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  • My Swordhand Is Singing
  • Written by Marcus Sedgwick
  • Format: Paperback | ISBN: 9780375846908
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  • My Swordhand Is Singing
  • Written by Marcus Sedgwick
  • Format: eBook | ISBN: 9780375890840
  • Our Price: $6.99
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My Swordhand Is Singing

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Written by Marcus SedgwickAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Marcus Sedgwick

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List Price: $6.99

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On Sale: October 09, 2007
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-375-89084-0
Published by : Wendy Lamb Books RH Childrens Books
My Swordhand Is Singing Cover

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ABOUT THE BOOK ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Tags for this book (powered by Library Thing)
vampires (37) fiction (21) horror (16) young adult (15) fantasy (14)
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

“Brings fresh blood to the vampire mythos.”—Publishers Weekly, Starred

In a bitter winter, Tomas and his son, Peter, settle in a small village as woodcutters. Tomas digs a channel of fast-flowing waters around their hut so that they have their own little island kingdom. Peter doesn’t understand why his father has done this, or why his father carries a long, battered box, whose mysterious contents he is forbidden to know.

But Tomas is a man with a past—a past that is tracking him with deadly intent. As surely as the snow falls softly in the forest of a hundred thousand silver birch trees, father and son must face a soulless enemy and a terrifying destiny.

A Junior Library Guild Selection
An ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young Adults
A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age

Excerpt

1

Deep in the Woods

When he fell for the fifth time, when his face plunged into the deep snow, when his hands burnt from the cold but he didn’t care, Radu the woodcutter knew he was going to die. Somewhere behind him in the darknesses of the forest he could hear the man who had attacked him. He was scared now, almost too scared to move, almost too cold to run anymore, but still he knew something was wrong. Something that should not be.

He got up and stumbled on desperately, sending snow flying in little spurts. Even here among the thickness of the trees it lay heavily on the ground, whisked and funneled by the east wind into strange hills and troughs, like white beasts lurking at the foot of the birches.

Radu looked behind him, but could see nothing. Nothing but the vast unfathomable forest. It was said you could ride from Poland to Turkey and never leave the trees behind, but he knew that wasn’t true. Nothing could be that big! Not even the Mother Forest.

He stopped for a moment, listening hard, but all he could hear was his own panting as he sucked air into his painful chest. He no longer knew where he was, though the forest had been his home all his life. His hut and his village were far away. He looked around, straining to recognize anything, but all he saw were a hundred thousand silver birch trees.

A branch cracked, and with horror Radu’s eyes snapped back to his pursuer. Now that Radu saw him again, he knew what was wrong.

“In the name of Jesus and the Forest . . .”

The words fell dead in the softness of the snow, but even as they did Radu turned and began to run, lurching wildly from tree to tree. His right hand left a smear of blood on the paper bark of a birch, but that wound was irrelevant now. It was such a short while since he’d been cutting wood with his axe. The axe that lay somewhere in the snow, its blade stained with blood, already frozen. His blood.

He hit another two trees, but barely noticed, and suddenly he realized where he was. Close to Chust, where his fellow woodcutter Tomas lived in a hut outside the village.

For a fleeting moment a flame of hope ignited in his heart. He had run fast, the village was only a short way through the trees, and he could no longer hear his attacker behind him.

But then Radu rounded a tree and ran straight into him.

The man was not tall, but he was fat. Bloated. His skin was as white as the trees around them. There was dried blood at the corners of his shriveled mouth. It had taken Radu all this time to recognize him.

Radu took a step backward, his fur boots brushing through the snow. He tripped over an unseen root, but kept his feet. He lifted a hand and pointed at the man.

“But Willem. You’re dead!”

The man lunged forward and shoved his hand like a knife into Radu’s chest, feeling for his heart.

“Not anymore,” he said.

And now it was Radu who fell dead in the softness of the snow.


From the Hardcover edition.
Marcus Sedgwick

About Marcus Sedgwick

Marcus Sedgwick - My Swordhand Is Singing

Photo © Courtesy of the author

I was a perfectly normal child. Honestly. But somehow I slunk into my teenage years dressed in black and sprouting strange hairstyles, listening to pretentious but potent dark music. In short, I became a Goth. I know it’s not clever now.

How this change came about I am not sure, though it may have something to do with the fact that my first memory is being wheeled in my pram by a nanny through the 12th-century churchyard in the village where I was born. Thinking back to my early years, my life was almost unbelievably idyllic. I was born in the house where I spent the first 18 years of my life, a house designed and built by my parents on the edge this small village in the Kent countryside. Those years seem entirely composed of long summers of adventuring in the woods and the orchards, in the valley and down by the river, as my brother and I tried to live like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. But there was a blot on the horizon that rolled around every autumn–school. I never liked school, never felt comfortable, was painfully shy there, and found all 14 years of it hard work.

I wrote a bit back then; I won a short horror story competition in a fanzine. It was about a nurse being buried alive. Charming. But I didn’t really give writing a serious try until I had something to write about, something that I found exciting enough to spend months doing. That’s the biggest obstacle to all writers, new and established–you have to have something you want to say.

I love writing, but getting ready to write a book is even better. This is the point when you have a world of possibilities before you–all the ideas that you could shake up together and make into a story–and it’s an exciting feeling. So now I spend my free time reading about all sorts of things that I might be vaguely interested in, and wait . . . for ideas to appear that refuse to be ignored. And then another book could be on the way.

Now I have “recovered” from my years in black, and have changed my wardrobe drastically, preferring brown these days. But it still makes me smile when I see some kid all in black, because I know they’re on the right road.

Five Facts About Me (Four of Which Are True)

I used to play bass guitar in an Abba tribute band.

I speak Polish fluently.

I once nearly drowned in an ornamental Victorian fishpond.

I play the drums in an Austin Powers tribute band.

I used to be a stone carver.
Praise

Praise

Starred Review, Publishers Weekly (circ: 34,456), November 12, 2007:
"Sedgwick knows his way around a gothic setting, and readers will likely devour this bone-chiller."

Review, Publishing News:
"A finely written, bone-chilling gothic tale."

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