Bearwalker by Joseph Bruchac, Sally Wern Comport (Illustrator)

From the Publisher

As a member of the Mohawk Bear Clan, Baron has always been fascinated by bears—their gentle strength and untamed power. But the Bearwalker legend, passed down by his ancestors, tells of a different kind of creature—a terrible mix of human and animal that looks like a bear but is really a bloodthirsty monster. The tale never seemed to be more than a scary story. Until now.

During a class camping trip deep in the Adirondacks, Baron comes face-to-face with an evil being that is all too real. Although he knows how the story ends in the legend, Baron must overcome this Bearwalker on his own terms.

Children's Literature

Baron was new in school and like any other kid, he hated being the new kid on the block. Being new was one thing, but being different was an added burden. His mom was in Baghdad, and his father had vanished two years ago in Afghanistan. He was now living with his grandmother whom he loved, but it was not the same as being with his mother. One day Mrs. Mars, the school librarian, handed him a book after seeing him in the library so often. When he saw the cover, he snatched the book so quickly out of her hand that he almost took her fingers with it. The Sacred Paw was just the thing he loved to read; ever since he was little he had loved stories, pictures, and anything about bears. He had always had a lifelong fascination with bears, plus he was a Native American from the Mohawk tribe, belonging to the Bear Clan. He remembered his mom telling him one time that his very first word had been bear. One day, Baron comes face to face with what, at first, looked like a bear and then a human. He soon realizes that the stories he had heard handed down from generation to generation were not a myth, but tales of a real live bloodthirsty monster! He would have to deal with on this monster in his own way on his own terms. This book is a great reading adventure for any young reader who is ready for the deep unknown and the adventure of a life time.

KLIATT

According to Ojibway tradition, "bearwalkers" are part bear and part human, vicious monsters driven by blood lust. On a class trip to a wilderness camp in the Adirondacks, Baron, a Mohawk 8th-grader bullied by his classmates, meets one of the counselors and immediately suspects that the man is one of these terrible creatures. When an explosion blocks the only road out of the camp and the phone lines are cut, it appears that this counselor is part of a plot to close the camp down so that some greedy men can gain control of the land. Baron must somehow escape this bearwalker—and some real bears, too—in a mad race through the woods in order to rescue himself and his classmates and foil the plot. This exciting horror story, illustrated with b/w drawings, is based on Native American folklore, like Bruchac's The Dark Pond and Skeleton Man. It's got lots of tense and rather gruesome moments, and readers will cheer Baron on as he proves himself a hero.

Kirkus Reviews

Thirteen-year-old Baron Braun has enough to deal with: new school, bullies, being short, a missing father and a mother in Iraq. He does not need a week at camp with his new classmates and those bullies. When he gets to Camp Chuckamuck, he finds that it's run by the creepy Mr. Mack. What's even more frightening is Walker White Bear who is decidedly un-Native American, despite his looks. Walker also reminds Baron of the Mohawk legends about a man who turns himself into a monster bear by killing his relatives. Without warning, the only road to camp is destroyed by scheming developers. Baron is the only hope of his classmates, and whether he's a Mohawk monster come to life or just a crazy human, Walker stands in Baron's way. Despite a plot that runs on slasher-film logic and an inconsistent use of the convention of the tale told in a journal, fans of Bruchac's short, Native American legend-inspired horror will enjoy this latest entry in the series. (Fiction. 9-12)

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Read an Excerpt

Bearwalker

Chapter One

Pioneer Junior High

I hate the name of my school. Almost as much as I hate the fact that I am the shortest kid in eighth grade. There are even sixth graders taller than me.

But I am not small enough to be forgotten by at least one person as I slouch in my corner desk with my head down.

"Baron," Mr. Wilbur says from the door of the classroom. "Come on, buddy. Let's go. Everybody else is outside."

So much for my wonderful idea. I should have known it was too good to be true when the principal announced over the PA that any student who was not outside promptly at 9 a.m. and lined up for the bus would be left behind.

I shoulder my backpack and go out the front door of the school. I'm mad that my idea about getting out of this "special experience" hasn't worked. I don't notice that Mr. Wilbur has turned back to get something and is not behind me. Mistake number one. Mistake number two is walking out in the blinding sunlight without noticing what gang of three boys is hanging around the door. The three main reasons I am dreading the days ahead.

"Oops," says a familiar voice, just before a leg hits my shin at just the right place to send me sprawling onto my face. My hands scrape the pavement, but at least I don't hit my face and get a bloody nose like I did the first time this happened to me. One thing I've learned in the time I've been at Pioneer Junior High is how to fall.

I look up over my shoulder at the big round face of Asa Denham. His long blond hair is like a halo lit by the sun around his head, but his amused expression is not that of an attentive angel. His twobuddies—who hang around him like the other two-thirds of a set of Siamese triplets—look over each of his shoulders. Ernie Crimmins and Harle Clark look just as self-satisfied as their leader. I don't know which one of the three tripped me, but they're all enjoying the spectacle of me flattened on the sidewalk like roadkill.

"Sorry," Asa says.

"Yeah," Ernie agrees. "Sorry you're such a clumsy little shrimp."

"Shrimp," Harle repeats. His imagination is limited.

Not surprisingly, seeing as how downed prey always attracts the pack, other kids have quickly gathered round.

"Fight?" someone says in a hopeful voice. As if I were about to get up just to get even more convincingly flattened.

"Yo," a foghorn tone chips in, "what happened to Baron? He trip over an ant?" It's Willy Donner, of course. Willy is a weird match for that big voice of his. He's as skinny as I am short. But he is always so quick with his sarcasm that no one ever gets a chance to make a crack about him before he makes some biting remark of his own.

Someone pushes his way in front, takes my arm and lifts me up.

"Come on, Baron," he says. It takes me a moment to realize who it is. I'd been expecting a teacher to be the one to step in, but it's not. It's Cody Campbell. Cody is not just one of the biggest, he's also the best-looking guy in the eighth grade. Sort of a teenage Brad Pitt. The girls swoon over him. And because he's the best football player in school, the guys all respect him, too. Asa and his crew have already taken a few steps backward to disappear into the crowd.

I'm still trying to get over my shock about Cody actually noticing me, much less lending a helping hand to me, when I hear the AP's brusque voice.

"Move aside," he snaps, as if he actually had to say something for the crowd to part before him like the waters of the Red Sea. No one ever wants to get on the wrong side of Assistant Principal Stark. He stares down at me as if trying to identify some lower form of life that just crawled out from under a rock.

"What's going on here, Mr. Braun?" he says. "Did I hear someone say 'fight'? Has someone been picking on you?" His hooded eyes take in the scrapes on my hands before I can put them behind my back. ZTP, I think. ZTP.

ZTP. That stands for the zero tolerance policy in effect at our school when it comes to fights. Anyone involved, including the hapless victim, gets punished. All I have to do is mention Asa's name and we'll both be up the creek. In detention, probably denied the opportunity to go on the class trip. Hmm. I'm tempted. But what works against my temptation is the ancient junior high code of Omerta. Nobody squeals on nobody, no matter what.

"I tripped," I say. "Mr. Campbell here just helped me up."

"Humph," the AP snorts. He turns on his heel and strides back into the building.

Cody slaps me once on the chest, a friendly slap that confuses me. It's as if I've done something admirable.

"You never cry, do you?" Someone else has come up next to me. It must be the Indian boy's day for having white kids sneak up on him. It's a girl this time. Her name is Tara and her desk is next to mine. She hands me a tissue. "Your hand is bleeding," she says. Instead of saying anything, I just press the tissue against the scrape on my hand and walk away from both of them.

As the class lines up for the bus, I look back at the redbrick buildings of the school. Could it really be six months since my uncle Jules dropped me off here for the first time?

He had volunteered that first day to pick me up from the trailer park and take me to school because Grama. ..

Read a Sample Chapter

Chapter One

Pioneer Junior High

I hate the name of my school. Almost as much as I hate the fact that I am the shortest kid in eighth grade. There are even sixth graders taller than me.

But I am not small enough to be forgotten by at least one person as I slouch in my corner desk with my head down.

"Baron," Mr. Wilbur says from the door of the classroom. "Come on, buddy. Let's go. Everybody else is outside."

So much for my wonderful idea. I should have known it was too good to be true when the principal announced over the PA that any student who was not outside promptly at 9 a.m. and lined up for the bus would be left behind.

I shoulder my backpack and go out the front door of the school. I'm mad that my idea about getting out of this "special experience" hasn't worked. I don't notice that Mr. Wilbur has turned back to get something and is not behind me. Mistake number one. Mistake number two is walking out in the blinding sunlight without noticing what gang of three boys is hanging around the door. The three main reasons I am dreading the days ahead.

"Oops," says a familiar voice, just before a leg hits my shin at just the right place to send me sprawling onto my face. My hands scrape the pavement, but at least I don't hit my face and get a bloody nose like I did the first time this happened to me. One thing I've learned in the time I've been at Pioneer Junior High is how to fall.

I look up over my shoulder at the big round face of Asa Denham. His long blond hair is like a halo lit by the sun around his head, but his amused expression is not that of an attentive angel. Histwo buddies—who hang around him like the other two-thirds of a set of Siamese triplets—look over each of his shoulders. Ernie Crimmins and Harle Clark look just as self-satisfied as their leader. I don't know which one of the three tripped me, but they're all enjoying the spectacle of me flattened on the sidewalk like roadkill.

"Sorry," Asa says.

"Yeah," Ernie agrees. "Sorry you're such a clumsy little shrimp."

"Shrimp," Harle repeats. His imagination is limited.

Not surprisingly, seeing as how downed prey always attracts the pack, other kids have quickly gathered round.

"Fight?" someone says in a hopeful voice. As if I were about to get up just to get even more convincingly flattened.

"Yo," a foghorn tone chips in, "what happened to Baron? He trip over an ant?" It's Willy Donner, of course. Willy is a weird match for that big voice of his. He's as skinny as I am short. But he is always so quick with his sarcasm that no one ever gets a chance to make a crack about him before he makes some biting remark of his own.

Someone pushes his way in front, takes my arm and lifts me up.

"Come on, Baron," he says. It takes me a moment to realize who it is. I'd been expecting a teacher to be the one to step in, but it's not. It's Cody Campbell. Cody is not just one of the biggest, he's also the best-looking guy in the eighth grade. Sort of a teenage Brad Pitt. The girls swoon over him. And because he's the best football player in school, the guys all respect him, too. Asa and his crew have already taken a few steps backward to disappear into the crowd.

I'm still trying to get over my shock about Cody actually noticing me, much less lending a helping hand to me, when I hear the AP's brusque voice.

"Move aside," he snaps, as if he actually had to say something for the crowd to part before him like the waters of the Red Sea. No one ever wants to get on the wrong side of Assistant Principal Stark. He stares down at me as if trying to identify some lower form of life that just crawled out from under a rock.

"What's going on here, Mr. Braun?" he says. "Did I hear someone say 'fight'? Has someone been picking on you?" His hooded eyes take in the scrapes on my hands before I can put them behind my back. ZTP, I think. ZTP.

ZTP. That stands for the zero tolerance policy in effect at our school when it comes to fights. Anyone involved, including the hapless victim, gets punished. All I have to do is mention Asa's name and we'll both be up the creek. In detention, probably denied the opportunity to go on the class trip. Hmm. I'm tempted. But what works against my temptation is the ancient junior high code of Omerta. Nobody squeals on nobody, no matter what.

"I tripped," I say. "Mr. Campbell here just helped me up."

"Humph," the AP snorts. He turns on his heel and strides back into the building.

Cody slaps me once on the chest, a friendly slap that confuses me. It's as if I've done something admirable.

"You never cry, do you?" Someone else has come up next to me. It must be the Indian boy's day for having white kids sneak up on him. It's a girl this time. Her name is Tara and her desk is next to mine. She hands me a tissue. "Your hand is bleeding," she says. Instead of saying anything, I just press the tissue against the scrape on my hand and walk away from both of them.

As the class lines up for the bus, I look back at the redbrick buildings of the school. Could it really be six months since my uncle Jules dropped me off here for the first time?

He had volunteered that first day to pick me up from the trailer park and take me to school because Grama . . .