse. Then, walking home through downtown Minneapolis on a dark night, she finds herself drafted into an invisible war between the faerie folk. Now, more than her own survival is at risk--and her own preferences, musical and personal, are very much beside the point. By turns tough and lyrical, fabulous and down-to-earth, War for the Oaks is a fantasy novel that's as much about this world as about the other one. It's about real love and loyalty, about real music and musicians, about false glamour and true art. It will change the way you hear and see your own daily life. "One of the most engaging fantasies I've read in a long time." -- Minneapolis Star-Tribune "Knifes through the fantasy genre like a sharp blade of wind." --Charles de Lint

Author Biography

Emma Bull was born in 1954 in Torrance, California. She now lives in Minneapolis and is also the author of Finder and Bone Dance.

Review

"A contemporary fantasy classic." --Publishers Weekly "Emma Bull is really good." --Neil Gaiman "One of the most engaging fantasies I've read in a long time." --Minneapolis Star-Tribune "Knifes through the fantasy genre like a sharp blade of wind." --Charles de Lint

Review Quote

One of the most engaging fantasies I've read in a long time.

Excerpt from Book

WAR FOR THE OAKS chapter 1 Another Magic Moment in Showbiz T he University Bar was not, in the grand scheme of the city, close to the university. Nor was its clientele collegiate. They worked the assembly lines and warehouses, and wanted uncomplicated entertainment. The club boasted a jukebox stocked by the rental company and two old arcade games. It was small and smoky and smelled vaguely bad. But InKline Plain, the most misspelled band in Minneapolis, was there, playing the first night of a two-night gig with a sort of weary desperation. The promise of fifty dollars per band member kept them going; it was more than they''d made last week. Eddi McCandry stared bleakly at the dim little stage with its red-and-black flocked wallpaper. The band''s equipment threatened to overflow it. She''d tried to wedge her guitar stand out of the way, but it still seemed likely to leap out and trip someone. She was glad the keyboard player had quit two weeks before--there wasn''t room for him. The first set had been bad enough, playing to a nearly empty club. The next two were worse. Too many country fans with requests for favorites. And of course, Stuart, as bandleader, had accepted them all, played them wretchedly, forgot the words, and made it plain that he didn''t care. They were the wrong band for this bar. "I think," Eddi said, "that this job was a bad idea." Her companion nodded solemnly. "Every time you''ve said that this evening, it''s sounded smarter." Carla DiAmato was the drummer for InKline Plain. With her shaggy black hair and her eyes made up dark for the stage, she looked exotic as a tiger, wholly out of place in the University Bar. "It would have been smarter to tell Stuart it was a bad idea," Eddi said. "Ideally, before he booked the job." "You couldn''t know." "I could. I did. Look at this place." Carla sighed. "I think I''m gonna hear the ''This Band Sucks Dead Rat'' speech again." "Well, it does." "Through a straw. I know. So why don''t you quit?" Eddi looked at her, then at her glass, then at the ceiling. "Why don''t you?" "It''s steady work." Carla was silent for a moment, then added, "Well, it used to be." "Tsk. You don''t even have my excuse." "You mean I haven''t been sleeping with Stuart?" "Yeah," Eddi sighed, "like that." "Sometimes I take my blessings for granted. I''m going to go up and scare the cockroaches out of the bass drum." "Good luck," said Eddi. "I''ll be right behind you." She almost made it to the stage before Stuart Kline grabbed her arm. His face was flushed, and his brown hair was rumpled, half-flattened. She sighed. "You''re drunk, Stu," she said with a gentleness that surprised her. "Fuck it." Petulance twisted up his male-model features. She should have felt angry, or ashamed. All she felt was a distant wonder: I used to be in love with him. She asked, "You want to do easy stuff this set?" "I said fuck it, fuck off. I''m okay." Eddi shrugged. "It''s your hanging." He grabbed her arm again. "Hey, I want you to be nicer to the club managers." "What?" "Don''t look at me like that. Just flirt. It''s good for the band." She wanted to tweak his nose, see his smile--but that didn''t make him smile anymore. "Stuart, you don''t get gigs by sending the rhythm guitarist to flirt with the manager. You get ''em by playing good dance music." "I play good dance music." "We play anything that''s already been played to death. All night, people have been sticking their heads in the front door, listening to half a song, and leaving. You in a betting mood?" "Why?" "I bet the nice man at the bar tells us not to come back tomorrow." "Damn you," he raged suddenly, "is that my fault?" Eddi blinked. "You pissed him off, didn''t you? Why do you have to be such a bitch?" For a long moment she thought she might shout back at him. But it was laughter that came racing up her throat. Stuart''s look of foolish surprise fed it, doubled it. She planted a smacking kiss on his chin. "Stuart, honey," she grinned, "you gotta grow where you''re planted." She loped over and swung up on stage, took her lipstick-red Rickenbacker from the stand, and flipped the strap over her shoulder. She caught Carla''s eye over the tops of the cymbals. "Dale back from break yet?" Carla shook her head, then inhaled loudly through pursed lips. "Parking lot," she croaked. "Oh, goody. The whole left side of the stage in an altered state of consciousness. Let''s figure out the set list." "But we''ve got a set list." "Let''s make a new one. May as well be hanged for Prince as for Pink Floyd." "But Stuart--" Eddi grinned. "I want to leave this band in a blaze of glory." Carla''s eyes grew wide. "You''re--Jesus. Okay, set list. Can we dump all the Chuck Berry?" "Yeah. Let''s show this dive that we at least flirt with modern music, huh?" They came up with a list of songs in a few gleeful minutes. Stuart hoisted himself on stage as they finished, eyeing them with sullen suspicion. He slung on his guitar and began to noodle, running through his arsenal of electronic effects--more, Eddi suspected, to prove to the audience that he had them than to make sure they worked. Dale, the bass player, ambled on stage looking vaguely pleased with himself. Dale was all right in his own disconnected way; but he liked country rock and hated rock ''n'' roll, and consoled himself with dope during breaks. Eddi cranked up the bass on her amp and hoped it would make up for whatever he was too stoned to deliver. Carla was watching her, waiting for the cue to start. Stuart and Dale were ready, if not precisely waiting. "Give us a count," she said to Carla. Stuart glared at her. Carla counted, and they kicked off with a semblance of unity. They began with a skewed version of Del Shannon''s "Runaway."It was familiar enough to pull people onto the dance floor, and the band''s odd arrangement disguised most of the mistakes. Eddi and Carla did impromptu girl-group vocals. Dale looked confused. Then they dived into the Bangles'' "In a Different Light," and Stuart began to sulk. Eddi had anticipated that. The next one was an old Eagles song that gave Stuart a chance to sing and muddle up the lead guitar riffs. Perhaps the scanty audience felt Eddi''s sudden madness; they were in charity with the band for the first time that night. People had finally started to dance. Eddi hoped it wasn''t too late to impress the manager, but suspected it was. Carla set the bass drum and her drum machine to tossing the percussion back and forth. The dancers were staying on the floor, waiting for the beat to fulfill its promise. Eddi murmured the four-count. Dale thumped out a bass line that was only a little too predictable. Stuart shot Eddi an unreadable look and layered on the piercing voice of his Stratocaster. Eddi grabbed her mike and began to sing. You told me I was pretty I can''t believe it''s true. The little dears you left me for They all look just like you. Ugly is as ugly does-- Are you telling me what to do?

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