Skyward by Mary Alice Monroe released on May 31, 2005 is available now for purchase. ". . . Monroe's latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction." -- Publishers Weekly starred review on The Beach House "Monroe's novel is a fascinating, emotion-filled narrative that's not to be missed." -- Booklist starred review Mary Alice Monroe is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of thirty novels, including her NYT middle grade series. Her books have received numerous awards, including the RT Lifetime Achievement Award, Florida Distinguished Author Award, SC Book Festival Award, and the International Fiction Award for Green Fiction. An active conservationist, she lives in the lowcountry of South Carolina where she is at work on her next novel. Visit her at maryalicemonroe.com and on Facebook. Skyward By Mary Monroe MIRA Copyright ©2005 Mary Monroe All right reserved. ISBN: 0778322068 Abrisk, wintry wind whistled along the South Carolina coast. It rattled the ice-tipped, yellowed spartina grass and rolled a thick, steely gray fog in from the sea.The old black man paused in his walk and cocked his ear toward the sky. He heard the whispers of change in the wind. Hunching his shoulders, he turned the collar of his threadbare woolen jacket high up to the brim of his fedora, then dug his hands deep into his pockets.He resumed walking,but he kept his eyes skyward. The old man had walked nearly half a mile when he heard a high,plaintive whistle over the wind's song.He stopped abruptly,rigid with expectation,staring out at the heavy shroud that hovered over the wetlands.It was a still morning;the pale night moon lingered in the dusty sky. Suddenly, a magnificent white-crested eagle broke through the mist. Its broad, plank-straight wings stretched wide as it soared over the water. "There you be!" he muttered with deep satisfaction. Bringing his large,gnarled hands to cup his mouth,he whistled sharp and clear, mimicking the birdcall. The bald eagle circled wide, flapping its powerful wings with a majesty reserved for royalty.The great bird took a lap around the marsh before deigning to return the call. The effect was not lost on the old man. Heartened, he rushed his hands to his mouth and whistled again,louder and more insistently.This time, the eagle banked, then flew unwaveringly toward him. This was the moment Harris Henderson relished. He squinted and let his gaze slowly traverse the wide, open meadow encircled by tall,leggy pines.The grasses were crisp and the ground was hard with the early morning frost. In only one day's time, winter had blustered into the Low-country, plummeting temperatures from balmy to freezing. He took a long, deep breath, feeling the moist chill go straight to his lungs.The morning air carried the scent of burning wood — cedar, he thought — so strong he could almost taste it. Turning his head,he gazed upon the sleek red-tailed hawk held firm against his chest by his thick leather gloves. Maggie Mims, a robust woman with hair almost the same color red as the hawk's tail, looked up at him with eyes sparkling with excitement. She gave a curt nod. Harris moved his gloved hands so that his left wrapped around the hawk's wings and the right maintained a firm hold of the hawk's feet.Instantly,the hawk's dark gaze sharpened, her mouth opened and she jerked her wings hard for freedom. "So, you're eager to be off," he said in a low voice. He waited patiently for the bird to calm itself,all the while looking on with admiration. She was a beautiful specimen, creamy breasted with a dark bellyband and the brick-red tail feathers that gave the species its name. Red-taileds were superb hunters,"the black warriors" J. J.Audubon had called them. It was hard to believe, looking at her sleek, healthy form, that she'd been brought into the clinic with gunshot wounds a mere two months earlier."Well, it won't be long now." The bird cocked its head at the sound of his voice, glaring,ferocious — the right attitude for survival.Every instinct in its body was on alert for flight.Harris could feel the bird's anticipation in his own veins. In this brief moment before flight,Harris sought to merge spirits with the bird.He'd read stories of shamans who practiced this ancient art, myths of Indians whose spirits soared with eagles, tales that he'd heard spoken of only in passing or in jest.Though he'd tell this to no one, deep down he'd always believed that at the core of legends and myths lay a kernel of truth.There were individuals who communicated at some visceral level with birds. He knew it.Witnessed it. And it was his private pain that he was not one of them. Although highly skilled,he didn't possess the rare instinct — the gift — of connection.The art of truly flying the birds. The closest he came to it was at liftoff.The seconds when the bird's wings stretched out and he heard the whup-whup of their flapping and felt the quick fluttering of air against his cheek as the