The Tale of the Island Minwings, which was launched on May 26th, 2012, is a beautifully-illustrated story written by Karen Slater, for children aged eight to twelve, or for anyone who still has a child within their heart. 
 

"Imagine for a moment that you can fly – high above the blue waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence – to the north shore of Prince Edward Island. You’ll spy the sea-worn breakwater jutting into the white-crested waves at the end of the Cavendish sand dunes. Seagulls, looking for their next meal, dip and dive in the wake of a lobster fishing boat headed into the harbour. Gently rolling fields, in a wide array of greens, yellows and reds, stretch up from the brick-red cliffs of sandstone which guard the shores of New London Bay.

Here, in a sheltered cove, you’ll find a small woods. In this woods near a rippling stream, lives one of the last remaining colonies of a most wonderful race, the Minwing. A Minwing you say? Well, most humans have never even heard of, let alone seen, one of these tiny, fairy-like creatures, for Minwings are very shy and try to avoid being found. Perhaps a child or two has met one but somehow forgotten. More than likely their unbelieving parents have convinced them that it was just a figment of their imagination!

If you take a stroll through this woods, and you are very quiet and extremely fortunate, you may see Shasta emerge from the dappled shade of a poplar. She flies to an oak tree on the edge of a small clearing and lands on a sturdy branch. Folding her delicate pale-green wings and tucking in a wisp of her bright red hair that has escaped from her hood, she takes a moment to catch her breath. She feels safe, knowing that her cloak camouflages perfectly into her surroundings.

Closing her eyes, Shasta allows the muted sounds of the woods to lull her mind into a rare state of relaxation. Ahhhhh! The wind is soft and the air is sweet." 

~~~~~~~~~ 

     A lot of people ask me, “When did you decide to write a book?” I tell them, “I didn't decide. My book decided that I would write it.” One night, about four years ago I woke up and had the beginning of the story in my head. Lucky for me, I found a pen and paper and wrote it down. In the morning I read over what I had written and was surprised by how good it sounded. This continued for many nights after that. Each time I added to the story I was excited to think that I was actually writing a book!

     But it wasn't always that easy. There were times when I had no idea what to write next. That's when I got help from my friends and family. Their ideas and suggestions got me going again. During that winter my life was literally taken over by Minwings. I was determined to finish the story!

     When the story was complete I felt that it should have illustrations.  I am an artist but human form has never been my strong point.  While visiting my daughter in Halifax I was fortunate enough to be shown a sketchbook of one of her friends, illustrator Sydney Smith, who received his BFA from NSCAD (Nova Scotia College of Art and Design). As soon as I saw his work, especially his pen and ink, I knew that I wanted him to illustrate my book.  His ability to interpret description into visual art and his amazing attention to detail add exactly the right touch to my Minwing story.

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Nimbra, Shasta's papa, meets Munroe in 

Chapter 5.

 

It is at one of these stops that Nimbra sits down to have a rest between the large roots of an old maple tree. He looks up through the thick branches at the full moon. “What a wonderful sight,” he whispers.

A dark shape flies across the moon’s face. Quickly Nimbra flattens himself against the tree, stuffs his tri-lite under his cloak and strains his tired eyes into the distance.

What was that? He sits quietly for a few moments and stares, unblinking, at the moon. Nothing. I must have been imagining things. Warily he gets up and continues on his way. Just as he steps out of the woods into an open meadow, the unmistakable call of a shrike breaks the silence. Nimbra knows for sure that the bird is swooping in for the kill. And he is the target! He has only a moment to decide what to do. He can just make out the shape of a hollow log in the long grass. Without pause he flies to the opening and dives in. The flap of wings close behind him proves that he has made the right decision.

Cowering in the darkness and shaking from head to toe, Nimbra takes deep breaths of the damp air. “You’re all right,” he whispers. “Calm down.” His heart feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest.

Still feeling more exposed than he wants to be, he squeezes back further into the musty log. A high-pitched “squeak” pierces the air. Nimbra jumps in fright – as much as one can jump inside a log. “Ouch!” he says, as his head makes contact with the rough wood.

“Get off my foot!” squeaks a voice.

“Who’s there?” asks Nimbra, stepping back and squinting into the darkness.

“Who wants to know?” the voice threatens.

“I warn you. You’ll not take me easily,” cautions Nimbra, preparing himself for a fight.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you,” laughs the voice.

“That’s a relief,” answers Nimbra, “I couldn’t handle the possibility of being someone’s future dinner for the second time in one night.” He manages to remove the tri-lite from his cloak and shines it in front of him. There, squished into a crevice, sits a young, but confident, grey field mouse, shielding his eyes with his foot.

“Get rid of the light, if you please. It’s hurting my eyes! I’ve had a hard enough time as it is evading that stubborn shrike, without having to put up with the likes of you, that’s what!”

“Sorry,” replies Nimbra, “but you startled me nearly to death.”

“I might say the same thing, if I hadn’t already gone through my ten lives in one hour,” grumbles the mouse. “I’m Munroe. My friends call me Squeak . . . and you’re obviously one of those cheeky Minwings.”

“I’m Nimbra. I’m just returning from the bay-water after a hard night’s work,” he says, puffing out his chest indignantly.

“Hm! More likely you’ve been at Raspin’s, that’s what,” grumbles the mouse, sniffing the air. “You positively reek of apple cider! As if you could fool someone with MY sense of smell! Well, you might as well settle in. That annoying creature is still out there.”