In the forests of Siberia, in the first years of the 20th century, a white pony runs free with his herd. But his life changes forever when he's captured by men. Years of hard work and cruelty wear him out. When he's chosen to be one of 20 ponies to accompany the Englishman Robert Falcon Scott on his quest to become the first to reach the South Pole, he doesn't know what to expect. But the men of Scott's expedition show him kindness, something he's never known before. They also give him a name—James Pigg. As Scott's team hunkers down in Antarctica, James Pigg finds himself caught up in one of the greatest races of all time. The Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen has suddenly announced that he too means to be first to the Pole. But only one team can triumph, and not everyone can survive—not even the animals.
From the Hardcover edition.
About the author
IAIN LAWRENCE's previous novels include The Giant-Slayer, The Seance, Gemini Summer, B for Buster, Lord of the Nutcracker Men, Ghost Boy, The Lightkeeper's Daughter, as well as the Curse of the Jolly Stone trilogy: The Convicts, The Cannibals, and The Castaways; and the High Seas trilogy: The Wreckers, The Smugglers, and The Buccaneers.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt: The Winter Pony (by (author) Iain Lawrence)
I was born in the forest, at the foot of the mountains, in a meadow I knew as the grassy place. The first thing I saw was the sun shining red through the trees, and seven shaggy animals grazing on their shadows.
They were ponies. And I was a pony, my legs as weak as saplings. My mother had to nudge me to my feet the first time she fed me. But within a day, our little band was on the move. I skipped along at my mother's side, thinking I was already as fast and strong as any other pony, not knowing that the others had slowed to keep me near.
Our leader was a silvery stallion, as wary as an owl. We never crossed an open slope without him going first, standing dead still at the edge while he watched for wolves and mountain lions. He was always last to drink and last to graze, keeping guard until we'd finished. Except for one dark patch on his chest, his whole body was the color of snow. I loved to see him in the wind and the sun, with his white mane blown into shimmering streamers.
We had a route that took a year to travel, from the snow-filled valleys of winter to summer's high meadows. It brought us back every spring to a stony creek that we crossed single file. Our hooves made a lovely chuckling sound on the rocks as the water gurgled round our ankles. We climbed the bank on the other side, passed through a fringe of forest, and came to the grassy place, which I imagined to be the center of the world.
I thought everything would stay the same forever, that I would always be young and free, that day would follow day and the summers would pass by the thousands.
But even in my first year, I saw the young ponies growing older, and I saw an old one die. She was a big strong mare in the spring. But quite suddenly in the fall, she began to walk very slowly, to lag behind the herd. She didn't complain, and she didn't cry out for the rest of us to wait. She just eased herself away, and one night she wandered off to a watering place, all by herself in the darkness, and she lay down and didn't get up. I saw her in the morning, her nose just touching the frozen water, her legs splayed out like an insect's. I nudged her with my lips and found her cold and stiff, as though her body had become a stone. At that moment, I knew that nothing lived forever, that one day even I would die.
That was hard to understand. What did it mean to die? The grass didn't mind to be eaten, and the water didn't care if I drank it. But rabbits screamed when foxes pounced, and tiny mice shrieked for help as they dangled in eagles' talons. So why did the mare lie down so quietly, with no more grief or struggle than a fallen tree?
It scared me to think about it, and I was glad when the leader called me away. Across the valley, wolves were already howling the news of a fresh meal. So we hurried from there, off at a gallop through the forest. When wolves came hunting, ponies fled. We went on across a hillside, through a valley and up again, and we didn't stop until we reached the grassy place.
The next morning was exactly like my very first on earth. The sun was red again, throwing shafts of light between the branches. The ponies were scattered across the meadow, their shaggy manes hanging round their ears as they grazed on the sweet grass.
When we heard the clatter of hooves in the stream, we all looked up together. My mother had green stems drooping from each side of her mouth. The leader turned his head, his ears twitching.
At the edge of the meadow, a crow suddenly burst from a tree. I stared at the place, wondering what had frightened the bird. And out from the forest, with a shout and a cry, came four black horses with men on their backs. They came at a gallop, bounding across the clearing, hooves making thunderous beats that shook through the ground.
I had never seen a man. I had never seen a horse. I thought each pair was a single animal, a two-headed monster charging toward me.
My mother called out as she bolted. She reached the forest in two long bounds and vanished among the trees, still shrieking for me to follow. But I was too afraid to move, and the other ponies nearly bowled me over in their rush for the forest. Only the stallion stayed. He faced the four horses and reared up on his hind legs, seeming to me as tall as a tree. He flailed with his hooves, ready to take on all of the monsters at once.
They closed around him. The riders shouted. The black horses whinnied and snorted. They pranced through the grass in high, skittish steps, as though trampling foxes. And the stallion towered above them all with his silvery mane tossing this way and that.
Then one of the riders whirled away and came tearing toward me. His horse was running flat out, flinging up mud and grass from its hooves.
I cried for my mother, but she couldn't help me. I raced for the trees faster than I'd ever run before. I left the stallion to his dreadful battle and fled blindly for the forest. I heard the strange shouts of the men, the snorts of their horses, and thought that each monster had two voices. Amid their babble were the shrill cries of the stallion, full of anger and fear, and the frantic calls of my mother fading into the forest.
I followed her cries. I crashed through the bushes and wove between the trees, dashing through a hollow, hurdling a fallen pine. I stumbled, got up, and ran again. I dodged to the left; I dodged to the right, aware all the time that the monster was behind me. I could hear its deep panting and its weird cries, and the crack-crack-crack of a leather whip.
I came to the foot of a long hill. For a moment, I saw the herd of ponies above me, my mother among them, their white shapes galloping ghostly between the trees. And then a loop of rope fell over my head, and it snapped tight around my neck. I tumbled forward, my head wrenched right around until I thought my neck was broken. I lay on the ground, half strangled and breathless, as the monster glared at me with its four eyes.
I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing as the creature seemed to break in two. The man heaved himself up, then down from the saddle, and I realized the horse was much like a pony, just bigger and blacker. Without a word from the man--all by itself--the horse stepped backward to keep the rope taut around my neck. It kept staring right at me with a cold look, unconcerned by my pain. I didn't struggle; it was all I could do to keep breathing. I watched the man come walking toward me, and I wondered what sort of creature he was, that he could turn horse against pony so completely.
From the Hardcover edition.
The Winter PonyA white pony’s carefree years in Siberia’s forests end abruptly when he is captured and put to work under the constant lash of cruelty. When he is chosen to accompany Englishman Robert Falcon Scott’s quest to become the first to reach the South Pole, the last thing he expects from Scott’s men is kindness — and a name, James Pigg. Once in Antarctica, the entire crew is instantly swept up in a race to the Pole against the Norwegian Roald Amundsen. It is evident that in this frigid land, not all were meant to survive, and not all will.
With an introduction setting up the race through Antarctica, the story moves in lurches at the start. Lawrence takes the time to ease the reader into the pony’s mind frame, a simple, plain sort of telling style (“To go from a life in a forest to a life like that made me sad. I wanted to drink from a stream, not a bucket…”). James Pigg’s narrative is interspersed with short passages summarizing specifics of the two men’s journey not viewable from a pony’s perspective, and these sections tend to be more engaging than the main narrative. This is mainly because of forward movement in the passages, while the pony’s storyline consists of multiple accounts of close calls with blizzards, killer whales and illness. All of the above are realistically detailed, though repetition makes them less gripping than they could be.
Things pick up toward the end, with James Pigg’s naïve outlook finally shifting as Captain Scott shows his true colours. The negative atmosphere usually conjured by a steady stream of deaths is offset by the pony’s straightforward perspective, and the urgency of the race adds an extra boost to the pacing. Though the abrupt switch to an omniscient point of view to finish off the story is jarring, readers will pick up the story’s thread easily, eager to discover how the race across the bottom of the world ultimately ends.
Source: The Canadian Children's Bookcentre. Spring 2012. Volume 35 No. 2.
The Winter PonyA white pony is captured by men and endures years of hard work and cruelty. When he is chosen to accompany Robert Scott on his quest to the South Pole, his life changes dramatically. He is shown kindness and given a name — James Pigg. A unique account — from the point of view of the pony — of what it was like to be part of Scott’s expedition as they tried to reach the South Pole before Roald Amundsen.
Source: The Canadian Children’s Book Centre. Best Books for Kids & Teens. Spring, 2012.