“Oh, I do!” she said, waving her broken arm. “As soon as I get this cast off, it’s the one thing I want to do!”
“Well, then I’ll go with you,” Wendell said bravely. “How else am I supposed to figure anything out? Mom and Dad never tell me anything.”
“Come on!” cried Amber. “Let’s get moving. We have to let the town of Forest know it’s been saved.”
“I’m right behind you!” called Professor Spark. “Though India wants her dinner, I see, and may take a quick trip into the forest to get it. Never pass up a chance for fresh meat, as they say…. Go ahead, cutie pie. You can catch us later,” she assured the dog, while Amber backed away in alarm.
“Um…Wendell,” said his father, swinging into step beside him. “I’ve been noticing your new interest in the forest. Hiking around, sleeping out, adventure in the wilds—just the sort of thing a boy your age should be doing. I wonder if you might like a tent for your birthday?”
“A tent! Are you kidding? I’m never sleeping outside again!” shouted Wendell. “Even Amber can’t make me do that. I’m keeping a roof over my head from now on. And I’m never going hunting again with you, either, Dad. So don’t ask.”
Mr. Padgett shook his head as Wendell ran ahead to catch up with his sister. “You know, I really don’t understand children,” he muttered. “They’re like people from another planet. We just don’t speak the same language.”
UPPER FOREST
“WELL, THERE THEY GO,” said Woodbine, watching the aliens’ long-stemmed shapes begin to move away into the forest. “I never thought we’d get out of this alive.”
“Whew! Me either,” Brown Nut replied. “The Elders are extraordinary leaders. I’ve never heard them speak with such wisdom and humbleness. They took the blame for everything, though everyone knows how willingly the squirrels turned to cruelty and war. The whole of Forest is in shock over it. If the Elders hadn’t woken up and recalled us to our ancient ways, what then?”
“What else,” Laurel replied, “but Barkers and more Barkers. We shall have to be careful in the future.”
“What will happen to Barker, anyway?” Woodbine asked.
“I believe the Elders have ordered him to leave Forest,” Brown Nut said. “He must never return to the end of his days.”
“And is that so terrible?”
Brown Nut flicked her tail at her brother. “Oh yes, I remember. You are the one who wants to move to the sea. But think, Woodbine, what good would it do if you could never come back to tell us what you saw?”
“Oh, I would come back,” Woodbine said quickly. “There’s never been any question about that.”
“Look!” Laurel interrupted. “There is the invader herself. And her brother.”
“Where! I can’t believe they are here,” Woodbine exclaimed.
“See? In the middle there.”
“Don’t look now, they are staring straight at us!” Brown Nut chittered.
Woodbine gave a tremendous sigh and inched forward on the ground. “Such a fascinating creature,” he murmured. “I wonder…if I put off my travels for a while, would either of you be interested in doing a study with me? Of the invader, I mean, and her strange Lower Region? Who knows, we might learn something.”
“Certainly not!” screeched Brown Nut. “We’ve had enough trouble with that place already. I am getting down to work. What with all this business of battles and troops, we are far behind in our food-gathering schedule. Really, Woodbine, you are the worst sort of goof-off.”
“I would be interested,” Laurel said quietly, after a pause.
“You would?”
“Yes. Shall we set up a headquarters in the blackberry bush by the pond?”
“Immediately!” cried Woodbine. “What a wonderful idea!”
Leaving Brown Nut behind to sniff at their behavior, the two mink-tails spiraled happily up a trunk and vanished into the branchways of Forest’s majestic trees.
A Personal History by Janet Taylor Lisle
I was born in 1947 to young parents starting a life together in a tiny New York City apartment, just after the Second World War. My father had been a bomber pilot flying out of England during the war, a shattering experience for him. Returning from Europe, he took a job at the New York Herald Tribune. City living worsened his anxieties, however, and so my family and I moved to a rented house on a quiet road near the Rhode Island seacoast.
My first memories are of this place: the woods and fields around my home and the rocky shore nearby, where my father fished and gradually regained his emotional balance. By the 1950s, he had found a job at an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. I was the first of five children, and my four brothers and I grew up in outlying Farmington, walking to local schools and later attending private school in West Hartford. But every summer, my family returned to Little Compton on the Rhode Island coast. The place, a natural haven for sea birds and wildlife, was more home to us than any other. It would become the imaginative setting for many of the stories I later wrote, including Forest, The Lampfish of Twill, and The Great Dimpole Oak.
My father revered fiction. At one time, he had contemplated becoming a fiction writer himself. From our earliest school years, my brothers and I internalized this aspiration. We were a reading and writing family, familiar with overflowing bookshelves and tables stacked with books. We were accustomed to seeing our parents reading in the evenings, and to being read to ourselves. By third grade, I was writing stories and feeling magical about it. My pencil was a wand. I waved it and my imagination fell open onto the page. It was all so easy.
By high school, though, I had lost this wild and fearless sense of writing. In my classes, I began to read the novels of the great writers, Henry James, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and Virginia Woolf, among many others. I compared my work with theirs and saw my own ineptitude.
At fourteen, I left my family to attend a girl’s boarding school. It was a completely different world. I missed my brothers and parents, but among my teachers was Miss Arthur, who taught me how to write a tight, well-constructed sentence. Three years later, I entered Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. I majored in English and learned the art of writing a pleasing term paper. But I kept my head down when it came to more imaginative forms of writing. I was self-conscious, thin-skinned, and mortally afraid of criticism. In a way, my education had silenced me.
The war in Vietnam was raging when I graduated in 1969. Like many young people at that time I opposed American intervention there, including the killing of civilians and the US draft that threatened to put my friends in harm’s way. My new husband was among those at risk. Together, we joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) to shield him from service. For the next two years I lived in Atlanta, Georgia, organizing food-buying cooperatives in the city’s public housing projects and teaching in an early childcare center. The work opened my eyes to a world of poverty I’d barely glimpsed before. My old yearning to write flared up. I went back to school—journalism classes this time—at Georgia State University. It was the beginning of a reporting career that extended over the next ten years.
Journalism, with its deadlines and demand for clear, straightforward text, has often been a precedent profession for authors. So it was for me. I learned to write all over again, and lost some of the self-consciousness that had dragged me down before. A decade later, when my daughter’s birth kept me at home, I was ready to test a voice of my own, through fiction. “Voice,” in fact, was suddenly my greatest strength. After years of newspaper interviewing, my ear was attuned to catching intonations that can underlie an ordinary remark and reveal unspoken meaning. I could write these kinds of sentences in my stories to bring my characters to life.
In 1984, my first book, The Dancing Cats of Applesap, was accepted for publication by Richard Jackson, editor of Bradbury Press. “I love your cats! Call me!” he wrote in a letter I’ve kept to remind myself of the moment when I “became a writer.” I had lucked into a talented edi
tor. Jackson’s belief in the power of voice in fiction, and his uncanny sense of narrative timing would soon make him famous in the children’s book world. We worked together over the next fifteen years, publishing some of my strongest titles, including Sirens and Spies, Afternoon of the Elves, Forest, and The Lampfish of Twill.
Today, I live full-time in Little Compton, Rhode Island, in a gray shingled house near the same rocky beaches I tramped as a child. The area’s storms and tangled woodlands, open pastures and salt water ponds, still make an appearance in almost everything I write. Like my father, I’ve found my balance there.
Lisle and her mother in Rhode Island in 1948.
Lisle’s mother reading to her children at their Farmington, Connecticut, house. From left to right: Geoff, age six; Crane, age two; Lisle’s mother; Lisle, age eight; and Hugh, age six. All the cards in the background indicate that this photo was taken around Christmastime, and they are “probably reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.”
Lisle at age eleven, in Farmington.
Lisle with her husband, Richard, and her daughter, Elizabeth, at their Little Compton house in 1978.
In 1983, Lisle received her first acceptance letter for fiction when Richard Jackson, editor of Bradbury Press, made an offer for The Dancing Cats of Applesap.
Lisle’s first book signing (for The Dancing Cats of Applesap), at Davoll’s General Store in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, in 1984.
This photo was taken in Petworth, England in 1986. The tree behind Lisle was her inspiration for The Great Dimpole Oak, published in 1987.
Lisle and her brothers in a photo taken in the early 1990s at their Warren’s Point house, in Little Compton.
An elf village built by third graders at East School in New Canaan, Connecticut. The village, which the kids named “Elf Canaan,” was a school project connected to Afternoon of the Elves, inspired by Lisle’s visit to the school.
Lisle circa 2001 at Warren’s Point in Little Compton, Rhode Island—the setting for the coast of Twill in her novel The Lampfish of Twill.
Kayla, Lisle’s Siamese cat, at seventeen years old. She often sleeps on Lisle’s writing desk when Lisle works, and she is the model for Juliette in Lisle’s Investigators of the Unknown series. When Lisle does school presentations, she tells children that Kayla is her muse. Perhaps she is.
Lisle hard at work in her writing room, in 2001.
Lisle with her husband, Richard, and her daughter, Elizabeth, in Little Compton in 2005.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1993 by Janet Taylor Lisle
cover design by Connie Gabbert
978-1-4532-7180-3
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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