Items related to Noah Barleywater Runs Away
Eight-year-old Noah's problems seem easier to deal with if he doesn't think about them. So he runs away, taking an untrodden path through the forest. Before long, he comes across a shop. But this is no ordinary shop: it's a toyshop, full of the most amazing toys, and brimming with the most wonderful magic. And here Noah meets a very unusual toymaker. The toymaker has a story to tell, and it's a story of adventure and wonder and broken promises. He takes Noah on a journey. A journey that will change his life.
From the Hardcover edition.
From the Hardcover edition.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
JOHN BOYNE was born in Ireland in 1971 and is the author of six novels for adults. His first novel for children, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, won two Irish Book Awards, was shortlisted for the British Book Award and has been made into a film. His novels are published in over 30 languages. He lives in Dublin.
OLIVER JEFFERS is an internationally acclaimed author-illustrator. His first picture book, How to Catch a Star (HarperCollins) was published in 2004 and since then he has created a further five picture books to much critical acclaim. He has won the Irish Book Award (where he first met John Boyne), the Blue Peter Book of the Year and the Nestlé Children's Book Prize as well as a host of shortlistings including the prestigious Kate Greenaway Medal. His books have been translated into 19 languages.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
OLIVER JEFFERS is an internationally acclaimed author-illustrator. His first picture book, How to Catch a Star (HarperCollins) was published in 2004 and since then he has created a further five picture books to much critical acclaim. He has won the Irish Book Award (where he first met John Boyne), the Blue Peter Book of the Year and the Nestlé Children's Book Prize as well as a host of shortlistings including the prestigious Kate Greenaway Medal. His books have been translated into 19 languages.
From the Hardcover edition.
Noah Barleywater left home in the early morning, before the sun rose, before the dogs woke, before the dew stopped falling on the fields. He climbed out of bed and shuffled into the clothes he’d laid out the night before, holding his breath as he crept quietly downstairs. Three of the steps had a loud creak in them where the wood didn’t knit together correctly so he walked very softly on each one, desperate to make as little noise as possible.
In the hallway he took his coat off the hook but didn’t put his shoes on until he had already left the house. He walked down the laneway, opened the gate, went through and closed it again, treading as lightly as he could in case his parents heard the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his feet and came downstairs to investigate.
It was still dark at this hour and Noah had to squint to make out the road that twisted and turned up ahead. The growing light would allow him to sense any danger that might be lurking in the shadows. When he got to the end of the first quarter-mile, at just that point where he could turn round one last time and still make out his home in the distance, he stared at the smoke rising from the chimney that stretched upwards from the kitchen fireplace and thought of his family inside, all safely tucked up in their beds, unaware that he was leaving them for ever. And despite himself, he felt a little sad.
Am I doing the right thing? he wondered, a great blanket of happy memories trying to break through and smother the fresher, sadder ones.
But he had no choice. He couldn’t bear to stay any longer. No one could blame him for that, surely. Anyway, it was probably best that he went out to make his own way in the world. After all, he was already eight years old and the truth was, he hadn’t really done anything with his life so far.
A boy in his class, Charlie Charlton, had appeared in the local newspaper when he was only seven, because the Queen had come to open a day centre for all the grannies and grandads in the village, and he had been chosen to hand her a bunch of flowers and say, We’re SO delighted you could make the journey, ma’am. A photograph had been taken where Charlie was grinning like the Cheshire cat as he presented the bouquet, and the Queen wore an expression that suggested she had smelled something funny but was far too well-brought-up to comment on it; he’d seen that expression on the Queen’s face before and it always made him giggle. The photo had been placed on the school notice board the following day and had remained there until someone – not Noah – had drawn a moustache on Her Majesty’s face and written some rude words in a speech bubble coming out of her mouth that nearly gave the headmaster, Mr Tushingham, a stroke.
The whole thing had caused a terrible scandal, but at least Charlie Charlton had got his face in the papers and been the toast of the schoolyard for a few days. What had Noah ever done with his life to compare with that? Nothing. Why, only a few days before he’d tried to make a list of all his achievements, and this is what he’d come up with:
1. I have read fourteen books from cover to cover.
2. I won the bronze medal in the 500 metres at Sports Day last year and would have won silver if Breiffni O’Neill hadn’t jumped the gun and got a head start.
3. I know the capital of Portugal. (It’s Lisbon.)
4. I may be small for my age but I’m the seventh cleverest boy in my class.
5. I am an excellent speller.
Five achievements at eight years of age, he thought at the time, shaking his head and pressing the tip of his pencil to his tongue even though his teacher, Miss Bright, screamed whenever anyone did that and said they would get lead poisoning. That’s one achievement for every . . . He thought about it and did a series of quick calculations on a bit of scrap paper. One achievement for every one year, seven months and six days. Not very impressive at all.
He tried to tell himself that this was the reason he was leaving home, because it seemed a lot more adventurous than the real reason, which was something he didn’t want to think about. Not this early in the morning anyway.
And so here he was, out on his own, a young soldier on his way to battle. He turned round, thinking to himself, That’s it! I’ll never see that house again now! and continued on his way, strolling along with the air of a man who knows that, come the next election, there’s every chance he will be elected mayor. It was important to look confident – he realized that very early on. After all, there was a terrible tendency among adults to look at children travelling alone as if they were planning a crime of some sort. None of them ever thought that it might just be a young chap on his way to see the world and have a great adventure. They were so small-minded, grown-ups. That was one of their many problems.
I must always be looking ahead as if I’m expecting to see someone I know, he told himself. Behave like a person with a destination in mind, then there’s less chance of my being stopped or asked my business. When I see people, he thought, I’ll pick up the pace a little, as if I’m in a terrible hurry and am sure to be beaten black and blue if I don’t get where I’m going when I’m supposed to be there.
It wasn’t long before he reached the first village, and by the time he got there he was starting to feel a little hungry as he hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before. The smell of eggs and bacon spilled out from the open windows of the houses that ran up and down the streets. He licked his lips and looked at the windowsills. In the books he had read, grown-ups often left pies and cakes there with steam rising out of their peaked pastry hats, just so ravenous boys like him could come along and steal them away. But no one seemed to be that stupid in the first village. Or maybe they just hadn’t read the same books as he had.
But then, a stroke of good luck! An apple tree appeared before him. It hadn’t been there a moment before – at least he hadn’t noticed it – but here it was now, standing tall and proud in the early morning breeze, its branches weighed down with shiny green apples. He pulled up short and grinned, delighted by his discovery, because he loved apples so much, his mother always said that one day, if he wasn’t careful, he would turn into an apple. (And that would definitely get his name in the papers.)
Breakfast! he thought, running forward, but as he did so, one of the branches of the tree – the one that had been leaning most towards him – seemed to rise up a little and press itself closer to the trunk, as if somehow it knew that he’d been planning on stealing one of its treasures.
‘How extraordinary!’ said Noah, hesitating for a moment before stepping forward again.
This time the tree made a great grunting sound – a similar noise to the one his father always made when he was reading the newspaper and Noah kept bothering him to come outside and play football – and if he hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn that the tree was edging its way to the left, moving away from him, its branches pressing even tighter to the trunk now, its apples trembling a little in fright.
‘But it can’t be,’ he decided, shaking his head. ‘Trees don’t move. And apples certainly don’t tremble.’
And yet it was moving. It was most certainly moving. It even seemed to be speaking to him. But what was it saying? A quiet voice whispering beneath the bark . . . ‘No, no, please, no, don’t, I beg of you, no, no . . .’
Well, that’s enough nonsense for this time of the morning, Noah decided, throwing himself against the tree, which immediately froze as he wrapped his arms around it and plucked three apples – one, two, three – off the branches before jumping away again, popping one in his left-hand pocket, one in his right, and taking a great bite out of the third in triumph.
The tree wasn’t moving at all now; if anything, it seemed to be drooping a little.
‘Well, I was hungry!’ he cried aloud, as if he had to explain himself to the tree. ‘What was I to do?’ The tree didn’t respond, and Noah shrugged his shoulders and walked away, feeling a little guilty as he did so but shaking his head quickly as if he could throw those emotions out of his ears and leave them behind, bouncing up and down on the pebbled streets of the first village.
But just at that moment a voice called out from behind him – ‘Hey, you!’ – and he turned to see a man marching quickly in his direction. ‘I saw you!’ the man cried, stabbing a gnarly finger in the air over and over. ‘What do you think you’re doing, eh?’
Noah froze for a moment, then turned on his heel and started running. He couldn’t be caught this quickly. He couldn’t allow himself to be sent back. And so, without a moment’s hesitation, he ran away from the man as fast as he could, leaving behind him a trail of dust that gathered up into a dark cloud and rained down on the first village for the rest of the morning, covering the gardens and freshly bedded spring plants, making the villagers cough and splutter for hours on end – a trail of destruction for which Noah didn’t even realize he was responsible.
In fact, it wasn’t until he was sure he was no longer being chased that he slowed down, and this was when he realized that the apple in his left-hand pocket had fallen out while he was running.
Never mind, he thought, I still have the one in my right.
But no, that was gone too, and he hadn’t even heard it fall.
Annoying! he thought. But at least I have the one in my hand—
But no, somewhere along the way that had vanished too, and he hadn’t even noticed.
How extraordinary! he thought, continuing on his way, a little more disheartened now, trying not to think about how hungry he still was. One bite of an apple, after all, is hardly a satisfying breakfast for an eight-year-old boy, especially one who’s on his way to see the world and have a great adventure.
From the Hardcover edition.
In the hallway he took his coat off the hook but didn’t put his shoes on until he had already left the house. He walked down the laneway, opened the gate, went through and closed it again, treading as lightly as he could in case his parents heard the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his feet and came downstairs to investigate.
It was still dark at this hour and Noah had to squint to make out the road that twisted and turned up ahead. The growing light would allow him to sense any danger that might be lurking in the shadows. When he got to the end of the first quarter-mile, at just that point where he could turn round one last time and still make out his home in the distance, he stared at the smoke rising from the chimney that stretched upwards from the kitchen fireplace and thought of his family inside, all safely tucked up in their beds, unaware that he was leaving them for ever. And despite himself, he felt a little sad.
Am I doing the right thing? he wondered, a great blanket of happy memories trying to break through and smother the fresher, sadder ones.
But he had no choice. He couldn’t bear to stay any longer. No one could blame him for that, surely. Anyway, it was probably best that he went out to make his own way in the world. After all, he was already eight years old and the truth was, he hadn’t really done anything with his life so far.
A boy in his class, Charlie Charlton, had appeared in the local newspaper when he was only seven, because the Queen had come to open a day centre for all the grannies and grandads in the village, and he had been chosen to hand her a bunch of flowers and say, We’re SO delighted you could make the journey, ma’am. A photograph had been taken where Charlie was grinning like the Cheshire cat as he presented the bouquet, and the Queen wore an expression that suggested she had smelled something funny but was far too well-brought-up to comment on it; he’d seen that expression on the Queen’s face before and it always made him giggle. The photo had been placed on the school notice board the following day and had remained there until someone – not Noah – had drawn a moustache on Her Majesty’s face and written some rude words in a speech bubble coming out of her mouth that nearly gave the headmaster, Mr Tushingham, a stroke.
The whole thing had caused a terrible scandal, but at least Charlie Charlton had got his face in the papers and been the toast of the schoolyard for a few days. What had Noah ever done with his life to compare with that? Nothing. Why, only a few days before he’d tried to make a list of all his achievements, and this is what he’d come up with:
1. I have read fourteen books from cover to cover.
2. I won the bronze medal in the 500 metres at Sports Day last year and would have won silver if Breiffni O’Neill hadn’t jumped the gun and got a head start.
3. I know the capital of Portugal. (It’s Lisbon.)
4. I may be small for my age but I’m the seventh cleverest boy in my class.
5. I am an excellent speller.
Five achievements at eight years of age, he thought at the time, shaking his head and pressing the tip of his pencil to his tongue even though his teacher, Miss Bright, screamed whenever anyone did that and said they would get lead poisoning. That’s one achievement for every . . . He thought about it and did a series of quick calculations on a bit of scrap paper. One achievement for every one year, seven months and six days. Not very impressive at all.
He tried to tell himself that this was the reason he was leaving home, because it seemed a lot more adventurous than the real reason, which was something he didn’t want to think about. Not this early in the morning anyway.
And so here he was, out on his own, a young soldier on his way to battle. He turned round, thinking to himself, That’s it! I’ll never see that house again now! and continued on his way, strolling along with the air of a man who knows that, come the next election, there’s every chance he will be elected mayor. It was important to look confident – he realized that very early on. After all, there was a terrible tendency among adults to look at children travelling alone as if they were planning a crime of some sort. None of them ever thought that it might just be a young chap on his way to see the world and have a great adventure. They were so small-minded, grown-ups. That was one of their many problems.
I must always be looking ahead as if I’m expecting to see someone I know, he told himself. Behave like a person with a destination in mind, then there’s less chance of my being stopped or asked my business. When I see people, he thought, I’ll pick up the pace a little, as if I’m in a terrible hurry and am sure to be beaten black and blue if I don’t get where I’m going when I’m supposed to be there.
It wasn’t long before he reached the first village, and by the time he got there he was starting to feel a little hungry as he hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before. The smell of eggs and bacon spilled out from the open windows of the houses that ran up and down the streets. He licked his lips and looked at the windowsills. In the books he had read, grown-ups often left pies and cakes there with steam rising out of their peaked pastry hats, just so ravenous boys like him could come along and steal them away. But no one seemed to be that stupid in the first village. Or maybe they just hadn’t read the same books as he had.
But then, a stroke of good luck! An apple tree appeared before him. It hadn’t been there a moment before – at least he hadn’t noticed it – but here it was now, standing tall and proud in the early morning breeze, its branches weighed down with shiny green apples. He pulled up short and grinned, delighted by his discovery, because he loved apples so much, his mother always said that one day, if he wasn’t careful, he would turn into an apple. (And that would definitely get his name in the papers.)
Breakfast! he thought, running forward, but as he did so, one of the branches of the tree – the one that had been leaning most towards him – seemed to rise up a little and press itself closer to the trunk, as if somehow it knew that he’d been planning on stealing one of its treasures.
‘How extraordinary!’ said Noah, hesitating for a moment before stepping forward again.
This time the tree made a great grunting sound – a similar noise to the one his father always made when he was reading the newspaper and Noah kept bothering him to come outside and play football – and if he hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn that the tree was edging its way to the left, moving away from him, its branches pressing even tighter to the trunk now, its apples trembling a little in fright.
‘But it can’t be,’ he decided, shaking his head. ‘Trees don’t move. And apples certainly don’t tremble.’
And yet it was moving. It was most certainly moving. It even seemed to be speaking to him. But what was it saying? A quiet voice whispering beneath the bark . . . ‘No, no, please, no, don’t, I beg of you, no, no . . .’
Well, that’s enough nonsense for this time of the morning, Noah decided, throwing himself against the tree, which immediately froze as he wrapped his arms around it and plucked three apples – one, two, three – off the branches before jumping away again, popping one in his left-hand pocket, one in his right, and taking a great bite out of the third in triumph.
The tree wasn’t moving at all now; if anything, it seemed to be drooping a little.
‘Well, I was hungry!’ he cried aloud, as if he had to explain himself to the tree. ‘What was I to do?’ The tree didn’t respond, and Noah shrugged his shoulders and walked away, feeling a little guilty as he did so but shaking his head quickly as if he could throw those emotions out of his ears and leave them behind, bouncing up and down on the pebbled streets of the first village.
But just at that moment a voice called out from behind him – ‘Hey, you!’ – and he turned to see a man marching quickly in his direction. ‘I saw you!’ the man cried, stabbing a gnarly finger in the air over and over. ‘What do you think you’re doing, eh?’
Noah froze for a moment, then turned on his heel and started running. He couldn’t be caught this quickly. He couldn’t allow himself to be sent back. And so, without a moment’s hesitation, he ran away from the man as fast as he could, leaving behind him a trail of dust that gathered up into a dark cloud and rained down on the first village for the rest of the morning, covering the gardens and freshly bedded spring plants, making the villagers cough and splutter for hours on end – a trail of destruction for which Noah didn’t even realize he was responsible.
In fact, it wasn’t until he was sure he was no longer being chased that he slowed down, and this was when he realized that the apple in his left-hand pocket had fallen out while he was running.
Never mind, he thought, I still have the one in my right.
But no, that was gone too, and he hadn’t even heard it fall.
Annoying! he thought. But at least I have the one in my hand—
But no, somewhere along the way that had vanished too, and he hadn’t even noticed.
How extraordinary! he thought, continuing on his way, a little more disheartened now, trying not to think about how hungry he still was. One bite of an apple, after all, is hardly a satisfying breakfast for an eight-year-old boy, especially one who’s on his way to see the world and have a great adventure.
From the Hardcover edition.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherDoubleday Canada
- Publication date2012
- ISBN 10 0385675992
- ISBN 13 9780385675994
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages240
- IllustratorJeffers Oliver
- Rating
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