LITMIR.BIZ

      Dedication

      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

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