Night Gardener , livre ebook

PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Auxier, Jonathan. The Night Gardener / by Jonathan Auxier. pages cm Summary: Irish orphans Molly, fourteen, and Kip, ten, travel to England to work as servants in a crumbling manor house where nothing is quite what it seems to be, and soon the siblings are confronted by a mysterious stranger and secrets of the cursed house. ISBN 978-1-4197-1144-2 (hardback) [1. Ghosts-Fiction. 2. Household employees-Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters-Fiction. 4. Orphans-Fiction. 5. Storytelling-Fiction. 6. Blessing and cursing-Fiction. 7. Dwellings-Fiction. 8. Horror stories.]. Title. PZ7.A9314Nig 2014 [Fic]-dc23 2013047655
Text copyright copyright 2014 Jonathan Auxier Illustrations copyright 2014 Patrick Arrasmith Book design by Chad W. Beckerman
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For Mary
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?
OF MAN S FIRST DISOBEDIENCE, AND THE FRUIT OF THAT FORBIDDEN TREE, WHOSE MORTAL TASTE BROUGHT DEATH INTO THE WORLD, AND ALL OUR WOE.
-J OHN M ILTON , P ARADISE L OST , B OOK 1
WE WOULD OFTEN BE SORRY IF OUR WISHES WERE GRATIFIED.
-A ESOP
CONTENTS
P ART O NE A RRIVALS
1 STORYTELLER AT THE CROSSROADS
2 THE SILENT TREES
3 MISS PENNY
4 THE HELP
5 PORTRAIT OF A LADY
6 THE FIGURE IN THE FOG
7 PIT AND POCKETS
8 MASTER OF THE HOUSE
9 THE ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS
10 FOOTSTEPS
11 CHAMBER POTS
12 THE STATIONERY BOX
13 A VISIT FROM FIG AND STUBBS
14 CATCH AS CATCH CAN
15 THE OTHER THING
16 THE GARDEN IN THE WOODS
17 THE NIGHT MAN
18 A RUDE AWAKENING
19 ROOTS
20 BEHIND THE DOOR
P ART T WO P URSUITS
21 SPECIAL DELIVERY
22 SWEETS
23 DOCTOR CROUCH
24 COLD HANDS, WARM HEART
25 THE PALLOR
26 HORSE APPLES
27 ICHOR
28 ASLEEP
29 TO MARKET
30 A STORY BOUGHT, A STORY SOLD
31 THE LEGEND OF THE NIGHT GARDENER
32 FRUIT
33 COLLAPSE
34 LEECHES AND LIZARDS
35 A SPIRITED DEBATE
36 TRAPS
37 CAMERA OBSCURA
38 SHEARS
39 THE BROKEN BOUGH
P ART T HREE D EPARTURES
40 THE LAST STORY
41 ALONE IN THE DARK
42 RETURN TO THE SOURWOODS
43 BODY OF EVIDENCE
44 FLIGHT
45 UNWELCOME GUESTS
46 TRUST
47 COMEUPPANCE
48 HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK
49 LAMP OIL
50 MOONLIGHT
51 THE HERO AND THE DAMSEL
52 COURAGE
53 THE CONFLAGRATION
54 ASHES
55 WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
56 STORYTELLER AT THE CROSSROADS
AUTHOR S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

he calendar said early March, but the smell in the air said late October. A crisp sun shone over Cellar Hollow, melting the final bits of ice from the bare trees. Steam rose from the soil like a phantom, carrying with it a whisper of autumn smoke that had been lying dormant in the frosty underground. Squinting through the trees, you could just make out the winding path that ran from the village all the way to the woods in the south. People seldom traveled in that direction, but on this March-morning-that-felt-like-October, a horse and cart rattled down the road. It was a fish cart with a broken back wheel and no fish. Riding atop the bench were two children, a girl and a boy, both with striking red hair. The girl was named Molly, and the boy, her brother, was Kip.
And they were riding to their deaths.
This, at least, was what Molly had been told by no fewer than a dozen people as they traveled from farm to farm in search of the Windsor estate. Every person they spoke to muttered something ominous about sour woods and then refused to tell them more.
The Windsors ? said one lanky shepherd, whom Molly had stopped in the road. I d just as soon lead my flock to a lion s den. He propped himself against his crook, eyeing Molly from heel to head the way that men sometimes did.
Be that as it may, Molly said in her most polite voice, it s where we need to be. The Windsors were expectin us last week.
Then they can wait a little longer. The man summoned up some phlegm from his throat and spat it on the ground. My advice: go back to whatever country you came from. The sourwoods is no place for anyone. He shuffled across the road and into the trees, a trail of bleating sheep behind him.
Molly sighed. That was the third shepherd that hour.
What do you think they all mean by sourwoods ? Kip asked when the flock had passed and they were moving again.
Molly did not know, and so she made something up. You dinna know about the sourwoods? she said, pretending to be astonished. Why, it s a whole forest of nothin but lemon trees and lemon blossoms and lemon moss and lemon weeds. They say that when summer comes and the fruit is ripe, just breathin the air will make your whole face pucker. She said things like this to let her brother know she wasn t worried.
But she was worried.
She and Kip had been riding almost nonstop for four days through rain and cold, led by a horse that barely tolerated them-due in part to the fact that Molly did not know the creature s name (she had told her brother it was Galileo, but the horse seemed to disagree). She had somehow imagined that English roads would be broad and level, but these roads were even worse than those back home. The mud was black and greedy, holding on to whatever touched it-including their back wheel, which had lost three spokes only the day before. What little food there had been in the back of the cart had long since been eaten, and now only a rancid, fishy odor remained.
Are you cold? she said, noticing her brother shiver under his coat.
He shook his head, which she could now see was damp. I m hot.
Molly s heart fell. Kip had been sick for weeks and showed little sign of getting better. He needed clean clothes. He needed a bed and a bath and a proper meal. He needed a home.
Kip stifled a cough against his sleeve. Maybe all these folks is right, he said. Maybe we should turn back to town or go back home.
Molly couldn t allow herself to wish for that. She and Kip were an ocean away from the place they called home. She put a hand on his forehead, which was warm. To hear you talk, a person d think Ma an Da raised a pair of quitters. We ll find the place soon enough-directions or not-and there ll be hot food and a warm bed and honest work.
They rode on, growing ever more lost, until midafternoon, when they came across someone unexpected. First they heard her song-a sonorous drone that crept around the bend, slow and seductive. The music became louder as they approached, and they could soon make out a voice singing. It was an old manikin woman, not much taller than Kip, seated in the middle of a crossroads, singing to herself. The woman was clearly some sort of vagrant, for she carried upon her shoulders a huge pack bound with twine. The pack contained a clutter of random objects-hats, blankets, and lamps-as well as more interesting things like books, birdcages, and lightning rods. It reminded Molly of a snail s shell. The woman was hunched over a strange instrument almost the size of her body. The instrument had a crank at one end, and when she turned the handle, deep notes came out that Molly thought might be what it would sound like if honeybees could sing.
Molly slowed the cart and observed the woman from a safe distance. She was singing about an old man and a tree; her voice was surprisingly sweet. Molly had seen beggars playing instruments like this before in the market at home. A hurdy-gurdy, they called it.
You think she s a witch? Kip whispered to his sister.
Molly smiled. If that s a witch, she ain t much of one hardly a wart on her! Only one way to know for sure, though. She flicked the reins, and their horse moved a little closer. Pardon me, mum? she called out to the woman. My brother here d like to know if you re a witch or not.
The manikin woman continued playing, her fingers darting along the keys. I fear my answer will disappoint, she said, not looking up.
So you ain t a witch, then? Kip called, apparently wanting to be completely clear on this point.
The woman set down her instrument and peered at him, eyebrows raised. Not everything old and ugly is wicked. I daresay that with enough years your lovely sister will look no better than I do and it ll be her that s frightening children that come by! She punctuated this with a suspiciously witchlike cackle. The woman struggled to her feet-which seemed a difficult task with so heavy a pack-and offered a neat curtsy. The name s Hester Kettle. I m the storyteller in these parts. I travel here and about, trading my songs for lodgings and food and odd things. She wiggled a shoulder, jangling the forks and wind chimes that hung from her pack.
Molly hadn t known there was such a job as storyteller, but it sounded like fine work. Telling stories was one of the things she herself did best. She had told stories to sneak her brother out of the orphanage. She had told stories to get a horse. And if she encountered any questions at her new job, she would tell stories once more. Still, there was something about this woman that made her uneasy. And pray, mum, Molly said, w