Megiddo's Shadow - Softcover
Arthur Hercules Slade, whose British cavalry regiment fought in Palestine against the Turks in World War I, was once asked, "What was it like to be in the war?" He answered, "I was everywhere that Jesus was, but I couldn't find him anywhere." Fascinated by the idea of his grandfather charging enemy machine guns with asabre in one hand and his horse's reins in the other, bestselling author Arthur Slade has created a tale of a teenager who finds the true face of war behind the shinyveneer of patriotism, honour and duty.
Megiddo's Shadow is the story ofEdward Bathe, a 16-year-old prairie farm boy who, giddy with the romantic ideals of war and desperate to fight the Huns in France, enlists in 1917. To his disappointment, he is assigned to a horse- training regiment, where the only consolation is Buke, his horse, and Emily, the pretty young nurse he befriends. But when he is sent to fight the Turks in Palestine, Edward learns that what he thought he knew about right and wrong, about heroism and courage, and about God and country, no longer holds true.
Much more than a powerful and shockingly realistic work of historical fiction, Megiddo's Shadow is a poignanttestament to the terrible legacy of war, seen through the eyes of a character with whom readers will instantly connect. An intelligent, provocative and breathtaking read, Megiddo's Shadow affirms Arthur Slade as a literary superstar.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
ARTHUR SLADE was raised on a ranch in the Cypress Hills of Saskatchewan. He is the author of seventeen novels for young readers including The Hunchback Assignments, which won the prestigious TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award, and its three sequels, and Dust, winner of the Governor General’s Award for Children’s Literature. He is also the author of the acclaimed graphic novel Modo: Ember’s End. He lives in the mythical city of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
Web: arthurslade.com
Twitter: @arthurslade
Book One
Oh! we don’t want to lose you
But we think you ought to go,
For your King and your Country
Both need you so.
We shall want you and miss you,
But with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you
When you come home again.
“Your King and Country Want You” Lyrics by Paul Rubens
1
The letter was stained with mud from France, but there was a British army stamp in the corner, and the handwriting looked fancy and official. Maybe Hector had won a medal! He’d finally given the Huns a good, hard punch on the nose.
I left the general store, nearly tripping on the sidewalk planks as I searched the envelope for clues about its contents. I wanted to rip it open, but it had been addressed to Dad. My breath turned to frost in the October air. Hector must’ve jumped out of the trenches and taken a machine-gun nest, or perhaps he’d captured a bunch of Germans. He’d joined up in 1916, so he’d been over there for more than a year; lots of time to do something heroic. I jogged the half mile to our farm, watching for our white and green house to appear on the other side of the hill, with the rolling prairie spread out beyond it.
Maybe Hector would be getting a Victoria Cross pinned to his chest. He would make the papers all across Canada.
I stopped in my tracks. I fingered the thin envelope, my mouth dry. What if it’s not a medal. What if . . . I wouldn’t let myself think the words.
If he’d fallen in France I’d surely have felt something deep in my heart, even thousands of miles away here in Saskatchewan.
Such dark thoughts had made my legs numb. I leaned against our sign that said bathe family farm. Father had carved it to put a name to the fields he’d cut out of the prairie. Land he intended to pass on to us boys.
No Hun bullet would ever kill Hector, but perhaps he’d been so badly wounded that he couldn’t even pick up a pen.
My hand shook as I flicked open my pocketknife and slit the envelope. I’d tell Dad I just couldn’t wait to read the good news.
I scanned the first few lines.
R.S. Major 27/09/17 15th Canadian Batt B.E.F.
Dear Mr. Wilfred Bathe,
You will no doubt wonder who this is writing to you. I will try to explain as well as I can; I am the regimental sergeant major of the above battalion. I have a very painful duty to perform in—
My heart stopped. It wasn’t just a “painful duty,” but a “very painful duty,” and I knew what had to follow. I sucked in a rattling breath. And another. Oh, God. Oh, no.
I forced myself to move toward the house. It was an eternity before I got there. I opened the door, the squeaking hinge unusually loud. I passed through the empty hall and up the worn stairs, glancing at the Union Jack that hung on the wall. I pulled myself up with the rail. I’d gone from sixteen to a hundred years old.
At the top of the landing I stopped to wipe my icy, sweaty palms on my overalls. I glanced at the oval photograph of Dad in his dragoons uniform, medals from the South African war glittering on his chest. Hung next to him was the picture of Mother in her Sunday best, and the thought of her made my legs go weak. It was a blessing God had taken her; today would have broken Mom’s heart. Beside her was a photograph of Hector and me, when he was fourteen and I was twelve. I looked away and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.
Maybe he’d just been terribly wounded, his bright green eyes blinded by gas. That was why he couldn’t write. Or perhaps his arm had been blown off. If so, when he got home he would still be able to fork hay with one hand. I’d help him. I would.
I knocked and entered the master bedroom. The stink of pee and old sweat hung in the air, a sign of how weak Dad was now. He lay sleeping, sheets pulled up to his neck, cheekbones sticking out of his long, pale face as though he were starving. His once proud and bushy mustache was limp and stringy.
I sat on the wooden chair and waited, my hands still trembling. Dad had been bedridden for seven months, leaving me to seed, harvest, and do the chores. In March, on the anniversary of Mom’s death, he stayed in bed all day, as prickly as a cactus. He didn’t get up the next day, or the next. In fact, he didn’t get up at all. He gave up on everything. The man I’d seen flip and pin a calf in a heartbeat couldn’t even pull himself out of bed.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been bedridden. Once or twice a year he’d go all dour and stay in bed. Mom would give him a day or two before she grabbed his work clothes and boots and goaded him to his feet. After her funeral he spent three days in bed. On the fourth day Hector set Dad’s work clothes and boots on the end of the bed. Dad was out to the barn within an hour, not saying a word.
This time, I’d tried the same trick after the first week, but no luck. When it came to Dad, Hector had the magic touch; it’d always been that way. All I could do was call Dr. Fusil, an old man with sharp eyes. This was, of course, against Father’s wishes.
“Wilfred’s body is fine,” Dr. Fusil said out on the front porch after the visit. He slowly pulled on his coat. “His mind, though, is troubled. If his condition worsens and he refuses all food and water, there’s a sanitarium in Regina I could recommend. That’d leave you with a heavy load, though.”
I’m already doing all the work! I felt like shouting. But instead, I only shrugged, and the doctor putted away in his Model T.
Now, I sat back in the chair, making it creak.
“What’s in your hand, Edward?” Father asked.
His gray eyes searched mine. I could see every long day he’d worked.
“It’s a letter from Hector’s major.”
From the Hardcover edition.
Oh! we don’t want to lose you
But we think you ought to go,
For your King and your Country
Both need you so.
We shall want you and miss you,
But with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you
When you come home again.
“Your King and Country Want You” Lyrics by Paul Rubens
1
The letter was stained with mud from France, but there was a British army stamp in the corner, and the handwriting looked fancy and official. Maybe Hector had won a medal! He’d finally given the Huns a good, hard punch on the nose.
I left the general store, nearly tripping on the sidewalk planks as I searched the envelope for clues about its contents. I wanted to rip it open, but it had been addressed to Dad. My breath turned to frost in the October air. Hector must’ve jumped out of the trenches and taken a machine-gun nest, or perhaps he’d captured a bunch of Germans. He’d joined up in 1916, so he’d been over there for more than a year; lots of time to do something heroic. I jogged the half mile to our farm, watching for our white and green house to appear on the other side of the hill, with the rolling prairie spread out beyond it.
Maybe Hector would be getting a Victoria Cross pinned to his chest. He would make the papers all across Canada.
I stopped in my tracks. I fingered the thin envelope, my mouth dry. What if it’s not a medal. What if . . . I wouldn’t let myself think the words.
If he’d fallen in France I’d surely have felt something deep in my heart, even thousands of miles away here in Saskatchewan.
Such dark thoughts had made my legs numb. I leaned against our sign that said bathe family farm. Father had carved it to put a name to the fields he’d cut out of the prairie. Land he intended to pass on to us boys.
No Hun bullet would ever kill Hector, but perhaps he’d been so badly wounded that he couldn’t even pick up a pen.
My hand shook as I flicked open my pocketknife and slit the envelope. I’d tell Dad I just couldn’t wait to read the good news.
I scanned the first few lines.
R.S. Major 27/09/17 15th Canadian Batt B.E.F.
Dear Mr. Wilfred Bathe,
You will no doubt wonder who this is writing to you. I will try to explain as well as I can; I am the regimental sergeant major of the above battalion. I have a very painful duty to perform in—
My heart stopped. It wasn’t just a “painful duty,” but a “very painful duty,” and I knew what had to follow. I sucked in a rattling breath. And another. Oh, God. Oh, no.
I forced myself to move toward the house. It was an eternity before I got there. I opened the door, the squeaking hinge unusually loud. I passed through the empty hall and up the worn stairs, glancing at the Union Jack that hung on the wall. I pulled myself up with the rail. I’d gone from sixteen to a hundred years old.
At the top of the landing I stopped to wipe my icy, sweaty palms on my overalls. I glanced at the oval photograph of Dad in his dragoons uniform, medals from the South African war glittering on his chest. Hung next to him was the picture of Mother in her Sunday best, and the thought of her made my legs go weak. It was a blessing God had taken her; today would have broken Mom’s heart. Beside her was a photograph of Hector and me, when he was fourteen and I was twelve. I looked away and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.
Maybe he’d just been terribly wounded, his bright green eyes blinded by gas. That was why he couldn’t write. Or perhaps his arm had been blown off. If so, when he got home he would still be able to fork hay with one hand. I’d help him. I would.
I knocked and entered the master bedroom. The stink of pee and old sweat hung in the air, a sign of how weak Dad was now. He lay sleeping, sheets pulled up to his neck, cheekbones sticking out of his long, pale face as though he were starving. His once proud and bushy mustache was limp and stringy.
I sat on the wooden chair and waited, my hands still trembling. Dad had been bedridden for seven months, leaving me to seed, harvest, and do the chores. In March, on the anniversary of Mom’s death, he stayed in bed all day, as prickly as a cactus. He didn’t get up the next day, or the next. In fact, he didn’t get up at all. He gave up on everything. The man I’d seen flip and pin a calf in a heartbeat couldn’t even pull himself out of bed.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been bedridden. Once or twice a year he’d go all dour and stay in bed. Mom would give him a day or two before she grabbed his work clothes and boots and goaded him to his feet. After her funeral he spent three days in bed. On the fourth day Hector set Dad’s work clothes and boots on the end of the bed. Dad was out to the barn within an hour, not saying a word.
This time, I’d tried the same trick after the first week, but no luck. When it came to Dad, Hector had the magic touch; it’d always been that way. All I could do was call Dr. Fusil, an old man with sharp eyes. This was, of course, against Father’s wishes.
“Wilfred’s body is fine,” Dr. Fusil said out on the front porch after the visit. He slowly pulled on his coat. “His mind, though, is troubled. If his condition worsens and he refuses all food and water, there’s a sanitarium in Regina I could recommend. That’d leave you with a heavy load, though.”
I’m already doing all the work! I felt like shouting. But instead, I only shrugged, and the doctor putted away in his Model T.
Now, I sat back in the chair, making it creak.
“What’s in your hand, Edward?” Father asked.
His gray eyes searched mine. I could see every long day he’d worked.
“It’s a letter from Hector’s major.”
From the Hardcover edition.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherHarperTrophy
- Publication date2006
- ISBN 10 0006395686
- ISBN 13 9780006395683
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages304
- Rating
Other Popular Editions of the Same Title
Top Search Results from the AbeBooks Marketplace
Stock Image
Megiddo's Shadow
Published by
HarperCollins Publishers Limited, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
(2006)
ISBN 10: 0006395686
ISBN 13: 9780006395683
Used
Trade Paperback
First Edition
Signed
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Trade Paperback. Condition: Fine. First Edition, First Printing. The book is signed by the author on the full title page. Please note the Image in this listing is a stock photo and may not match the covers of the actual item. Signed by Author(s). Seller Inventory # 015483
Buy Used
US$ 20.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Megiddo's Shadow
Published by
HarperCollins Canada, Limited, Scarborough, Ontario, Canada
(2006)
ISBN 10: 0006395686
ISBN 13: 9780006395683
Used
Trade Paperback
First Edition
Signed
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Trade Paperback. Condition: Near Fine. First Edition, First Printing. The book is signed by the author on the full title page. The book is near fine with very a very small (half inch) stain to half title page. Signed by Author(s). Seller Inventory # 011719
Buy Used
US$ 20.00
Convert currency