The Thief of Worlds
(Sprache: Englisch)
What happens when the wind stops?
The air grows hot and still and hard to breathe.
Hospitals fill with patients.
The world begins to panic.
What happens when the wind stops?
For Hurricane, this global disaster strikes at his core; but he must...
The air grows hot and still and hard to breathe.
Hospitals fill with patients.
The world begins to panic.
What happens when the wind stops?
For Hurricane, this global disaster strikes at his core; but he must...
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What happens when the wind stops?The air grows hot and still and hard to breathe.
Hospitals fill with patients.
The world begins to panic.
What happens when the wind stops?
For Hurricane, this global disaster strikes at his core; but he must recover the magical horn that will fix everything.
Can magic be real? And how can it finding the horn rest on Hurricane's twelve-year-old shoulders?
This classic epic fantasy from beloved author Bruce Coville will enthrall readers while it reminds them of the magic that lies in friendship and that friendship just might have the power to save the world.
For Hurricane, this global disaster strikes at his core. He got his name because he was born during a hurricane, and he has always felt a strangely intense connection to the wind. And now his mother is one of the sick people in the hospital. But what can he do? He's just a kid.
When all this turns out to be TRUE, Hurricane embarks on the adventure of his life: a journey to different worlds, where he will make friends unlike any people he has ever known. He will discover courage, strength, humor, and an ability to bring people together.
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1My Strange Birth
The wind had stopped. Just stopped, as if someone had killed it.
Which meant that I was miserable.
Yeah, I know. Everyone in Chicago was miserable. And not only Chicago. The wind had stopped all across the world! For the first couple of days scientists had thought it was some weird coincidence. Now they were starting to freak out.
I was already freaking out. For me, losing the wind was like losing a best friend.
See, I ve always had a thing for the wind. The people around me knew it. Back when Mom and Gran and I lived in Mississippi, the neighbors called me Breezeboy and laughed about how I danced with the wind. What they didn t know was that the wind was talking to me. Okay, I could never really understand it. But I always felt it was simply a matter of time before somehow, some way, I would be able to.
Mom has a dish towel printed with the blessing may the wind be always at your back, and for me that has almost always been true. When I was little, if I went outside, the wind would dance around my feet, then push me gently from behind as if it was playing with me. We even had a game, the wind and me. I would toss my hat in the air, and the wind would swirl it away . . . then carry it back and drop it onto my head. Once the wind even protected me from some bullies, rising from nowhere and blowing dirt into their eyes when they were about to pound me.
At least, I thought all that had happened. But that was when I was a little kid, so it was hard to be sure. By the time Mom and I moved to Chicago, after Dad was killed by that drunk driver, I had stopped thinking the wind was trying to tell me secrets. But my longing for it, my need for it, never ceased. Now that it was gone I was afraid I might go crazy.
On the third day with no wind Mom and I were in our apartment on the fourth floor of the Jerrold Arms. That name makes the place sound pretty classy, and
... mehr
maybe it had been when it was built about a billion years ago. Now . . . well, now it s pretty run-down. Actually, run-down is too kind. Truth is, it s kind of a dump.
It was early evening and it was hot. I glanced beyond Mom to our curtains. They hung limp and unmoving. God, how I wanted the wind to blow!
Mom was in her old red chair, mending a torn pair of jeans. The chair had been mended, too, since Mom had rewoven the places where the fabric had worn thin. Too much throwing away, not enough fixing was her take on the world. She was all about fixing stuff.
I was sprawled on the floor beside her, trying to draw. I was also complaining about the heat and the lack of wind. It wouldn t have been so bad if we d had AC, but we were way too broke for that.
You should go outside, Mom told me.
Without looking up, I said, I could just crawl into the oven. It would be about as comfortable. I didn t look up because I was staring with annoyance at the spot where some sweat had dropped from my forehead onto the picture I was working on. I draw a lot, mostly fantasy creatures. Griffins are my favorites. I love their odd mixture of parts.
The oven would be cramped, Mom said. Outside is bigger.
She started to say something else but coughed instead, coughed that raspy cough that scared me. I jumped up to fetch her a glass of water. She took a few sips, breathing a little more deeply after each of them. When the coughing spell ended, I dropped back to the floor.
Tell me the story, I said.
Aren t you afraid you ll wear it out?
Nah, it gets better every time you tell it. Besides, it s about wind, so this would be a good night for it, since there isn t any outside!
She made a little snort. It s not just about wind, it s about you. Maybe y
It was early evening and it was hot. I glanced beyond Mom to our curtains. They hung limp and unmoving. God, how I wanted the wind to blow!
Mom was in her old red chair, mending a torn pair of jeans. The chair had been mended, too, since Mom had rewoven the places where the fabric had worn thin. Too much throwing away, not enough fixing was her take on the world. She was all about fixing stuff.
I was sprawled on the floor beside her, trying to draw. I was also complaining about the heat and the lack of wind. It wouldn t have been so bad if we d had AC, but we were way too broke for that.
You should go outside, Mom told me.
Without looking up, I said, I could just crawl into the oven. It would be about as comfortable. I didn t look up because I was staring with annoyance at the spot where some sweat had dropped from my forehead onto the picture I was working on. I draw a lot, mostly fantasy creatures. Griffins are my favorites. I love their odd mixture of parts.
The oven would be cramped, Mom said. Outside is bigger.
She started to say something else but coughed instead, coughed that raspy cough that scared me. I jumped up to fetch her a glass of water. She took a few sips, breathing a little more deeply after each of them. When the coughing spell ended, I dropped back to the floor.
Tell me the story, I said.
Aren t you afraid you ll wear it out?
Nah, it gets better every time you tell it. Besides, it s about wind, so this would be a good night for it, since there isn t any outside!
She made a little snort. It s not just about wind, it s about you. Maybe y
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Bruce Coville
Bruce Coville is the author of 101 books for children and young adults, including the international bestseller My Teacher Is an Alien, and the wildly popular Unicorn Chronicles series. His works have appeared in over a dozen languages and won children s choice awards in over a dozen states. He has been, at various times, a teacher, a toy maker, a magazine editor, a gravedigger, and a cookware salesman. He is also the founder of Full Cast Audio, an audiobook publishing company devoted to producing full-cast, unabridged recordings of material for family listening. Mr. Coville lives in Syracuse, New York, with his wife, author and illustrator Katherine Coville. Visit him at BruceCoville.com.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Bruce Coville
- Altersempfehlung: 8 - 12 Jahre
- 2021, 288 Seiten, Masse: 14,9 x 21,9 cm, Gebunden, Englisch
- Verlag: Random House Books for Young Readers
- ISBN-10: 0385392516
- ISBN-13: 9780385392518
- Erscheinungsdatum: 20.04.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Hurricane s episodic adventure follows a traditional quest structure while touching on themes of empathy and sustainability, beginning with clear descriptions of the weather s effect on humankind and moving into an invigorating, action-packed narrative. Publishers Weekly
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