by K T Durham
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© 2015 K.T. Durham. All rights reserved.
Illustrated by RAQUEL DIAZ k12
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Published by AuthorHouse 05/20/2015
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1071-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1072-9 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1070-5 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907126
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Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
The Man Who Made a Pact with Scabtree
Part One
Marigold
Chapter One
In the Aftermath of the Great Escape
Chapter Two
Of a Sad-Eyed Chef and a Lonely Librarian
Chapter Three
Of Goldie and Sebastian
Part Two
Ellanor
Chapter Four
The Untimely Summoning
Chapter Five
Partings
Chapter Six
The Rich Shoemaker and His Wife
Chapter Seven
Seoul Searching
Chapter Eight
The Girl of His Dreams
Chapter Nine
A Street Cart Named Desire
Chapter Ten
An Orphan Who Has a Father
Chapter Eleven
In Gangnam with Sunglasses
Chapter Twelve
The Island of Sea Women and Stone Grandfathers
Chapter Thirteen
The Petrified Forest
Chapter Fourteen
Stumbling Block
Chapter Fifteen
The Doppelganger
Chapter Sixteen
The Mustard Seed
Part Three
The Nine-Tailed Fox
Chapter Seventeen
The Invisible Prison
Chapter Eighteen
The Trap
Chapter Nineteen
The Curse
Chapter Twenty
The Pinnacle
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lost Time
Chapter Twenty-Three
If Life Was Like a Box of Sweet Dumplings
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Calm
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Storm
Chapter Twenty-Six
TJ
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nobody’s Granddaughter
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Is Blood Always Thicker than Water?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Plight of Han Soo-Min
Chapter Thirty
There and Back Again
Chapter Thirty-One
Visitors in the Dark
Epilogue
Appendix
Glossary of Korean Terms
About the Author
To all wonderful grandparents around the world, especially grandmothers: my mother, my Por-Por, and my Mah-Mah in heaven. You are indispensable. Ellanor can attest to that.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I don’t have the special powers of elves and wizards and superheroes. But I hope to create a little bit of magic with the stories that I write.
I want to thank my family for so staunchly supporting me, especially Dad and Mum. Dad, you were one of the first to finish reading my book and give a glowing review out of solidarity. Mum, you went out one cold, wet night in winter to pass my first book to a local celebrity at a public function – unbeknownst to me! Your loving encouragement does not go unnoticed.
Part of this story has been inspired by real events that occurred in my husband’s life as a little boy growing up in Seoul, South Korea.
My Sam, without you I would not have had the drive, courage, and inspiration to embark on my writing journey and put Ellanor’s story to paper. Your love and support keep me persevering, especially on dreary days. After years of talking about getting a corgi, I am so happy we now have our darling Buicky who curls up at my feet whenever I write at home. I love our little family that will continue to grow as Ellanor grows.
The issue of adoption is important to Ellanor’s story. More often than not, adopting a child can lead to amazing things. I want to thank Muriel Morgan, whose loving and courageous heart led her to adopt two Korean boys, one of whom is now my best friend and soul mate. You have proven that family is much more than just biology.
I am thankful to everyone who took the time to read my first book. I have been deeply moved by all those who have shown Ellanor such enthusiasm and support. Even my lovely little niece, Chloe, in all her sweet eagerness attempted to read the first few pages of my book, though it’s far too difficult for kids her age! Chloe, I hope that you and dear Mikayla will get to read the entire Ellanor series one day. I’m so proud to be your aunt!
Jennifer Woo, my bestie and test-reader halfway across the world – your support has been awesome. Special thanks to Mari Webb, whose sharp literary insight I greatly count on – I just know that your beautiful poetry will one day get recognized and published.
Raquel Diaz, my amazing illustrator in Sweden, I have loved bringing Ellanor to life on the page with your incredible artistic talent.
To all orphans and adopted children around the world – this story is for you.
PROLOGUE
The Man Who Made a Pact with Scabtree
Most would agree that children are generally innocent creatures with simple needs. A child may wish for that new Thomas train set, that pretty Barbie doll, or that cool BMX bicycle.
But not Truman Mayer. Oh, no. Ever since Truman was old enough to talk, he wished for one thing: to stand out. To be remarkable.
Sadly, he was everything but.
Truman was born to unremarkable parents who led unremarkable lives. He had a pleasant enough but utterly forgettable face, one that people had difficulty recalling if the occasion called for it. He was an average student at school, an average chess player, and an average football player; in fact, he was average at everything.
To Truman, nothing was worse than being ordinary. No matter how hard he worked or tried to please, he just could not escape the curse that was mediocrity. His parents tried to comfort him by constantly telling him, “You are lucky to have your health, a stable job, a family.” Lucky, lucky, lucky. As if he should just surrender to his fate and be grateful to simply be alive.
But Truman was not grateful. He was not happy. And he did not feel lucky.
Now a balding, pot-bellied man of 40, Truman was married to a mousy woman named A
licia and was a father to two little boys. One cold evening, a few days shy of Christmas, he was walking home after a difficult day at the publishing company he had toiled at for fifteen years. He walked with a stoop, heavy-headed in the rain. He had just been passed over, for the umpteenth time, for yet another promotion.
The sky was growing dark. He should be home for supper soon. His rusty old car was at the repair shop that day, so he was supposed to take the bus. But he didn’t want to go home. His two boys, Caleb and Byron, had been bugging him all week about setting up the Christmas tree, and he had promised to get it done that evening. But he was in no mood for festivities. He just wanted to be alone. So he walked, mulling and seething.
He walked for so long, mulled and seethed for so long, that he lost track of time. Eventually, he came upon a dilapidated church that had long been abandoned after a terrible fire destroyed it twelve years earlier. He had never walked this far out before.
With a sigh, he sat down on a bench near the charred ruins. He glanced around in the fading light of dusk, and he jumped and recoiled at the sight: next to the bench, hunched over, was a small, crumbling, one-eyed gargoyle missing a chunk of its face. Its stony surface was blackened from old soot and chunks of dirt, making it look as though it was covered in scabs. Its folded wings looked broken, and a long thin tongue protruded from its smirking, sharp-fanged mouth.
What an ugly thing, Truman thought with disgust, giving a shudder. Who would think of putting such an eyesore here, of all places? He had once been told that gargoyles protect those that they guard, such as a church, from any evil or harmful spirits by frightening them off. He had never quite understood why they had to look so grotesque.
At that moment, thunder growled up ahead, and the sky flashed menacingly. The angry grey clouds were gathering for a storm.
Feeling wretched, Truman clasped his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, whoever’s listening, please help me. Please …”
For a long time, he sat there with his shiny bald head bowed, mumbling the same words over and over. He didn’t really care who was listening to his prayers, as long as they could help turn his luck around …
His stomach started rumbling, and he opened his eyes and sighed. He better go home. Alicia would be beside herself by now. She had mentioned something about pot roast for dinner tonight. At least that was something he liked to eat. He retrieved a frayed blue handkerchief from his blazer and started mopping his damp, perpetually oily forehead.
Then a velvety voice whispered into his ear. “Truman, my friend, what grieves you?”
Truman yelped and jumped from the bench as though he had been scorched. He wheeled around. “Who-who is it?” he called out feebly into the dark silence. And it was with dawning horror that Truman saw that the gargoyle’s remaining eye, now red and blinking, had turned sideways to look at him. Truman let out a strangled cry as he staggered and fell onto his bottom with a great splattering of mud.
The gargoyle laughed softly. Truman’s skin crawled. “Do not be afraid,” the gargoyle drawled. “I heard your prayers.”
Truman gulped. Did he have too much to drink? No, he had barely touched the wine after his boss announced who had gotten the promotion. His promotion, the one he should have gotten. “W-what … who are you?” he stuttered, scrambling to his feet.
“Who am I?” mused the gargoyle. “I come by many names. But people here like to call me Scabtree. How nice to make your acquaintance.” Truman gaped at the talking lump of stone, which went on to say, “I do feel badly for you, my friend. Let me help you.”
“Help me?” Truman fumbled for his blue handkerchief again and tried to mop up the sweat and rain that was pouring down his face. He ought to see a shrink. He was talking to a gargoyle, for crying out loud.
Scabtree’s red eye glistened. “I shall grant you the ability to excel at anything you put your mind to.” Its eye twinkled. “You will become remarkable, my friend.” At this, Truman’s eyes widened. Scabtree smiled. “But in return, you must promise to do one thing for me.”
Truman gawped. Surely, this was a dream. Or he was having a mental breakdown. “What is it?” he squeaked. Surely, none of this could be real.
But even if it were real … what did he have to lose?
“Nothing sinful like killing,” Scabtree reassured. “You will know when the time is ripe.”
Then something strange happened. A vision came to Truman, as though the sun had just broken through the dark clouds. He saw a pair of golden doors open up before him, revealing all that would come to pass if he agreed to this pact. Money, fame, status, popularity, the envy of all those who looked down on him. Yes, he would be remarkable, indeed.
Oh! It was everything he had ever wanted!
But something nagged at him. If gargoyles were supposed to be protectors against evil and harmful spirits, why was this gargoyle trying to bargain with him?
He swallowed hard. Well, why not? What did he have to lose anyway?
So Truman ignored that nagging feeling in his heart, and he nodded. “Yes.”
Scabtree’s red eye glistened. “You made the right choice.”
Suddenly, the gargoyle closed its eye and seemed to fall asleep. Truman had been dismissed.
He walked away with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeking out from behind the grey clouds.
Overnight, mediocrity became a thing of the past. Truman became the top employee of the month, and then he became a pro golfer and an outstanding chess player; in fact, he became brilliant at everything he did. He fast became proud and arrogant, mean and smug, belittling of his superiors who fast met their downfall and mysteriously got fired from their jobs.
Soon, Truman left the publishing company and became a trader at a large investment bank. Even sooner, he stopped spending time with his family on the weekends. He became renowned, receiving invitations to high-society functions, which he happily attended in outrageously expensive tailored suits without his wife. There, he fraternized with the wealthy and powerful, welcoming the attention of beautiful women who previously would not have given him a second look. Not even a first look, really.
One autumn night, he arrived back at his new home, a beautiful Georgian manor, in his new black Bentley, escorted to the door by his new driver, for he was too drunk after yet another party. His wife and two sons were seated on the plush leather couch in the lavishly adorned living room, their faces tense and pale. Bulging suitcases stood waiting at the marble foyer.
Truman stumbled over the Persian rug as he leered at his family with bloodshot eyes, his breath reeking of cigarettes and whiskey. “What do you think you’re doing, woman?” he demanded, his words slurring.
Alicia stood up, trembling like a leaf. But for once, her voice was resolute. “We are leaving, Truman. I don’t want my children growing up like this.”
Truman peered at her, and Alicia recoiled. “What?” he spat. “I bring in all the money and provide you with everything you could ask for. Look at all those designer handbags and jewellery you’ve got! What more do you want?” He was shouting now, and his two young sons clung to their mother, who looked their father in the eye. “Money can’t turn back time or buy you love, Truman.”
“Nobody leaves me! I get everything!” he screamed, groping his way towards them. Then he lunged forward and pushed his wife against the wall. But the moment he heard his wife cry out in pain, something snapped in him. A fog slowly lifted, and then he stared down at his whimpering wife, horrified. His two boys were crying and clutching their mother.
He tried to help his wife up. But she screamed and shoved him away. “Don’t you ever come near us again, you beast!” she shrieked, cradling her sprained arm. Then in a blur, she scrambled to her feet and bundled up her two children in thick coats and ran out of the house, leaving all their beautiful belongings behind. Outside, she j
umped into the Bentley with her two boys and shouted at the driver to take them to the airport as fast as humanly possible.
After the car sped away, the cavernous house became deathly quiet. Truman dropped to the floor in a daze, and for the rest of the night he stayed in the same spot as the thunder clapped and the lightning cast scary dancing shadows on the walls.
Before the sun rose, Truman drove his brand-new silver Maserati all the way to the dilapidated cathedral and fell to his knees before the crumbling gargoyle. “Please help me, Scabtree! My wife has taken the children and left me,” he wailed. “Doesn’t she realize I wanted to change for her? I did it all for them, so they could be proud of me!”
There was a long silence as the gargoyle stared back, its eye black and stony, and for a moment Truman wondered if he had imagined it all. But then the stony eye blinked and turned red, and a strange sound came from its gaping mouth. It took Truman a moment to realize the gargoyle was laughing. He gasped, lost his balance, and fell back, splattering mud and ruining his expensive tailored suit.
“Oh, spare me your excuses, you despicable little man,” Scabtree said silkily. “You agreed to the pact salivating like a dog. You did not do it for them, Truman. You did it for you.”
Truman crumbled to the ground. “I made a terrible mistake,” he croaked. “I should’ve been grateful for what I had. Oh, please, help me go back!”
Scabtree rasped, “But you must fulfil our pact, Truman.”
Truman started to weep. “What do you want from me?” he cried, his eyes and nose running.
Suddenly, something materialized out of thin air, fluttered about for a bit, then dropped onto his sodden lap. He stared at the young girl in the picture. She looked to be in her early teens, with an unsmiling, pointed pale face, bright green eyes, and a shock of short curly black hair with tendrils sticking up. Her ears seemed strangely shaped, like leaves. She was dressed in shabby grey clothes, but one thing stood out – from her belt hung some sort of silver ball, gleaming like a large pearl.
