EBOOK
About
A chilling new young adult novel about a cursed river and a village's dark secret, perfect for fans of Stranger Things!
The North American debut of 2-time UK Carnegie Medal nominee Darren Simpson.
Nobody talks about the strange happenings in Maimsbury. No one speaks of the hooded figures glimpsed in the woods, nor the children's game that went so horribly wrong. But most of all, nobody dares whisper their doubts about the river they have worshipped for centuries.
Like everyone in Maimsbury, Gorse is used to the sacrifices made every spring to the River Yeelde. The life of a farm animal - in return for a year of plenty - seems a fair trade. That is, until a tragedy leads him to a blood-curdling discovery.
Because this year is a Brim Year, and after giving so much, the river needs more than an animal's life to sate its thirst...
Thirst is a gloriously spooky, folklore-inspired novel perfect for YA horror fans. Blending page-turning storytelling with powerful social commentary, 2-time UK Carnegie Medal nominee Darren Simpson delivers a savage critique on how we justify sacrificing others for our own good, and the importance of pushing back against the status quo when it is harmful or outdated.
Brilliant and bloodthirsty, this breathless narrative creeps up on you just like the infernal river that encaptures Maimsbury's inhabitants in its deadly thrall. "Darren Simpson's Thirst draws on folk horror, with its focus on the evil that men do in service of tradition and superstition, and combines it with quintessential coming-of-age quandaries... Creepy and thought-provoking."
-Irish Times Darren Simpson is the critically acclaimed author of Scavengers, The Memory Thieves, Furthermoor and Thirst. His award-winning books have been translated into several languages and he's been nominated twice for the prestigious Carnegie Medal. He also once won a budgie at school. Darren lives with his wife and sons in Nottingham and loves long walks with headphones, playing the drums and reading in bed on rainy Sunday mornings. Gorse felt the scratch of thorn, the trickle of blood. But still he ran on, ducking along the undergrowth and diving through bramble. The forest's canopy rolled by above his head, and though his breaths came loud and hard, he could hear his pursuer gaining on him, kicking through shrubs not far behind.
"Hop with haste, oh little hare," sang a panting voice. "This hungry hound your flesh will tear."
Gorse couldn't outrun Burdock-he'd always been the slower of the two-so he tried to outmanoeuvre him by gripping a low branch and swinging himself around its tree. He was sprinting suddenly in the opposite direction, and Burdock-skidding to a stop as Gorse whipped by-swore and stretched out his fingers. He grasped at empty air, just short of Gorse's sleeve.
Gorse thought he'd gained a decent lead until a misjudged step sent him staggering across some roots. He cursed himself for tripping-he knew these woods so much better than that-and tried to recover his pace. Burdock howled, his laughter growing shriller as the distance shrank between them. Gorse heard a grunt, felt hands grasp his ankle. Burdock had thrown himself forward to grab his leg; they tumbled together through dirt and scrub.
"Got you!" cackled Burdock.
Gorse laughed with him-the music of boys not quite a decade of age. Still floored on the mossy ground, he tried to pull his leg free. But Burdock held fast.
"Sing it," said Burdock. "I won't let go 'til you sing it. You know the rules."
Sighing, Gorse sang the old song. "Oh hungry hound, tear the ears from my skull. Together as dogs these hares we'll cull."
"That's right." Burdock let go and slapped Gorse's arm as they got to their feet. "You're a hound now. We need to find the last hare."
Gorse turned on the spot, searching the dimming woods. "Tansy," he said, then felt Burdock touch his cheek. He glanced ac
The North American debut of 2-time UK Carnegie Medal nominee Darren Simpson.
Nobody talks about the strange happenings in Maimsbury. No one speaks of the hooded figures glimpsed in the woods, nor the children's game that went so horribly wrong. But most of all, nobody dares whisper their doubts about the river they have worshipped for centuries.
Like everyone in Maimsbury, Gorse is used to the sacrifices made every spring to the River Yeelde. The life of a farm animal - in return for a year of plenty - seems a fair trade. That is, until a tragedy leads him to a blood-curdling discovery.
Because this year is a Brim Year, and after giving so much, the river needs more than an animal's life to sate its thirst...
Thirst is a gloriously spooky, folklore-inspired novel perfect for YA horror fans. Blending page-turning storytelling with powerful social commentary, 2-time UK Carnegie Medal nominee Darren Simpson delivers a savage critique on how we justify sacrificing others for our own good, and the importance of pushing back against the status quo when it is harmful or outdated.
Brilliant and bloodthirsty, this breathless narrative creeps up on you just like the infernal river that encaptures Maimsbury's inhabitants in its deadly thrall. "Darren Simpson's Thirst draws on folk horror, with its focus on the evil that men do in service of tradition and superstition, and combines it with quintessential coming-of-age quandaries... Creepy and thought-provoking."
-Irish Times Darren Simpson is the critically acclaimed author of Scavengers, The Memory Thieves, Furthermoor and Thirst. His award-winning books have been translated into several languages and he's been nominated twice for the prestigious Carnegie Medal. He also once won a budgie at school. Darren lives with his wife and sons in Nottingham and loves long walks with headphones, playing the drums and reading in bed on rainy Sunday mornings. Gorse felt the scratch of thorn, the trickle of blood. But still he ran on, ducking along the undergrowth and diving through bramble. The forest's canopy rolled by above his head, and though his breaths came loud and hard, he could hear his pursuer gaining on him, kicking through shrubs not far behind.
"Hop with haste, oh little hare," sang a panting voice. "This hungry hound your flesh will tear."
Gorse couldn't outrun Burdock-he'd always been the slower of the two-so he tried to outmanoeuvre him by gripping a low branch and swinging himself around its tree. He was sprinting suddenly in the opposite direction, and Burdock-skidding to a stop as Gorse whipped by-swore and stretched out his fingers. He grasped at empty air, just short of Gorse's sleeve.
Gorse thought he'd gained a decent lead until a misjudged step sent him staggering across some roots. He cursed himself for tripping-he knew these woods so much better than that-and tried to recover his pace. Burdock howled, his laughter growing shriller as the distance shrank between them. Gorse heard a grunt, felt hands grasp his ankle. Burdock had thrown himself forward to grab his leg; they tumbled together through dirt and scrub.
"Got you!" cackled Burdock.
Gorse laughed with him-the music of boys not quite a decade of age. Still floored on the mossy ground, he tried to pull his leg free. But Burdock held fast.
"Sing it," said Burdock. "I won't let go 'til you sing it. You know the rules."
Sighing, Gorse sang the old song. "Oh hungry hound, tear the ears from my skull. Together as dogs these hares we'll cull."
"That's right." Burdock let go and slapped Gorse's arm as they got to their feet. "You're a hound now. We need to find the last hare."
Gorse turned on the spot, searching the dimming woods. "Tansy," he said, then felt Burdock touch his cheek. He glanced ac