The Dark Hills Divide

by Patrick Carman

  As it turned out, there were fifty-seven convicts who tried to invade Bridewell that night. All the rest had died waiting for Sebastian or Ganesh or whoever he was to give them orders to attack. He had taken terrible advantage of their willingness to follow blindly someone, anyone, who would just lead them. While he lived a life of royalty for many long years, they hid in tunnels, scrounged for food, and watched their lot die of disease. Most of them were barely adults when they entered the prison at Ainsworth, and cowering there in the town square that night, I got the feeling they only wanted a place they could call home. I was scared to death of what was to become of them. But I needn’t have worried.

  A few days later, after things calmed down, my father and Nicolas decided to send twenty of the remaining convicts to Lunenburg, twenty to Turlock, and seventeen to Lathbury. It was easier to handle them in small numbers and each town was willing to do their part. The resolve to fight had left most of the convicts, especially once they understood what Ganesh had done to them. Some of them, though not all, were rehabilitated and lived productive lives after a time, and there were even a few that seemed out of place as convicts to begin with. One of these, a man named John Christopher, would become my friend (but that’s a story for a different time).

  A few days after the convicts were moved, my father and I took a group of men to the midway point on the road from Bridewell to Turlock, and we smashed six-foot holes in the walls on both sides of the road. Before we left, I looked out into the mountains with my father and watched as Darius came into view. Then I looked into Fenwick Forest on the other side and saw two more wolves creep out from behind the trees, Odessa and Sherwin. They would finally be reunited on that very day. I waved in both directions and the three of them howled: “Thank you.”

  It was the last thing I ever understood the animals to say.

  EPILOGUE

  A month after the invasion the people of Bridewell voted to tear down the walls. Six months after that, the giant blocks that once formed the massive walls were strewn across the valley floor in thousands of pieces, weeds and flowers alike growing between the shattered stones, like an endless broken tombstone. The only walls that remain are those that surround Bridewell, a decision made by my father and Nicolas at Pervis’s insistence. It sits alone now as a walled fortress at the center of everything. Maybe those walls will be of some use in a distant future I can’t see, but for now they only remind me of an imprisoned past I’m happy to have behind me.

  Life is better without the walls, everyone agrees. Still, sometimes I’m afraid of the outside world, and every so often in my private thoughts I wish the walls were still there to protect me. It feels like growing up, as if the safety of childhood has been stripped away, and I’ve woken up on the edge of something dangerous. The walls are gone and I can do as I please. It’s a freedom I’m not so sure I’m ready for.

  These days, when I make the trip from Lathbury to Bridewell, I see animals all along the way. I no longer understand what they say, and it makes me feel old, as if all the child has gone out of me. But I still get a funny look now and then from a squirrel or a wolf or a fox, and I remember the thrill of those days and all that was at stake, so much that nobody will ever know or understand. For a passing moment I feel like I’m twelve again, the magic filling the forest, and I can almost hear the animals talking.

  The last time I visited Bridewell I spent hours and hours in the library, walking the aisles of books, looking for the volume I’ve missed that would make for the perfect companion. Grayson and I sat quietly reading all day, sometimes nodding off to sleep, other times sharing a favorite passage, as only old friends can.

  Pervis is still the head guard. With so many walls down, he seems a tad more jumpy, forever casting a wary eye toward Ainsworth and The Dark Hills.

  Yipes moved to Lathbury for almost a month, but he missed the wild of the mountains so much he returned to his house on the river. He seems content to live out his days mostly alone, and he goes back to the pool and looks for stones all the time. I know, because sometimes I go with him and I look, too, but we never find any. The ones we find are as dull and lifeless as the one I carry in a leather pouch around my neck.

  In fact, as far as I can tell, all of Elyon’s magic has drained out of the valley, leaving a dry and barren void even when the rainy season is upon us. I suppose the wall had its own way of holding the enchanting beauty of the wild away from us for a time, but eventually we found a way to snuff out what little magic remained. Maybe that’s just what people do, or maybe Elyon, if he’s real at all, is getting farther away from us as Ander had suggested in the forest. How I wished I had pushed Ander for more answers when I had had the chance. I fear the great silence between us will forever make Elyon a mystery to me.

  Lately I’ve been wondering whether or not I could go off searching for a place where you could stand in a pool of icy water and come out talking to animals. A place where secret messages could be found, and squirrels are full of comic bravery. Sometimes I think I could ask Yipes and he would go with me, and we could travel the world just like Warvold did, looking for pockets of magic where Elyon’s presence still remained. But then I’m not twelve anymore, and sometimes I’m almost sure adventures like that only happen when you’re a child.

  My thoughts keep returning to Elyon and all that Ander had said about him. The mystery of this mythical “creator” has drifted into my head and I can’t get it out. My world has always been so small, hidden behind walls. I’m beginning to think this Land of Elyon is bigger and more dangerous than anything I could have imagined. How many more mysteries are waiting for me beyond the walls?

  I wonder what would happen if I drove my cart through Bridewell, on to Ainsworth, and beyond — a girl of thirteen and not a wall in sight to hold me back. Was that a rabbit that just winked at me? I think I just saw Ander in the mist, and I hear Darius howling through the windswept trees. Could it be that Elyon is in the shadows, waiting for us, longing to be with us once again? Maybe an unscheduled visit to see Yipes with a big bag of tomatoes would be a good idea.

  To be continued …

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  NEXT

  The Land of Elyon Book 2

  Beyond the Valley of Thorns

  Alexa Daley has been keeping quiet, living out what remains of her life in the city of Lathbury, mending books and daydreaming about faraway places. But all that changes when a mysterious letter arrives from an old friend beckoning her to the caves, a dark and ominous place, the one place she doesn’t want to go.

  Thus begins the second installment in The Land of Elyon series, in which Alexa leaves the safe confines of Bridewell Common and travels into The Dark Hills and beyond. She discovers stunning new lands, finds extraordinary new friends, and encounters a strange new evil with the power to destroy The Land of Elyon.

  Full of excitement and peril, Beyond the Valley of Thorns will redefine everything Alexa believes about the world she inhabits. She will discover the dark unseen forces at work all around her, and she will carry a burden she alone was meant for, a burden that will determine the fate of The Land of Elyon and all who reside there.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  The Dark Hills Divide was originally constructed as a weekly serial for my two daughters. If you should run across them in your travels, cover your ears, and run the other way. They are talkative little darlings, and we are always somewhere beyond the reader in Alexa’s adventures.

  Bridewell was a real place: a prison in England, where they really did brand Vs on vagabonds.

  Renny Lodge was the name of one of the buildings at the historic Bridewell prison.

  Lunenburg (the first town Warvold settled) is the name of a town from the Robert Frost poem “The Mountain.”

  The Grob is a genuine chess strategy used for precisely the reasons outlined in this story.

  Cabeza de Vaca (which translates as cow head) was a real person, a Spanish explorer of the sixteenth century.

  The fable t
hat Warvold tells Alexa is the poem “The Blind Men and the Elephant” by John Godfrey Saxe.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the following individuals and organizations for their contributions to this work:

  Jeremy Gonzalez, Jeffrey Townsend, and Squire Broel. Without them this book would still be in a box in my closet.

  The fine folks at Book & Game Company in Walla Walla, Washington; Third Place Books in Seattle, Washington; and Barnes & Noble in Kennewick, Washington. Your passion for the work was the spark that got things moving.

  Brad Weinman for his epic cover illustration that caught the attention of so many.

  Kathy Gonzalez and Matt McKern, a couple of hardworking, talented people without whom this book would not have seen the light of day.

  Peter Rubie, a cool cat and a great agent. Thank you for your tireless work in bringing this book to market.

  David Levithan. If you’re lucky enough to find an editor with as much heart and talent as David, you have done well.

  Gene Smith for finding, reading, and championing the book.

  And Craig Walker, for whom I hold the deepest respect and admiration.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PATRICK CARMAN began The Dark Hills Divide as a story to tell in the night. The characters and places soon took on a life of their own, and The Land of Elyon was born.

  Before writing this, his first novel, Carman helped to create board games, Web sites, a mentoring program, and a music show heard on hundreds of radio stations across the country and around the world. He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two daughters.

  To learn more about

  Patrick Carman and The Land of Elyon,

  visit:

  www.scholastic.com/landofelyon

  Copyright

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Copyright © 2005 by Patrick Carman.

  Cover art by Brad Weinman

  Cover design by Steve Scott

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  This book was originally published in hardcover by Orchard Books 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 e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 publisher.

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-41504-0