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November/December 2008

Flynn

  Flynn Cadara looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. He knew that he needed to head back to the cabin. It would be dinnertime undeniably, and he didn’t want to miss it. “Tam!” Flynn called out. A large, wolf-like dog appeared, heading toward Flynn at a slow trot. “It’s time to head home,” Flynn said. “Did you find anything interesting?” “There’s a large herd of elk not far from here,” Tam said to him, looking up at Flynn’s face as they headed up a low hill. “You should tell your father. Winter is coming, and he hasn’t been able to get much meat.” “I’ll tell him.” “Also, bear tracks,” said the burly dog. “Agh, blast and confound it all! Why bears!” “Just tell the bear to stay away from the sheep and the horses,” Tam said, unconcerned. *          *          * Tallinn Cadara, Flynn’s father, peered into the darkness from the porch of a small cabin. He saw Flynn come out of the dark and into the warm glow that the oil lantern was casting. The boy was tall for his age, ten, and was skinny and lanky. He was wearing tough britches cut just below the kneecaps, and a short-sleeved shirt, and no shoes. His hair was a gray-brown color, and his face’s details were sharp. It was getting dark. He knew that he needed to head back to the cabin “What took you so long, son! And what have I told you about those, those… pants! Winter’s not a month away! And you don’t even have your boots on!” Tallinn called out in frustration. “My boots are too small, and these pants are more comfortable!” “Oh, well, we’ll go into town tomorrow to get you some more boots, but if you wear those, those… shorts anymore before winter is over, I’ll burn them. Come inside, we’re having supper. Your mother is worried sick about you.” Tallinn was a strong man, a kind but firm father. Flynn understood that he didn’t want him to get pneumonia or anything, but his “shorts,” as Tallinn had called them, were much more comfortable, and his legs didn’t get hot or stuffy. Flynn came inside and approached his mother, Selenia. She was setting the table with stew and bread and pale cider. When she saw Flynn come in, she crossed her arms and gave him a large scowl. “I have a mind to not let you eat, young man,” she said in a voice shaking with concern. She hugged Flynn and sat him down at the table. Tallinn came in and sat down. Selenia said the grace, and they all began to eat. Flynn had worked up an appetite, and he ate large portions of food. Tam, who had found his bowl, was tearing at the slab of meat ravenously. “Did you see anything interesting or important today?” asked Selenia, to see if Flynn had an excuse for being so late. “Yes. There’s a large herd of elk, not far from here,” he said, slurping up a spoonful of the stew. That seemed to redeem Flynn to his father, who was grinning widely. “Get the bows ready, and we’ll head out tonight!” A spark shot through Flynn. They were going to go hunting! This meant that they could go farther than he was normally allowed, so he would be able to explore more. What’s more, they were going at night. He felt bad, though, for the elk, as they would be killed. “No, you won’t leave tonight,” Selenia broke in, “at least not until my son has had some sleep.” “Selenia! I don’t nee- ” protested Flynn. “Don’t you argue with me, young man. You’re not going hunting until morning, and that’s that.” Flynn knew that he had lost the argument, short as it was. He went to his small bed in one of the corners of the two-room cabin. He pulled off his clothes and crawled under the warm blankets. He thought about all of the familiar territory he had crept through that day, all of the birds and squirrels he had chatted with. He thought about his strange ability to talk with animals, something that he had not shared with Tallinn or Selenia. He pondered this subject for a long while before he fell asleep. *          *          * Flynn jerked up in the middle of the night. He hadn’t told Tallinn about the bear, and he hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to him. The sheep! He dashed up, pulled on his clothes, and dashed to Tallinn’s bed, which was across the room from his. Selenia was slumbering fitfully, but… Tallinn wasn’t in the bed. Flynn looked over at Tam’s small bed. Empty too. “Come on, are you coming or not!” whispered a voice below him, making him jump. It was Tam. “What?” Flynn whispered back. “We have to get to the elk as soon as possible. We won’t have this chance every day. C’mon!” “Selenia said…” Flynn began. “Don’t pretend that you don’t want to go hunting, Flynn. I’m sure Selenia will understand when she has meat for the winter. Convinced, Flynn hurriedly put on several layers of clothes and rummaged under his bed for his old, small pair of boots. He grabbed his wool cap and then followed Tam outside, where his father was waiting. “Ready to go?” asked Tallinn, rubbing wax along the string of his long hunting bow. “Yes.” “Good.” They headed out into the thick woods as silently as possible, Tam trotting ahead, showing Flynn the way to the elk. They made good progress, speeding through the woods. Flynn couldn’t bring himself to tell Tallinn about the bear, for his father would undoubtedly kill it when he most certainly did not need to. All Flynn could do was hope that they came across the bear before it killed any sheep. “Flynn! Up ahead!” Tam barked. “This is where the elk were,” Flynn told Tallinn, pointing ahead. “Now we must go slowly and

Louisiana’s Song

Louisiana’s Song, by Kerry Madden; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.99 “We just keep walking but going nowhere.” This statement, spoken by Livy Two, the main character in Louisiana’s Song, explains the children’s difficulty in reconnecting to their father after his car accident. The car accident leaves him without any memory of his family and his past. This situation gives the Weems family an unexpected opportunity to discover what matters most in their family and in their mountain holler. The Weems family is growing up in rural North Carolina in 1963 and life is anything but easy. When their father, who was involved in a serious car accident, comes home pale, thin, and listless in the back of an old pickup truck, he doesn’t look like a man anyone knows. Hope only remains in a few hearts, like Louisiana’s. Louise, as her family calls her, is convinced that Daddy has the power to get better, and just as she sees the shades of blue in her paintings, she sees the light of hope in her father. Together, Louise and Livy Two make a powerful team, but some things just can’t be fixed without magic, like Daddy. Then again, other things can. Trouble is in store for the Weems as their money supply vanishes, and the older children are forced to find jobs, including Louise, the artist of the family, who is shy and tall, forever longing to get out her brushes and paint, leaving the rest of her complicated world behind. Louise too knows the true meaning of hardship, and with Livy Two by her side, she takes life into her own hands and gathers enough courage to paint portraits on the street for strangers, beginning to sing a song of her own. As Louisiana ponders her own complicated world, I as the reader have questions too. The whole time I read Louisiana’s Song, I found myself thinking the same thing over and over: why does tragedy always strike in the most powerful and meaningful books? I wondered why, in the many books I’ve read that have affected me to the level that Louisiana’s Song did, why was there always a tragic death or accident that changed the characters’ lives and personalities forever? I am almost sure that I’ve found an answer. Books must use tragedy to reveal life more openly, and help people understand our world today is full of things that may not be noticed, but once they are, change your perspective on something forever. For example, in Louisiana’s Song, readers get to see how a tiny miracle can feel like so much when the Waterrock Knob tragedy strikes, something that wouldn’t have been possible without a catastrophe earlier in the book. Also, I feel like in this book in particular, I have a relationship with the characters that goes far beyond the pages of this book. At first, Louise seems like an average character, confined to just one type, but as you read on, her personality and the personalities of all the characters emerge and become more complicated. I was even shocked to see how they were all full of surprises when I had started to think this was just a regular book. Livy Two’s voice as narrator will always stay with me, and when times get tough, I’ll remember Louise, naming the shades of blue. I think that Louisiana’s Song has helped me to understand both literature and the world a little bit better, and I’m positive that this book will do the same to you. Anna West Ellis, 11Orono, Maine

Zitza

Zambia sat in a rare patch of green grass, surrounded by the tall yellow straw-like plants that made up the African savanna, her homeland. This was her place. She came here to be alone with her thoughts and escape life’s anxieties. A feeling of peacefulness washed over her every time she lay down there. She’d lose herself in the warm breeze rustling the golden stalks around, welcoming the feel of the soft grass on her callused feet. But nothing could cure her sorrow now. A tear slid down Zambia’s dark cheek and landed in the dirt, disappearing almost immediately as the thirsty ground drank it. She was reminded of how much she wanted water, and how long she’d been waiting for some. Zambia thought she’d lived about fourteen Dry Seasons, though she didn’t know for sure. Dry Season seemed to be getting longer and longer lately. This season had been especially arid, and water and food were scarce. The water had sunk into the ground and the plants had shriveled up, killing or driving off all the animals. All but one that is. Zitza had stayed. Zambia had befriended the zebra when they were both young, long before the drought and the sorrow it’d brought. Zitza was the only one who accompanied Zambia to the soft grass. The zebra dropped her striped head down to Zambia’s, nuzzling her cheek. Zambia reached up and entwined her fingers in Zitza’s mane, closing her eyes and wishing for rain. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra Zambia and her tribe were starving, and many had died from lack of food and water. Many were dying now, including her mother. There was nothing she could do about it. Just wish for rain, rain, rain. She stood and hoisted herself up onto Zitza’s back, wrapping her arms around her friend’s neck. A gentle nudge with her foot signaled Zitza to start walking. She knew where to go. They started off at a trot, breaking into a canter towards home. Running her hands over Zitza’s back, Zambia recalled what her father would say about them. “Zambia’s as close to Zitza as Zitza’s black stripes are to the white ones,” he’d say. A smile played briefly across her face but vanished as quickly as it’d come. Her father wasn’t like that anymore—not since the drought. They reached the small village they lived in. It was mostly mud and thatch huts with a little altar and figurine at the center. Zambia’s family hut was the farthest away from the others—and the closest to the Bush. When they arrived, she slid off Zitza’s back and led her to her arena, which she’d made years ago for the zebra. “Good night, dear Zitza,” she whispered, and went inside. Her father greeted her solemnly and said good night. Zambia knelt by her mother, who was lying down already, her eyes closed. It hurt Zambia to see her so thin and her stomach bloated with deprivation of water. After kissing her hot forehead, Zambia retreated to the opposite side of the hut and prepared herself for sleep. She closed her eyes and dreamed of cool, clear water raining down out of the heavens. *          *          * Zambia awoke to her father gently shaking her by the shoulders. “Wake up, Zambia!” he said, his voice hushed so as to not wake her mother. “I need you to go look for insects to eat.” “But father,” she answered dazedly, “no one’s been able to find any.” “Please, Zambia.” He looked into her eyes, his own filled with sorrow. She knew he needed her to leave. Was it something to do with her mother? “Please.” She nodded and got up reluctantly. Her father hugged her, to her surprise, and Zambia could see tears in his eyes. What was going on? “Go,” he said, not unkindly, and gave her a push towards the door. Confused, Zambia walked out, past the arena, and into the rough golden sea of tall grass. She thought about bringing Zitza, but when she looked back at her, she decided to let her rest. The zebra had been sleeping against the fence, reminding Zambia of her starving mother who was still asleep. Looking for insects was a very hard task, seeing as there weren’t any to find. But the thought of locust cooked over an open fire, its scent traveling on the breeze, its crunchy outside giving way to her teeth, kept her going. It had been so long since she’d eaten. Zambia finally decided to give up, for it was already midday, and she couldn’t find anything. She didn’t want to disappoint her father, but the task he’d given her was impossible. She walked into the village at the opposite side of where her hut was. She passed many homes, a few with owners no longer living. Zambia had almost reached her home when she saw it. A zebra skin was stretched across the ground. Zambia’s stomach lurched. She stopped and gasped for breath. No! she thought. No! Her father came out of their hut and saw her. He rushed towards her and held her to his chest. “I’m sorry, Zambia!” he cried. “Zambia, child, I’m so sorry! But your mother…” Zambia broke away from him and staggered over to the arena. Empty. She stumbled into the tall grass screaming, “Zitza! Zitza!” frantically scanning the field for black-and-white stripes. “Zitza!” Zambia shot off at a run, still screaming, until she fell onto soft grass. She pressed her face into the ground and tore at the plants with feverish hands. When I look up she’ll be there, grazing in our special place, she thought. Slowly she lifted her head. Nothing. She was alone. Her head dropped back onto the ground, her body shaking with sobs. No, no, no! Not gone! Not my Zitza! Zambia stayed there until it got dark.