Ellanor and the Curse on the Nine-Tailed Fox Page 2

  “What do you want from me?” Truman repeated in a whisper, dread clenching his heart.

  Scabtree hissed. “Her name is Marigold, but this stubborn little girl insists on going by Goldie. Find her and bring her to me, alive and untouched. She has something I very much want.” A pause. “That silver ball she carries with her – you must make sure it is with her when you bring her back to me.”

  Truman gasped and staggered. “But that’s kidnapping!”

  “She is an orphan. Nobody will miss her when she’s gone, so technically it can hardly be considered kidnapping.” A pause. “Do as I say or your family will not be spared.”

  Truman doubled over. “No, no, no,” he whimpered, clutching his head in his hands.

  Scabtree ignored him, talking more to itself now. “Gutz, my loyal servant, will soon join me. Long have I tarried here, broken off like a shard from a mirror. But if all goes well, very soon I shall be whole again.” Scabtree looked down at the cowering man. “This girl has a twin sister named Ellanor. Like her sister, she has something that I want, too. Unfortunately for me, Ellanor may not be carrying my treasure with her. It may be in another’s keeping.” A pause. “If you find the twins together, bring them both to me.”

  “I can’t. It’s a crime!” Truman wailed, his hands grovelling the ground.

  Scabtree hissed. “We made a pact, Truman. You must fulfil your end of the bargain. I give you until midsummer to complete this task.” A heavy pause. “Otherwise, you will regret it for the rest of your pathetic life.”

  Truman started retching, then vomited. “What have I done?” he whispered, rocking back and forth, his hands clamped over his ears to block out the gargoyle’s hateful voice. He looked up. “What … what are you?” he whispered. Then he balled up his hands into fists. “You’re supposed to be a protector against evil! You said you were a friend!” he cried.

  Scabtree laughed. “You silly, worthless humans. Gargoyles are just lumps of stone. I’ve been using this lump as a vessel to dwell in and nothing else. I do not make friends. And as for who I am – I’m afraid I am quite beyond your understanding.”

  Then Truman crawled on all fours and raised his face right up to the gargoyle’s. “You have the power to take it all back, don’t you? Please have mercy,” he begged, sobbing.

  Scabtree was enjoying itself. “It is far too late, dear Truman. You gained the world for a time, did you not? I thought you knew the price.”

  “What?” Truman asked in a whisper, though he already knew the answer. What did he have to lose?

  Scabtree smiled, deeply satisfied. “Your soul.”

  PART ONE

  Marigold

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the Aftermath of the Great Escape

  Clink, clink, clink.

  The silver ball that was suspended from her belt swung back and forth as she ran, gleaming in the moonlight. The engraved letters, TJ, would have been visible in daylight.

  Goldie grasped the swinging ball for a moment, as if for luck. She was almost there.

  It was so bitterly cold that she felt like an ice block about to crack clean in the middle as she slowed down to a walk. The sky was still dark, the town deeply asleep. She had run all the way to the train station. How many miles had she covered? By the time she got there, her cheap boots were falling apart at the seams, but she was barely sweating.

  It was eerily quiet at the train station. The flickering fluorescent lights at the platform reminded her of the lone flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling of the grotty basement from which she had escaped just three hours ago, thanks to some devilry that made her shrink down to a size small enough to squeeze through the tiny window. That dank and dirty basement concealed underneath the magnificent Waldorf manor had been her home for fourteen god-awful months.

  Back in Hemlock, hundreds of orphaned children were in the care of the state. None were currently living in an orphanage because there was a social service law requiring that the children reside in family homes. She had once read that the fostering system was strained to breaking point in most of Europe. In view of the desperate shortage of foster parents, the matron at the orphanage where Goldie had spent the first eight years of her life was overjoyed when Veronika of the prominent Waldorf family offered to foster her. “You are such a lucky girl,” Matron chided when Goldie cringed at the sight of the icy blonde woman waiting for her at the doorway.

  Being taken in by the glamorous Waldorfs had seemed too good to be true after having been shuffled from dodgy foster home to foster home since leaving the drafty orphanage. As it turned out, it really was too good to be true. She never, ever wanted to set eyes on Veronika and her family again.

  Now here she was, finally having escaped Veronika’s clutches. It was barely five in the morning. The sallow-faced young woman at the ticket counter flashed Goldie a dark look when she asked for a one-way ticket to London, which was more than a day’s worth of travelling with several pit stops and a transit point along the way. She gave Goldie a once-over, taking in the bruise on her forehead, those awful, ill-fitting clothes, and her guarded, green eyes. She had seen her share of runaways, and this girl certainly fit the bill. But she kept her mouth shut as she handed over the ticket.

  Goldie’s carriage was almost empty, except for a middle-aged man who stole curious glances at her and an elderly woman nestled all the way at the back who looked like she had buried herself beneath a mound of woolly sweaters. The seats were comfortable enough, not any worse than the threadbare mattress she had slept on in the basement.

  Goldie pulled the tattered hood of her grey sweater down over her face. Exhausted, she curled up into a ball as she propped up her duffel bag as a pillow. The last thought she had before slipping into a dreamless sleep was that she half wished she could have seen the seething look on Veronika’s face when she realized Goldie had escaped her talons.

  By the time she awoke, she was startled to find that it was close to three o’clock in the afternoon! She had slept for nearly twelve hours straight without stirring. How could that have happened? She had never slept so soundly for that long, not ever. She was often kept awake late into the night, twisting and turning. Insomnia had been her companion for so long that its polar opposite seemed completely alien to her.

  She would need to transfer in Cologne in another six hours. Germany had always seemed like such an interesting place in the books she read. Maybe one day she could go back there to visit when she wasn’t on the run.

  She stretched out her legs and cringed when her stomach rumbled. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. In her haste to escape, she had not brought along food and water. Not that she had much to bring anyway, apart from several slices of mouldy bread and slimy canned ham that she had left half uneaten in the basement.

  She looked out of the window and frowned at the overcast sky. Maybe she shouldn’t go to London. She had read the climate there was almost as dreary as that of Hemlock. She wanted to feel the warm sand under her feet and taste the salty breeze in the air and not have to worry about bundling up in sweaters and coats. If only her finger had, for a second time, ended up landing on sunny and warm Botswana in Africa instead.

  But she had to stay faithful to the atlas game. Whatever supernatural powers were at play last night had propelled her to this point, making sure she got away from Veronika at last. She wouldn’t question it now; she would simply be grateful that she pulled off the great escape.

  For a long while, she stared at the grey landscape before her eyes started feeling heavy again, and she dozed off. It felt like she was catching up on years of lost sleep. So she slept and slept, and for once, she felt a tranquil quietness wash over her. Veronika and her ghastly family wouldn’t be walking in at any moment to pepper her with abuse.

  As Goldie was slipping away into oblivion again, she half expected to dream of that strange black-haired girl again … but she didn’t.r />
  By the time she awoke a second time, the sky was pitch black, and more people were crammed into the carriage. Ten minutes later, they arrived in Cologne. It took Goldie a little while to navigate her way to the right platform, where she had to board the train that would take her to London.

  Once she got on the train, she made a beeline for a window seat at the back of the carriage. Self-consciously, she hugged the duffel bag closer to her body, acutely aware that she was all alone and defenceless. Not that anybody would find the items in her duffel bag worthy of stealing but regardless, those items were the most precious things she possessed.

  For the rest of the journey, which lasted almost five hours, she slept without stirring, not even when they passed Brussels. So she almost jumped from her seat when a voice blared from the ceiling: “London, Saint Pancreas International station.” That was her stop!

  Fifteen minutes later, Goldie was standing in front of a bistro tucked inside the station, her mouth watering at the smell of fragrant mushroom soup and freshly baked bread. She looked at her cheap plastic wristwatch and groaned; it had been twenty-seven hours since she last ate or drank anything. How she had gone on this long without passing out was beyond her.

  She still had a little money left over from paying for the train ticket. At the convenience store, her heart sank as she looked at the prices of the items she wanted to get: donut, bagel, tuna sandwich, kebab, milkshake. She couldn’t afford them. Reluctantly, she handed the coins over the counter as she grasped a small bottle of orange juice and a thin chocolate bar, which she hoped would sustain her for a while longer.

  She stepped out into the bitter cold and scowled, surveying the surroundings. It was a Saturday evening in London, close to eight o’clock. Most people would be home with their families at this hour. Shivering, she stuffed her hands into her pockets. She had the sense to conceal her peculiar ears with an old woollen beanie she had stashed into her bag, and after pulling the hood of her sweater over her head, she could have passed for a skinny boy.

  She walked around aimlessly, her breath coming out in a cloud of steam. Her sad, broken boots made annoying flapping noises against the pavement. She passed a dimly lit restaurant, where laughter and chatter wafted out like an enticing aroma, mocking her hunger and aloneness. Feeling more out of place than ever, she bowed her head and trudged on.

  Then she spotted some silhouettes in the distance, and her heart lifted a fraction. There was a cluster of tall and rather ancient-looking elm trees in what looked like a small, deserted park.

  Since she was a toddler, she had always had an unexplainable affinity for trees. In Hemlock, she’d been the best tree climber, no contest. She loved the big old cedar tree in the woods near the Waldorf manor, and often she would go there to get away from Veronika.

  Looking this way and that to ensure that the coast was clear, she clambered up about thirty feet and nestled against the thick tree trunk. Up here, alone in the darkness beyond prying eyes, she leaned back and mulled over her predicament.

  What was she going to do? She had no money, no friends in London, and no real plan. It wasn’t like she had premeditated her escape to one of the biggest and busiest cities in Europe. It had taken her over twenty-four hours to get here, far from Hemlock. Surely, Veronika wouldn’t have an easy time tracking her down … even though she would have alerted the authorities by now, and all of Hemlock would be looking for Goldie …

  She decided to explore the city early in the morning. She didn’t like walking in the dark in this foreign place, all alone, with nothing to protect herself with. But what could she do to wile away the time up in this tree, in the dark, with no food or water? She certainly wasn’t sleepy, not after having slumbered for so long on the journey.

  Then she had an idea. Rummaging around her duffel bag, she retrieved a box of matches and two stumpy candles.

  Several months ago, she had swiped the matches from Veronika’s sterile stainless-steel kitchen so that she could use them to light her scented candles on nights that bad dreams kept her awake. She had salvaged those candles from the little yellow chapel on the way to the Waldorf manor from school. That first week with the Waldorfs had already left her with a sprained wrist and a bruised forehead.

  From her duffel bag, Goldie pulled out a tattered copy of the one book that always gave her comfort: The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, a famous French writer. France – that was another place she wanted to visit, amongst so many others.

  Even in the dim candlelight, she could read the words perfectly. Soon, the world beyond the elm tree receded, to be replaced by the magical realm spun by the words she read:

  I know a planet where there is a certain red−faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: ‘I am busy with matters of consequence!’ And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man – he is a mushroom!

  Bugs and squirrels gathered close to the candlelight and quietly watched the strange black-haired girl as shadows danced across her face. If one were to peer up the elm tree in the dark, they might have seen a faint glow of light amidst the dense canopy of leaves.

  Goldie woke at the break of dawn to the sound of a lark calling, curled up into a ball. It was still dark. The candles had burned down to a waxy puddle, and The Little Prince was clasped to her chest. She had almost finished rereading the whole book before dozing off during the second last chapter. The duffel bag had been her pillow throughout the cold night. The park was empty, which was just as well, because she was determined to make a start on finding a more permanent shelter, wherever it might be.

  So that morning she wandered, aimlessly, and by noon her pace had slowed to a lumber. The orange juice and the chocolate were long gone. Her stomach twisted with hunger whenever she smelled food. People rushed past her, and she envied them for knowing where they were headed. She had no idea where she was going. London was so much bigger and busier than Hemlock, and here she felt something close to being invisible.

  But she rather liked it. Here, nobody knew she was an orphan, shuffled from foster home to foster home. Nobody here merely considered her a charity case of the great Waldorf family.

  Perhaps in this big city where she didn’t know a single soul, she could start anew. The thought kindled something in her that made her heart skip a beat.

  She was about to drag herself to a nearby bench when she spotted a large brown-bricked building at a distance, and for some inexplicable reason, she felt drawn to it. Walking closer, her face lit up when she saw the sign in shimmering silver lettering. It was a public library!

  She broken into a run, and when she got there she pushed open the glass doors and headed inside. She glanced at the sign on the wall.

  Opening Hours:

  Monday – Saturday: 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.

  Sunday: 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

  Public Holidays: Closed

  She grinned. This was the perfect temporary shelter! Without hesitating, she went inside.

  She marvelled at the hushed, high-ceilinged, brightly lit open space where sunlight streamed in through the tall, narrow windows. This library was one of the rare ones that had retained its Georgian quaintness. She ran her fingers across the rows and rows of hardcover books, many worn and well handled, and breathed in the delicious, musky smell of them. Finally, she could read as many books as she wanted. Those mouldy books of the dank basement would soon be a distant memory.

  At the sight of a public water fountain near the restrooms, she gasped and cried out with joy. She made a beeline towards it, bent her head, and gulped down huge mouthfuls, not caring that some people turned and stared.

  The library was blessedly warm, thanks to central heating. At the centre was a handsome counter manned by none other than Winifred MacDougall,
the formidable librarian whom no prankster dared to cross. Goldie walked past the woman as nonchalantly as she could. She had no library card and no personal identification other than her student ID from Hemlock. She better lay low and not draw any attention to herself. So she went to one of the bookshelves at the back of the library to find her first book.

  In the middle of reading The Secret Garden, she finally succumbed to her hunger pangs that had been growing louder and more insistent as the afternoon progressed. Quietly, she headed to the vending machine and settled on a cheap apricot granola bar which tasted like a feast to her, so famished she was. After that, she was virtually penniless.

  That night for the second time, she went to sleep on a rumbling stomach up in the elm tree at the park near the train station. The tree she playfully nicknamed Elmo. She had watched snippets of Sesame Street when she was growing up in the orphanage, and she had always had a soft spot for the wide-eyed, furry red creature. So Elmo the tree became her friend as she curled up into a ball in the cold, dark night. It might have been her imagination, but in her sleep she thought she heard the tree sing to her in a low whisper. But surely, she must have been overhearing somebody singing in the neighbourhood. Trees don’t sing. Right?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Of a Sad-Eyed Chef and a Lonely Librarian

  In the morning, Goldie returned to the library and devoured book after book. Being a speed-reader, she could finish a four-hundred-page novel in two hours. She hungrily read Oliver Twist, The Little Princess, Tom Sawyer, Anne of Green Gables, and the contemporary novels, including ones about teenage espionage and shopaholics and a boy wizard sporting a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The world, no longer confined to four grey walls and a dog-eared atlas, opened up to her within the warmth of the library.