Ronsdale Press » Children’s and Young Adult

Freedom Bound

ronsdale — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 19:27:36 +0000

Freedom Bound

by Jean Rae Baxter

$11.95

Available February 2012
ISBN 978-1-55380-143-6
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-153-5
5 1/4″ x 7 5/8″ Trade Paperback, 256 pages
YA Novel

In this, the final instalment of Jean Rae Baxter’s best-selling young adult trilogy, eighteen-year-old Charlotte sails from Canada to Charleston in the beleaguered Thirteen Colonies to join her new husband Nick. During these final months of the American Revolution, she must muster all her wit and courage when she has to rescue Nick from being tortured as a spy in an alligator-infested South Carolina swamp. She must also find ways to bring freedom to a pair of teenage runaway slaves she has befriended. Freedom Bound delivers a frank and realistic picture of the slave system and a powerful account of what was at stake for both white and black Loyalists as they prepared to find a new home in the country that was soon to be Canada. Like The Way Lies North and Broken Trail, the two novels that preceded it, Freedom Bound contains a wealth of carefully researched historical details of one of the least known chapters of our history.

Other Ronsdale books by Jean Rae Baxter:

Charlie: A Home Child’s Life in Canada

ronsdale — Mon, 16 May 2011 23:28:10 +0000

Charlie

A Home Child’s Life in Canada

by Beryl Young

$12.95

February 2012
ISBN 978-1-55380-140-5
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-149-8
8″ x 8″ Trade paperback, 112 pages
60 sepia photos
Young Adult Non-fiction / Crossover Adult

Paperback edition now available!

The story of the 100,000 British children who came to Canada as child immigrants between 1870 and 1938 is not well known. Yet the descendants of these “Home Children” number over four million people in Canada today. The author is one of them. Charlie was her father.

Charlie is a compelling account of an English boy who is sent to an orphanage following the death of his father because his heartbroken mother is too poor to feed her children. Separated from his family, Charlie works his way out of poverty to eventually become a high-ranking member of the RCMP. Charlie’s story, like many others, is an inspiring part of our Canadian heritage, and will fascinate adults as well as children.

Other Ronsdale books by Beryl Young:

Follow the Elephant

REVIEWS & AWARDS

“Beryl Young’s story of her father fills a very necessary gap in Canadian history. That she does so in such an interesting and thoughtful way is a tribute to her skill as a writer. . . It is enjoyable for personal reading and as an interesting biography, as well as in classrooms as an excellent source of background material. Highly recommended.” — CM Magazine

“A warm, candid look back at the life of a man who struggled to secure a place for himself in the new world. Along with the author’s gentle and fluid narrative, the tome is seasoned with a smattering of sepia photographs of days gone by.” — The Chronicle-Herald, Halifax

*Finalist: 2010–11 Ontario Library Association Red Maple Non-fiction Award

*Finalist: 2011–12 Red Cedar Book Award

*Starred selection: Canadian Children’s Book Centre BEST BOOKS for 2010

*Finalist: Chocolate Lily Award (B.C.) 2010–11

*Finalist: Hackmatack Award (Atlantic Canada) 2010–11

*Runner-up for the National Chapter of Canada IODE Violet Downey Book Award, 2010

*Long-listed for the Canadian Literature Roundtable Information Book of 2010

Run Marco, Run

ronsdale — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 22:31:42 +0000

Run Marco, Run

by Norma Charles

$11.95

September 2011
ISBN 978-1-55380-131-3
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-137-5
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 200 pages
Young Adult Novel

In this fast-paced novel for readers ten and up, James Graham, a Canadian journalist, is kidnapped in a market in Buenaventura, Colombia, right in front of Marco, his thirteen-year-old son. When the kidnappers try to grab Marco, his father yells at him, “Run Marco, run!” Marco manages to escape, and seeing no possibility of help in Colombia, he stows away on a freighter headed to Vancouver where a good friend of his father is living and who may be able to help.

During his search, Marco encounters what seem like insurmountable odds and learns that he must call upon his inner strength and nerve to keep going. “Valeroso; courage,” he keeps saying to himself as he evades drug dealers, security guards, the police and the authorities who would send him back to Colombia — straight into the arms of his father’s kidnappers.

Run Marco, Run is a riveting adventure about a plucky boy who will dare anything to save his father, and who learns that running away is sometimes the heroic thing to do.

Click here to read Chapter One of Run Marco, Run

THE MAN RAN furiously through the crowded streets of Buenaventura. Sweat poured down his face and neck, soaking the collar of his white shirt and fashionable business suit.

“Excuse me please!” he gasped. “Con permiso!”

He burst through a crowd waiting for the pedestrian light to change. “Let me through!” He hurled himself across the street, twisting and skipping to avoid—screech of brakes—a taxi.

“Let me through! Permiso! Permiso!” he yelled at the crowd on the far side of the street. “Let me through!”
Someone shoved him into a woman’s shoulder and the contents of her shopping bag tumbled into the gutter. Papayas and grapefruits and limes rolled in the dust.

“Gringo loco!” the woman yelled after him, shaking her fist.

Breathing raggedly, the man ran on, shouldering through those pedestrians too slow to avoid his frenzied flight. He brushed past a knot of scruffy men lurking in front of the upscale Santa Maria Apartments. They watched him silently as he attacked the steps two at a time leading up to the front door. He punched in a coded entrance number and pushed through the heavy metal door into the foyer. Then he careened down the hall to the elevator.

He waited for the elevator, mumbling, “Come on, come on, come on,” staring up at the floor indicator and cracking the knuckles of his right hand. Once inside, he stabbed at button 4 and then stood breathing heavily with his forehead pressed against the elevator door. When the door slid open he catapulted himself down the hallway to apartment number 411. He keyed the lock and exploded into the living room where his son sat at the computer.

“Marco!” The man grabbed the boy in a bear hug. “Thank God you’re here!”

“Of course. Where else would I be?” Marco dragged his eyes away from the screen and stared at his father. His father’s hair was standing on end, his office shirt stained with sweat. “What’s wrong, Papa?”

“I just heard on the radio there’s been another kidnapping right here in Buenaventura. A thirteen-year-old boy from your school this time. I tried to call and you didn’t answer the phone. I was terrified it was you.” He squeezed Marco’s arm and ruffled his black curly hair. Then he collapsed onto the sofa.

Marco’s stomach churned. “Kidnapped? From my school? Oh no! I wonder who.”

“It’s terrible. That’s the third kidnapping this month. They say that foreigners and their families are being targeted.”

“At least half the guys in my class are foreigners. Could be any one of them.”

“Just last week Max Cureau, the journalist from my paper, was abducted right from his own home. We think it was by some Marxist guerrillas. He still hasn’t been located and the guerrillas have threatened that they’ll continue kidnapping journalists and their families if we don’t stop writing stories about them in the paper.” Marco’s father blew out a big sigh and wiped his wet brow with his handkerchief.

“If it’s so dangerous why don’t you stop writing those stories?” Marco asked.

“Because the stories are true. We can’t allow ourselves to be silenced by a few thugs.”His father went on, “The future of this country, of any country, still depends on freedom of the press. And now I have a lead on a really big story. This one’s about a local drug cartel and it’ll be coming out in the paper in the next few days.”

“But kidnapping kids.”Marco shook his head.He couldn’t stand the idea that one of his friends may have been grabbed from the streets. “Maybe I can find some news.” He turned back to the computer and searched for Buenaventura breaking news.

His father got up and poured himself a glass of water from the upturned bottle in its dispenser in the adjoining kitchen. He gulped down the water and watched the screen over Marco’s shoulder. Their black cat twirled himself around their legs, purring.

Marco’s father scooped him up. “So are you hungry now, Greco?” he asked, stroking the cat’s head.

The cat purred some more and licked his chin.

“Here it is.” Marco read the brief description. “‘Late developing news: This afternoon, a thirteen-year-old boy was abducted on his way home from Colegio Colombo Aleman. Details of the kidnapping, including the identity of the boy, have not yet been released.’ Man! That’s way too close. I’ll call Antonio. Maybe he has heard something.”

“Good idea,” his father said, sprinkling food into the cat’s dish. “Meanwhile, I’ll get supper started. It’s been a long day and I’m starving. Bet you are too.” He peeled off his rumpled jacket and went to rummage through the fridge. Marco punched in his friend’s number on the phone on the desk. The phone rang and rang until the message machine came on asking him to leave a message. It’s Marco,” he said. “Call me back.”

“No answer?” his father asked.

Marco shook his head. “So weird. Antonio said he was going straight home this afternoon after school to finish this geography project on North America. It’s due the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh blast!” His father was still poking through the fridge. “Not enough here to make a meal for a bird. No tomatoes. No peppers. No plantain. We’re even out of onions. I’ll have to go down to the market. You’d better come with me, Marco.”

“Do I have to? I need to get started on my project.”

“You can do that when we get back. I don’t want to leave you alone here in the apartment. Not now. Not with all the kidnappings happening so close by. In fact, I’m thinking about getting someone to stay with you after school until I get home from work.”

“A babysitter? No way, Papa. Thirteen-year-olds don’t need babysitters.”

“Think of it as a bodyguard. There’s just too much danger in the city these days to leave you alone. Just now when I came home, I saw some really rough-looking thugs hanging around outside our apartment building. I don’t like it.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You think so, eh? The political situation may be getting better in some parts of Colombia, but here on the westcoast with the drug wars, it’s getting crazier by the minute. Eight journalists have been kidnapped or killed already this year and it’s just August. Do you know that last year nine times more murders were committed in Buenaventura than in New York City? Now how’s that for a scary statistic?”

“Pretty bad,” Marco admitted.

“The government keeps trying to crack down, but the rebel army’s getting more and more desperate,” his father continued. “No telling what’s going to happen next. I wish Rolando Mendoza were still here. He had a lot of influence with the rebels.”

“Mr.Mendoza? The man you helped leave the country?”

“Yes. I asked our cousin in Vancouver to sponsor him last year. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from him lately. If anyone could get the city out of this political mess, it’d be Rolando Mendoza. I’ll give him a call after supper tonight and see what he thinks. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas. Come on, let’s go. We won’t be long. You can help me carry the stuff.”He tossed Marco a shopping bag. Marco reluctantly shut down the computer. “Bye,Greco.”

He scratched the cat between his silky ears. The cat shut his eyes and purred. He was sleek and tidy, all black except for a white patch under his chin. Marco didn’t have time to change into jeans and a t-shirt. Buttoning up his white cotton school shirt, sliding on his sandals, and patting his pocket for his wallet, he followed his father out and down the stairs. Their footsteps echoed off the cement walls. He and his father usually used the stairs to go up and down the four flights unless they were in a hurry. It was part of their daily workout. His father dialed in the security code to open the metal outside door and it buzzed open. When they were outside, the heavy door clunked closed behind them. Marco pulled on it to make sure it was firmly locked. Once outside, he glanced around. A warm wave of stuffy air flowed over him. The sidewalk in front of the apartment steps was more crowded than usual, with people of all ages milling about. Maybe some festival was going on at the nearby church. Dusty streetlights had been turned on but the late afternoon light was dim and murky. The market was just a few blocks away so when they needed fresh fruit and vegetables, they usually walked there.

Marco shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and followed his father’s long shadow along the congested sidewalk, wishing he could be back up in their air-conditioned apartment.

A couple of men wearing red bandanas around their necks jostled against them, cursing. One of them caused Marco’s father to stumble and the man shouldered on without apologizing.

Another man, also wearing a red bandana, glared at Marco, narrowing his eyes. Creepy. What’s that all about? Marco wondered. The guy was a burly man with a thin face and bristly moustache. He thought he’d seen the man before but he couldn’t think where. Something was definitely familiar about him. He pushed past him and caught up with his father. “You all right, Papa?”

“I’m fine.” He brushed off his pant leg. “Let’s hurry. We want to get to the market before it shuts.”

As they threaded their way through the crowded streets, Marco stuck right beside his father. It was the end of the day, and some stalls were closing, although many people were still shopping or hanging around in bunches talking and laughing. Loud rock music blared from huge speakers set up on a stall selling CDs and DVDs.

As Marco followed his father past stalls piled with shoes and shirts and jeans and all other sorts of clothing, he felt people turn and stare at them.His papa, with his light brown hair and grey eyes, was obviously a gringo, a foreigner, a rare sight around this part of town. But since Marco looked more like his mother, with his curly hair and dark eyes, he didn’t stand out so much. Sometimes people didn’t even believe that James Graham was his father. It could actually be embarrassing.

At the end of the long row of tables was a food area with a stall selling sweet pastries bubbling in oil and, Marco’s favourite, freshly baked flat empanadas filled with cheese and peppers. The delicious smells made his mouth water and stomach growl with hunger.

Beside the pastry stall was a table of fruit and vegetables. Mounds of mangos, limes and pineapples, oranges and papaya and lulo, and anon and corozo were spread out on sacking along with stacks of squash, lettuce, carrots, onions, cucumbers, potatoes and cassava and an assortment of other egetables. Bunches of yellow bananas and long green plantain hung from hooks beside a table.

A plump woman in a big apron shouted in Spanish, “Papaya. My papaya—the best, and the best price. Four for the price of three.”

A short man beside her stall was selling small plastic cups of strong coffee, flavoured with cinnamon and sugar. A man was sipping a cup and staring straight at Marco. He was wearing a red bandana as well. Strange.

Marco moved closer to his father who’d stopped at the plump woman’s stall and had picked up a couple of large ripe tomatoes from the display.
“Pretty juicy looking tomatoes,” he said, nodding. “Be good for our salad tonight. What do you think, Marco?”

Marco flushed and turned away, trying to ignore him. He wished his father wouldn’t speak English to him in public. Especially in such a loud voice. It always drew even more attention.

His father usually spoke English to him. He said he wanted his son to grow up fluent in English. Marco would learn enough Spanish at school and from his friends, he said. And that was true. In fact, Marco could speak English just fine, although he was much more comfortable speaking Spanish so he could blend in with people around him.

Hearing his father grunt,Marco glanced back and gasped. Two husky men had grabbed his father’s arms and were pressing into his sides, trapping him. His eyes were wide with shock.

Both men were wearing red bandanas.

At their feet the ripe tomatoes had tumbled to the ground in a splattered mess.

Before he could rush to help his father, another man lunged over and seized Marco by the back of his shirt, wrenching it tight around his neck, choking him.
He was a short squat fellow. With a bristly moustache. The same creepy man he’d seen earlier in the street! Marco struggled to escape but the man’s grip was too tight. He swore in Marco’s ear and tried to heave him away. He smelled the stink of the man’s sweat and his hot beery breath.

He twisted around and yelled in the man’s face, “No!” He yanked back with all his strength, flailing out with hands and feet and knees.

“Run!” Marco’s father bellowed as the men dragged him away. “Run, Marco, run!”

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Also by Norma Charles:

Reviews

“Both timely and relevant, Marco’s story is told with the warmth and understanding we have come to expect from this popular author.”
— Beryl Young

“Run Marco, Run is a good adventure story for younger readers who are looking for more mature themes. While it presents some of the horrors that can occur in countries with high crime rates, it is done in a way that does not exploit, describe, or dramatize them.”
— Resource Links

“[Run Marco Run] will resonate with young people as well as older readers, and the themes of drug trafficking and immigration difficulties are timely and relevant. Norma Charles has written an enjoyable and important story that needs to be told.”
— CM Magazine

“This fast-paced book is about a 13-year-old Colombian boy and his unshakable determination to find his kidnapped father. . . . We are scared for him as he wanders alone, and disheartened when he is deceived by those he trusts. An exciting read.”
— Calgary Herald

Ghosts of the Pacific

ronsdale — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 22:08:33 +0000

Ghosts of the Pacific

by Philip Roy

$11.95

September 2011
ISBN 978-1-55380-130-6
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-136-8
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 200 pages
Young Adult Novel

Ghosts of the Pacific, the fourth volume in the best-selling Submarine Outlaw series, begins with Alfred and his crew of Seaweed the seagull and Hollie the dog undertaking a harrowing journey through the icy gauntlet of the Northwest Passage on the way to the South Pacific.

Alfred wants to see those dark places of the earth where horrendous events have taken place. He sets his sights on exotic Micronesia — a beautiful place, but home to the nuclear testing of Bikini Lagoon; the Suicide Cliffs of Saipan; the airfields of Tinian, where the Enola Gay lifted off with the atomic bomb; and the Marshall Islands, which may conceal secrets to the mystery of Amelia Earhart’s final days.

Yet even with these past tragedies in mind, Alfred discovers that the world is facing an even greater threat today. As they sail into the hot, hazy world of the Pacific, they encounter the ruthless killing practices of shrimp trawlers and an island of plastic the size of Texas. Along the way, Alfred, Hollie and Seaweed befriend the crew of an environmental protection ship, who help to inspire him to take on a new goal: to protect the oceans of the world.

Philip Roy’s Submarine Outlaw Series:

Reviews and Awards

Runner-Up Young Adult Winner in the New England Book Festival!

Torn from Troy: Odyssey of a Slave

ronsdale — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 22:10:42 +0000

Torn from Troy

Odyssey of a Slave

by Patrick Bowman

$11.95

February 2011
ISBN 978-1-55380-110-8
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-125-2
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 206 pages
Young Adult Novel

Two-and-a half millennia after it was created, Homer’s Odyssey remains one of humanity’s most memorable adventure stories. In this re-creation of Homer’s classic as a young adult novel, we see the aftermath of the Trojan War through the eyes of Alexi, a fifteen-year-old Trojan boy. Orphaned by the war and enslaved by Odysseus himself, Alexi has a very different view of the conquering heroes of legend.

Despite a simmering anger towards his captors, Alexi gradually develops a grudging respect for them. As the Greeks fight off the angry Cicones, weather a storm that pushes them far beyond charted waters, and nearly succumb to the blandishments of the bewitching Lotus-eaters, he realizes that they are not the demons they were said to be, but people like himself.

At the same time, Alexi’s quick thinking, bravery, and the healing skills that he learned from his father prove to his captors that he is no ordinary slave. His key role in their escape from the Cyclops earns the respect of his master, Odysseus, and a striking discovery during their escape gives his life a newfound purpose.

Straddling the boundary between historical fiction and mythology, Torn from Troy is written in a hard, realistic style and brings to life the travails of a bronze-age slave of the Greeks in a form that will appeal especially to teen boys. While this book is the first volume of the author’s Odyssey of a Slave trilogy, it is a compelling and fully-realized work on its own.

“Screw up your courage and screw on your sea legs — there’s a wild ride ahead! Torn from Troy is a kid’s view of one of the best adventure stories ever told.”
— Tim Wynne-Jones, author of Rex Zero, The Great Pretender

Click here to read Chapter 1 of Torn from Troy

“ALEXI,WAKE UP!” My sister was leaning over me, her lanky
frame silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in the window.
Yesterday’s celebration had run long into the night,
and I mumbled something and rolled over sleepily, face
down on the pine planks.

Melantha shook me again. “I mean it! Listen—something’s
wrong!”

Blinking stupidly, I tried to make sense of the noises from
our narrow window. Sandals scuttering up the alleyway. Further
away, urgent shouts of command. And in the distance,
screams.

I got to my feet and leaned out. People were running up
the laneway below, the fear in their faces clear in the moonlight.
The blacksmith’s wife was dragging her two boys by
their wrists, not looking back. A few paces behind, old
Phylion the potter was hobbling along in his nightshirt and
bare feet, cane tapping urgently against the cobbles. The
warm night air was heavy with smoke, and from the direction
of the city gates came a red glow and the bronze clash
of weapons.

I called down to the blacksmith’s wife. “Ascania! What’s
going on?”

She didn’t look up. Her two boys were crying and trying
to turn back as she dragged them grimly up the lane. An
uneasy feeling stirred in my stomach.

From nearby came a splintering crash. We craned our
heads out farther. At the entrance to Pylacon’s smithy a few
doors down, I could just make out the shapes of men in
armour, torches flickering yellow in their hands. Melantha
gasped and wrenched me away from the window. “Lex! Get
down! Those are soldiers!”

“Guards? So—”

She shook her head. “Not city guards. Alexi, those are
Greeks!”

“Greeks?” I frowned at her. “The Greeks have gone, remember?
Besides, how would they get over the wall? Fly?”
High as an oak and wide enough for two chariots to race
along the top, the city wall had protected us from the barbarians
beyond it for as long as I could remember.

“You know who it is? Just some guardsmen, coming home
drunk after the party.” The Ilian Guard were notorious. I
yawned and lay back down on the rough woollen blanket
we shared. But as I twisted around, trying to get comfortable,
I caught the hollow crunch of wood splintering nearby
and a woman’s scream, very close. Mela ran to the door
and peered out for a moment, then turned to me, her eyes
white in the darkness. “Alexi, it’s Greeks. I can see them
coming up the alley.We have to get out!”

Another door splintered, closer, and there came a harsh,
commanding voice. “Every doorway, every building! I don’t
want a Trojan squadron coming up our backsides because
one of you troglos missed a house! Now, move! Move!”

I sat up. That was no drunken guardsman.He was speaking
Greek! Sweat started from my brow.

“It’s too late. They’re right across the lane,” Mela whispered
frantically. “They’re checking everywhere. They’ll be
up here in a moment. Alexi, we need to hide!”

I shook off my panic and peered around the darkened
room. Three years of poverty had forced us to sell nearly
everything we owned, leaving only a small corner table and
the battered tripod and pot we ate from. Nothing to hide
us. I glanced at the window but could hear soldiers right
below.

As my hand brushed our tattered blanket, I had an idea.
Rolling off it, I darted into the corner behind the door and
pulled the blanket over my head.

“Mela! Under here!” The moonlight from the window
didn’t reach this far. If we were lucky, they might overlook
a shapeless lump in the corner.

Mela gave a quick nod but ran to overturn our tiny table
and wrench a leg off the stool. As a clatter of brass-nailed
sandals came from the stone staircase outside, she snatched
up her small dagger and dashed over to squat beside me.

I tugged the blanket over our heads just as two Greek soldiers
burst through our door in full battle armour, exploding
into the room like huge bronze bulls, ripping the heavy
door from its leather hinges. It smashed down across my
bare toes and I clenched my teeth to choke off a scream.

The two soldiers prowled around the room, the brass inlays
clanking on their leather-strip skirts. Through a rip in
the blanket’s coarse weave I could see a smoky tallow torch
in the first soldier’s hand. They peered around suspiciously
by its flickering light, their eyes black pools beneath their
bronze helmets. I was too frightened to breathe. We’d all
heard the stories of what the Greeks did to their prisoners.
Struggling not to cough as the oily smoke caught my throat,
I reached over beneath the blanket and clutched Mela’s hand.
Her fingers gripped mine hard.

The second soldier kicked the broken stool, sending it
crashing against the rear wall. “Kopros,” he cursed, glancing
at his companion.“Didn’t I say it would be empty? Let’s go.”
He stalked out and clattered noisily back down the steps.
The soldier with the torch glared around for a moment before
heading for the door. I felt a surge of hope.

Too soon.His foot stamped down hard on the door as he
left, crushing my smashed toes further and sending a fresh
bolt of agony through my foot. He spun toward us at my
gasp, thrusting his smoking torch into our darkened corner.
Melantha didn’t hesitate. Throwing off the blanket, she
leapt to her feet, leaving me hidden.

“Don’t kill me!” she called out, drawing her slender frame
up tall and straight. She swept her hair over her shoulder
with one hand as the other gestured urgently behind her
back for me to stay still. Uncertain, I hesitated.

The soldier stepped back in surprise, his hand leaping
toward his knife. His helmet tilted as he looked her up and
down in her thin shift, and a noise escaped from deep in his
throat. “Hey, Takis!” he called out the door. “You missed
something!”

In a single swift motion he reached out and threw her over
one armoured shoulder, then set off through our shattered
doorway, Melantha dangling across his back. As he carried
her out I saw her hand slip into her tunic.

Ignoring the stabbing agony in my foot, I scrambled out
from beneath the heavy door to hear a shriek from outside.
Halfway down the stairs, my sister was hanging off the soldier’s
back, bronze dagger in her hand. Blood spurted from
a wound on the back of his thigh, spattering the pale stone
with droplets that glistened black in the moonlight.

“Filthy kuna!” he shrieked. “I’ll kill you!”He dropped his
torch, grabbing her with both hands to hoist her above his
head. She snatched at him but he shook her off easily, his
helmet tearing free of its strap and clattering down the steps.

As I started down toward them, the dagger in her flailing
hand slashed across the side of his neck, opening a long
dark gash. Bellowing with rage, he flung her down the steps.
I watched in horror as she tumbled down to smash against
the stone well at the bottom. There was a crack like a branch
snapping and her scream was abruptly cut off.

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Reviews

“Raw adventure from beginning to end….The novel’s grisly details will be enjoyed by fans of blood and gore, but for all those with an interest in ancient times and a taste for adventure, Torn from Troy is a highly satisfying read.”
— Quill & Quire

“Plenty of battle violence and nasty details—the eye of the blinded Cyclops leaked blood and yellow pus—spice this tale. Greek words, such as chiton, mythological references, and detailed battle maneuvers add historical flavor. While the plot races along like an adventure movie, the dialogue, full of wisecracks and put-downs such as ‘kopros breath,’ lightens the tension. As a bonus, Alexi is quick-witted, smart-mouthed, and likable. Readers may need a nudge into selecting this title, but they will enjoy this book and anticipate the rest of the trilogy.”
—voya magazine, USA.

3 stars (out of 4). “Bowman’s action-packed novel brings in the key plot points of Homer’s epic in a natural way.”
— CM Magazine

“this first book is a lively and gripping re-telling of the Odyssey, as seen through the eyes of a young Trojan slave. He witnesses the cruel raid on the Cicares, is almost bewitched by the Lotus Eaters, and takes part in the encounter with the Cyclops—a vivid and chilling adventure in itself.”
— Deakin Newsletter

Rated E for excellent! “[Torn from Troy] brings to life the legendary event from the perspective of a commoner caught up in a monumental, history-shaping moment. . . Young readers will love Alexias’s spirit, and his sharp with and quick tongue.”— Resource Links

“Alexi’s exploits and ordeals command the reader’s attention and support, but it’s his sense of justice and loyalty that will endear him to the reader. I found Bowman’s writing captivating. . . the mystery which Alexi ultimately feels he must uncover (you’ll need to read the book for this) will ensure my reading of his subsequent adventure, The Sea God’s Curse (Ronsdale Press, fall 2012).” — CanLit for LittleCanadians

“Filled with historical detail, and the stuff of myths and legend, and certain to be the first of a series, Torn from Troy is bound to delight.” — FernFolio

Broken Trail

ronsdale — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 21:44:59 +0000

Broken Trail

by Jean Rae Baxter

$11.95

Available February 2011
ISBN 978-1-55380-109-2
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-124-5
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 246 pages
Young Adult Novel

Winner of the 2011 Gold Medal, MOONBEAM CHILDREN’S BOOK AWARDS!

Broken Trail is the story a thirteen-year-old white boy, the son of United Empire Loyalists, who has been captured and adopted by the Oneida people. Striving to find his vision oki that will guide him in his quest to become a warrior, Broken Trail disavows his white heritage — he considers himself Oneida. But everything changes when Broken Trail, alone in the woods on his vision quest, is mistakenly shot by a redcoat soldier.

Broken Trail is taken to the soldier’s camp and then sent south on a mission to deliver a message to Major Patrick Ferguson that could save many lives. Narrowly escaping being slaughtered in the Battle of Kinds Mountain, Broken Trail finds his long-lost older brother, who had been fighting for the British and has been captured by the rebels.

Seeing his brother seriously wounded, Broken Trail knows he must try to rescue him, but a choice must be made: do his loyalties lie with his brother, or with the Oneida who offer him the chance to become a warrior? And with his knowledge of both ways of life, can Broken Trail find a way forward that will benefit both peoples? A sequel to the best-selling The Way Lies North, Broken Trail is an absorbing and swift-paced story that brings to vivid reality one of the most exciting eras in North America’s past.

Click here to read Chapter 1 of Broken Trail

FOR TEN DAYS BROKEN TRAIL had fasted in the wilderness.
Only water had entered his mouth. He had chanted. He had
prayed with all his soul to see his totem animal, his oki, who
would be his protector throughout life. He had opened his
heart to the whisperings of the unseen spirits and his eyes
to the vision he would behold.

Broken Trail had completed all the rites of purification,
bathed in cleansing water into which boiled leaves and ferns
had been mixed, swallowed bitter emetics to remove every
bit of waste. Body and soul, he was clean. His uncle, Carries
a Quiver, had assured him that he would be acceptable to
the Great Spirit, even though white by birth. And his uncle
was the wisest man he knew.

Then why had no vision come to him? The only whispering
he heard was the wind in the tall trees. The closest thing
to a vision was a shower of falling stars. But that often happened
in late summer, when the stars shook loose in the sky.

His friend Young Bear had fasted nine days before his
vision came. His oki was an osprey. After the osprey had
spoken to him, the spirits revealed a glimpse of Young Bear’s
former life, when he had been a chief among faraway people
who hollowed their boats from logs. His vision had also
foretold his heroic death in battle. It was good to know these
things. At thirteen, Young Bear had already made up his
death song, to be ready in case his first war party should be
his last.

What if Broken Trail’s vision should fail? He tried not to
think about that. Ten days was a long time, yet he knew that
some waited even longer before their vision finally came to
them. It was rare for no oki to appear, but it did happen.
The man who dug the village garbage holes had failed to
receive a vision, so of course he could not be a warrior.

Broken Trail stood up and stretched. He had spent the entire
morning sitting under an ash tree beside a creek, doing
nothing but waiting and praying. His body was weak with
hunger, but he must not eat until his oki appeared to him.
Maybe he would not feel quite so famished if he filled his
stomach with water. A few steps away, there was a quiet
pool at a bend in the creek.

As Broken Trail leaned over the edge of the pool, a water
spider swam through his reflection. He studied the face that
looked up at him. Brown hair, blue eyes, skin bronzed by
the sun yet paler than the skin of his friends. I look like
Elijah, he thought, before driving the thought from his
mind.

Broken Trail imagined that he could hear Elijah’s voice
and feel his hand upon his shoulder. “I’ll take you hunting,”
Elijah had said. But he never did. All white men were liars.

I must not think about him, Broken Trail told himself.
He plunged his hands into the water, and the reflection
vanished. Lifting his cupped hands to his mouth, he drank
the cool, fresh water. Then he stood up, raised his face to
the sky and chanted the prayer that Carries a Quiver had
taught him:

O Great Spirit, my heart is open.
Let my oki come to me.
Let me see his visible form.
Let him promise me his protection.
My heart is open, O Great Spirit.
Show me a vision of my future.
Show me the path that lies ahead.

As he finished the prayer, his heart felt suddenly light, and
his head as well. A dizzy sensation came over him, but he
forced himself to stay on his feet.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Let my vision come to me.”

As if summoned, a wolverine walked out of the bushes
and stood looking at him—the biggest wolverine he had
ever seen. It had the shape of a bear and the size of a wolf.
Its shaggy fur was dark brown, with two broad yellowish
bands, one on each side, reaching backward from the shoulder
to meet at the base of its tail. Broken Trail smelled its
pungent musk. The wolverine looked at him sideways. Opening
its mouth, it showed Broken Trail its sharp yellow teeth.

Broken Trail waited, afraid to speak lest he offend it.

It spoke to him in thoughts, not words, so that he heard
its message not with his ears but with his mind. “Broken
Trail, I am your oki, come to protect you from all harm.
Hear what I say, and remember well.”

“I will,” the boy whispered.

At that instant, a rifle cracked. Within the rush of noise,
Broken Trail felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. He grabbed
at his leg, but his eyes were still on the wolverine as it raised
its head, turned aside, and loped into the forest.

As he watched it disappear into the undergrowth, Broken
Trail tried to call out, to summon it back. No sound came
from his lips. His mind was numb with disbelief. At the
very moment of revelation, he had been shot, and his oki
had run away.

Broken Trail felt his knees give way. For a moment his
eyes were still directed toward the spot where the wolverine
had slipped away. Then the pain of his wound forced him
to look down at the red stain spreading around the hole in
his legging where the bullet had entered. He felt wetness
run down his leg.

Should he go back to the village? He took one step, and
then another. Despite the pain, he could walk. But he was
not sure what he wanted to do. If he returned home, he
would have to tell his uncle that his oki had gone away before
revealing his destiny. Had such a thing ever happened
before? It might be a terrible omen. Yet the wolverine had
appeared to him, and it had spoken. His vision had not
completely failed. If the elders believed more was needed,
maybe they would let him try again.

Through the turmoil of his mind came the crashing
sound of men’s boots.White men.

Someone shouted, “You got him, Frank. We’ll find the
brute and finish him off.”

Broken Trail flinched. Better slide into a thicket where
they would not see him. But before he could hide, two men
burst through the undergrowth. Redcoats. Each carried a
rifle. Both looked ready to fire.

When they saw Broken Trail, they lowered their guns.
They stared at him. He drove the pain from his expression
to return their stares. They were young men. One was tall
and thin, with fair hair pulled back in a queue. The other
was short and sturdily built, with black hair.

The short soldier laughed. “Frank, that’s not a wolverine.”

“No. God forgive me. I aimed at a wolverine, but I shot a
boy. He’s hurt. Sam, what are we going to do?”

“We’d better see how bad he’s hurt.”

Broken Trail felt his body swaying. In a moment, he
would faint like a girl.

“Hey, there!” The tall soldier grabbed one arm, and the
short soldier took the other. Broken Trail tried to shake
them off, but they had a firm grip.When they had him sitting
down, Frank undid the thong that attached Broken
Trail’s right legging to his belt. He pulled down the top of
the legging.

“Not too bad.” Sam gently touched the area around the
wound. “The bullet passed in and out. A flesh wound. He’s
lucky it never touched bone.”

“But he’s bleeding, and he’s looking mighty weak. We’d
best take him back to camp so the surgeon can bandage
that leg. I shot him. I can’t just leave him here.”

“No!” Broken Trail blurted.

“Hey!” Frank exclaimed.“The little savage speaks English.”

Broken Trail looked up. Two pairs of blue eyes met.

“You’re no Indian,” Frank said slowly. “You’re as white as
me.”

Broken Trail decided not to say another word.

“There’s a mystery here,” Sam said. “Captain will want to
meet this boy.”

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Other Ronsdale books by Jean Rae Baxter:

The Way Lies North

Freedom Bound

Reviews

“Historical novels should entertain, and Baxter excels in keeping her central character moving through the woodlands from one challenge to another. . . . Recommended.”
— CM Magazine

“This well-written coming-of-age tale is highly recommended for American students interested in alternative (Canadian, Loyalist, and Indian) views of a historical period that Americans tend to see only in triumphant, patriotic terms. Broken Trail is an appealing hero who comes through a major battle, several violent skirmishes, and other tests of character—not to mention his original vision quest—with cool-headed courage and resourcefulness, never firing a shot in anger.”
— voya magazine (USA)

“Broken Trail is a gripping tale whose believable hero is genuinely torn between the Oneida people who have become his loved family and his earlier life before he was captured. His confusion and emotional stress, as he lies between care and duty to his injured brother, and his devotion to his new family and the need to prove himself to them, is thoroughly convincing. A tumultuous period in North American history becomes more real for young people through the adventures and loyalties of Broken Trail, his brother Elijah, and his companion in adventurer, Red Sun Rising.”
— Deakin Newsletter

“[Jean Rae Baxter's] careful research and lyrical narrative style bring to life a momentous time in North American history.
Although this is a sequel to The Way Lies North, enough information is provided to make the story quite accessible. In fact, I want to read the first one now!” — Resource Links

“Author Jean Rae Baxter has written an engaging, absorbing story — well-plotted, full of detail and full of sympathy and understanding of human nature. Broken Trail’s quest for his true identity is one every adolescent can identify with.” — Canadian Children’s Book News

“Jean Rae Baxter has written her second novel with the same skill and sensitivity as her first. The reader can’t help but develop empathy for the native plight and respect for the customs and knowledge of survival that a boy must learn to become a man in this unforgiving environment.” — The Loyalist Gazette

Ghost of Heroes Past

ronsdale — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 22:32:30 +0000

Ghost of Heroes Past

by Charles Reid

$10.95

Autumn 2010
ISBN 978-1-55380-102-3
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-115-3
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 170 pages
Young Adult Novel

Thirteen-year-old Johnny Anders is something of a misfit, with no friends and a poor school record, but all this begins to change when he is awakened one night to find a soldier-ghost in his bedroom. Johnny is taken back in time to meet a series of unusual heroes in Canada’s war history. These include Joan Bamford Fletcher, who commandeered Japanese soldiers to take hundreds of wounded civilians to safety through the jungles of Indonesia, and the much-decorated Raymond Collishaw, through whom Johnny learns that Canada played a role in the Russian Revolution.

Not wanting to appear ignorant of his country’s history in front of a soldier — even if he is a ghost — Johnny starts some research of his own. While doing so he becomes friends with an intriguing new girl at school who has her own reasons to be interested in Canada’s war history. The pair become increasingly closer as together they set about uncovering why it is that Johnny has been chosen to be a witness to Canadians at war.

“This is a book of adventures and heroes. The adventures include dogfights over First World War trenches, spies in the Chinese jungle and torpedoed ships in the north Atlantic. Every one of the heroes is Canadian and Charles Reid is to be commended for bringing them to our attention so entertainingly.”
— John Wilson

Click here to read Chapter 1 of Ghost of Heroes Past

“I THINK IT MIGHT BE a good idea for us to attend the
Remembrance Day ceremony this year.”

The total unexpectedness of his father’s words were like
a thunderbolt, and all Johnny Anders could do was sputter,
“But Dad, that’s my birthday.”

“That’s exactly why I think we should go. After all, you
were born on a very historic day, Johnny, and don’t you think
we owe it to those men and women who gave so much for
us, to spare them an hour of our time?”

“Yeah, but it’s all old stuff that happened a long time ago.
What’s it got to do with me?”

“It has a lot to do with you. Those men and women and
what they did are the reason we are able to enjoy the life we
do today.”

Johnny rebelled inwardly at the thought of spending his
fourteenth birthday standing around watching some old
men going on about something that happened so long ago.
He was not quite ready to give up, and tried one more protest.
“But Dad, it’s just going to be a lot of old people talking
about stuff that means nothing to me. Anyway, we don’t
fight wars any more.”

“Well, bad news for you: you have just given me a perfect
example of how much you have to learn. It may have escaped
your attention, young man, but there are a lot of our
men and women, some not that much older than you, fighting
in a place called Afghanistan right now. Now everyone
might not agree one hundred percent that they should be
there, but most people agree, at least, that we should support
them while they are there. And one way to do that is by
going to that ceremony.”

A stubborn look had come into his father’s eyes that Johnny
knew all too well. With a sinking feeling, he realized that
although his father hadn’t actually insisted that Johnny
accept his idea, further protesting at this time would get
him nowhere.

As soon as supper was over that night, Johnny took off to
his room, claiming he had a homework assignment. But
when he closed his door he flung himself onto his bed.

Staring at the ceiling, he racked his brain for a way out of
this disaster that had befallen him. He had to admit that he
indeed knew almost nothing about the war in Afghanistan,
let alone the two world wars and the other wars that were
fought in this century and the last one. The truth was that
he usually found himself daydreaming in history class — in
all his classes, to be exact. His teachers’ words seemed to float
over his head and he was often caught staring into space.
He became the butt of many jokes made by his teachers and
classmates. He was shy and he had few friends — and even
fewer A’s on his report cards.

But going to the Remembrance Day Parade on his birthday
would not make him feel any better. Briefly he considered
pretending he was sick, as he had done several years
ago to get out of a party for a girl named Maize Bledsoe,
whom he couldn’t stand. But just as quickly he dismissed
the idea, muttering to himself, Yeah, but I was just a kid
then. It would be stupid now. Anyway, they’d probably do the
same thing, the “same thing” being that his parents had
insisted he stay in bed all the next day to make sure he got
over the illness. Johnny had long since figured out that they
had known all along he was faking and had just kept him in
bed as punishment.

When his mother put her head around the door to remind
him it was getting late, Johnny was no closer to a solution
that would prevent this shadow from hanging over his birthday.
After getting into bed, he lay for a long time staring out
his window into the darkness.

It was the smell that brought Johnny awake — a bitter, acrid
smell of burning that filled the bedroom. Bolting upright,
he became aware of a figure standing silently at the foot of
the bed. Although it was dark, he could see the man quite
clearly and realized that the smell was coming from the tattered
uniform he wore. His first feeling was one of terror,
and yet there was something emanating from this apparition
that told Johnny he wasn’t in any danger.

Suddenly the man stretched out a blackened hand.
Astounded at himself, Johnny climbed out of bed and meekly
took it. But as startling as all this was, it did not prepare
him for what came next. The man led him toward his bedroom
wall and then straight through it.

Before Johnny could even exclaim at this impossibility,
he was shaken by the sound of explosions and the sight of
flames shooting up into the night sky. He became aware
that he was standing on a balcony overlooking a strange
city. Curiosity overcame his fear and astonishment, and he
whispered to the man, “Where are we?”

“We are in Hong Kong. It is December 1941 and the city
has just fallen to the Japanese.”

Johnny wasn’t so ignorant of history that he didn’t know
Japan had been an enemy in the Second World War, but his
knowledge of what had gone on in Hong Kong was zero.He
was just about to ask another question when he realized
they weren’t alone.

On the far side of the balcony he could just make out a
short but powerful-looking man who was leaning over the
railing and staring down into the street. “What is he looking
at?” Johnny whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper. He can’t hear us. Go over and
see for yourself.”

As he reached the railing, Johnny heard a plaintive cry.
“Water, please, some water.”

Leaning over, Johnny made out the figure of a soldier on
the ground. A building at the end of the street suddenly burst
into flame, lighting up the man, who was obviously badly
wounded. But what startled Johnny more was the insignia
on his shoulder: “Canada.”

As he turned to ask the soldier-ghost about the insignia,
he saw the short man who had been watching straighten up
and stride toward the door behind him. But before he could
go far, he was brought back to the railing by shouts from
the street below.

Both he and Johnny craned forward and saw a group of
soldiers running toward the wounded Canadian.

“Japanese soldiers,” the soldier-ghost explained.

The Japanese surrounded the soldier, and one, an officer,
reached behind him to where a water bottle was hanging.
But to Johnny’s horror the man’s hand reappeared holding
a pistol.Without a trace of emotion the officer pointed the
pistol at the wounded Canadian’s head and pulled the trigger.
The short man and Johnny both recoiled at what they
had just witnessed. But whereas Johnny’s reaction was horror,
the man’s appeared to be fury; he slapped the railing
hard and strode angrily through the door.

Johnny looked enquiringly at his soldier-ghost.

“He’s angry because he is also Canadian.”

This surprised Johnny. With the light from the burning
building illuminating the balcony, the man looked like he
was of Chinese origin.

The soldier-ghost answered Johnny’s unspoken question.
“He was born in Vancouver of Chinese parents and his name
is Bill Chong.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“His father died while in China on business. As the number
one son, Bill was sent over to look after the funeral. Unfortunately
for him, by the time he had got through all the
red tape, the Japanese already controlled the sea, and Bill
had no way to get back to Canada.”

“What will he do now?”

“Nothing immediately. But what he just saw will spur
him to try to escape Hong Kong and get back to Canada so
that he can fight in the war.”

“Will he succeed?”

“Not in the way he expects.”

“How then?”

“We will have to wait and see. For now, I want you to see
something else.”

With that the soldier-ghost took Johnny’s hand again,
and suddenly they were standing in a fenced compound
with dilapidated huts scattered around its perimeter, except
for one that was in good condition and flew a Japanese flag.

Near a large gate stood a sentry hut. A half-dozen soldiers
who Johnny now understood were Japanese lounged against
the hut laughing among themselves.

Suddenly there was a banging on the gate. Two of the soldiers
walked over and flung it open. Another group of soldiers,
all chattering excitedly, came in through the gate pushing
a piano. They stopped and began talking to the sentries
while pointing at it.

With all the commotion, other men began drifting out of
the huts. But Johnny quickly realized these men were not
Japanese soldiers. Some, he could see,were wearing the remnants
of what had once been uniforms, many of which were
in worse condition than his soldier-ghost’s.

“They are Canadian prisoners of war, captured when Hong
Kong fell to the Japanese,” said the soldier-ghost, once again
anticipating Johnny’s question.“And this is a prison camp in
Hong Kong called North Point.”

“Hey, Geoff, come see. The Japs just brought in a piano.”

The voice that interrupted the soldier-ghost came from
one of the prisoners,who was shouting back toward the hut
he had just left.

Another man, taller than most of the others, appeared in
the doorway.

“Come on, Geoff, give us a tune,” the other prisoners
yelled.

The man walked hesitantly over to the piano, keeping a
watchful eye on the Japanese soldiers. Lifting the lid, he tinkled
the keys. Suddenly, all the soldiers became excited. One
of them pushed the stool that they had brought in with the
piano over to the Canadian and joined in the chorus of yells
coming from the prisoners.

Geoff sat down and started to play. None of the songs
meant anything to Johnny, but they obviously did to the
prisoners, who all started to sing while the Japanese danced
around excitedly, waving their rifles in the air.

The music went on for several minutes as the pianist
moved smoothly from one song to another. Then the door
to one of the larger huts was flung open and a Japanese officer
appeared, barking an order to the sentries. Immediately
Geoff stopped playing and everyone fell silent. Another
barked order and the soldiers pushed the pianist off the
stool. Then both the stool and the piano were trundled over
to the officer’s hut and maneuvered inside, leaving the prisoners
to drift disconsolately back to their huts.

The soldier-ghost’s voice broke the silence. “The pianist is
a man named Geoff Marston. He’s from Oshawa, in Ontario,
and came out with the Royal Rifle Regiment, who were part
of the Canadian battalion sent here to help the British defend
Hong Kong. He plays in a local band back in his hometown.”

“Why were the British defending it anyway?”

“Because at this time, Hong Kong is a British protectorate.
They leased the land from the Chinese years ago.”

“I don’t understand. These Japanese soldiers here seem
pretty friendly, but then that officer we saw just shot a
wounded man.”

“Don’t be deceived by what you just saw with the piano.
These soldiers can be just as cruel. See that post there?” The
soldier-ghost pointed to a wooden post, sticking about six
feet out of the ground.

Johnny nodded.

“Well, those same soldiers use that for amusement. They
will pull anyone off the street, tie them to that post, and keep
jabbing them with their bayonets until the unfortunate person
dies of his or her wounds. It is a favourite practice of
theirs, and one you may see.”

Johnny shuddered, shaking his head in disbelief at the
thought of such cruelty.

His soldier-ghost continued. “Unfortunately, as you just
witnessed from the balcony with the Canadian soldier, war
can bring out the worst in people as well as the best, and not
just on one side of any conflict.”

“Do we torture prisoners?” Johnny sounded shocked.

“It is against the rules of war, and generally we don’t. But
remember that there is no such thing as a nice war, although
there are some naïve people who would have you believe
that a war can be fought without anyone getting hurt, and
that the innocent can be completely protected from the turmoil.”

“So, sometimes our guys do bad things, too.”

“Sometimes, yes. No one, no matter what his — or her —
background, can avoid becoming dehumanized by war, because
everyone fighting wants to win, and to win you usually
have to kill many soldiers on the other side. In the case of
these Japanese soldiers there is an added factor.”

“What?”

“The harsh way they themselves were treated.”

“How was that?”

“Well, they didn’t get looked after the way soldiers from
our part of the world did. When they went into battle, it
was generally with only what they had on their backs, with
few or no supply lines to reinforce them. They were expected
to survive on what they could take from their enemies. This
made them indifferent to suffering. Any man or woman unfortunate
enough to be taken prisoner experienced some
very harsh times. However, I think you’ve seen enough for
your first night,” the soldier-ghost said gently.

Taking Johnny’s hand, he led him away.

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Also by Charles Reid:

Hurricanes Over London

Reviews

“In the pages of Ghost of Heroes Past, readers will find a history lesson that they won’t soon forget. Recommended.”
— CM Magazine

“When you follow Johnny on his nightly visits through war torn countries, Ghost of Heroes Past is excellent. Reid brilliantly explains the stories of several Canadians and their involvement in wars past. The reader feels connected to the soldiers and understands the gritty situations of war in a new way.”
— Resource Links

“Reid does a beautiful job telling his stories in gripping fashion. I was riveted. His presentation of the wars is balanced — he makes a stab at explaining why the Japanese did some of the horrible things they did, instead of just dismissing them as bad, and he never glorifies or sugar-coats the realities of war.”
— Charlotte’s Library

“By the conclusion of the story we see how Johnny’s time-travel adventures have impacted and changed his preceptions of the meaning of Remembrance Day and that the ‘old stuff that happened long ago’ really does have significance for all generations. Easy read…. recommended for Boys!”
— Recently Read

Hannah and the Spindle Whorl

ronsdale — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 22:04:56 +0000

Hannah & the Spindle Whorl

by Carol Anne Shaw

$10.95

Autumn 2010
ISBN: 978-1-55380-103-0
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-114-6
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 244 pages
Young Adult Novel

Winner of the 2011 Silver Medal, MOONBEAM CHILDREN’S BOOK AWARDS!

When twelve-year-old Hannah uncovers an ancient Salish spindle whorl hidden in a cave near her home in Cowichan Bay, she is transported back to a village called Tl’ulpalus, in a time before Europeans had settled in the area. Through the agency of a trickster raven, Hannah befriends Yisella, a young Salish girl, and is welcomed into village life. Here she discovers that the spindle whorl is the prize possession of Yisella’s mother, Skeepla, a famous spinner and weaver. When Skeepla falls victim to smallpox, Hannah finally begins to open up about the death of her own mother.

Hannah and Yisella are then accidentally left behind when the villagers journey to the mainland, and they witness the arrival of Governor James Douglas and numerous settlers on the Hecate. As the settlers pillage the village for souvenirs, Hannah and Yisella rescue the spindle whorl and, pursued by the ship’s crew, escape into the dark forest. From the refuge in the cave, Hannah returns to her own time with a greater understanding of herself and the history of the First Nations.

“A remarkably vibrant novel that links friendship and native history across time.”
— Ann Walsh

Click here to read Chapter 1 of Hannah & the Spindle Whorl

MY NAME IS HANNAH. I live with my dad on a houseboat,
the third one down on the left, dock five. I like the sea and
I like falling asleep to the sound of waves slapping against
the side of our houseboat. I sleep in a loft above my father’s
writing room.Yep, there’s only room for my bed,my dresser,
and a small table I use for drawing and homework — stuff
like that — but that’s okay. It’s cosy and sunny, and when I
lie on my stomach on my bed I have a perfect view of Cowichan
Bay and all the neighbouring boats. I like the view best
in the early morning, just as the sun is beginning to rise.
The water is usually still, and the smells of coffee and hot
muffins often drift over from the Toad in the Hole bakery,
which sits on the shore. Skinny cats slink down the docks
looking for boat decks to nap on after a long night of prowling
behind the restaurants and bait shops. The first few cars
headed for the larger cities, like Duncan or Nanaimo, begin
to appear on the old road that snakes in front of the shops.

Our houseboat is made of scraps. Really. But it looks pretty
cool. The cedar shakes were split from some logs taken off
my dad’s friend’s property, and the windows were salvaged
from a restaurant just before it was torn down. That’s why
my bedroom window has the words “Bird’s Nest” written
on it. That was the name of the restaurant. The rest of our
houseboat is made from odd bits of lumber that Dad got
from an old sawmill and Mr. Petersen’s barn. We have a
wood burning stove in the front room, and there’s a funky
winding staircase leading up to my sleeping loft. Dad built
it out of twisted bits of driftwood. But the front door is definitely
the best part. It’s made of maple, and has a fern and
periwinkle stained-glass window made by my Aunt Maddie.

My dad carved the posts and lintel out of clear yellow
cedar. It took him almost a year to finish that doorway. It’s
full of carvings of all kinds of living things you might see in
and around Cowichan Bay: sea stars, gulls, anemones, crabs,
you name it. If you can find it on our beach, it’s probably
carved into our doorway. My favourite carving is the one
on the top left, a little otter floating on his back in a bed of
kelp. Sometimes in the mornings, when I’m watching out
my Bird’s Nest window, I’ve seen an otter just like the one
on our door. He often floats on his back, too, between dock
six and seven, and he’s always curious about Ben North’s
fishing boat.

I could stay watching for a long time, wrapped up in my
quilt, but then Dad usually bangs on the stair railing with a
wooden spoon and yells, “Come on, Hannah, you’ll miss
your bus!” He says this almost every school morning and,
of course, I always remind him that I never do.

The school bus stops just outside the Toad in the Hole
bakery, so if I’m organized and ahead of time, I run down
the dock and up the stairs and push through the screen
door of the Toad where Nell is baking the last of the day’s
bread. I love Nell. She’s pretty old, at least fifty. She has this
crinkly face and wild grey hair. And she makes the best
bagels I’ve ever had. If I’m really lucky, she’ll push a hot cinnamon
bagel straight into my hand before the bus comes.

The bus ride takes about twenty minutes and I usually sit
at the back because I’m one of the first on. No one talks to
me that much. I know that lots of kids think I’m kind of
weird — probably because my hair is red and corkscrew
crazy. And I live on a homemade houseboat with a father
who writes in his sweatpants all day. Or maybe it’s because
my favourite shoes are boys’ Wal-Mart black-and-white
basketball high-tops, and everybody knows it isn’t cool to
wear those when you’re a twelve-year-old girl. But I don’t
care. Not that much anyway. My running shoes are my
favourite things, along with the lime-green knitted slippers
Mom made me just before the accident. They’re pretty ratty
now and have tons of holes in them, but I wear them all the
time because they remind me of her. I did have a best friend,
Gwyneth, a while back. She was great. She made these amazing
electronic gizmos and was a total science geek, and she
never once made fun of my shoes! But she moved to
Ontario six months ago so right now I’m kind of without a
best friend.Michael and Wesley live two docks over on a big
fancy houseboat, but they’re more into fighting with sticks
and playing zombie video games than exploring the woods
with me.

I have this feeling when I get up this morning that it’s going
to be a different kind of day. Not an ordinary, go-to-school,
come-home, eat-supper, do-homework, go-to-bed kind of
day. Nope, I feel like something is going to happen. Don’t
ask me why. I just get these feelings sometimes. Dad says
I’m “clairvoyant” like Aunt Maddie. I’m not entirely sure
what that means, but I think it has something to do with
being a vegetarian and wearing sandals in the winter.

But this is different. Like when I look out my window,
everything looks really clear and blue, and sharp. What’s
even more strange is that I don’t feel like lying in bed until
the last minute, or writing one single word in my journal.
And that’s not normal for me. I get up right away, get dressed,
and leap down the stairs to the kitchen where my dad is
hanging over the counter, staring intently into the coffeepot.

“What are you looking at?” I ask him.

“The elixir of life,” he tells me, scratching his head.

“Huh?”

My dad is always saying bizarre stuff like that and quoting
famous dead people.

“The elixir,” he goes on, “the tonic, the stuff of life, the
ambrosia of the modern world, the—”

“Oh.” I cut him off.“Coffee. Got it. Are there any waffles?”

“Waffles? Oh really? Her ladyship desires waffles, does
she? On a school day, no less.Whole grain with fruit? Freshly
squeezed juice to accompany your meal, madam?”

I get the message and reach for the Cheerios and milk. I
decide that I’ll visit Nell on the way to the bus and see if she’s
feeling particularly generous with the tomato-basil bagels.
I’m just about through my cereal when Chuck, our orange
tabby, jumps onto the table and starts in on what’s left in my
bowl. I don’t really mind. Neither does Dad. I know some
people who would totally freak out to have an animal on the
kitchen table eating out of a bowl. Sometimes, when we
have company, Dad goes into his “proper parent mode” and
says things like, “Shooo! Chuck! What the devil are you
doing, you crazy animal?” But more often than not, he’ll
give me a wink when no one’s looking.Actually, for a parent,
he’s pretty cool. He does a lot of “wrong” stuff. Like sometimes,
he lets me stay up late on a school night and read his
work, and eat chocolate chips straight out of the bag. And
once we had a food fight with spaghetti, and the tomato
sauce ended up on the ceiling. He doesn’t care about stuff
like mud on your shoes or grass stains on your clothes.

Yep, things are a bit different at our place — Chuck is
crazy too. For a cat, anyway. He’ll eat anything. Cereal. Cold
tea. Carrot sticks. Even cold mashed potatoes.And then he’ll
go to sleep in the laundry basket, on his back with his legs in
the air. This morning I only have to fling him off the table
once before he gets it and retreats to the laundry room.

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Reviews

“Hannah’s mysterious trip through time is an absorbing adventure, including her near-death experience in a raging river; an encounter with a Sasquatch (or was it?); an unexpected creative gift revealed; a tragic smallpox outbreak; and friendship . . . Hannah and the Spindle Whorl is engrossing good fun and would be a treat for young (and young at heart) readers this Christmas.”
— Vancouver Sun

“Carol Anne Shaw tells a thoroughly enjoyable tale. Her characters are rich and original, and they allow us to be swept along in an engaging, fantastical tale spanning 150 years. Young readers will love Hannah, and they just might learn something along the way.”
— Cowichan Valley Voice

“Time travel is difficult to handle well. Here Carol Anne Shaw has fully succeeded. The choice of a local setting makes her tale all the more authentic so that the reader may appreciate that the magic of the journey is centered in that real world. It leaves a sense that magic can, and often does, lie in real places.”
— Deakin Newsletter

“Hannah is a very fun, sympathetic and lively character, and her hometown and funky houseboat are memorable and convincing.”
— CM Magazine

“Carol Anne Shaw has provided readers with an interesting look at Coast Salish culture. By using the spindle whorl as a central plot element, readers will learn about Canadian history, archaeological digs and the preservation of historical artifacts.”
— Resource Links

“it so perfectly captured what it was like to be twelve”
— What If? Magazine

“Hannah herself is a very likable character — inquisitive and sensitive, intelligent and tough, and yet not overly perfect. She’s still trying to cope with the loss of her mother from a car accident 2 years earlier, she lives on a houseboat, her dad’s a writer, and yet she comes across as a realistic typical 12 year old. . . . much more depth than a typical juvenile novel.”
— The Book Mine Set

“Definitely a book I’d recommend for girls…”
— All Booked Up

River Odyssey

ronsdale — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 16:36:39 +0000

River Odyssey

by Philip Roy

$10.95

Autumn 2010
ISBN 978-1-55380-105-4
ebook ISBN 978-1-55380-117-7
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 240 pages
Young Adult Novel

In the third volume of the Submarine Outlaw Series, Alfred sets off in his submarine up the dark and wilful St. Lawrence River. With Hollie and Seaweed, his dog and seagull crew, Alfred follows the route of Jacques Cartier, nearly five hundred years before them, as they sail down the Strait of Belle Isle into the largest river mouth in the world.

But the St. Lawrence is a treacherous river, concealing many dangers beneath its surface, not least of all the cursed and ghostly Empress of Ireland, a sunken ocean-liner that has claimed the lives of over a thousand people and that reaches up to entangle the sub as they pass.

Alfred must sail to Montreal to confront the man who abandoned him at birth — his father. Only then will he escape the unfinished business that haunts him. But is the quest worth the danger? And why is Alfred plagued with bad luck? Is someone, or something, trying to turn him back?

Click here to read Chapter 1 of “River Odyssey”

IT BEGAN WITH a conversation.

I was sitting on the floor of Sheba’s cottage. I had books,
maps and charts open everywhere. There was a cockatiel on
my shoulder, a cat on my lap, a dozen dogs and cats on the
floor and sofa behind me, a tortoise slowly creeping under
one book and a goat wanting to eat another. I was preparing
for my longest journey yet, to the great Pacific Ocean, when
Sheba appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. She was
wearing a white dress with tiny green, yellow and pink
flowers speckled over it. Her hair fell in red shell-like tresses
all the way down the front of her dress like two rivers of red
gold. In the spring Sheba dressed like the May Queen.

“Alfred!”

I looked up. Sheba was the voice of love for all creatures,
living and otherwise. She was also the voice of omens, good
and bad, and it was wise to listen to her. In the ancient world
they would have called her an oracle.

“Yes?”

She threw her next words at me like a quest. “You must
find your father!”

“What?”

The cockatiel flew to the top of the bookcase. The tortoise
stuck his head out from underneath the atlas, then pulled it
back in. Sheba returned to the kitchen.

I was so stunned I didn’t know what to think. I got up,
brushed the cat fur from my lap and went to the kitchen.
Hollie was curled up on a mat by the door, ready in case I
should go outside. Edgar, the kitchen goat, was standing by
the stove looking as if somebody had just died, though he
always looked that way. Sheba had returned to sit at the
table, had thrown on her apron and was peeling onions and
garlic. She was peeling slowly and her eyes were watered
with tears.

“I’m getting ready to go to the Pacific.”

“I know, Alfred.”

“I’ve never even seen my father.”

“I know.”

“He . . . he left when my mother died, when I was born.”

Sheba looked up with a loving smile beneath onion tears.
Her eyes were green like a cat’s and sparkled when they were
wet. “I know, Alfred.”

I sat down. She was filling two bowls with garlic and
onion bulbs. Her garlic was big and her onions were small.
Both had been grown and picked right here in the kitchen,
Sheba’s hydroponic garden, where it was always summer.
Outside, the fog rolled up against the windows. Ziegfried
said that Sheba could grow a tomato from a stone. I believed
it. I sat and watched her peel, and waited.My two favourite
places in the world were Sheba’s kitchen and my submarine.

“I dreamt about you last night,” she said finally.

Now I knew I was in for it. If Sheba dreamt about you,
you were in for it.

“There was a big storm,” she began.

I sat up and listened closely. A big storm was no big deal;
I had seen lots of those.

“And there was a sea monster.”

Not so good. “What did it look like?”

“I couldn’t see it; I just knew it was there. And your submarine
was sinking.”

Shoot! “Was the monster pulling it down?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. It’s just that . . .”

“What?”

“Well . . .”

“What? What is it?”

“I think maybe the sea monster was your father.”

“My father? How could it be my father? And why would
he want to sink my submarine? He doesn’t even know me.”

“I know, Alfred. I don’t know why. It was him and it wasn’t
him.”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“There was an angel too.”

“An angel? What did it look like? Did you see it?”

“No. I was waking. She just called out, ‘Alfred!’”

Sheba’s eyes drifted onto the onion she was peeling but I
could guess where her mind was. She was twelve the last
time she had seen her own father. She turned and looked at
me.

“And then she said, ‘Forgive.’ But I don’t know if she
meant you were supposed to forgive someone else, or ask
for forgiveness for yourself.”

“Which one do you think it was?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you didn’t see what she looked like?”

“No.”

“What did she sound like?”

“Kind.”

“Why would I have to ask for forgiveness? What did I do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s not what she meant. Maybe
you’re supposed to forgive somebody else.”

“Who? My father?”

“Perhaps. The important thing is that you find him. Then
you will know.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know, Alfred, but I don’t dream about angels and
sea monsters every night. It is an important dream.”

I didn’t like to argue with Sheba. I wasn’t really arguing
with her, I was just trying to understand.

“But I’m happy.”

“You’re happy now.”

“Yes.”

“But this dream tells me that something is coming your
way. And you need to find out what it is. You can either go
out and meet it, or wait until it finds you, but something
tells me you’ll be happier if you find it first.”

“My father?”

“Maybe. Maybe something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

I watched as Edgar dropped his head onto Sheba’s shoulder
and waited for her to scratch him. Even as she did, he
looked like the world had just ended. That was his nature.
He was a goat.

I had no intention of going looking for my father.

That night I crawled into my sleeping bag on the floor by
the bay window. Hollie dug a trench between my feet and
made himself as comfortable as a little dog could considering
he was dwarfed by all the other dogs and most of the
cats. During the night a few more warm bodies settled onto
the bag, making turning difficult. I couldn’t sleep anyway.
The night time was always when my worst thoughts came.
That’s what I liked about the sub; we sailed at night and
slept during the day.

I didn’t want to search for my father. Why should I, when
he obviously didn’t want to find me? If he had, he would
have. But he never did. If I went looking for him and found
him, wherever he was, he probably wouldn’t appreciate it
very much. He probably wouldn’t like me. In fact, maybe he
would hate me. Why should I go looking for somebody
who might hate me?

But a thought was nagging me. What if my father had
wanted to find me but couldn’t? What if he was sick or
handicapped in some way and was lying in a bed all these
years hoping to see his only son? How terrible would that
be? No. That was silly. I only thought like that at night when
I couldn’t sleep. My father was just busy living his own life
somewhere else and never even thought about me and
probably didn’t even remember that he had a son in the
first place.

I needed to roll over in my sleeping bag but didn’t want
to disturb the animals so I pulled my legs up slowly, turned
and slid them back in. I took a deep breath and sighed.
Then I felt a tug at my shoulder. I opened my eyes. It was
Sheba. In her gentle, songlike voice, as if it were the most
natural thing in the world, she alerted me: “Alfred. There’s
a ghost on the point.”

I jumped to my feet. I had been waiting for this for two
years. Sheba’s sightings of ghosts, mermaids, flaming ships
and strange creatures from the sea, which I had never seen
myself, at least not clearly, yet hated to discredit because I
respected her so much, had fascinated me ever since the day
we met. Was I finally going to see a ghost for myself?

I dressed as quickly as I could and joined her in the
kitchen. She said we had to go without a light and leave all
the animals in the house. We didn’t want to spook the ghost.

“They’re very nervous,” she explained as we shut the
kitchen door and tip-toed down the path towards the point.
“It won’t stay long.”

I was nervous myself. Were we really about to see a ghost?

“How did you know there was one here?” I asked.

“I can just tell. It’s a feeling. It wakes me up.”

Sheba’s island was probably one of the tiniest in all of
Newfoundland. It rose only fifty feet above the tide at its
highest point and had a circumference only a little bigger
than a soccer field. But her cottage was well protected by
rock and its foundation had recently been fortified by Ziegfried.
The “point” was the most easterly corner of the island,
where the rocks dropped like steps into the sea. Sheba said
it was a favourite stopping spot for seals, seabirds, mermaids
and ghosts.

I followed her down the path. The fog had mostly lifted.
It was a good thing I was walking with her and didn’t just
stumble into her, because, being a whole head taller than
me, with her long flowing hair and flowing skirts, and the
forward-leaning gait she had when she walked, she’d be kind
of scary to run into in the dark.

We came around a corner of the rock and she grabbed my
elbow. I stopped.

“There!” she said in a whisper.

I looked. And I saw it!

The ghost was smaller than me. At first, I thought it was
just a ball of light, like a reflection of a whole bunch of fragments
of light in a mist, but the longer I stared, the more I
saw that it had the shape of a man. I didn’t see arms or a
face but it stood with the posture of a person, as if it were
deep in thought. My foot made a sound on the rocks and
the figure turned. It appeared to be looking at us and that
frightened me. Who knew what a ghost would do?

“Don’t go,” Sheba said softly.

She wasn’t speaking to me. The ghost bent down over the
edge of the water. Was it injured? I wanted to ask Sheba if
she thought it was injured but she held her finger in front
of her mouth. The ghost was shaking. Was it hurt? Was it
crying? I turned to Sheba and saw a tear run down her
cheek. I looked at the ghost. It was just a ball of light, really,
and yet it looked so much like it was crying. I turned to
Sheba again; her eyes welled up with tears. When I looked
back, the ghost was gone. I never saw it enter the water. I
never saw it leave at all. It was there one moment, gone the
next. I felt a lump in my throat. The air was so heavy.

“Will it come back?” I asked.

“No,” Sheba said. “Not tonight.”

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Philip Roy’s Submarine Outlaw Series:

Submarine Outlaw

Journey to Atlantis

River Odyssey

Ghosts of the Pacific

Reviews

*Selected for the Canadian Children’s Book Centre’s Best Books for Kids and Teens 2011

“The age-old quest for the father gives depth to this exciting adventure story. Readers who discover the Submarine Outlaw in this book will want to read his earlier adventures and will eagerly await the next one. Highly Recommended.”
— CM Magazine

“Submarine Outlaw and its sequels have firmly established themselves as a riveting adventure series that has gathered a significant following who are anxiously awaiting this next installment. And they will not be disappointed! This personal quest and the internal struggles that it evokes for Alfred give this book a new dimension and allow his character to be more fully developed. . . . Roy continues to keep this series fresh and engaging. We will all join Alfred in anticipating his next voyage.”
— Atlantic Books Today

“This book would be appreciated by anyone interested in ocean adventures or stories of individuals who plot their own course in life. . . will capture the imagination of those looking to read about adventure.”
— Resource Links

“I commend Philip Roy for incorporating legends and facts about submarines and the St. Lawrence into his story; any youngster with an interest in sailing, marine adventures, or history will likely find this story fascinating.”
— What If? magazine

Journey to Atlantis

ronsdale — Fri, 21 May 2010 19:06:41 +0000

Journey to Atlantis

by Philip Roy

$10.95

August 2009
ISBN 978-1-55380-076-7
5-1/4″ x 7-5/8″ Trade Paperback, 224 pages
Young Adult Novel

Shortlisted for 2010–11 HACKMATACK CHILDREN’S CHOICE BOOK AWARDS!

In this sequel to the prize-winning young adult novel Submarine Outlaw, the sea of myth and legends beckons young Alfred once again, and the intrepid young explorer answers the call. With his loyal crew of a dog and a seagull by his side, Alfred sails across the Atlantic in his homemade submarine and enters the Mediterranean in search of the fabled lost island of Atlantis.

Ziegfried, genius and master builder of the sub, cautions Alfred to be careful and practical. Yet Sheba, friend and island enchantress, whispers to Alfred: “Trust your feelings.” Indeed, Alfred must trust his premonitions many times on this ambitious and far-reaching adventure.

From a daring rescue of drowning fishermen, to a skirmish between the Canadian coastguard and Spanish fishing trawlers; from escaping an exploding WWII sea mine, to colliding with a submerged container filled with toys; from turning the chase on bumbling pirates, to an unscheduled camel trek into the Sahara, Alfred’s submarine voyage brings him closer and closer to the legendary island until one moonless night he finds himself a little too close for comfort.

“Journey to Atlantis kept me biting my nails as Al and his crew of dog and seagull tackled peril after peril. Al’s a rare thing these days, an intelligent hero driven by intellectual curiosity; a courageous hero in the face of both physical danger and ethical choices; a hero we’d all want to be. The story plunges from one tense moment to another yet still has time for fun, for thoughtfulness, and for wonder at the world above and below the sea.”
— K. V. Johansen, author of the Warlocks of Talverdin series

Click here to read Chapter 1 of Journey to Atlantis

The legend is ancient.

Thirty-five hundred years ago the sea swallowed a rich
and powerful island. It dragged it down to the bottom with
everyone and everything in it. All of it disappeared in a single
day, without a trace. Now everyone wonders if it ever
really existed. The thing is, people have never stopped talking
about it. That doesn’t make sense. Why would people
talk about something for so long if it never existed? So I figured
it probably did. Then I thought, well . . . maybe I could
find it.

I woke with a seagull on my stomach.When he saw me open
my eyes he hopped from foot to foot and glared at me.

“What do you want, Seaweed?”

Hollie was on the bed too. He was chewing the rubber
handle of a hammer into tiny soggy pieces. He must have
been at it for hours. This, this feathered and furry pair, was
my crew — a dog and a seagull. It had been a long winter in
the boathouse and they were anxious to go to sea.

So was I.

I fed the crew and hurried downstairs. There, suspended
in the air like a whale lifted out of an aquarium, was my submarine.
Two days earlier, we had sprayed the final coat of a
sophisticated, slippery paint that was supposed to reduce
drag and make the sub five-percent faster through the water.
Ziegfried, master inventor and junkyard genius, was right
about ninety-nine percent of the time. His latest obsession
— to make the sub faster — had kept us hard at work all
winter long.We had installed a bigger,more powerful diesel
engine, more industrial batteries and a new propeller with
aggressive torque. Now, with this shiny new blue-black coat
of paint, and the dolphin-like nose that Ziegfried had welded
to the front, the sub looked more like a sea mammal than a
submarine. Today, just a few days after my fifteenth birthday,
it would finally go back in the water. I was almost too
excited.

But I had to tether that excitement. Nine times out of
ten Ziegfried would find something else to test, and the relaunch
would be set back once again. I had to calm the butterflies
in my stomach and just hope it wouldn’t happen
today.

There were voices outside. Two doors slammed on the
truck — Ziegfried, and my grandfather.When the ocean had
frozen over in December, and the fishing boats were up on
planks, my grandfather surprised us by coming out to the
boathouse.He just showed up one day, without asking what
he could do, and got busy. Pretty soon we didn’t know how
we had ever gotten along without him. More than once I
witnessed Ziegfried, one of the biggest and strongest men in
all of Newfoundland, reach over an impossibly sealed jar of
glue to my grandfather, a much smaller man, but with larger
hands, and he twisted off the top as if it were a toy. He
handed the jar back and Ziegfried took it graciously. My
grandfather never uttered a word when we were working.
Ziegfried talked constantly, mumbling to himself mostly, as
if he were thinking out loud. But the two men worked side
by side harmoniously. And I was their assistant, running for
tools, filing the edges of metal cuts, holding lights, making
tea. Once the sub was back in the water, all of that would
change. Then, I was the captain.

But I wasn’t the captain yet. When they came inside, my
grandfather immediately frowned at me, because I had just
woken up and he was such an early riser. But I had learned
that his frowns were not nearly as serious as they looked. In
fact, I was beginning to understand that his severe bearing
— looking so disapproving all the time — had nothing to do
with me. That was just the way he was. I was used to sleeping
in because I was nocturnal on the sub. So was the crew.

My grandfather quickly scanned the boardwalk around the
sub. Fortunately, I had remembered to sweep it clear before
going to bed. He frowned again anyway. Ziegfried reached
over and put his hand on one of the cables holding the sub
up in the air and stared at the water beneath it. He took a
deep breath and sighed. It was a sigh that spoke volumes. I
imitated him exactly and waited anxiously to hear the words
that came from his mouth.

“Well . . . I suppose . . .”

He paused. I held my breath.

“I suppose . . .”

“There’s a storm coming,” warned my grandfather.

Of the few times my grandfather chose to speak, I wished
this hadn’t been one of them.

“They didn’t mention a storm on the radio,” Ziegfried
said respectfully.

“All the same,” snapped my grandfather.

Ziegfried sighed again. The decision was his. As much as
he respected my grandfather, he wouldn’t be swayed by a
fisherman’s superstitious way of predicting the weather.

“I suppose she is ready for a run at sea. Why don’t you sail
her to Sheba’s island? That’ll take you two or three days. I
can drive to the coast in the truck, take a boat over with supplies
for the big voyage and meet you there. Then you can
tell me how she’s handling and whether she’s ready for the
journey. What do you say?”

I felt like yelling with excitement but didn’t. I was standing
in a boathouse with two of the most cautious people you
were ever likely to meet in Newfoundland.

“That seems like a pretty good idea to me,” I said, as
calmly as possible. “Then, when we meet up at Sheba’s, I can
tell you how she’s handling.”

I knew that was just what he had said, but I was too
excited to think of anything else to say.

We lowered the sub into the water and unleashed it from
the cables. The newly painted hull glistened like a black jellybean.
It was beautiful. I climbed inside, then heard a pitiful
bark from the boardwalk, so I went back out, picked up
Hollie and carried him in. Seaweed followed immediately,
tapping his beak on the portal before dropping inside like a
chimney sweep, as was his custom.

My sub was twenty feet long and eight feet high on the
outside, with the portal jutting up another three feet. Inside
was a different story. Standing up straight in the soft cedar
and pine interior, I had barely two inches to spare. I used to
have four, but had grown. With my arms outstretched I
could just barely touch both walls with my fingertips. The
oval shape of the hull, minus the wood and insulation, the
mechanics beneath the floor and above the ceiling, plus the
compartments in the stern, left me with an interior space a
little short of fourteen feet by six. It was more than enough
in which to stretch out but I had to duck my head in the bow
and stern. Standing directly beneath the portal gave me a lot
of extra headroom and the feeling of more space, which was
particularly welcome when we were submerged for long
periods of time. I also found a way to fit a bar across the
inside of the portal to do chin-ups, and was pretty good at
them now. And sometimes I would just hang there and
swing.

Although we had replaced the engine and added new batteries,
they were housed in separate, watertight compartments
in the stern, and so the main area of the sub remained
more or less the same as before. The stationary bike was still
in the center, my hanging cot behind, and the control panel
with sonar and radar screens in front. The periscope hung
on the starboard side of the control panel. I had to turn
sideways to pass it. The observation window, in the floor of
the bow, was also the same, except that Hollie’s beloved
blanket, rather frayed at the edges, had been replaced by a
lovely quilt my grandmother had knitted especially for him.
Well, that didn’t fly. Hollie picked up the new blanket in his
teeth, carried it dutifully to the stern and dropped it in front
of the door to the engine compartment, where his litter-box
was kept. Then he whined at me until I went back into the
loft, found his old blanket in a box and brought it back. He
pawed it into a proper sleeping berth and plopped down on
it. Seaweed settled on his usual spot on the opposite side of
the observation window — sitting very still, like the Buddha
— and watched the little dog fuss.

It didn’t take long to load up for a three-day sail. I was
ready in less than an hour. But Ziegfried felt the need to
climb inside and go through a checklist with me. Inside the
sub he had to crouch like a giant inside a bus.

“When you’re at sea, Al, make sighting tests of your wake,
will you? I want to know if any of the changes we’ve made
cause her to sail less true. She won’t be faster if she’s cutting
arcs through the water.”

“Okay.”

“Make the same tests submerged and watch your depth
gauge closely. Check for any deviation either vertical or horizontal.”
“Okay.”

He frowned and rubbed his brow. “These are the tests we
can’t make until she’s in the water.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll make them right away.”

I was glad we couldn’t make every test in the boathouse,
or I’d never get to sea. He looked down the list.

“Fuel?”

“Good.”

“Oil?”

“Good.”

“Air?”

“Topped up.”

“Water?”

“Same, . . . topped up.”

“Food?”

“One week fresh; two weeks emergency.”

Ziegfried knew all of this, but his cautious, exacting nature
wouldn’t permit him to skip steps.When he said a vessel was
ready for sea, she was.

When we finished, I came outside and stood on the boardwalk
beside the two men. There was never any way to thank
them adequately for the gifts they had given me, both in
their own ways, and yet I would feebly try. But they wouldn’t
hear of it.

“Bring back another treasure,” Ziegfried said jokingly.

“I will!”

“There’s a storm coming,” repeated my grandfather, and
shook his head. But he reached out and took my hand, completely
concealing mine inside of his.

“Hold on,” said my grandfather. “I’ve got something in
the truck.”

He went out and returned with a long wooden case. “I’ve
been meaning to give you this for a while now.”

He put the case down on the floor and opened it.My face
dropped. So did Ziegfried’s.

“It’s a dangerous world out there. If you’re going to go as
far as I think you are, you might as well take this along. I
don’t need it anymore.”

My grandfather lifted up a heavy long shotgun and handed
it to me. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. I had
never even shot a gun before.

“Uhhh . . . thank-you, Grandpa. It’s a wonderful gift.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I have no need of it anymore, and who
knows, you just might.”

I thanked him again as graciously as I could, and they
went out. A moment later, Ziegfried hurried back in by
himself.

“I forgot something, Al,” he said, and reached over and
took the shotgun from my hands. “It’s quite an honour for
your grandfather to pass this on to you like that.”

He stared at the shotgun in his hands, and a strange look
came over his face. And then the gun just sort of slipped out
of his hands and dropped into the water beside the sub.We
both watched it disappear.

“Oh! What a shame!” said Ziegfried. “Oh, well, it’s just as
well, I suppose. It was kind of an old shotgun, I think. And
one thing’s for sure, Al, when there’s a gun around, somebody’s
going to get shot.You have a great sail now. I’ll see you
at Sheba’s in a few days.”

I stood and watched him go. I needed time to think about
what had just happened. It was not for no reason that I
trusted him with my life.

It didn’t surprise me that Ziegfried and my grandfather
didn’t hang around until we left. Their work was done. This
was their way of letting me know I was on my own now, and
that was important. If I needed anyone to help me get safely
out to sea, then I had no business going out in the first place.
I climbed inside the sub, shut the hatch and let water into
the ballast tanks.We started to dive. A shiver of excitement
rushed through me. I engaged the batteries and felt the vibrations
of the new propeller come up through the floor.

The feeling was thrilling. I turned on the sonar and watched
the screen closely as I steered the sub through the craggy
rocks outside. It was one of the most isolated spots along the
northern coast of Newfoundland. All the same, I motored a
mile out from shore before surfacing. I never wanted anyone
to know where the Submarine Outlaw was moored for the
winter.

A mile out, we surfaced and I opened the hatch. Seaweed
climbed the portal, took a look all around and jumped into
the wind. What a familiar sight that was. I grinned. Hollie
barked sharply from the bottom of the portal. I carried him
up and we leaned against the open hatch and breathed in
the fresh sea air. It was wonderful to be back at sea. There
were a few clouds, a steady wind, but no sign of a storm in
any direction. The weather report had made no mention of
a storm. Strange. I wondered if my grandfather was getting
too old to predict the weather.

He wasn’t.

Click here to close the book excerpt.

Philip Roy’s Submarine Outlaw Series:

Submarine Outlaw

Journey to Atlantis

River Odyssey

Ghosts of the Pacific

Reviews

“A truly enjoyable tale of bravery, friendship, and exploration … Roy covers a neatly fused set of events and topics in an informative and non-didactic way. Journey to Atlantis would be useful in the classroom, especially when read along with a geography or social studies unit on modern ocean travel, the Mediterranean area, or ancient Minoan society. Beyond its practical applications, Journey to Atlantis is really interesting! 4 out of 4.”
— CM Magazine

“Roy has crafted an adventure tale that readers will relish. . . .It is an altogether charming read that will capture the imagination of any young reader who has ever dreamt of exploring the world.”
— Atlantic Books Today

“Philip Roy’s confident, refreshing Journey to Atlantis avoids the tendency now to write such stories as complicated grand narratives set in magical secondary worlds, and provides a lean, linear, episodic tale [that] has an odd credibility about it, and appealing characters: as for whether it is a ‘boys’ book,’ it seems more a mostly male world that doesn’t preclude female participation or readership.”
— Canadian Literature

“If you’re looking for an underwater adventure that completely delivers, Journey to Atlantis is definitely worth the read.”
— What If? Magazine

“A simply wonderful read!”
— Hi-Rise

“Fast paced, and really fun to read. Al is a very insightful and curious lead character . . . Roy creates a wonderful tale that is sure to delight any child, while teaching them a valuable lesson or two. 4 out of 5.”
— The Neverending Shelf

“Roy has skillfully blended the mythology and legends of ancient civilizations with geographical accuracy so that a reader could actually plot out Albert’s voyage on a map. Highly recommend it even for the reluctant reader!”
— Recently Read

“This is a great second book in a series. It takes us beyond the premise of the first book, but does not act ONLY as a bridge to the third book. No Second Book Syndrome here!”
— Lucy Was Robbed (YA book review blog)

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