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Narrated by Henry Levya
Phyllis Reynolds NaylorUnabridged — 3 hours, 9 minutes
Narrated by Henry Levya
Phyllis Reynolds NaylorUnabridged — 3 hours, 9 minutes
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The finale to Naylor's Shiloh trilogy "retains the same flavorful style" of its predecessors, said PW, and favors a "high-action plot, involving dead bodies, runaway prisoners and life-and-death rescues." Ages 8-12. (Feb.)
Gr 4-7The final volume in what is certain to become a classic trilogy, Saving Shiloh completes the story of Marty Preston; his beagle, Shiloh; and his neighbor, Judd Travers, begun in Shiloh (1991) and continued in Shiloh Season (1996, both Atheneum). Marty and his family try to help Judd change his mean ways, treating him with respect and trusting him, even while rumors persist in the community that he has murdered a man and is responsible for a series of robberies. Marty struggles to understand whether someone can change, and whether everyone deserves a second chance. In the story's climax, a flooded river that sweeps away Marty's sister and Shiloh provides the setting for the boy's questions to be answered and Judd to become an unlikely hero. The redemptive power of trust and caring is clear; Marty learns that people, like dogs, can change if they are treated well. He also realizes that Judd's own childhood abuse contributed to his behavior. The West Virginia setting is wonderfully rendered, the dialect is authentic, the characters are memorable, and the narration is nicely paced. Marty's voice, so sincere and endearing, contributes greatly to the book's success. This powerful story of redemption leaves readers feeling good. While it can stand alone, readers won't want to miss the experience of reading the whole trilogy.Connie Tyrrell Burns, Mahoney Middle School, South Portland, ME
In this story of a boy and his dog, and the brutal, angry man who finds the road to redemption at last, Naylor rounds off a trilogy that began with Shiloh (1991).
The good news is that the dog doesn't die, although Marty, the narrator, gives readers that impression on the first page. Judd Travers has stopped drinking and become less hostile; nonetheless, years of bad feelings have left their mark, and his is the name that comes up most often in conjunction with a murder and some local robberies. Marty is half-willing to give Judd the benefit of the doubt—and so defends the man to schoolmates on the bus, and even pays him an occasional visit. Judd shows signs of authentic human feeling, actually laughing and joking (readers of the first two books will be shocked), and grieving when he must kill one of his hunting dogs. Judd proves innocent of the crimes, too, and in the climax risks his life to save Shiloh from drowning. That earns a hug from Marty, and only readers familiar with the first books will be able to appreciate how far Judd has come when he hugs back. Subplots and extraneous incidents loosen the story's weave, but Naylor's use of present tense adds immediacy to events, and Marty's path to reconciliation with Judd, and to a parallel truce with his pesky little sister Dara Lynn, will go straight to readers' hearts.
"Reads like a nail-biting mystery...Gripping and ultimately satisfying. [A] masterfully written conclusion to a sterling trilogy."
— Booklist, starred review
| BN ID: | 2940169264067 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 07/05/2000 |
| Series: | Shiloh , #3 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Age Range: | 8 - 11 Years |
Chapter One
There's one last thing to say about Shiloh before the story's over. I guess a dog's story ain't — isn't — ever over, even after he dies, 'cause if you lose a pet, you still go on loving him. But I couldn't bring myself to tell this part until now; of all the stuff that's happened, this was the scariest, and just thinking on it starts my hands to sweat.
When I first tried to get Shiloh from Judd Travers, who was treating that dog meaner than mud, at least there was a chance that if I couldn't have him for my own, Judd would let him live.
And even after Judd turns his beagle over to me, then starts drinkin' and talkin' ugly, there's hope he never meant it. But sometimes hope seems out of human hands entirely, and when the third thing happened . . . well, here's all that's left to tell.
Next to Christmas, I guess, Halloween is big in West Virginia — out where we live, anyway, which is the little community of Shiloh, up the winding road from Friendly there on the Ohio River. It's because I first saw the little dog here in Shiloh that I named him what I did.
To get to our house, you go through this place called Little — you'll know it by the church — and you keep going along Middle Island Creek, wide as a river, till you see this old falling-down gristmill. It's right by this rusty bridge, and just over the bridge, you'll see the old Shiloh schoolhouse. SHILOH SCHOOL — 1920-1957, reads a sign above the door, like a gravestone or something. I seen plenty of buildings got the date on them when they were built, but I never seen a building got the date when it died.
We live on the side of the creek near the mill, up the lane in a two-bedroom house. You sit out on the steps of an evening, don't move even your little finger, and pretty soon a buck will step out of the trees, a doe or two behind him, and parade across your field just as grand as you please. Now you tell me how many sixth-grade boys in the United States of America got somethin' like that to look on!
"What you going to be for Halloween next year, Marty?" asks Dara Lynn at supper. Halloween is over and gone, see, and already my skinny seven-year-old sister is thinkin' about the next. With her there's never no question. She dresses up like a witch every single year just so Ma can paint her fingernails black.
"I don't know," I tell her. "A ghoul, maybe."
"What's a ghoul?" asks Becky, who's three.
"Halfway between a ghost and a zombie," I say.
"Like a vampire?" asks Dara Lynn. Dara Lynn's big on vampires.
"New. Its skin is green, and it don't suck blood," I say.
"Marty!" Ma scolds, nodding toward my littlest sister.
We're having biscuits with sausage gravy for dinner, and there's nothing in the world I love more than sausage gravy. Except Shiloh, of course. And Shiloh loves that gravy, too, 'cause all through supper he's sittin' beside my chair with his muzzle on my leg, just waiting for me to finish up and pass that plate down to him so's he can lick up every last bit.
"I'm going to be a bunny," says Becky.
"Bunnies don't scare no one!" says Dara Lynn. "Why don't you be a pirate or something?"
"I don't want to scare no one," says Becky.
I guess there are two things I love more than sausage gravy: Shiloh and Becky.
Dad's washing up at the sink. We wait for him if we can, but sometimes his mail route takes longer than he thinks, and Becky gets hungry, so we eat.
"Passed by Sweeneys' house on the way home, and two of those straw men they rigged up on their porch have fallen over and been dragged out in the yard by their dogs," Dad says, sitting down at the table. "Look like a couple of drunks keeled over on the grass."
"Those straw men in overalls don't scare nobody," says Dara Lynn. "I want a dead man on our porch next Halloween with a face as white as flour."
"What's Shiloh going to be?" chirps Becky.
"He ain't going to be anything but his own self," I tell her. "Nobody messing with my dog."
"All this talk of Halloween, when Thanksgiving's right around the corner!" says Ma.
I guess there isn't that much to holler about where we live, so when a special day comes along, you want to hang on to it — keep Halloween stuff around till Christmas, and Christmas lights goin' till Easter. I'm thinking how Ma wouldn't let us go trick-or-treating this year, though — not by ourselves.
"Houses too far apart for you kids to be walking out on the road," she'd said.
Well, the houses weren't any farther apart this year than last, and Dara Lynn and me went out then. But this time Dad drove us to the Halloween parade in Sistersville, and we had to do all our trick-ortreating there. I knew Ma was thinking of Judd Travers and the accident he'd had a month ago out on the road, drunk as he was. Knew she didn't want some other drunk to run his car into one of us.
Dara Lynn must have guessed what I'm thinking, 'cause she jokes, "We could always stuff Judd Travers and put him up on our porch. He'd scare off anybody."
"Hush," scolds Ma.
"There's enough talk going around about Judd Travers without you adding your two cents' worth," says Dad.
My ears prick up right quick. "What kind of talk?"
"None that makes one bit of sense," Dad tells me. "The man paid his fine for drunk driving, he busted up his leg and his truck besides, and as far as I can tell, he's trying to turn himself around. You'd think folks would want to help."
"I thought they were," I say. "Whelan's Garage fixed his truck up for him; people were takin' him groceries...."
"That was when he was flat on his back, when he was really down. Now that he's on his feet again, there's the feeling around here that he got off way too easy. Heard Ed Sholt say as much down at the hardware store last week. Said we ought to keep Judd on the hot seat, let him know his kind wasn't wanted around here, and maybe he'd move somewhere else."
That sure would solve a lot of problems, I'm thinking. Ma wouldn't be so afraid for us kids out on the road, Dad wouldn't have to worry about Judd hunting up in our woods where a stray bullet could find its way down to our place, and I could rest easy that Judd wouldn't look for excuses to take Shiloh back; that he wouldn't hurt my dog out of spite, he ever got the chance. I think maybe I like the idea just fine.
"But what if he doesn't move?" says Ma. "What if everybody starts treatin' him worse'n dirt, and he stays right where he is?"
And suddenly I see a meaner Judd Travers than we ever saw before. Madder, too. I think how he used to kick Shiloh — even took a shot at the log where Shiloh and me were sitting once. A meaner Judd than that?
"Way I look at it," Dad goes on, "is that Judd's doing fine so far, and we ought to wait and see what happens."
Dara Lynn's got a mouth on her, though. "Ha! He's still got his leg in a cast," she says. "Get that cast off, and he'll be just as bad as before."
"Well, I believe in giving a man a second chance," Dad tells her.
"Beginning now," says Ma, fixing her eyes on us. "Your dad and I have talked about it, and we're inviting Judd here for Thanksgiving dinner."
Dara Lynn rolls her eyes and falls back in her chair. "Good-bye turkey!" she says, meaning she won't have no appetite come the fourth Thursday in November. As for me, I lose my appetite that very minute and set my plate on the floor.
Copyright© 1997 by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
