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The Dark Is Rising Sequence: Over Sea, Under Stone; The Dark Is Rising; Greenwitch; The Grey King; Silver on the Tree (Englisch) Gebundene Ausgabe – 11. Juni 2013

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Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende

Susan Cooper is the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for Lifetime Achievement. Her classic five-book fantasy sequence The Dark Is Rising won the Newbery Medal and a Newbery Honor and has sold millions of copies worldwide. She is also the author of Victory, a Booklist Top Ten Historical Fiction for Youth book and a Washington Post Top Ten for Children novel; King of Shadows, a Boston Globe-Horn Book Award Honor book; The Boggart; Seaward; Ghost Hawk; and many other acclaimed novels for young readers and listeners. She lives in Massachusetts, and you can visit her online at TheLostLand.com.

Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Dark is Rising

• Midwinter’s Eve •


“Too many!” James shouted, and slammed the door behind him.

“What?” said Will.

“Too many kids in this family, that’s what. Just too many.” James stood fuming on the landing like a small angry locomotive, then stumped across to the window-seat and stared out at the garden. Will put aside his book and pulled up his legs to make room. “I could hear all the yelling,” he said, chin on knees.

“Wasn’t anything,” James said. “Just stupid Barbara again. Bossing. Pick up this, don’t touch that. And Mary joining in, twitter twitter twitter. You’d think this house was big enough, but there’s always people.”

They both looked out of the window. The snow lay thin and apologetic over the world. That wide grey sweep was the lawn, with the straggling trees of the orchard still dark beyond; the white squares were the roofs of the garage, the old barn, the rabbit hutches, the chicken coops. Further back there were only the flat fields of Dawsons’ Farm, dimly white-striped. All the broad sky was grey, full of more snow that refused to fall. There was no colour anywhere.

“Four days to Christmas,” Will said. “I wish it would snow properly.”

“And your birthday tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” He had been going to say that too, but it would have been too much like a reminder. And the gift he most wished for on his birthday was something nobody could give him: it was snow, beautiful, deep, blanketing snow, and it never came. At least this year there was the grey sprinkle, better than nothing.

He said, remembering a duty: “I haven’t fed the rabbits yet. Want to come?”

Booted and muffled, they clumped out through the sprawling kitchen. A full symphony orchestra was swelling out of the radio; their eldest sister Gwen was slicing onions and singing; their mother was bent broad-beamed and red-faced over an oven. “Rabbits!” she shouted, when she caught sight of them. “And some more hay from the farm!”

“We’re going!” Will shouted back. The radio let out a sudden hideous crackle of static as he passed the table. He jumped. Mrs Stanton shrieked, “Turn that thing DOWN.”

Outdoors, it was suddenly very quiet. Will dipped out a pail of pellets from the bin in the farm-smelling barn, which was not really a barn at all, but a long, low building with a tiled roof, once a stable. They tramped through the thin snow to the row of heavy wooden hutches, leaving dark footmarks on the hard frozen ground.

Opening doors to fill the feed-boxes, Will paused, frowning. Normally the rabbits would be huddled sleepily in corners, only the greedy ones coming twitch-nosed forward to eat. Today they seemed restless and uneasy, rustling to and fro, banging against their wooden walls; one or two even leapt back in alarm when he opened their doors. He came to his favourite rabbit, named Chelsea, and reached in as usual to rub him affectionately behind the ears, but the animal scuffled back away from him and cringed into a corner, the pink-rimmed eyes staring up blank and terrified.

“Hey!” Will said, disturbed. “Hey James, look at that. What’s the matter with him? And all of them?”

“They seem all right to me.”

“Well, they don’t to me. They’re all jumpy. Even Chelsea. Hey, come on, boy—” But it was no good.

“Funny,” James said with mild interest, watching. “I dare say your hands smell wrong. You must have touched something they don’t like. Same as dogs and aniseed, but the other way round.”

“I haven’t touched anything. Matter of fact, I’d just washed my hands when I saw you.”

“There you are then,” James said promptly. “That’s the trouble. They’ve never smelt you clean before. Probably all die of shock.”

“Ha very ha.” Will attacked him, and they scuffled together, grinning, while the empty pail toppled rattling on the hard ground. But when he glanced back as they left, the animals were still moving distractedly, not eating yet, staring after him with those strange frightened wide eyes.

“There might be a fox about again, I suppose,” James said. “Remind me to tell Mum.” No fox could get at the rabbits, in their sturdy row, but the chickens were more vulnerable; a family of foxes had broken into one of the henhouses the previous winter and carried off six nicely fattened birds just before marketing time. Mrs Stanton, who relied on the chicken-money each year to help pay for eleven Christmas presents, had been so furious she had kept watch afterwards in the cold barn two nights running, but the villains had not come back. Will thought that if he were a fox he would have kept clear too; his mother might be married to a jeweller, but with generations of Buckinghamshire farmers behind her, she was no joke when the old instincts were roused.

Tugging the handcart, a home-made contraption with a bar joining its shafts, he and James made their way down the curve of the overgrown drive and out along the road to Dawsons’ Farm. Quickly past the churchyard, its great dark yew trees leaning out over the crumbling wall; more slowly by Rooks’ Wood, on the corner of Church Lane. The tall spinney of horse-chestnut trees, raucous with the calling of the rooks and rubbish-roofed with the clutter of their sprawling nests, was one of their familiar places.

“Hark at the rooks! Something’s disturbed them.” The harsh irregular chorus was deafening, and when Will looked up at the treetops he saw the sky dark with wheeling birds. They flapped and drifted to and fro; there were no flurries of sudden movement, only this clamorous interweaving throng of rooks.

“An owl?”

“They’re not chasing anything. Come on, Will, it’ll be getting dark soon.”

“That’s why it’s so odd for the rooks to be in a fuss. They all ought to be roosting by now.” Will turned his head reluctantly down again, but then jumped and clutched his brother’s arm, his eye caught by a movement in the darkening lane that led away from the road where they stood. Church Lane: it ran between Rooks’ Wood and the churchyard to the tiny local church, and then on to the River Thames.

“Hey!”

“What’s up?”

“There’s someone over there. Or there was. Looking at us.”

James sighed. “So what? Just someone out for a walk.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Will screwed up his eyes nervously, peering down the little side road. “It was a weird-looking man all hunched over, and when he saw me looking he ran off behind a tree. Scuttled, like a beetle.”

James heaved at the handcart and set off up the road, making Will run to keep up. “It’s just a tramp, then. I dunno, everyone seems to be going batty today—Barb and the rabbits and the rooks and now you all yak-twitchetty-yakking. Come on, let’s get that hay. I want my tea.”

The handcart bumped through the frozen ruts into Dawsons’ yard, the great earthen square enclosed by buildings on three sides, and they smelt the familiar farm-smell. The cowshed must have been mucked out that day; Old George, the toothless cattleman, was piling dung across the yard. He raised a hand to them. Nothing missed Old George; he could see a hawk drop from a mile away.... -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Taschenbuch.


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This series of books made me want to be a writer when I grew up. I remember distinctly reading these books and realizing the power that authors have to create a world and populate it with living characters. Ms. Cooper has created a universe in which magic lives just under the surface of the "real" world--her theme, that the power of magic is accessible to believers, and that we have a responsibility to fight against evil in both the real and magical realms, continues to resonate with me and many other readers.
I highly recommend The Dark is Rising series to children and adults. It's for a slightly older audience than the Harry Potter series, and makes a nice next level for kids who want more.
I am thrilled that the series is still available and I am adding it to my collection in the hope of passing it on to the children in my life. That, and I'm going to re-read them myself-- they're just too good to pass up!
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I first read The Dark is Rising when I was 11, the same age as the main character. I had already devoured the Chronicles of Narnia and loved the genre. Reading that book was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. It is ten years later, and I have read all five books at least half a dozen times, and The Dark is Rising probably 25 or 30 times. I simply never tire of these amazing novels. They opened a whole world to me, full of Welsh and Cornish legends, magic, and so much more. Before there was Harry Potter, there were these novels. Having read J.K. Rowling's series, which is very nice, I can say with no hesitation that these books are a thousand times better. This series is a must-read for both children and adults. I cannot recommend it enough.
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I had never heard of these books until I got them for a birthday present several years ago, and I didn't read them for awhile. But when I did - I was stunned (and was kicking myself for not having read them sooner). These are truly great books. Susan Cooper has a writing style that is perfect for these stories of mythological drama and power. At some parts, I get goosebumps from reading because she has such fabulous writing skills, and at the end of the last book, I almost cried - not many books can move me that much. This series is fairly long. It's over a thousand pages, small print. The reader never loses interest because the plot is so intricate, captivating, believable (even when magical doings are occurring right and left - this is a great quality not many books have) and complex that every single page is needed to bring the story to the big climactic confrontation. There are so many complexities and inconspicuous yet important details that you can discover things on the third or fourth readings that you never noticed the first two times. For example, in "Silver on the Tree," Gwion tells Bran and Will that three golden shields were made by King Gwyddno Garanhir for the Light, which took two to places of danger and left the third in Caer Wydyr. I didn't notice until the second or third reading that the other two shields were mentioned in earlier books: one is on the wall with the doors in the room where Will first meets Merriman and the Lady, and the other is on the back of the rocky wall with the doors leading into Craig yr Arden, Bird Rock. Another aspect of the plot is the mystery of it - some of them unsolved.Lesen Sie weiter... ›
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Ich kannte als Kind nur "The Dark is rising" in der deutschen Ausgabe (Wintersonnenwende). Das habe ich viele Male gelesen und heiß geliebt. Die Geschichte unglaublich mitreißend, manchmal begeisternd, manchmal bedrückend, immer überzeugend. Krähen im Schnee sind mir seither suspekt. ;)
Als längst Erwachsene entdeckte ich, dass Wintersonnenwende Teil einer fünfteiligen Serie ist. Da die Bücher auf deutsch nicht mehr alle zu bekommen waren, habe ich mir kurzerhand diese Kassette mit der englischen Ausgabe bestellt. Die anderen Bücher finde ich teilweise kindlicher von der Sprache. Überraschend auch, dass die Protagonisten aus "The Dark is rising" andere sind als im Rest der Serie. Aber die Geschichte ist insgesamt wundervoll ausgedacht und geschrieben. Empfehlenswert.
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These books are without a doubt THE BEST that I have ever read. I first opened them around the age of 8 and devoured ALL of them in an astounding amount of time. They are written as a modern resurgence of ancient celtic mythology. They educate the reader about ancient mythos without their even realizing it (I have read them at least a DOZEN times and it took me awhile to understand this). these novels are much like the Chronicles of Narnia (by C.S. Lewis) in that they are a great story, which has deeper levels if you care to delve into them. The best method I can use to get people to read these is to tell you about my brother. He is a 10 year old boy who is active in sports and hates reading. For school he had to read a book of his choice and I told him to try The Dark Is Rising. It took some doing, but when he really started reading it, he couldn't put it down. Soon after, he read every other book in the series until he had read them all (and was desiring more)
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