Pitterdown Manor had extensive cellars, although he had never been down there. The drawings examined during his search for the secret passage revealed two levels of cellars running not only under the buildings themselves, but also beneath the central courtyard. The wine cellar alone was over two hundred feet long.
Kevin flicked back through the pages, searching for previous dog-ears. He had meticulously turned each and every one upright again. The picture began to build up, word by painstaking word. Finally he could string all the clues together: CELLAR BOTTOM NORTH-EAST CORNER LARGE CHEST.
“By all that’s holy!”
Without thinking, his hands gathered together the scraps of paper and methodically shredded them one by one into the wastepaper basket. Then he packed up the book, tucked it under his arm, and headed for bed. He was exhausted.
* * * *
He had caught a chill working late in the Library. Kevin spent the following four days abed, while his nose dripped with the persistence of a leaky tap. The doctor issued him six blue pills in addition to his usual fifty-seven. He used up two boxes of tissues and eight helpings of the cook’s best vegetable soup, which was a nourishing remedy recommended by the doctor and hated by the patient. Kevin and vegetables had an acrimonious relationship at the best of times. By day four he was ready to scale the walls with his bare fingernails if necessary, for the doctor had banned all reading as ‘far too taxing for the invalid’–an indiscretion for which he would have paid in blood had Kevin the strength to rise from his sickbed–and as a result he was utterly bored. Even his fertile and usually boundless imagination had succumbed to ennui.
He fell asleep, and dreamed.
Amidst the boles of trees, damp-slicked by mist and reduced in the distance to vaguely threatening shapes, stood the ghostly little girl. She was crying. Her long hair fell in tangled webs about her face, soaking up tears of bitter distress, and her shoulders quaked with the force of her sobbing. To observe someone so distraught was painful to Kevin, who was convinced that some mysterious process connected him to her misery. Even sleeping, he was aware that he was kicking his blankets into an almighty tangle. But there was nothing he could do. Though the dream world drifted about him with listless purpose, he was unable, as always, to move or speak or change the course of events. The little girl seemed oblivious to his presence. This was a relief, for to see her pleading eyes was far worse than the crying.
The Unicorn came trotting through the trees, coming right up to the girl before she sensed his approach. He lowered his head.
The little girl flung her arms around the Unicorn’s neck, which she could barely reach, and sobbed even harder, although the scene appeared slightly unreal, as Kevin could hear no sound. It seemed inconceivable that such an elfin creature could produce such floods, but the beautiful Unicorn stood patiently by as the storm continued unabated.
By degrees, Kevin became aware of a low-hanging bough near his left hand, laden with large, unfamiliar fruits–flattened disks covered with coarse hair, nestled amidst thickets of small, waxy leaves. But the leaves were spotted and sickly, hanging limp upon the branches rather than bursting with vitality. A noxious secretion oozed out of the darkest of the spots. Kevin thought he detected an aura of taint and disease that, as he shifted his gaze, was reflected to a greater or lesser degree on the trees around him. The spots were ubiquitous–tiny in many places, but spread throughout the foliage like the first sprinkling of a general infection. The forest was ailing.
This new understanding struck him sharply. Was this the why the little girl was crying? Why should she care so deeply for mere trees? Unaccountably, the mystery of the dream had deepened. Yet he still could find no reason for his presence. With his limited knowledge of
Kevin flicked back through the pages, searching for previous dog-ears. He had meticulously turned each and every one upright again. The picture began to build up, word by painstaking word. Finally he could string all the clues together: CELLAR BOTTOM NORTH-EAST CORNER LARGE CHEST.
“By all that’s holy!”
Without thinking, his hands gathered together the scraps of paper and methodically shredded them one by one into the wastepaper basket. Then he packed up the book, tucked it under his arm, and headed for bed. He was exhausted.
* * * *
He had caught a chill working late in the Library. Kevin spent the following four days abed, while his nose dripped with the persistence of a leaky tap. The doctor issued him six blue pills in addition to his usual fifty-seven. He used up two boxes of tissues and eight helpings of the cook’s best vegetable soup, which was a nourishing remedy recommended by the doctor and hated by the patient. Kevin and vegetables had an acrimonious relationship at the best of times. By day four he was ready to scale the walls with his bare fingernails if necessary, for the doctor had banned all reading as ‘far too taxing for the invalid’–an indiscretion for which he would have paid in blood had Kevin the strength to rise from his sickbed–and as a result he was utterly bored. Even his fertile and usually boundless imagination had succumbed to ennui.
He fell asleep, and dreamed.
Amidst the boles of trees, damp-slicked by mist and reduced in the distance to vaguely threatening shapes, stood the ghostly little girl. She was crying. Her long hair fell in tangled webs about her face, soaking up tears of bitter distress, and her shoulders quaked with the force of her sobbing. To observe someone so distraught was painful to Kevin, who was convinced that some mysterious process connected him to her misery. Even sleeping, he was aware that he was kicking his blankets into an almighty tangle. But there was nothing he could do. Though the dream world drifted about him with listless purpose, he was unable, as always, to move or speak or change the course of events. The little girl seemed oblivious to his presence. This was a relief, for to see her pleading eyes was far worse than the crying.
The Unicorn came trotting through the trees, coming right up to the girl before she sensed his approach. He lowered his head.
The little girl flung her arms around the Unicorn’s neck, which she could barely reach, and sobbed even harder, although the scene appeared slightly unreal, as Kevin could hear no sound. It seemed inconceivable that such an elfin creature could produce such floods, but the beautiful Unicorn stood patiently by as the storm continued unabated.
By degrees, Kevin became aware of a low-hanging bough near his left hand, laden with large, unfamiliar fruits–flattened disks covered with coarse hair, nestled amidst thickets of small, waxy leaves. But the leaves were spotted and sickly, hanging limp upon the branches rather than bursting with vitality. A noxious secretion oozed out of the darkest of the spots. Kevin thought he detected an aura of taint and disease that, as he shifted his gaze, was reflected to a greater or lesser degree on the trees around him. The spots were ubiquitous–tiny in many places, but spread throughout the foliage like the first sprinkling of a general infection. The forest was ailing.
This new understanding struck him sharply. Was this the why the little girl was crying? Why should she care so deeply for mere trees? Unaccountably, the mystery of the dream had deepened. Yet he still could find no reason for his presence. With his limited knowledge of
Similar Books
