The Bag of Bones: The Second Tale from the Five Kingdoms
The Bag of Bones: The Second Tale from the Five Kingdoms
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Overview
Hold on to your head for the funny and fast-paced second Tale from the Five Kingdoms, a follow-up to THE ROBE OF SKULLS. (Age 8 and up)
When the quill writes GO GO GO frantically on the wall, and the House of the Ancient Crones heaves Gracie Gillypot outside onto the path, it can mean only one thing: there’s Trouble in the Five Kingdoms. This time it’s in the form of a beady-eyed, green-tongued witch named Truda Hangnail, who with her banished Deep Magic has vowed to succeed Queen Bluebell on the throne. Now that her horrible spell has shrunk the good witches of Wadington to the size of, well, rats, can anything stop her? Will the strengths, smarts, and charms of a spunky trueheart, a sweet-natured orphan, a scruffy prince, a substantial troll, and two squabbling bats be enough to foil her insidious plot?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780763656249 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Candlewick Press |
| Publication date: | 08/09/2011 |
| Series: | Tales from the Five Kingdoms , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Lexile: | 740L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 8 MB |
| Age Range: | 7 - 10 Years |
About the Author
Children’s author and storyteller Vivian French doesn’t worry about writer’s block; her problem is just the opposite. “My first book was published in 1990, and since then I have written almost nonstop. I think I have become addicted to writing. I have always been addicted to words.” But after first taking a job as an actor in a theater company in an attempt to satisfy this love of words, Vivian French realized she still hadn’t found her calling. “I don’t think I was very good at acting,” she explains. “It seemed much more fun to share the story, which is why I became a storyteller. All the same, when I am writing a story I still act it out in my head, and I always know how the voices sound and how my characters move.”
This attention to detail is evident in Vivian French’s award-winning nonfiction book, Growing Frogs. Her engaging narrative accurately evokes each growth stage of the frog, in a story that may inspire children to roll up their sleeves and experience firsthand the wonders of the natural world. The story had its origin in a charming mother-daughter ritual: every spring when Vivian French’s daughters were young, they visited the pond next door to collect some frog spawn and watch the tadpoles hatch. And the writer’s daughters weren’t the only ones who enjoyed this tradition. Vivian French notes, “My cat was always very interested!”
Vivian French’s cat also figures into another of her stories, A Present for Mom. This tale follows Stanley on the night before Mother’s Day as he tries to think of just the right gift for Mom. Interestingly, the author notes, illustrator Dana Kubick “has drawn Stanley to look exactly like my cat, Louis.” But sometimes Vivian French takes her inspiration from artists rather than the other way around. She remarks, “I love meeting up with illustrators and seeing if I can find the seeds for new ideas in their drawings. I think illustrators are the true magicians of the world; they take words, and suddenly there the characters are. And they are real!” In A Present for Mom, Stanley is “real” in more ways than one. He may physically resemble Vivian French’s cat, “But he talks and thinks like my daughter Nancy. She’s the youngest of four, just like Stanley, and she says it doesn’t make life easy.”
Vivian French is also the author of The Story of Christmas, a retelling of the traditional story of Jesus’s birth that School Library Journal calls “a joyful and readable introduction to the Nativity.” In A Christmas Star Called Hannah, Vivian French takes a different approach, revisiting her theatrical roots with a simple but heartfelt tale about a girl performing in her class Christmas play. For years, both holiday favorites have held a place of honor on readers’ bookshelves, as well as in their hearts.
When asked what she does when she’s not writing, Vivian French answers, “I look for my daughter’s socks, or put on the washing machine, or shop, or read, or go to the library and spend far too long there. Or I spend time with the family . . . or sleep.” She lives in Scotland.
A graduate of the Glasgow School of Art, Ross Collins won the MacMillan Prize for his first picture book. Since then he's illustrated more than one hundred books for children and written about a dozen or so. Children in more than twenty countries seem to enjoy his books, several of which have won enormous glittering awards.
Ross’s book The Elephantom has been adapted into a critically acclaimed play by those clever people at the National Theatre who made that War Horse thing.
When he’s not creating children’s books, he enjoys working on character development for animation studios like Laika and Disney.
He also likes walking in the Scottish glens with his dog, Hugo, who is an idiot and his partner, Jacqui, who is not.
“There isn’t an illustrator in Britain who uses a more intelligent visual storytelling language.”— TES (U.K.)
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
"Wheeeeee!" The small bat did a double backip,
then a twist, and landed neatly on the branch below.
"Did you see me, Uncle Marlon? Did you SEE me?"
Alf squeaked.
"Shh!" The older bat apped a warning wing.
"Button up, kiddo. We’ve got company." He stared into the night. "Hmph. It’s those dames from Wadingburn."
The small bat’s eyes widened. "The witches? Oh,
Uncle Marlon! Can we stay ’n’ watch? Will they do scary spells?"
"They’re no big deal, kiddo." The older bat settled back on his branch. "Deep Magic’s not allowed in the Five Kingdoms. This lot are Shallow, through and through. Couldn’t magic a bird off a branch. But keep mum, all the same. You don’t want to end up in a pot.
Your ma’ll kill me if I bring you back half-boiled."
The small bat shivered, half in fear, half with plea sure. "Okeydokey, Uncle M." And he froze into still ness as he watched the line of women, varying in shape and size but all dressed in black, making their way into the clearing at the top of Wadingburn Hill. Limping at the end of the line was the small, skinny fgure of a girl, her head bent tenderly over the bundle in her arms. As the witches hurried here and there, collecting frewood and setting up the old and dented black caul dron, she slipped away and settled herself at the foot of the tree where the two bats hung motionless. Softly she began to croon to the bundled-up object she was holding, rocking it gently to and fro.
"Loobly Higgins!" said a terrible voice. "What on EARTH do you think you’re doing?"
Loobly jumped. "N-n-n-nothing, Auntie," she quavered.
The Grand High Witch of Wadingburn took a step closer. "Did my eyes deceive me, or were you KISSING that rat?"
Loobly shook her head so hard that her long,
stringy hair broke loose from its ribbon and fell over her thin little face. "Wasn’t kissing it," she whispered.
"Not kissing. Just telling sorry. Sorry it be picklifed."
The Grand High Witch sighed in exasperation.
"It’ll be no use now. No use at all. How many times do I have to tell you to leave my ingredients alone?"
"Sorry, Auntie Levangeline. Loobly hear you.
Loobly very sorry." Loobly pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked up hopefully. "If no use, can Loobly keep he?"
"Certainly NOT!" The witch was on the point of snatching the rat away when she was distracted by the sound of cackling laughter. Instantly forgetting Loobly, she turned to see her fie fellow witches gather ing around the cauldron that was now bubbling gently in the center of the clearing. At once the Grand High Witch drew herself to her full height and strode for ward to greet them.
"Dear Mrs. Cringe! I’m so glad you’re with us tonight!
And Mrs. Vibble and Mrs. Prag as well. Fabulous! And darling Ms. Scurrilous is here too! And Mrs. . . ."
The Grand High Witch faltered for a moment. What was the name of the hunched old witch on the far side of the fire? Even with the flames now burning brightly under the cauldron, it was too dark to see her face. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Gabbage, and Ms. Pettigroan had sent a bat earlier that evening with polite apologies.
Mrs. Cringe shufed up, looking distinctly guilty,
and the Grand High Witch’s heart sank. Even worse,
her little toe had begun to throb, which was a far more reliable warning of impending trouble. She had always been wary of Mrs. Cringe, not least because she was known to have relations outside the Five Kingdoms who were suspected of indulging in Deep Magic of the nastiest kind.
"Ahem," Mrs. Cringe addressed the Grand High Witch, whose toe was becaming increasingly pain ful. "That there’s my grandmother, Truda Hangnail.
She’s come visiting from the other side of the More Enchanted Forest. Asked if I could invite her in for a week or two. Things got troublesome for her over there, she said. Too many two-headed cows and sheep with fve legs appearing all over the place." She stepped closer and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"Best to be polite. She’s in a bit of a temper. Fell in a ditch on the other side of the border gate." She nudged the Grand High Witch. "Shouldn’t even be here in the Five Kingdoms. Deep, she is. Very Deep.
But we won’t tell, will we?"
Evangeline Droop, Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, froze. It was a serious offense to invite a Deep Witch to cross the border of the Five Kingdoms.
They had been banished many years before, together with werewolves and sorcerers. On the other hand, she had absolutely no idea how to confront a Deep Witch,
let alone how to tell her to go home.
Evangeline’s little toe was now excruciating. All the same, she extended an unwilling hand and said as gracefully as she was able, "Delighted to meet you,
Mrs. Hangnail!"
The visitor stared at her with beady little eyes, and the strangely sinuous animal draped around her neck lifted its head and stared too. "Deep or Shallow?" the witch croaked.
Mrs. Cringe took her elderly relation by the arm. "I told you, Grandma. There aren’t any Deep Witches in the Five Kingdoms."
Truda Hangnail gave a laugh like knives scrap ing steel. "There’s no fun in that," she sneered. "You can’t turn princes into toads with Shallow Magic. How d’you put red-hot nails in a milkmaid’s shoes? And how d’you scare folk into giving you plump young chickens and apple pies and bowls of eggs and dishes of cream?"
"Actually, Mrs. Hangnail," the Grand High Witch said haughtily, "we are respected members of our community."
Mrs. Prag looked smug. "We’ve all been invited to Queen Bluebell’s eightieth-birthday party to hear the Declarati