Sky Carver Hardcover - 2005

Details

• Title Sky Carver
• Author Dean Whitlock
• Binding Hardcover
• Edition First Edition
• Pages 248
• Volumes 1
• Language ENG
• Publisher Clarion Books, New York
• Date 2005-04-18
• ISBN 9780618443932 / 0618443932
• Weight 1.18 lbs (0.54 kg)
• Dimensions 9.46 x 6.36 x 1.01 in (24.03 x 16.15 x 2.57 cm)
• Ages 10 to 12 years
• Grade levels 5 - 7
• Library of Congress subjects Fantasy
• Library of Congress Catalog Number 2004017819
• Dewey Decimal Code FIC

Chapter One

Thomas Painter turned the spoon in one hand, knife poised in the other. The hard, buttery wood glowed in the light from the small back window of the storage shed. He bit his lower lip, then drew the point of the blade along the grain one way, then back, etching a fine line from bowl to grip. He felt a pleasant surge of anticipation at what Aunt Singer would say when she saw it. This was no ordinary spoon he was carving for her. Its bowl was the mouth of a fanciful fish. Its broad head tapered smoothly down the handle to a flaring tail. He had followed the natural grain of the wood, a pear-wood branch rescued from the kitchen fire.
I am a good carver, he thought. Someday, people will call me that—Carver. Just like Aunt Dora; everyone calls her Singer for her voice. Someday, he thought.
Smiling, Thomas put the spoon down on a keg of linseed oil, then ran the edge of his carving knife over a fine stone and carefully stropped it in the palm of his hand. As he felt the fine edge slide over his skin, he dreamed again of changing his apprenticeship. He was thirteen, almost fourteen, old to be a new apprentice. But he could already carve. And he would never be much of a painter. He wrinkled his nose at the constant stink of pine spirits and burned pigment there in the shed. He buried his nose in the bowl of the spoon and inhaled deeply the smell of freshly shaved pear wood. If only he could smell this wood scent all day. Uncle Piper had plenty of other apprentices. There must be some way Thomas could change trades. But no, Uncle Piper would never agree. Not for Thomas Painter. The name said it all, he thought bitterly.
He glanced into the dark corner to the right of the window, at the back of the rough post supporting the end of the wall. So far no one had noticed the twining vine he was carving up the length of the post. A slight smile returned to his lips. He picked up the spoon and began to slice tiny shavings from surface of the tail, adding detail to the ribbing there. Soon he was lost in his work again, and almost happy.
Suddenly, the door to the shed banged open. A voice snapped.
“Thomas! What the blazing mages are you doing?” Thomas looked up, blinking as his eyes focused back on the world. His cousin Dora Painter, Uncle Piper’s shop boss, stood in the doorway, fists on her hips, staring at him as if he had two heads. The stare became a glare.
“Aunt Singer asked me to carve her a spoon,” Thomas said. “At breakfast. Remember?” “That was four hours ago,” Dora growled. “What are you carving in? Stone?” Thomas winced. “Better than stone,” he said, holding out the spoon in an attempt to distract her from the time. “It’s pear wood. It won’t chip like her old one.” Dora’s eyes widened as she noticed the shape of the spoon. She strode between the kegs and sacks of painting supplies and snatched it from Thomas’s hand. “Great mages!” she exclaimed. “Mother asked for a spoon, not a . . . a . . .” Words failed her. She threw the spoon down.
Thomas jumped up and went after it. “If you do that, she won’t have anything,” he said angrily. “I’ll have to start all over.” Dora grabbed at Thomas’s arm. “You’ll do no such thing. She can get another one from Joynter.” Thomas dodged away and came up holding the spoon. It was still in one piece. “See,” he said, “it’s still whole. Joynter’s spoon would have broken.” “So what? You could get three of them in the time you’ve wasted on that . . . that useless bauble.” She snatched the spoon again.
“Hey!” Thomas cried, lunging for it. “Give me that!” Dora held the spoon above his reach and stalked out the door. Thomas followed, still trying to grab his spoon. “Joynter’s spoons are ugly,” he snapped. “Ugly and clumsy.” “They work,” Dora retorted, striding along the landing toward the back door of the shop.
“They break.” “They’re cheap.” “You’re right about that!” Thomas shouted. “They’re cheap! Ugly and cheap!” “Well, you can just tell that to Joynter,” Dora said. “He’s here right now.” She jerked open the shop door and shoved Thomas through.
Uncle Piper looked up as they came barging in. Joynter’s sharp face peered around his wide bulk.
“What’s this?” Uncle Piper said, frowning at both Dora and Thomas. Joynter merely deepened his perpetual scowl. Thomas’s outrage dissolved under their combined glare.
“I found him hiding in the storeroom,” Dora said. “Whittling on a spoon.” “I wasn’t hiding,” Thomas said. “Aunt Singer asked me to make her one.” “Yes,” Uncle Piper agreed slowly, shifting his irritation to Dora. “I heard her ask.” “Well, he’s wasted all morning on it,” Dora replied. “Look.” She held out the spoon.
Uncle Piper stared at it, and his facce drooped a little in disappointment.
“He must have been sneaking away to work on that ridiculous thing for days,” Joynter grated, his voice as sharp as his faccccce.
“I have not,” Thomas protested. He grabbed the spoon back from Dora.
“Hah! Who’s the woodcrafter here?” Joynter demanded. Thomas bit back another retort. “You’re a painter, boy, not a joynter. He needs discipline, Piper.” Uncle Piper puffed out his cheeks. “Well, Thomas,” he said, “what do you think your father would say, eh?” The remark made Thomas even more angry. Uncle Piper always called up the memory of his father.
“Fetch in a sack of the umber, a keg of pine spirit, and a jug of oil,” Uncle Piper ordered when Thomas didn’t reply. “Mix it up. Then come back here for your punishment when I’ve finished with Master Joynter.” “Yes, sir,” Thomas muttered.
“And give me that . . . spoon.” Thomas handed it over and turned away, not wanting to see what Uncle Piper did with it. He still heard the clack as it landed in the wood box. Dora gave him a shove, then went over to join in the conference with Joynter. On the big central table were sheets of sketches for the new town hall, the biggest project to come into the shop since Thomas could remember. The planning and construction had consumed the crafters of the town for well over a year. They had all promised the mayor it would be finished before summer. Time was running out. On top of that, it hadn’t rained for months. Dry weather made construction work easy, but this was the second year in a row. Last year’s harvest had been scant; this year’s looked to fare even worse. Tempers were stretched thin. Knowing that didn’t help Thomas’s mood as he hauled supplies to Dulci. She was his cousin, too—Dora’s little sister—and though she was a year younger than Thomas, she was far better at mixing and matching colors. And at line and balance and brushwork, and at portraiture and landscapes—in fact, all the apprentices were much better than he was at anything that had to do with painting. And that worried Uncle Piper almost as much as the designs for the town hall, because Thomas’s father had been the best painter ever to have lived in the town. People carefully cleaned his murals to preserve them. They treasured his portraits. There was magic in his work, they all said.
Uncle Piper, though skilled with a brush, fell far short of his brother’s talent. He was quite content with that, actually. What bothered him was Thomas the Younger. Uncle Piper—everyone in town, in fact—expected him to be as good as his father. Even better. But he wasn’t. Middling good was the most polite way to describe it, but truth to tell, he lacked all talent.
Truth to tell, he didn’t even like painting.
But he was born a Painter, only child of the great, the magical, Thomas Painter. And so he must be a painter.
Grumbling inside, he helped Dulci mix a bucket of thick, mustardy umber paint, almost gagging at the smell of the newly opened jug of pine spirits. Joynter and Uncle Piper continued their conference over the central table. Dust danced in the light from the high windows on the north wall.
Finally, Joynter gave the table a hard slap. “All right, then,” he snapped, “do it your way. But do it quickly. I need those panels.” “They’ll be ready,” Uncle Piper assured him, following toward the door.
Still complaining, Joynter stalked out.
Uncle Piper turned, scowling. “Come on then,” he growled. “There’s work to do.” He kept them at it for another half hour before finally calling the midday break. Thomas’s stomach was growling as loudly as Uncle Piper by then, but he held back till the others had left. Then he darted over to the wood box. The spoon was gone. He looked into the dying morning fire on the hearth. There was nothing left but ember and ash. His heart sank.
He stood there a moment, too disappointed to move. He squeezed back angry tears. Why couldn’t Uncle Piper see? Shoulders sagging, he went out the back door and found Uncle Piper waiting on the landing, seated on pair of upturned kegs, bagpipe draped across his lap.
“So, Thomas,” he said. “is the paint mixed?” “Yes, sir,” Thomas replied dully.
“And the panels? Did you get them sealed?” “Yes, sir. They were done yesterday evening. Dulci put the base on them this morning.” “By herself.” “Yes, sir. Aunt Singer—” Uncle Piper held up a big hand. “I know, I know. She asked you to make her a spoon. And you spent all morning on it.” “I wanted it to be a good one,” Thomas said. Anger, and the memory of the ashes, made his voice catch.
“I’m sure you did. But judging by what you managed to do in one morning, I’ll venture you could have whipped up something plain, and just as useful, in little over a moment. And then you could have got on with your real work.” Thomas shrugged. Uncle Piper grumbled in his throat. “This is a busy time, Thomas,” he said. “What would your father say if he found you working on bits of wood?” Thomas looked down. “I don’t know,” he muttered, “but I imagine you’ll tell me.” “Don’t get cheeky,” Uncle Piper warned. “Your father was an artist, and he would have told you that art takes work. It takes attention. It takes practice. You can have all the talent in the world, but if you don’t practice . . . Now think about it. If you put half the effort into your painting as you did into that spoon, you’d be well on your way.” “To what?” Thomas retorted. “Whitewashing the mayor’s new privy? I’m no good at painting, Uncle. You know that.” “Nonsense,” Uncle Piper growled. “You just haven’t come into your talent yet, that’s all. Some people take longer.” “How long did it take my father?” Thomas demanded. “When did he show his talent?” Uncle Piper shifted uncomfortably. They both knew the answer: Thomas the Elder had sketched his first portrait at age three, and it had been good. It still hung, proudly framed in walnut, in the front room of the house.
“Your father was special,” Uncle Piper admitted. “But look at your mother. She didn’t come into her talent till she was grown. Didn’t even know she had it till after you were born.” “And it wasn’t fowling,” Thomas said. “It was completely new.” “It was mage talent,” Piper said, almost disdainfully. “That can pop up anywhere. Look at her sister, your aunt Zarah. The same talent showed up in her later.” “But not fowling,” Thomas insisted. “Her family were fowlers, but her talent is different.” “Zarah is still a fowler. And your mother would be, too, if she hadn’t . . . Anyway, I didn’t mean you were exactly like her,” Uncle Piper said irritably. “I just meant you were a late bloomer, like her. You haven’t come into your own yet. And when you do, you’ll show your father’s side. I’m sure of it. You’re a Painter.” “But I’m not a painter,” Thomas argued. “I don’t even want to be a painter.” “That’s because you haven’t tried!” Uncle Piper snapped. He threw up his hands. “Bah, listen to me—I sound as sharp as Joynter. Would you rather have him for a master, boy?” Thomas looked up hopefully, but Piper hadn’t meant it as a real question. He grumbled on. “You’d soon lose your interest in wood under his sharp nose, eh? Now come on—I promised your father I’d watch over you, and that meant teaching you the craft. You’re a Painter. That’s all there is to it. Now go eat. And here—” He reached into his apron and pulled out the spoon. “Give this to your aunt Singer.” Thomas stared at the spoon in amazement.
“Well, take it,” Uncle Piper growled. “I’m not going to let you waste a whole morning’s work, am I?” Thomas took the spoon, and Uncle Piper shifted the bagpipe under his arm. “Tell her I’ll be in in a moment.” “Yes, sir!” Thomas said gratefully.
“Humph,” Uncle Piper replied through his mouthpiece. But as Thomas turned away, he added, “You’re still to be punished for skipping the morning’s work. After you eat, you can clean out the privy.” “Yes, sir,” Thomas said. Holding the rescued spoon, the punishment seemed light. Come to think of it, cleaning the privy was far better than mucking with paint.

Copyright © 2005 by Dean Whitlock. Reprinted by permission of Clarion Books / Houghton Mifflin Company.

"A flowing quest explores industrialization and personal magical talents through three likable characters...nice blend of introspection and action." KIRKUS Kirkus Reviews

"Whitlock's prose is smooth and lively, and his characters are well-defined." BCCB Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

"The main characters make an entertaining trio, with different strengths, goals, and mindsets....[a] richly inventive...fast-paced fantasy adventure." BOOKLIST Booklist, ALA

"Whitlock has created fully realized characters....Carver's struggle to find his identity will ring true with adolescent readers." SLJ School Library Journal