This is Real Life Sale

Special Offers see all

Enter to WIN a $100 Credit

Subscribe to
for a chance to win.
Privacy Policy

Visit our stores

    Recently Viewed clear list

    Interviews | March 10, 2015

    Shawn Donley: IMG Claire Fuller: The Interview

    Claire FullerOur Endless Numbered Days tells the story of eight-year-old Peggy and her survivalist father, James, who inexplicably leave behind their London home... Continue »
    1. $11.17 Sale Trade Paper add to wish list

      Our Endless Numbered Days

      Claire Fuller 9781941040010

Qualifying orders ship free.
List price: $7.95
Used Trade Paper
Ships in 1 to 3 days
Add to Wishlist
Qty Store Section
3 Beaverton Children's- Science Fiction and Fantasy
2 Burnside Science Fiction and Fantasy- A to Z
1 Burnside Children's Young Adult- General



Gifts Cover

ISBN13: 9780152051242
ISBN10: 0152051244
Condition: Standard
All Product Details




He was lost when he came to us, and I fear the silver spoons he stole from us didn't save him when he ran away and went up into the high domains. Yet in the end the lost man, the runaway man was our guide.

Gry called him the runaway man. When he first came, she was sure he'd done some terrible thing, a murder or a betrayal, and was escaping vengeance. What else would bring a Lowlander here, among us?

"Ignorance," I said. "He knows nothing of us. He's not afraid of us."

"He said people down there warned him not to come up among the witches."

"But he knows nothing about the gifts," I said. "It's all just talk, to him. Legends, lies..."

We were both right, no doubt. Certainly Emmon was running away, if only from a well-earned reputation for thievery, or from boredom; he was as restless, as fearless and inquisitive and inconsequential as a hound puppy, trotting wherever his nose led him. Recalling the accent and turns of speech he had, I know now that he came from far in the south, farther than Algalanda, where tales of the Uplands were just that-tales: old rumors of the distant northland, where wicked witchfolk lived in icy mountains and did impossible things.

If he'd believed what they told him down in Danner, he'd never have come up to Caspromant. If he'd believed us, he never would have gone on higher in the mountains. He loved to hear stories, so he listened to ours, but he didn't believe them. He was a city man, he'd had some education, he'd travelled the length of the Lowlands. He knew the world. Who were we, me and Gry? What did we know, a blind boy and a grim girl, sixteen years old, stuck in the superstition and squalor of the desolate hill farms that we so grandly called our domains? He led us on, in his lazy kindness, to talk about the great powers we had, but while we talked he was seeing the bare, hard way we lived, the cruel poverty, the cripples and backward people of the farms, seeing our ignorance of everything outside these dark hills, and saying to himself, Oh yes, what great powers they have, poor brats!

Gry and I feared that when he left us he went to Geremant. It is hard to think he may still be there, alive but a slave, with legs twisted like corkscrews, or his face made monstrous for Erroy's amusement, or his eyes truly blinded, as mine were not. For Erroy wouldn't have suffered his careless airs, his insolence, for an hour.

I took some pains to keep him away from my father when his tongue was flapping, but only because Canoc's patience was short and his mood dark, not because I feared he'd ever use his gift without good cause. In any case he paid little heed to Emmon or anyone else. Since my mother's death his mind was all given to grief and rage and rancor. He huddled over his pain, his longing for vengeance. Gry, who knew all the nests and eyries for miles around, once saw a carrion eagle brooding his pair of silvery, grotesque eaglets in a nest up on the Sheer, after a shepherd killed the mother bird who hunted for them both. So my father brooded and starved.

To Gry and me, Emmon was a treasure, a bright creature come into our gloom. He fed our hunger. For we were starving too.

He would never tell us enough about the Lowlands. He'd give an answer of some kind to every question I asked, but often a joking answer, evasive or merely vague. There was probably a good deal about his past life that he didn't want us to know, and anyhow he wasn't a keen observer and clear reporter, as Gry was when she was my eyes. She could describe exactly how the new bull calf looked, his bluish coat and knobby legs and little furry hornbuds, so that I could all but see him. But if I asked Emmon to tell about the city of Derris Water, all he said was that it wasn't much of a city and the market was dull. Yet I knew, because my mother had told me, that Derris Water had tall red houses and deep streets, that steps of slate led up from the docks and moorages where the river traffic came and went, that there was a market of birds, and a market of fish, and a market of spices and incense and honey, a market for old clothes and a market for new ones, and the great pottery fairs to which people came from all up and down the Trond River, even from the far shores of the ocean.

Maybe Emmon had had bad luck with his thieving in Derris Water.

Whatever the reason, he preferred to ask us the questions and sit back at ease to listen to us-to me, mostly. I was always a talker, if there was anybody to listen. Gry had a long habit of silence and watchfulness, but Emmon could draw her out.

I doubt he knew how lucky he'd been in finding us two, but he appreciated our making him welcome and keeping him comfortable through a bitter, rainy winter. He was sorry for us. He was bored, no doubt. He was inquisitive.

"So what is it this fellow up at Geremant does that's so fearsome?" he'd ask, his tone just skeptical enough that I'd try as hard as I could to convince him of the truth of what I said. But these were matters that were not much talked about, even among people with the gift. It seemed unnatural to speak of them aloud.

"The gift of that lineage is called the twisting," I said at last.

"Twisting? Like a sort of dancing?"

"No." The words were hard to find, and hard to say. "Twisting people."

"Making them turn around?"

"No. Their arms, legs. Necks. Bodies." I twisted my own body a bit with discomfort at the subject. Finally I said, "You saw old Gonnen, that woodsman, up over Knob Hill. We passed him yesterday on the cart road. Gry told you who he was."

"All bent over like a nutcracker."

"Brantor Erroy did that to him."

"Doubled him up like that? What for?"

"A punishment. The brantor said he came on him picking up wood in Gere Forest."

After a little, Emmon said, "Rheumatism will do that to a man."

"Gonnen was a young man then."

"So you don't yourself recall it happening."

"No," I said, vexed by his airy incredulity. "But he does. And my father does. Gonnen told him. Gonnen said he wasn't in Geremant at all, but only near the borderline, in our woods. Brantor Erroy saw him and shouted, and Gonnen was scared, and started to run away with the load of wood on his back. He fell. When he tried to stand, his back was bent over and hunched, the way it is now. If he tries to stand up, his wife said, he screams with the pain."

"And how did the brantor do this to him?"

Emmon had learned the word from us; he said he'd never heard it in the Lowlands. A brantor is the master or mistress of a domain, which is to say the chief and most gifted of a lineage. My father was Brantor of Caspromant. Gry's mother was Brantor of the Barres of Roddmant and her father Brantor of the Rodds of that domain. We two were their heirs, their nestling eaglets.

I hesitated to answer Emmon's question. His tone had not been mocking, but I didn't know if I should say anything at all about the powers of the gift.

Gry answered him. "He'd have looked at the man," she said in her quiet voice. In my blindness her voice always brought to me a sense of light air moving in the leaves of a tree. "And pointed his left hand or finger at him, and maybe said his name. And then he'd have said a word, or two, or more. And it was done."

"What kind of words?"

Gry was silent; maybe she shrugged. "The Gere gift's not mine," she said at last. "We don't know its ways."


"The way a gift acts."

"Well, how does your gift act, what does it do, then?" Emmon asked her, not teasing, alive with curiosity. "It's something to do with hunting?"

"The Barre gift is calling," Gry said.

"Calling? What do you call?"


Copyright © 2004 by Ursula K. Le Guin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

What Our Readers Are Saying

Add a comment for a chance to win!
Average customer rating based on 1 comment:

lose89, December 20, 2006 (view all comments by lose89)
I believe this is one of the most amazing fantasy books ever, Le Guin really captures the essence of magic, love and endurance in this great novel. When I first read this book, I fell in love with it, and then couldn't wait for Voices; now I cant wait for Powers the third book on these series. Gifts is a truly work of art, it captures fantasy in a really good way.
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No
(7 of 15 readers found this comment helpful)

Product Details

Le Guin, Ursula K.
Harcourt Paperbacks
Guin, Ursula K. Le
Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Magic
Social Situations - Adolescence
Social Situations - Prejudice & Racism
Children's 12-Up - Fiction - Science Fiction
General Juvenile Fiction
Situations / Prejudice & Racism
Social Issues - Adolescence
Social Issues - Prejudice & Racism
Fantasy & Magic
Children s-Science Fiction and Fantasy
Edition Description:
Trade Paper
Annals of the Western Shore
Publication Date:
Grade Level:
from 7 up to 12
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant
7 x 5 in 0.46 lb
Age Level:
from 12

Other books you might like

  1. Powers (Annals of the Western Shore #03)
    Used Hardcover $6.95
  2. Voices (Annals of the Western Shore #02)
    Used Trade Paper $4.50
  3. Voices
    Used Hardcover $4.95
  4. Magic or Madness (Magic or Madness...
    Used Trade Paper $5.50
  5. Magic Lessons (Magic or Madness...
    Used Trade Paper $1.95
  6. The Sea of Trolls
    Used Trade Paper $2.95

Related Subjects

Children's » Sale Books
Children's » Science Fiction and Fantasy » General
Fiction and Poetry » Science Fiction and Fantasy » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Science Fiction and Fantasy » Sale Books
Young Adult » Fiction » Social Issues » Adolescence
Young Adult » Fiction » Social Issues » Prejudice and Racism
Young Adult » General

Gifts Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$4.95 In Stock
Product details 304 pages Harcourt Paperbacks - English 9780152051242 Reviews:
"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "Le Guin's (the Earthsea Cycle) fantasy, a brilliant exploration of the power and responsibility of gifts, begins as 16-year-old narrator Orrec reflects upon recent events. Emmon, a runaway Lowlander, comes to Caspromant, where Orrec's father is Brantor, or 'master.' Orrec and his childhood friend, Gry, from neighboring Roddmant, explain to Emmon the history of the Uplands, where various family lines live side by side, each of them with a hereditary 'gift.' Gry and her mother have the gift of calling animals to the hunt; for Orrec's family, the gift is 'undoing' (which can cause instant death with just a glance). Orrec explains to Emmon that these act as defenses, 'That's what the gifts are for, the powers — so you can protect your domain and keep your lineage pure.' The teen wears a blindfold because he believes his gift is 'wild,' that he could cause destruction unwittingly. Le Guin insightfully chronicles the hero's gradual awakening to the other consequences of gifts and the pressure on each generation to manifest them. 'By not using my gift, by refusing it, not trusting it — was I betraying it?' Orrec asks himself. Gry discovers she has the ability to train animals and refuses to use her 'gift' to call them to the hunt; she wonders aloud to Orrec, 'I wonder if all the gifts are backward....They could have been healing, to begin with.' And what of Orrec's mother's skill for storytelling, which she cultivated in her son? Should that be discounted because she is a Lowlander? As Le Guin poses these questions, she also explores universal coming-of-age themes, examining one's identity and falling in love. Emmon, as outsider, offers the protagonists another perspective — and an alternative. This provocative novel may well prompt teens to examine their own talents, and to ask whether they simply accept those 'gifts' assigned to them by others or whether the 'gifts' are their true passions. Ages 12-up. (Sept.)" Publishers Weekly (Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "Le Guin is a wonderful writer, and this haunting, thought-provoking fantasy has the power of legend....Exceptional book."
"Review" by , "What a pleasure it is to read a well-crafted story told by a master!...We find ourselves really caring about these two teens. A page-turner and highly recommended."
"Review" by , "Although intriguing as a coming-of-age allegory, Orrec's story is also rich in the earthy magic and intelligent plot twists that made the Earthsea novels classics. One would expect nothing less from the author..."
"Synopsis" by ,
A darkly compelling fantasy about a world in which each person has a magical, dangerous "gift."

  • back to top


Powell's City of Books is an independent bookstore in Portland, Oregon, that fills a whole city block with more than a million new, used, and out of print books. Shop those shelves — plus literally millions more books, DVDs, and gifts — here at