I sigh As the warm water pours down my back Washing off the dust and dirt Of the last week It’s been so long since I showered. A movie Playing on television Surrounding me with its music and images It’s nice to be part of society again. Pillows Soft and fluffy Two of them on my bed I’d forgotten what they felt like. A warm quilt Pulled over me What a nice warm place to sleep. A radiator Blowing warmth into the room It’s nice to be away from the drafts of the tent. Showers, television, Pillows, mattresses, Quilts, radiators Sleeping will be easy here. Before I drift off Into the welcoming world of sleep I look up. I see only the white paint Of the ceiling above me, Separating me from the stars High up in the heavens Pinpricks of light slowly rotating Which were my companions for the last week. Genna Carroll, 13San Jose, California
July/August 2011
Fern, the Queen of All Hunting Dogs
She put the blanket into the basket and set them next to Fern Mom gently shook me. “Honey, your father is home.” “What? Oh! Yay!” I cried, already out of bed. “Dad, how did your hunting trip go? Was Fern good?” “Fabulous!” my tall father said. “She treed this one!” He held up a large silver coon. “You trained her well.” “Thanks, Dad.” I looked up at him. “But where is Fern now?” “She ran off. Probably chasing after a deer. You know that nose of hers. She’ll come back, she always does,” Mom said, laying a cool hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure?” I asked her. “Ninety-nine-point-nine,” Mom said. “Now go back to bed. It’s six o’clock in the morning.” “Aw, Mom.” I hurried away. “Wake me up if she comes back.” I woke up at eight and clattered downstairs. In the living room, Mom and Dad were already sipping coffee. I glanced at their quiet faces. “Mom?” I asked. “Dad? Did Fern come back yet?” Dad nodded. “Well, is she OK?’’ “Shyla, Fern was attacked by something, we don’t know what,” Mom said softly. “Well, is she going to be all right? When did she come home? Why didn’t you wake me up?” I didn’t know what to think. “She came home about an hour ago. We didn’t think we should wake you.” I noticed they didn’t answer my first question. “Well, is she…” “She’s alive, but, well, it could go either way,” Mom said. I looked at her, horrified. My dear sweet Fern, named after the girl in Charlotte’s Web, just two years old. She couldn’t die. I wouldn’t let her. Slowly, as if I were dreaming, I walked outdoors and over to Fern’s doghouse. Sure enough, a small figure lay prostrate on the floor of her tiny house. “Hey Ferny, girl,” I said. My little redbone’s tail thumped so softly I could hardly hear it. I kept my voice as calm as I could. “You’re going to get better, you hear? You’re a tough li’l girl and, if I know you, you’ll pull through. Get some rest now, OK?” Feeling better, I walked away. Inside, I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down at our homemade table to eat it. “Shyla,” came a sleepy voice from behind me. My brother, Michael, was awake. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I heard you guys talking,” Michael said sheepishly. “Then you’re a nasty little snoop,” I said. I felt bad about Fern and didn’t want to talk to a barely seven-year-old about it. “I’m not kidding. You weren’t supposed to listen.” “That’s too bad,” Michael said stubbornly. “How’s Ferny?” “Better than ever.” I dumped my bowl in the sink. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true.” Michael stood sleepy-eyed in the middle of the room, but I wasn’t about to fight with him. “Goodbye, Michael.” I walked away. Mom was fixing a bowl of venison that we had canned last winter. She handed it to me with a spoon. “Feed this to Fern.” “Will this make her better?” I asked doubtfully, stirring the tender chunks of meat. “Hopefully, yes,” Mom said. She ladled some warm broth over the meat. “She needs the energy, and the protein.” “OK,” I said, almost smiling. “Are we going to take her to the vet?” “No, honey, vets cost too much. Your dad’s been out of work, there’s no extra.” “I’d pay,” I whined as I walked away, knowing full well I didn’t have enough. Outside, I walked to Fern’s house and knelt beside her. Thump-thump. A knot rose in my throat. I swallowed and gently fed the warm meat to Ferny. “See, little girl, that’s not so bad. Looks so good I could eat it myself.” I stroked her head. After two spoonfuls, Fern refused to eat. I ran back to the house. “Mom, she ate a couple of spoonfuls. Is that good?” “Well, I’d have liked her to eat a little more,” Mom sighed, “but I suppose whatever she eats is good.” “Well, I think she’ll get better.” I crossed my arms stubbornly. “I certainly hope so.” Mom smiled affectionately at me. Looking down, I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. I ran to my room and changed into a green T-shirt with a white butterfly on it, and a pink skort. Then I ran outside barefooted. Fern hadn’t moved an inch and, except for her thumping tail, she looked dead. Suddenly, tears filled my eyes. This was too hard. I loved her so much and she was dying and I couldn’t do anything! I ran away into the woods. I could hear the thumping of her tail as I ran off. “Sssshhhhyyyyllllaaaa!” Michael called. “Hhhellppp! Commme quicckk.” Fearing the worst, I ran back to Fern’s house again. There I found my sweet dog collapsed on the grass with Michael standing helpless beside her. “Sh-sh-shshyla,” he sobbed. “She got up, and she’s bleeding everywhere.” “Calm, Michael.” Mom appeared next to us. “Shyla, honey, go get my laundry basket and that old yellow baby blanket of yours.” I ran back to the house and grabbed the materials. I handed them to Mom and she put the blanket into the basket and set them next to Fern. “We probably shouldn’t lift her. I think she’ll get in it.” Mom laid a hand on Michael and my shoulders. And she did. Dad came over and carried her into the house as gently as he could and then he set her down in my room and left. I read Charlotte’s Web to her and she looked up every time I said Fern. And I sang to her, songs that had words that weren’t words, tunes that weren’t tunes that rose and fell but stayed soft. Then I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes and fell into a dark world where no light or dreams ever enter. When I woke up, Fern had peed on my floor. I cleaned it
Darkwood
Darkwood, by M.E. Breen; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2009; $16.99 “What happened next was so strange that Annie could not be sure afterward what was real and what she had imagined.” This line, from M. E. Breen’s Darkwood, is an accurate summary of Breen’s first novel. The story is a wonderful sort of strange, and captivates the mind like any work of a master fantasy writer. Annie Trewitt’s story begins in Howland, a dark little town in the depths of Dour County where “kinderstalk” prowl the nighttime woods searching for humans and animals to prey on. Annie lives with her prim aunt and odious, ill-tempered uncle. Her parents and sister have been “killed,” or so it seems. The beginning of the story has a bleak and mysterious tone to it. The plot initially is a bit confusing but quickly unwinds itself to a comprehensible state. Throughout the first few chapters, the mood increasingly chills as Annie’s adventure takes her to the dreaded woods—at night. Some of the feelings that Annie experiences in the beginning are loneliness and desperation. Her only true companions at the start are her wise and unfailingly loyal cats, Isadore and Prudence, whose characters are portrayed so well that the reader forgets, at times, that they are not human. I found this bleak loneliness at the start of the story to be overwhelming, but as the story progresses, Annie’s character grows easier to identify with. Breen captures the experiences of a young girl who is almost completely alone in a frightening world, but who somehow manages to function instinctively, and to be passionate and admirably brave. A great snapshot is the line “But now—now she could hardly bear ever having resented Page for anything.” Annie lost her beloved sister, Page, years before the story takes place, but still constantly aches for her. I knew exactly how Annie felt: she could not even consider resenting her sister because of anything, now that she had lost her. My favorite part of the story was how Annie’s family was slowly pieced back together, and her fascinating relationship with the “kinderstalk,” which reworked the typical animal-human relationships found in today’s youth fiction. However, a major theme in this novel is also corruption and evil. Most of the adults in the story are strong antagonists. The lack of positive adult characters adds to the chill of the plot. Annie almost always found a way to fight back against these seemingly stronger villains and eventually triumph. I can relate to Annie’s audacity and rebelliousness. Often in school I am the one to speak up when an assignment is unclear or unfair to my classmates and me. Audacity and courage are always involved. At one point, Annie goes to work at the Drop, the mine where children are forced to mine ringstone (a valuable stone) alongside adults. However, Annie does not cower in fear when ruthless adults yell at her. She realizes that something very wrong is going on at the mine, and she eventually makes her escape. I was impressed with Darkwood. The plot is entertainingly complex yet comprehensible, and features the perfect mix of chill, suspense, and triumph. My only complaint about Darkwood is that it will leave you begging for a sequel. Caroline D. Lu, 13Andover, Massachusetts
