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2003년 뉴베리 메달 수상작이자, 뉴욕 타임즈 베스트 셀러이다.
미국의 어린이 문학 작가 AVI의 소설로 미스터리, 역사적 배경, 숨가쁜 전개, 그리고 아름다운 문체로 이루어진 최고작품이다.

실제 역사가 녹아있는 본 작품은 아이들이 작품을 읽으며 자연스레 1381년 잉글랜드에서 일어난 농민혁명에 대해 알게 된다.

The Crispin은 14세기 잉글랜드를 배경으로 13살의 평민 출신 소년이 경험한 절박한 도피를 당시 역사를 배경으로 전한다.
영주의 사악한 집사에 의해 "늑대 머리"로 명명된 범죄에 대해 무고한 착한 소년은 누명을 쓰게 되고, 자신이 아는 유일한 세상인 마을을 떠나게 된다.
작가는 우리의 주인공이 마을을 떠나기 전, 당시 봉건주의의 폐해에 대해 상세히 전한다. 소작농들에 대한 끊임없는 세금 징수, 계속되는 폭력, 그리고 불쌍한 백성들을 보호하지 못하는 부패한 교회 등 당시 힘을 가진 이들의 부패에 대해 이야기한다.
소년, "아스타의 아들"은 Cripsin이란 이름을 가진 마을의 수도사로부터 이야기를 듣는다. 그것은 소년이 상상도 하지 못했던 소년의 부모님의 기원과 운명에 대한 이야기였다.


Asta's son has no name. And, after the death of his mother, no family to protect him when he is accused of a crime he didn't commit. Declared a 'wolf's head' - meaning that anyone who catches him can kill him - he has no choice but to leave his village. All he can take with him on the journey is his newly revealed name - Crispin - and his mother's cross of lead. Travelling without purpose, through a countryside still ravaged by the effects of the plague, Crispin stumbles upon a juggler, a giant of a man known as Bear. Crispin becomes Bear's servant but the juggler is a strange master offering both protection and encouraging Crispin to think for himself. But Crispin is not safe and it becomes clear he is being relentlessly pursued. Why are his enemies so determined to kill him? Will the lessons Bear has taught him be enough to safeguard all that he now holds so dear...? Avi brings the full force of his storytelling powers to the world of medieval England.

CRISPIN: THE CROSS OF LEAD

England, a.d. 1377

“In the midst of life comes death.” How often did our village priest preach those words. Yet I have also heard that “in the midst of death comes life.” If this be a riddle, so was my life.

1

The day after my mother died, the priest and I wrapped her body in a gray shroud and carried her to the village church. Our burden was not great. In life she had been a small woman with little strength. Death made her even less.

Her name had been Asta.

Since our cottage was at the village fringe, the priest and I bore her remains along the narrow, rutted road that led to the cemetery. A steady, hissing rain had turned the ground to clinging mud. No birds sang. No bells tolled. The sun hid behind the dark and lowering clouds.

We passed village fields where people were at work in the rain and mud. No one knelt. They simply stared. As they had shunned my mother in life, so they shunned her now. As for me, I felt, as I often did, ashamed. It was as if I contained an unnamed sin that made me less than nothing in their eyes.

Other than the priest, my mother had no friends. She was often taunted by the villagers. Still, I had thought of her as a woman of beauty, as perhaps all children think upon their mothers.

The burial took place amongst the other paupers’ graves in the walled cemetery behind our church. It was there the priest and I dug her grave, in water-laden clay. There was no coffin. We laid her down with her feet toward the east so when the Day of Judgment came she would?may God grant it?rise up to face Jerusalem.

As the priest chanted the Latin prayers, whose meaning I barely understood, I knelt by his side and knew that God had taken away the one person I could claim as my own. But His will be done.

No sooner did we cover my mother’s remains with heavy earth than John Aycliffe, the steward of the manor, appeared outside the cemetery walls. Though I had not seen him, he must have been watching us from astride his horse.

“Asta’s son, come here,” he said to me.

Head bowed, I drew close.

“Look at me,” he commanded, reaching down and forcing my head up with a sharp slap of his gloved hand beneath my chin.

It was always hard for me to look on others. To look on John Aycliffe was hardest of all. His black-bearded face?hard, sharp eyes and frowning lips?forever scowled at me. When he deigned to look in my direction, he offered nothing but contempt. For me to pass near was to invite his scorn, his kicks, and sometimes, his blows.

No one ever accused John Aycliffe of any kindness. In the absence of Lord Furnival he was in charge of the manor, the laws, and the peasants. To be caught in some small transgression?missing a day of work, speaking harshly of his rule, failing to attend mass?brought an unforgiving penalty. It could be a whipping, a clipping of the ear, imprisonment, or a cut-off hand. For poaching a stag, John the ale-maker’s son was put to death on the commons gallows. As judge, jury, and willing executioner, Aycliffe had but to give the word, and the offender’s life was forfeit. We all lived in fear of him.

Aycliffe stared at me for a long while as if in search of something. All he said, however, was “With your mother gone you’re required to deliver your ox to the manor house tomorrow. It will serve as the death tax.”

“But . . . sir,” I said-for my speech was slow and ill formed-“if I do . . . I . . . I won’t be able to work the fields.”

“Then starve,” he said and rode away without a backward glance.

Father Quinel whispered into my ear: “Come to church, Asta’s son. We’ll pray.”

Too upset, I only shook my head.

“God will protect you,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “As he now protects your mother.”

His words only distressed me more. Was death my only hope? Seeking to escape my heart’s cage of sorrow, I rushed off toward the forest.

2003년 Newbery Medal Winner 수상작 Newbery상 수상작 모두 보러가기!! ▶ Go!