Free Silvermoon. A Tale of a Young Werewolf. A YA Novel. 12-18 by T.J. Edison. Page A

one of the most popular pupils, especially in sport - running, swimming and the javelin when they competed against other schools. It seemed to Jason’s mind as if John was checking up on him or seeking to protect him. He went with him everywhere, hiking through the snow and tobogganing with him and the girls, Yvette and Ingrid.
     
    It seemed the four of them were tied to each other. John still had an eye for Yvette, but Yvette had no time for him, she was polite enough, but her smile showed she had no interest in him, whereas Ingrid still couldn’t take her eyes off him.
     
    “I’ve found it!” John walked away from the bookshelf with his find and made himself comfortable on Jason’s sofa by the window. John couldn’t play chess for toffee; he was absolutely hopeless, regardless of how often Jason and the others coached him. He was, however, well-versed in European history of the past 500 years - his favourite subject being battles between nations, particularly Waterloo, where he could name the number of soldiers, horses and cannons, the casualties, the amount of ammunition and the length of the battle itself, in hours and minutes – but when Jason had asked him what he thought of Napoleon’s and Wellington’s tactics, and how he himself would have conducted things, changing the battle tactics for example, he had frowned heavily and said, “Tactics! I wouldn’t have changed anything, Jason, it was a perfect battle, full of glory and daring-do” and it was then Jason realized he had memorised the facts to impress Professor Langdon, the history teacher - an authority on Napoleon Bonaparte - and that John would never understand the complex intricacies of chess.
     
    As John turned the pages, Jason saw the fine black flecks on the back of his left hand, they appeared more frequently nowadays. “Why do you dye your hair, John?”
     
    A weak grin followed by, “Premature greying I’m afraid, I’ve had it for years, I was wondering when you would notice.”
     
    “Does it run in the family?”
     
    His eyes flickered slightly. “No, no, of course not, it happens sometimes,” then he cl osed the book and asked. “What i s life like where you come from?”
     
    Jason was about to pick up his pen, he turned in his seat and said, “I thought you would never ask, John.”
     
    He moved his chair round and faced him and then started. “I lived on a dairy farm with my father and mother just ten miles west of Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire. My mother was a schoolteacher before she married my dad, Iain Longfellow, and after I arrived she devoted six hours of her working day teaching me everything she knew.”
     
    “Farming, that’s rather strenuous work.”
     
    “One gets used to it, John. Our work day started at five in the morning and ended around eight at night. Our farm has sixteen cows and dozens of chickens and geese, and a pen full of pigs, not to mention the sheep and the alpacas that roam the fields.”
     
    “I’ve heard that dairy farming is mucky work, all those different animal droppings, must be quite a stink, having that muck all over you.”
     
    “As I said, one gets used to it. And another thing, John, when working with animals, it’s important to stay clean, especially one’s hands.  We would wash before and after lambing, calving, milking, and even when feeding the pigs.”
     
    “Did you have any sheepdogs, to round up the sheep?”
     
    He leaned back and stretched, gazing up at the ceiling. “We have just the one; her name is Jessie. After I finished my work and studies, Jessie and I would go for a run across the fields. We’d run over the hills and down the dales, jump across streams and chase after rabbits or squirrels, never catching them, but then again, never meaning to.”
     
    “I’ve seen you run on the sports field, you do rather well, I suppose that comes from running after your dog.”
     
    He wanted to tell him he was faster than Jessie, that he could run faster than a