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Short-listed for the 2013 Manitoba Young Readers Choice Award
Short-listed for 2011 IODE Violet Downey Book Award HistoryCanada.ca recommended resource Ontario Library Association Best Bet's Honourable Mention, February 2012 |
Red Deer Press, 2011
Timber Wolf, the third book in the award-winning Greener Grass series, follows the adventures of Jack Byrne.
Eager for adventures in the Canadian wilderness, even more eager to prove himself, Jack turns his back on his sister. He’ll show her. He’ll show them all. Da’s Byrne spirit lives on in him, Jack knows it to be true and believes all he needs is the chance to prove it. But Jack’s first Canadian winter is not what he expected.
Jack wakes up alone, injured and completely lost in the Canadian wilderness. He has no memory of what happened, how he got there, or who he is. The days pass and still there is no sign of rescue. His injuries are festering and he can no longer hunt. With the dwindling scraps of food and the wolf eyes drawing nearer each night Jack begins to fear the worst. His family, wherever they are, whoever they are, have abandoned him completely.
The only thing coming for him is the wolf.
Timber Wolf, the third book in the award-winning Greener Grass series, follows the adventures of Jack Byrne.
Eager for adventures in the Canadian wilderness, even more eager to prove himself, Jack turns his back on his sister. He’ll show her. He’ll show them all. Da’s Byrne spirit lives on in him, Jack knows it to be true and believes all he needs is the chance to prove it. But Jack’s first Canadian winter is not what he expected.
Jack wakes up alone, injured and completely lost in the Canadian wilderness. He has no memory of what happened, how he got there, or who he is. The days pass and still there is no sign of rescue. His injuries are festering and he can no longer hunt. With the dwindling scraps of food and the wolf eyes drawing nearer each night Jack begins to fear the worst. His family, wherever they are, whoever they are, have abandoned him completely.
The only thing coming for him is the wolf.
Excerpt:
For the strength of the pack is the wolf,
And the strength of the wolf is the pack.
-- Rudyard Kipling
Chapter One
The howl wakes me, calls me from one darkness to another. I open my right eye, for my left eye is a throbbing slit. Bare branches. Twilight beyond. I’m on my back. Outside. Somewhere. I’m alive. Barely.
What happened?
My head pounds and I raise my chilled hand to it. I can’t feel my fingers, but by their bloodied bruises, numbness is probably a blessing. Their icy tips touch my swollen face but the relief is fleeting, for as sure as I feel my cold hand upon my forehead, I can feel the fingers of a deep chill spreading from the frozen ground beneath me, raking up my back. As I roll onto my side on the snow, the pain in my ribs chokes my breath and I gasp small clouds of steam. My whole body aches.
How long have I been lying here?
The thin layer of snow covering my legs shifts as I move. Bruised, but not broken, thank God.
I sit up and blow into my hands, the heat of it stings my reddened fingers and I tuck them into my pockets, surprised to find a pair of woolen mittens that must be mine. I slip them on and try to stand as shivers wrack my body. Whatever happened to me, it hasn’t killed me, but lying in this frigid snow surely will.
Standing takes more effort than I thought. I stagger a few times and when I finally get to my feet, everything spins around me. Gripping a nearby birch trunk I close my eyes and take a few cool breaths, a jabbing pain in my side keeps me from breathing deep. After a few moments, the spinning slows and I glance around the clearing. A gorge of sorts, with a fifteen foot ledge behind me and a slow rising slope ahead. A river bed, perhaps. Yet, none of it seems familiar.
“Hello?” I call. The yell echoes in my head, pounding against the inside like a spoon in an empty pot.
No tracks lead in or out of the clearing. Not even mine. Odd. The dusting of flakes wouldn’t have covered them completely. My boots crunch in the snow as I turn.
Surely someone is looking for me. Must know I am missing.
“I’m here!” The ache in my side grows stronger with every breath. It needs looking at. Soon.
I don’t want to yell again, but it might help them find me. Holding my bent arm tight against my aching side I squeeze out the sound like an old bagpipe. “It’s me, it’s...”
I stop, let the steamy words dissolve before me.
Who am I?
Panic grips me. I look around for help but the oak, birch, and pine trees stand in cold silence. How is it I know their names, but not my own?
Slumping to the ground, I look up at the great dark sky as the cold truth settles upon me. Lost. I am completely lost. I know neither where I am nor where I’m from.
Homeless. Nameless. Hopeless. Yet, try as I might, nothing comes to mind but the fat flakes drifting down from the endless winter black.
For the strength of the pack is the wolf,
And the strength of the wolf is the pack.
-- Rudyard Kipling
Chapter One
The howl wakes me, calls me from one darkness to another. I open my right eye, for my left eye is a throbbing slit. Bare branches. Twilight beyond. I’m on my back. Outside. Somewhere. I’m alive. Barely.
What happened?
My head pounds and I raise my chilled hand to it. I can’t feel my fingers, but by their bloodied bruises, numbness is probably a blessing. Their icy tips touch my swollen face but the relief is fleeting, for as sure as I feel my cold hand upon my forehead, I can feel the fingers of a deep chill spreading from the frozen ground beneath me, raking up my back. As I roll onto my side on the snow, the pain in my ribs chokes my breath and I gasp small clouds of steam. My whole body aches.
How long have I been lying here?
The thin layer of snow covering my legs shifts as I move. Bruised, but not broken, thank God.
I sit up and blow into my hands, the heat of it stings my reddened fingers and I tuck them into my pockets, surprised to find a pair of woolen mittens that must be mine. I slip them on and try to stand as shivers wrack my body. Whatever happened to me, it hasn’t killed me, but lying in this frigid snow surely will.
Standing takes more effort than I thought. I stagger a few times and when I finally get to my feet, everything spins around me. Gripping a nearby birch trunk I close my eyes and take a few cool breaths, a jabbing pain in my side keeps me from breathing deep. After a few moments, the spinning slows and I glance around the clearing. A gorge of sorts, with a fifteen foot ledge behind me and a slow rising slope ahead. A river bed, perhaps. Yet, none of it seems familiar.
“Hello?” I call. The yell echoes in my head, pounding against the inside like a spoon in an empty pot.
No tracks lead in or out of the clearing. Not even mine. Odd. The dusting of flakes wouldn’t have covered them completely. My boots crunch in the snow as I turn.
Surely someone is looking for me. Must know I am missing.
“I’m here!” The ache in my side grows stronger with every breath. It needs looking at. Soon.
I don’t want to yell again, but it might help them find me. Holding my bent arm tight against my aching side I squeeze out the sound like an old bagpipe. “It’s me, it’s...”
I stop, let the steamy words dissolve before me.
Who am I?
Panic grips me. I look around for help but the oak, birch, and pine trees stand in cold silence. How is it I know their names, but not my own?
Slumping to the ground, I look up at the great dark sky as the cold truth settles upon me. Lost. I am completely lost. I know neither where I am nor where I’m from.
Homeless. Nameless. Hopeless. Yet, try as I might, nothing comes to mind but the fat flakes drifting down from the endless winter black.