For my brother Christopher,
who created the tin foil fairy
Prologue
The year is 1936.
A young boy and an old man are sitting together, side by side, on a rock in a churchyard. It’s a lovely place, with an old apple orchard and a small river running along between the trees and the church courtyard.
An ancient lion statue stands nearby, regal in the gentle summer evening.
The boy and the man are very still, almost as though they are waiting for something. If you listen closely, you can hear the man whispering to the boy:
“They are very shy. You must be extremely quiet, but they will come. They love the apples at this time of year.”
The boy’s eyes are open wide, and he dares not move his head lest he scare their mysterious visitors away. He is staring straight ahead at the stone lion, long enough to realize that its left ear is broken off and is lying in the grass at its feet. The boy’s grandfather gives him a gentle nudge and whispers, “Shhh. See, over there, in the treetops.”
The boy squints, hardly daring to breathe. It is difficult to see much in the gathering darkness. The treetops are still … then suddenly he sees a movement. A leathery claw reaches out from the green leaves of an apple tree and plucks a fruit from the branch. In another tree nearby, a second claw slowly clutches an apple, then in a third tree, a third claw reaches out.
“There are THREE of them?” the boy whispers.
“Here, yes.”
The boy considers this. “There are more, then?”
The old man nods. “There may be more … perhaps.”
“Then where are the others?”
The old man shakes his head and shrugs. “Lost. Gone. No one knows for sure.”
The boy has many, many more questions he’d like to ask, but he is cut short. In the next moment, a half-eaten apple whizzes through the air and lands at his feet. The boy looks at it, amazed, but doesn’t have a chance to say anything, because just then three wondrous creatures emerge from the trees and waddle slowly toward him.
His grandfather has told him they exist, but his grandfather is also known for making up stories.
The boy sits still, barely breathing, until the first creature reaches them and says something in a voice that sounds like gravel, or like pennies swishing in the bottom of a bucket, or maybe like the wind rustling in the winter leaves.
“Snarthen bellatro?” it says, glaring at the boy and his grandfather. It is large and dark, with a ram’s head and curly horns.
But the boy hears the gargoyle say something else in its whispery voice, as well. It sounds quite clearly like, “And who are you?”
Chapter One
On the Way to School
It was raining. Again.
Christopher Canning pulled on his muddy rain boots and waited at the door for his many-assorted-older-brothers and his slightly-older-sister to get ready for school. Marbles, the family’s large dog, bumped gently into Christopher’s leg.
He patted Marbles slowly.
Christopher leaned against the cool door frame and looked across the driveway. Next door to their house, a spiky iron fence surrounded a little park that had gateposts and a locked gate.
He had noticed the park but hadn’t examined it. He and his family had just moved into this house a few weeks earlier. He hadn’t looked around yet, not on his own, not without his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister tagging along.
It was an interesting-looking park. It had a stone fountain, and the water made a gentle bubbling sound. In the centre of the fountain were two entwined seahorses, perched on their tails. The water sprayed out of their horns and splashed into the stone bowl beneath them.
There was a small apple tree, too, but apart from that and a few benches and bushes, not much else. It was odd, not a park for playing in, since there were no swings or slides or any playground equipment.
No, not for playing in. But for what then?
Christopher decided it might be for sitting quietly in. That would be the most special thing of all, as far as he was concerned. Somewhere quiet to sit and think, alone. As if on cue, and to remind him of their constant existence, his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister (there were five Canning children in all) entered the hallway and started jostling for their raincoats and boots.
“Move it, C.C.,” Marc (his oldest brother) said as he gently pushed Christopher aside to get at the boots.
“Here’s your lunch, C.C.,” said Claire (his slightly-older-sister), handing him a lumpy paper bag. He slipped it into his backpack and stepped out of the crowded hallway onto the front porch of the house.
He leaned against the porch railing and again stared at the little park. A red-and-yellow streetcar rattled by, filled with people going downtown to work and school.
He and his brothers and sister were all walking to their new schools. The eldest Cannings were going to the high school, and he was going to the junior school. He was used to new schools, since he and his family moved all the time. His dad and mom worked for different parts of the government — he wasn’t sure which parts exactly — so they moved a lot.
His loud family came out of the house and joined him on the porch, popping open umbrellas and stepping out into the rain like one brightly-coloured, many-headed monster. His sister grasped him firmly by the hand and popped her umbrella open over their heads.
“Claire, honestly, I’m twelve years old! I’m too old to hold your hand!” Christopher wailed, trying to pull his hand free, but it was no use. Claire had a vice-like grip and didn’t care about mortifying her little brother.
“Come on C.C., it’s not that bad!” she said, almost happily. “Great rainy weather for your third awful day at school!” His sister was altogether too happy, most of the time. So downright chipper, it really wasn’t natural for a teenager. She pulled him much too cheerfully along the rainy street. As the youngest, he was used to being dragged along by someone at the back of the crowd of many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister.
But Christopher had noticed that being at the back often had its advantages. You got to see things that people at the front didn’t, for instance.
That’s why, as Claire dragged him much too happily through the rain to school and past the little park next to their house, he was the only one to notice the gargoyles at the park gates. There were two gateposts with a smallish gargoyle perched on each one. The gargoyles looked very wet and dark. Rainwater was pouring down their leathery backs and shiny wings, and steam was curling off them in little wisps.
As he passed the gargoyles, he looked up. They had leathery faces and intriguing pouches at their sides. They were perched on the gateposts like cats, with their claws in front of them. They didn’t look exactly alike, either, which was interesting. He would have liked to look at them longer, but his sister said, “Hurry up, C.C., honestly, you’re such a dawdler.”
He liked the look of the gargoyles, so he smiled at them before Claire yanked him away.
That was why he didn’t see the first gargoyle stick its tongue out at him.
Or the second gargoyle smile back.
Chapter Two
The Apple Bitten
Christopher made it through day three at his new school. The teacher was assigning their math homework for the evening. “Be sure to practise your multiplication up to the fifteen times tables.”
A girl two desks down groaned and slammed her book shut. Her friend, a girl named Kathleen or something, looked gloomy.
The teacher dismissed the class and they all filed out into the hallway. Christopher grabbed his backpack then headed down the old marble stairs and out the front door. As he
stood at the streetcar stop, one of his classmates joined him. It was the girl named Kathleen, or something.
They were the only two people at the stop. He looked up at the sky and started rocking back and forth on his feet. He did that whenever he was nervous. Christopher was good at new schools, he’d been to so many. Making new friends, though? Well, that was something different.
The girl turned toward him, clearly trying to think of something to say. Finally she said, “You’re … Christopher, right?”
“Uh-huh. Christopher Canning. My family calls me C.C. for short.” He said this so quickly he wasn’t sure the girl understood him. Christopher rubbed the top of his shoe against his calf then pushed his glasses up his nose. The girl could see he wasn’t going to say anything else.
“I’m Katherine. Newberry,” she said, smiling a little. “Nobody calls me K.N., though. Just Katherine.”
“Oh. Hi,” Christopher said. It was all he could think of. He vowed then and there to start paying more attention to how his sister Claire started such easy conversations with strangers.
The streetcar rattled to a stop and opened its doors. They got on and found seats near the back. The streetcar rattled on its way again.
Katherine got out her notebook and started doing math. Christopher stared out the window. Katherine was saying quietly to herself, “Fifteen times eight. Fifteen times eight,” and tapping the pencil on her chin.
“One hundred and twenty,” Christopher blurted out.
“What?” she said, surprised.
“One hundred and twenty. Fifteen times eight, it’s one hundred and twenty,” he said, pointing to her math book. “Oh!” She gave a little smile and wrote down the number in her book. “Okay, what’s fifteen times nine? Quick!”
“One hundred and thirty-five,” Christopher answered immediately. Katherine scribbled.
“Fifteen times ten?”
“One hundred and fifty.” Katherine scribbled again.
“Fifteen times eleven?”
“One hundred and sixty-five.” Another scribble.
“And fifteen times twelve?”
“One hundred and eighty.”
Katherine wrote down the last answer, slammed her math book shut, and jammed it back into her backpack. “Thanks!”
They were nearing his stop. It was just past an old pub and a tiny library, in front of a bright-red store with a green door, called “Candles by Daye.” There was an extra “e” on “Daye,” which was kind of funny, but he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Well, see you,” he said, getting to his feet.
Katherine got up and swung her backpack onto her shoulder. “It’s my stop, too. See you later,” she said, then pushed open the streetcar doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. She walked ahead of him then disappeared into Candles by Daye. As the store door opened, he heard a little bell ring, and for a second he caught the heavy scent of cinnamon. The door shut and it was quiet again. He stared for a moment at the shop window filled with candles shaped like skulls, dragon statues, and yoga books, but he caught Katherine looking at him through the glass, and he quickly looked away.
Christopher was alone. He looked across the street. His huge old house was waiting, but everyone was still at work or school. His parents’ car wasn’t in the driveway, and there were no brothers or slightly-older-sister reading on the front porch. He crossed the street at the crosswalk and found himself standing in front of the locked iron gates of the little park. There was no one around, not even cars passing by, and he was alone except for an old man with a dark coat, a hat, and thick glasses sitting on a bench way down the sidewalk.
The gargoyles were perched on the gateposts above the locked gate. He studied them for a moment. He looked into the locked park, at the stone seahorse fountain bubbling away, and the inviting benches just out of his reach, then back up at the gargoyles. They were dripping wet and very dark and shiny looking. There were little wisps of steam coming off them.
Then he realized that one of the gargoyles was clutching an apple in its claw.
And someone had taken a bite.
Chapter Three
Of Marbles and Apple Cores
Who would take a bite out of an apple and stick it in the gargoyle statue’s claw?
Christopher wondered if one of his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister was playing a trick on him (a real possibility). He was just about to investigate more closely when he heard loud barking from his house next door. He’d forgotten about his dog! He had to take Marbles for a walk! The dog had spotted him standing at the park gates and was going crazy inside the house at the living room window.
“See you later, gargoyles,” he said as he turned away. Just then a loud streetcar rattled by, which is why he couldn’t be positively sure of what happened next. It might have been someone playing a trick, but he was sure he heard a strange, whispery voice say, “Bellatro smethen sawchen.”
Which in itself didn’t mean anything.
But Christopher heard the whispery words and a different meaning at the same time, which translated roughly to something like, “DO NOT throw the apple at that boy.”
It sounded like the wind whispering in the long summer grass, or like a language that he was just beginning to forget. But he was sure he caught words there, too.
He whipped around and looked at the gargoyles once again, his eyes wide under his glasses. They were just gargoyles, stone figures staring straight ahead. He peered for a few moments then shook his head. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again, but finally decided he must have imagined it. The barking next door was getting more frantic. He had to go.
A few moments later Christopher opened the front door and was inside his house, trying to keep Marbles from knocking him off his feet.
“Yes, I’m happy to see you too, Marbles. Yes, I will take you for a walk, just let me get something to eat.”
At the word “walk,” Marbles started doing a hilarious dance on his front paws. He was a big, spotted dog, so it was a little hazardous to be around him when he was doing his “I’m-going-for-a-walk” dance. Christopher went into the kitchen, grabbed a banana, pocketed Marbles’ favourite orange rubber ball, and was about to lift the dog leash off the hook beside the back door, when …
… whack!
Something hit the outside of the door, hard, just on the other side of his head. Carefully he opened the door and peered outside.
There was an apple coming to rest at his feet.
And there was a bite out of it!
Christopher looked over at the gargoyles on the park gates. He could just make out the two statues perched dripping wet on the gateposts.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He peered through the drizzle and scratched his head. He must be imagining things.
He took Marbles for a walk.
But he was beginning to think there might be something a little odd about that park.
Chapter Four
The English Garden: Septimus
James leaned over the book resting on his knee and pushed his dark, curly hair out of his eyes. He was sitting on a bench under an apple tree loaded with fruit. It was a beautiful summer day, and his grandfather’s garden was bursting with life. The daisies, asters, and hollyhocks were all in full bloom and filled with bees. Their droning was making James sleepy, but he didn’t want to sleep.
He looked over at his grandfather’s little thatched cottage and smiled: he really was in England! A few months earlier, no one even knew he HAD a grandfather living in England, not even his mother. She was quite surprised (and puzzled) when the letter came with her name on it, inviting James to visit for the summer.
“But you don’t have a grandfather living in England,” she had said, scratching her head. “My father was an odd recluse who disappeared when I was little.”
A few phone calls set that straight. Apparently James’s grandfather was alive and quite well and wanted to meet his only grandson. (He wanted
to meet his only daughter too, but it was going to take some time for James’s mother to get used to the idea.)
James had never been anywhere, so after much begging and insisting and reasoning by him and more phone calls and checking by his parents … he was allowed to go.
So James DID have a grandfather. As for the odd recluse part … that was turning out to be just a little bit true.
James turned back to his book. A fountain was bubbling quietly nearby, adding to the drowsy atmosphere. Occasionally a bullfrog croaked sleepily from the pond.
There were a few statues in the garden as well, in various states of completion. In one spot, a half-finished frog statue had big eyes and front legs, but its body and back legs had not yet emerged from its stone cradle. In another shady part of the garden, an enormous apple stood proudly half-formed in a squat block of pink stone.
It was a beautiful, eccentric old garden, with the hand of its creator visible in everything.
And it was a sleepy place. James caught himself falling into a doze and sat up straight. He was a little old to be taking afternoon naps, since he was almost sixteen.
He put his chin in his hand and tried to concentrate on his reading. His grandfather had given him a book to read: A History of Stonemasons in Europe. It was an interesting book. Stonemasons worked with knives and hammers and saws and made some really important things out of stone, like churches, bridges, castles, and sometimes artistic carvings, including statues and strange gargoyles.
It was fascinating reading, but for some reason he wasn’t able to concentrate. The bees and the flowers and the aroma of apples warming in the sun were making his eyelids very heavy.
Just as he was about to doze off again, an apple tree leaf gently fluttered down from the branch above his head and landed with a loudish flup onto the page of his open book. It brought him back to his senses.
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