The Park

By Matthew Titus Salt

David and his best friend Mike are looking forward to the long hot summer holidays after the end of school. Their plans mostly involve lots of time spent in their favourite place in the world, the local park. However, on the first day of the holidays the arrival of a new next-door neighbour (in the shape of a girl) threatens to unhinge their perfectly planned summer. The girl next door turns out to be Caris, a clever but troubled girl who eventually befriends them. As the story progresses we learn that each of the children has been subjected to different types of bullying, and each of them has felt like an outsider in different ways. It is this experience that draws them closer together, and helps them find true friendship in each other.
David and Mike are desperate for adventure, but soon adventure becomes all too real, as with Caris’s help, the two boys begin to discover that the Park they love so much contains a mystery, a secret that has remained hidden for nearly six hundred years. As they unearth the true nature of the Park’s mysteries they also discover that the friendly and enigmatic park gardener, Dan, is not quite as he appears. Before long all three of the children are caught up in a whirlwind of events involving a mysterious shadowy army, and an ancient battle between light and dark, good and evil. Their trust and loyalty to Dan, and to each other, is tested to the extreme, but none more so than David, who discovers the true nature of power, and the dangers inherent within it.
The Park is a thrilling adventure story aimed at children aged between 8 and 12, though an enjoyable read for children of 30+ as well!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Titus Salt
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465724953

Matthew Titus Salt

Matthew Titus Salt is a writer and author who is based in Cheshire, UK. His first book, The Park, is a children's adventure story aimed at 9-12 year olds but enjoyed by adults too. The second book in the series, The Moor has recently been published, and he is currently writing a third and fourth book for publication in the next twelve months.Matthew is not related to the famous Sir Titus Salt. His great great grandmother Salt was a fan of the esteemed philanthropist, and named her son accordingly – Sam Titus Salt. The family affection for the name lives on today.

Book preview

THE PARK

By

Matthew Titus Salt

*****

Copyright © 2012 Matthew Titus Salt

SMASHWORDS EDITION

2nd EDITION 2013

FIRST PUBLISHED 2012

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image Copyright © 2012 Naomi Jones Photography

naomijonesphotography.com

*****

This eBook is dedicated to my family. Without their support it would not have been written. Many thanks also to Chris and his family for their editorial assistance.

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Table of Contents

Prologue – 1612AD

Chapter 1 – A New Arrival

Chapter 2 – First Contact

Chapter 3 – Into The Park

Chapter 4 – An Apple Attack

Chapter 5 – Unwanted Visitors

Chapter 6 – Caris Unveiled

Chapter 7 – Night Fears

Chapter 8 – Caris’s Confession

Chapter 9 – Unanswered Questions

Chapter 10 – The Darkening Approach

Chapter 11 – The Storm Breaks

Chapter 12 – Respite And Requests

Chapter 13 – The Banquet

Chapter 14 – Night-Time Return

Chapter 15 – Research

Chapter 16 – The Sanctuary

Chapter 17 – The Poem

Chapter 18 – The Darkness That Consumes

Chapter 19 – A Back Door Out Of A Rat’s Hole

Chapter 20 – The Tunnel

Chapter 21 – The Hidden Tomb

Chapter 22 – The Power That Consumes

Chapter 23 – The Light That Lightens All Darkness

Chapter 24 – The Beginning

Appendix A – A Note on Language

Appendix B – Geographical Note

Appendix C – Historical Note

Other Works by this Author

*****

THE PARK

*****

Prologue 1612AD

Night crept slowly over the woods of the ancient parkland. The shadows of the trees gradually lengthened, and the pale, lacklustre day gave way to a cold, dark, winter’s night. Gertwine stumped along the paths of his well tended gardens feeling old and tired. His joints were aching more than ever and his toes were beginning to freeze, but he would much rather be out in the cold night air than indoors with the other servants; the mood inside the Hall was far more chilling than the weather outside.

It had been a sad day. The sun had barely risen when news of Lady Dorothy’s illness spread through the household sending them all into a panic. The leech was sent for at once, but by the time he arrived it was too late, the lady of the manor had died, and the whole family was plunged into mourning. The leech stayed just long enough to bleed the master and leave a bill for his troubles. Then the parson had arrived, and the household gathered in the little chapel to hear pious Prayer Book words and pay their respects to the much-loved mistress.

In the kitchens and workshops the servants had grieved alongside their masters. Cook was so upset she burnt the loaf and spoiled the pudding. The young maids spent the day in floods of tears; and a dark gloom settled over everyone who lived and worked in the Hall. Gertwine had been called to help carry the mistress down from her bedchamber into the little chapel to be laid to rest. He had disliked the Prayer Book service that had followed. He was old enough to remember the Latin mass, and was firmly of the opinion that the only words appropriate for such occasions should be ancient and unknowable. As evening began to fall he had finally been allowed to take himself away from the weeping maids to his beloved kitchen garden, to tend his vegetables and be alone to grieve in his own gnarled way.

The only notable absentee from the day’s mourning was the steward. Lady Dorothy had been a favourite of the steward – everyone in the household knew that. There was even talk amongst the more gossipy servants that in her young days she had been in love with him, and had been wooed by him. Gertwine disliked these rumours, and hushed up the silly maids who giggled so. They bit their thumbs to him behind his back, but he did not care. He was old, and no longer worried if a silly young girl insulted him. But the steward’s absence did worry him. Powerful clever, the steward was, and powerful old too, so Gertwine thought. Master Filchurch, the steward of the house, had been in his office for as many years as Gertwine could remember. But where had he been all this sad unpleasant day?

Gertwine shook his head and pulled at his beard for a while in thought, before continuing his night-time prowl. There was little starlight this dark, cold night, but the pale light of the moon was just enough for his old eyes to scour the ground for signs of rabbit, slug, snail, hedgepig, or any other unwanted pest. But there was nothing to see. Perhaps even the creatures of the land were mourning her, he thought for a moment. Then he grunted to himself, annoyed at his sentimentality, and continued his stumping walk along the path towards the front of the Hall. He would shrug off this morbid thinking by visiting to the brook, to see if the trout were jumping.

The Hall looked asleep at this late hour. Perhaps Cook had some tallow burning in the kitchens, but from where Gertwine stood the mullioned windows looked empty and menacing. Smoke curled up from a few of the many chimneys. The family would need their fires on a night as cold as this, but Gertwine did not worry for the cold. Born and bred outside he was a countryman at heart. His employment as head gardener had given him a good home and status, but he was not a proud man, preferring to be outdoors and away from the chattering crowds. He even slept in his sheds when the mood took him.

Gertwine continued his rolling, arthritic walk along the front path of the Hall, feeling the cold begin to creep into his ancient joints. He stopped, and gazed down the sloping lawns towards the brook, which curved around the base of the hill on which the Hall was built. The fast flowing river was swollen with rain at this time of year – he could hear its merry water rushing along its course and gurgling as it passed under the old stone bridge. On the opposite bank the ground rose steeply and was heavily wooded. It continued to rise, up and up, to a crown of trees on the hilltop opposite. Gertwine stood surveying this scene, and for a brief moment he forgot his grief and sadness, simply enjoying the cold night and the accompanying sounds he knew so well – the ‘twit’ of an owl and the answering ‘woo’ of its mate, the screeching cries of a fox and the gentle whispering of the leafless trees in the night breeze.

Then he saw it – a flash of light up in the woods. Gertwine strained his old and failing eyes to look more closely. Yes, there it was again – a shaft of light deep within the trees, as though someone were carrying a lantern high up on the wooded hillside. Gertwine was not a man given to flights of fancy so his immediate thought was of poachers from the nearby hamlet, come to raid his beloved vegetables. It had happened before – hungry families had no shame whatsoever!

Gertwine knew his duty. He must investigate, despite the late hour and dropping temperature. Gripping his staff tightly in his calloused hand he set off down the sloping lawns to the river with determination in his heart. Crossing at the stone bridge he followed the pathway along the foot of the slope, then cut straight up into the woods. It was dark amongst the trees, but Gertwine was used to that. He had once known these woods as well as the creatures that made it their home, and he was confident, even at his great age, of finding his way.

The light had disappeared now that he was below it, but Gertwine had a good idea from where it came. Near the top of the hill was a clearing – a lovely spot where he had gone a-wooing when he was young and in his prime. The clearing was filled with wild flowers in the summer, but would be barren and damp with fallen leaves at this time of year. He climbed on, breathing heavily. He was not as strong as he used to be and it was steep. He was fairly puffed out as he approached the crown of the hill, but then he saw a flash again and held his breath despite his exhaustion. The light was indeed coming from the clearing, just as he suspected, and it was much brighter now that he was close to it. There was noise coming from the clearing too – the noise of someone digging.

Curious, Gertwine slowed his pace, creeping forward as silently as he could. He readied his staff in his hand, but even now he knew that these were no poachers. As he edged closer the light grew brighter, until the entire clearing opened up in front of him.

The light was coming from a lantern placed on the ground, and next to the lantern stood a man, his back to Gertwine. The man was digging, a spade in his hand. He had been very busy: a large area of the clearing had been dug up, and in one place he had dug what looked like a pit. The man’s ruff and doublet were lying on one side, and immediately Gertwine recognised the colourful coat and knew to whom it belonged – the steward, Master Filchurch.

A mass of thoughts raced through the old gardener’s mind. What was the steward doing here? Had he been here all day? Did he know of the death of Lady Dorothy? Why was he digging down so deep?

Yet, even as these questions formed themselves, Gertwine heard singing. The steward was singing softly to himself as he rested on his spade. The lilting words of his song floated across the cold night air:

‘My lady, my lady, my love lady fair!

How long till I see thee with thy golden hair?’

Gertwine suddenly felt a great desire to be somewhere else. He should not be here. He thought he could guess what the steward meant by ‘My love lady fair’, and he did not want to know more. He would go, now, and pretend he had not seen anything. It would be dreadful to be discovered spying, and worse still if the steward said any more, thinking himself alone!

But Gertwine was not as young as when last he climbed these woods with a maiden in tow. His exertions this night had made him tired and clumsy. As he turned to leave he slipped on the wet leaves and stumbled. His foot landed on a broken branch, which snapped with a noise like a musket shot. Panicking, Gertwine cried out as he felt his legs disappearing from under him. Time seemed to stand still as he slowly toppled over. In an instance, the thought of landing badly, of breaking a bone and ending his days a cripple, shot through his mind in a flash of fear.

But before he could put his own hands out to save himself he felt strong arms around him and steady hands lifting him up …

‘There, there, Master Gertwine,’ said a soft and musical voice. ‘Careful, now, or we will be wrapping thy broken head in brown paper and vinegar!’

‘Master steward!’ Gertwine gasped. ‘My apologies – a thousand apologies! I didn’t mean to be a spying on thee, good soul. I only thought the light were poachers. Thank’ee, good sir! Thank’ee for saving my old body!’

The steward laughed, and set Gertwine upright, brushing him down a little and smiling at him. ‘Never fear, old retainer,’ he said in the same, soft, musical voice. ‘I had work here today, and work that I needed to do. ’Tis many a year since I worked so hard, and I have thoroughly needed it this sad, sad day.’

Gertwine mumbled something to the effect that it was a sad day indeed. But he did not want to stay; he felt old and foolish in the company of the wise and trusted steward, who was far above him in status. He also did not want to know what work the steward had been doing. There was something secretive and strange going on here and Gertwine did not like it. As he stood, still gazing at the steward, Gertwine was struck again by how young he seemed, though Gertwine could not remember a time when he was not steward of the house. He also started to wonder how the steward had got to him so quickly. He had been standing yards away, leaning on his spade, but then, in an instant, he had been there to catch Gertwine’s fall. That seemed unearthly quick in Gertwine’s opinion.

The steward was looking closely at Gertwine now. His eyes seemed to bore into him. They were alive and twinkling. The steward was nodding at him, and Gertwine was suddenly scared.

‘Thou art safe now, master gardener,’ the steward said in the same musical voice. ‘There is nothing to fear here. But my work is not complete, and it would not do to have it too well known …’

‘I know, sir,’ Gertwine gasped. He was backing away. ‘I won’t go a-tale-telling. ’Tis not my way!’

‘I know, good gardener,’ the steward responded, and his hand moved casually towards the scrip that hung at his belt. ‘I know thou art a truthful, decent man …’

The hand pulled out something bright and glittering. Gertwine knew it immediately, and he was suddenly afraid, ice-cold fear gripping his heart. Everything he had thought about the steward, every good thing he had known him do dissolved as he looked at the object in his hand. The thing he held belonged to her! Gertwine had seen it so often – it was her most prized and loved adornment!

‘That is hers!’ he said, backing away more. ‘That is her –’

But he never finished his sentence. His words died on his lips, as powerful, deep red light burst upon him. His last sight was that of the steward holding it in his hand, his lips moving in a word Gertwine could not understand. And then all was darkness.

When Gertwine awoke next morning in his shed, cold and stiff, he remembered very well walking in his gardens, looking out over the lawns, walking down to the brook and tickling three trout by the moonlight – they were lying on the bench next to his bed, ready for gutting. But he remembered nothing of the light in the woods, or of the steward’s labours, and nothing at all of the precious adornment. Visiting the chapel later that day to pay respects to the dead mistress before her funeral, he saw it around her neck. For a moment it seemed to glow to him, a deep, beautiful red. But then he realised the wintery sun had emerged from behind the clouds, bathing the chapel windows in light. Gertwine stumped back to the kitchen garden to tend his marrows, thinking only of the trout Cook would bake for his supper.

The steward, Master Filchurch, resigned and left a few weeks later, and the memory of him passed out of knowledge in the Hall. And after Gertwine had passed on too, some years later, a new head gardener took up the post – a quiet smiling man with an easy manner and a twinkling eye.

*****

400 Years Later

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Chapter 1 – A New Arrival

The lorry arrived on the first Monday of the summer holidays. The peaceful morning of the quiet, suburban street was shattered in an instance of engine noise and the Radio Two Breakfast Show.

David was woken with a start. The loud rattling of the big diesel seemed magnified through his open window. It felt as though it was boring right through his head and into his brain. He rolled over and tried to focus his eyes on the clock beside his bed. The blurred figures said 8.00am. His heart plummeted.

‘No!’ he groaned, burying his head in the pillow. ‘No – no – no!’

There were the clunks of doors opening. The lorry’s radio became louder and more penetrating. Pop music blared out, echoing across the usually peaceful road and combining with the voices of two men who were shouting openly to each other.

‘Ere we go! Told ju I’d find it, didn’t I?’

‘Bleeding Heck! What is dis place, eh? Didn’t fink dey ad posh places up norf, did ju?’

Course laughter followed. David wanted it to stop. He wanted to turn over and go back to sleep. He wanted to sleep all morning and revel in the fact that he had nothing to do and nothing to wake up for. But this simple luxury had been denied him. The irony was that if this had been a regular school day he would have dropped off to sleep again in minutes. In fact the lorry probably wouldn’t have woken him up at all. But no, the first Monday for weeks when he could sleep in as long as he liked was the one he had to be woken up ridiculously early by unthinking, uncaring lorries! It felt desperately unfair.

The noise of talking increased, and was accompanied by a series of metallic clanks as the men opened up the back of the lorry. David knew that it was hopeless – sleep would never return to him now. He swore silently into his pillow and pulled the duvet up further, in an attempt to block out the sound.

A new noise joined the cacophony outside as a second vehicle pulled up – a car by the sounds of it. Then a softer voice could be heard, joining in the conversation of the men. Despite his anger at being woken, David’s curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. He stuck an ear out from under the duvet, trying to catch what was being said. The softer voice was talking to the other two voices, but David could not hear any words. Slowly, his mind woke up, and he started to wonder quite what was going on. What was a lorry doing here so early? Who was in the other car, and why had they stopped right outside his house?

It took a second or two for David’s sleep deprived brain to put two and two together, but as soon as he did he felt very much awake, and also very curious. Pulling back the duvet, he dragged himself out of bed and crossed to the window. He opened the curtains a tiny fraction, just enough for him to get a good view of his new next-door neighbours.

The house next door had been empty for the last few months. The elderly couple that had lived there for as long as David could remember had moved out in April. ‘Downsizing’ his father had called