The Heart of Applebutter Hill

By Donna W. Hill

When 14-year-olds Abigail and Baggy leave home, they have little more than Baggy's camera and Abigail's guitar. Rounded up by the authorities, they are placed with guardians and enrolled in a progressive school.

Abigail, a songwriter who knows her sight is failing, is mortified to learn that she is already legally blind. When she meets Curly Connor, her new guide dog, however, she thinks her obstacles are all behind her.

Troubles begin quickly when the friends uncover a dangerous secret. Someone at school wants to steal the powerful Heartstone of Arden-Goth. Join Baggy, Abigail and Curly Connor as they explore Elfin Pond, sneak around Bar Gundoom Castle and row across an underground lake.

As summer heats up, their troubled friend Christopher is viciously bullied, and an armed stranger terrorizes Abigail and Baggy. The friends disagree about the spy's identity, but both think it's a teacher. Educator-recommended for middle-school diversity and anti-bullying initiatives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna W. Hill
• Release date: May 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301194438

Donna W. Hill

Writer, speaker and musician Donna W. Hill and her photographer husband, Rich, live among the frogs and birds in Pennsylvania's Endless Mountains. They enjoy long walks with Hunter, their Labrador retriever, and lap-time with their rescued orange tabby, Goofus.Donna is a songwriter with three recordings: Rainbow Colors, Harvest and The Last Straw. A journalist for numerous online magazines, her subjects range from music, writing and accessibility to chocolate and knitting. An experienced talk show guest and guest blogger, her articles and stories have appeared in numerous books and magazines.Her passion is educating the public about the true abilities, unnecessary obstacles and social justice issues facing blind Americans. To this end, she volunteers as a publicist for the nonprofit National Federation of the Blind. Her press releases have resulted in stories about exceptional blind individuals in newspapers and other media throughout the country.Hill's 2009 series on the Braille literacy crisis in the online magazine American Chronicle, which has been republished on countless other sites, remains the most extensive series on this issue written for general audiences. Proceeds from the sale of The Heart of Applebutter Hill provide Braille books to young blind writers.

Book preview

1

Carriage House Dreams

When things started coming to a head, a fourteen-year-old girl was living by herself in the stone carriage house behind Mrs. Plumkettle’s on Old Applebutter Hill Road. Thursday morning, after tending to her dog, Abigail Goongleheimer Jones sat in her recliner and put her feet up. Her exams were over. She had all morning to relax.

She adjusted her headphones and selected an audio magazine from her digital book list. But, nothing knocked Abigail out like listening to someone else read. She snored through a long article on cosmic dust and another on robots. By the time an article on dinosaurs was half over, she was having a strange dream — the same dream she’d been having every week since moving into the carriage house.

As her fingers curled around a blue, heart-shaped stone, ethereal music filled the air. The stone, which she somehow knew was a sapphire, was the size of a paperweight. It was warm, and she liked the way it nested in her palm.

Help us, Abigail, said a bodiless voice, the Heartstone of Arden-Goth must not fall into their hands.

It was the same thing the voice always said. The problem was that, when Abigail awakened from these dreams, all she could remember was that she was supposed to help someone. But, how could she, of all people, help? She was a refugee from the Isle of Adiaphora. If Mrs. Plumkettle and the Mission hadn’t rescued her, she’d still be a vagabond. She probably wouldn’t even have Curly Connor.

She was also living on the fringes of two worlds. She wasn’t totally blind, and there was no way of knowing if or when she ever would be. Nevertheless, she couldn’t see normally. Her sight had become a wild animal — beautiful and dangerous. It was an unpredictable, ever-changing display of shadows and blurry glimpses, tunnels and glaring light. The only things she could say for sure were that she couldn’t see at night, and that her peripheral vision was … well, gone.

Abigail stirred in her recliner and stopped her magazine. She knew she’d had the dream again. Her eyes unfocused, she tried to remember. The details, however, were just out of reach. They seemed to be retreating into the carriage house itself.

The late morning sun was streaming in through the dormer windows. She examined its design on the carpet. It had been split into diagonal shafts by the balustrade framing the balcony, which extended from the loft above her to the front of the carriage house. She sighed in frustration.

How am I supposed to help you, she grumbled into the brightness, if you won’t ever let me remember anything?

Curly Connor was in his favorite spot near the piano. He had been resting his chin on his crossed paws, staring at Abigail, waiting for her to realize what a great idea it would be to go for a walk. At her words, he cocked his head, and his twinkling brown-eyed smile faltered.

Half Labrador and half Golden Retriever, Curly Connor had a gleaming black coat that arched over his body in thick waves. The fur on either side of his neck stood up in banana-curl ridges, big enough to hide a grown man’s hand. He also had a job. As a guide dog, it was his responsibility to escort Abigail wherever she wanted to go.

The Fluffer-Noodle, as she often called him, was over two years old and had long since developed specific ideas about how things should be. When something was not to his liking, Abigail and her best friend Baggy Brichaz would say that it had offended his delicate sensibilities, and the prospect of spending a splendid May afternoon indoors was threatening to do just that.

He was longing for Abigail to get up, shake his harness at him and allow him to take her for a walk to the park, or the cheese shop, or even the bank, for he knew how to find all of these places and many others. To him, every outing was a joyful adventure, and if it looked as though he were waiting patiently, well, looks can be deceiving.

As the clock on the mantel chimed eleven, Abigail twitched. Mrs. Plumkettle would be arriving at noon. Yawning, she rewound her magazine. She twisted her long blonde hair around her hand and tossed it over the back of the chair. She could probably finish several articles before lunch.

Curly Connor sighed. He would rather have Abigail do just about anything than read. He would not have been nearly as bored, for instance, if she had decided to play the guitar. He might have forgotten about going for a walk entirely, if she had gone to the kitchen for something to eat. But no, she was reading.

He lifted his head, shifting his gaze toward the window in response to the loud insolent caw of a crow. As two more crows and a cardinal joined the ruckus, he experienced the hope that the noise would distract her from her magazine. When it didn’t, he yawned and returned his head to his paws with a low rumbling groan.

If Abigail had been listening to the birds, she might have learned something about the mysteries unfolding around her. Throughout the town of Applebutter Hill, from the train station north on Darlington Avenue to Missing Creek south of the old school, every bird knew. But, she was absorbed in her magazine, and that was probably just as well.

The Fluffer-Noodle stretched his hind legs and rolled onto his side. His eyelids drooped and his lips fell away from his teeth, which looked uncharacteristically menacing — fully exposed as they were, in his almost entirely upside-down snout. His thoughts slid away from the sunny day and sank through the soft blue carpet.

From a deep distant place he began to hear a familiar voice, Abigail’s voice. He trotted toward the sound and was soon listening to her singing, and she was singing to him.

"Curly Connor, come with me,

We’ll go a walkin’, wait and see,

One more chance for us to be

Merry, merry every day."

This was his song. She had written it over the holidays while they were walking in town.

"You be the guide dog and I’ll be the girl,

We’ll go a walkin’ all over this world,

I’ll stop and pet your pretty black curls,

Merry, merry every day."

Soon, they were striding through the park and over a wooden footbridge. As they approached a restaurant, they were joined by Baggy Brichaz, whom Curly Connor believed to be the finest person on Earth.

Anyone who has ever seen a dog awaken from a deep sleep to a sudden, unexpected sound knows how comical it can be. The Fluffer-Noodle was under a table in a restaurant with his head on Baggy’s foot. While he was focusing his mental powers on causing a morsel of food to fall into his waiting mouth, the sharp tapping of knuckles on glass entered his dreams and evoked from him a soft, high-pitched Boof. This whisper of a bark grew in volume and ferociousness so quickly that it lifted the sleeping dog to his feet before he had returned to full consciousness.

When he finally did and found himself headed for the front door, a brief state of perplexity threatened to topple him. He shook off his astonishment, however, and proceeded as though his actions had been the result of a deliberate decision. His path intersected with Abigail’s near the fireplace by the door.

It’s just me, dear.

It was Mrs. Plumkettle. Abigail reached over the wiggling dog and removed her keys from a hook below the mantle.

Hello, dear, said Mrs. Plumkettle embracing her and extending a hand to pet the Fluffer-Noodle, Yes, it’s good to see you too, Mr. Connor.

Taller than Abigail, Nell Plumkettle was a slender, silver haired widow of ninety who carried herself with an air of stately grace. Her voice conveyed the calm delight of one who had reconciled herself to the inevitable ebb and flow of life’s joys and sorrows. She was Abigail’s guardian, and Abigail simply loved her.

Heading diagonally across the house, Mrs. Plumkettle deposited her canvas shopping bag on the sofa by the recliner and removed her wind breaker. After locking up, Abigail followed her. The Fluffer-Noodle bounded back and forth between them.

The entrance to the back of the house was just past the sofa. The two humans had stopped, but the Fluffer-Noodle pranced straight through, past the kitchen and bathroom, into the storage room, sneezing all over the back door before returning to them.

Why don’t you have a seat, dear, said Mrs. Plumkettle, producing from her bag two sandwiches of brie and French bread, two bottles of sparkling cider, straws and napkins, I picked up lunch at the Cheese Shop.

Abigail slipped across the wooden bench of a booth built into the tall window nearest the kitchen. Diving in after her, the Fluffer-Noodle settled himself against the wall and delicately placed his chin on her foot.

2

News, News, and More News

So, what did you do this morning? asked Mrs. Plumkettle, setting her partially eaten sandwich on its wrapper.

I was reading that science magazine, said Abigail, who had no intention of telling her guardian about her recurring dream, Did you know that there really is such a thing as Stardust? Well, they actually call it space dust or cosmic dust or something. Anyhow, a hundred tons of it falls to Earth every day. It said that’s at least one speck for every square yard. So, it’s bound to be landing right on us sometimes. And, some of ‘em have got tiny bits of diamonds and sapphires in ‘em.

I love sapphires, Mrs. Plumkettle was finally able to interject, So, they’re actually studying Stardust now, are they?

They used to collect it on these little flag thingies on highflying airplanes, she continued, trying to remember everything she’d read, Now they’ve got a space probe. They’ve even got a cosmic dust library.

Abigail was almost as excited about recorded books as she was about having a guide dog. All of her life she had been made to read print. Even if the light was just right, the best she could do was to see a few letters at a time. Words appeared to dance around, and pieces of them would go missing between the page and her brain. In spite of the burning eyes and blistering headaches which ensued, she had always loved reading. To the chagrin of many of her teachers, however, she tended to restrict her efforts to things which truly interested her.

Is there actually a cosmic dust librarian? Mrs. Plumkettle asked, delighted with her enthusiasm.

I think they call him a curator. It’s Mike something.

Well, imagine that, she said dryly, a man who sits around all day collecting dust.

Abigail wasn’t sure that her guardian had intended to be funny. She stared at her briefly and then burst into a fit of giggles, almost spitting out a mouthful of sparkling cider.

Mrs. Plumkettle allowed herself a wry smile and continued, I’ve had a phone call about you from Captain Sodpeg.

Abigail’s pulse raced. Captain Sodpeg was Baggy’s guardian.

He’s spoken with the Blusterbuffs, and they would be happy to have you stay with them while I’m away.

Nell Plumkettle had been living alone in the stone Victorian on Old Applebutter Hill Road since her husband died eighteen years earlier. Damari Lorca, an art student who managed her book store, had the third floor apartment. In November, Abigail had been invited to move into the carriage house.

She knew that her guardian was leaving for a month to await the birth of her first great-grandchild. She also knew that she would not be allowed to stay on Old Applebutter Hill Road while she was gone. Baggy and Captain Sodpeg lived in the country, and the Blusterbuffs were their neighbors.

So, how does that sound?

Great! said Abigail, sure that Stardust had landed right on her.

Good, then it’s settled, she said pushing an envelope across the table, Here are your tickets, and I’ve enclosed a check for Captain Sodpeg. He’ll be picking up some food for Mr. Connor. And, there’s some cash. I want you to get yourself a new top this afternoon–

I don’t really need anything.

There’s a sale at the World Boutique. I took a peek in there this morning and they have some things I think you’ll like.

Abigail had never been clothes shopping alone, and she heartily wished that, if Mrs. Plumkettle had seen something, she would have just bought it and brought it home.

The World Boutique is on the north side of Village Square. You can ask someone to show Mr. Connor how to find it. Then, patting her hand she added, You’ll be fine, dear. Just think of it as an adventure.

Abigail was unaware that she was just days away from starting a series of adventures that were far scarier than shopping. Strangely enough, however, she would not approach any of them with such misgivings as she now had about going to the World Boutique.

Surreptitiously slipping some bread to the Fluffer-Noodle, Mrs. Plumkettle stood up and announced that she was off to start packing. With her windbreaker on and her shopping bag over her shoulder, she took the bottles from the table saying, I’ll recycle these.

As Abigail and Curly Connor followed her outside to the middle of the covered patio where two columns framed a step down to the flagstone path, Mrs. Plumkettle said, Oh, I should tell you. There was a gentleman on the Square this morning asking questions about the school. He said he was doing an article for the newspaper.

Cool.

I’m not so sure it is. He said he was from the Gaulvendor Gazette, which I’ve never heard of, and Damari couldn’t find it in any of our resource books. He was groomed to within an inch of his life and wearing some very expensive jewelry. He seemed to be fishing for something. I wouldn’t trust him.

Maybe he’s a spy, Abigail suggested, wondering as she did so why anyone would spy on a school.

After a quick hug, Mrs. Plumkettle walked down the path and under the arbor. Turning to latch the gate of the white picket fence, she called, I’ll see you at supper. Have fun with the kids.

Abigail had been so excited about spending a month in the country with Baggy and so mortified at the thought of going shopping that she had forgotten all about school. She was going this afternoon not as a student, but as a teacher. A week after she moved into the carriage house, Mrs. Plumkettle, who had been eyeing her guitar beadily, broke her silence on the subject.

Do you actually play that thing, or do you just carry it around with you?

After she admitted that she did play and proved it by singing several songs, her guardian arranged for her to lead a weekly sing-along for the Kindergarten.

Abigail was a songwriter. All sorts of melodies fluttered around in her mind like kites in a high wind, and she had become quite adept at reeling them in. Writing songs was the one thing that she was certain she could do well.

Performing them was another matter. When she tried, her strength evaporated from the inside out, her voice cracked and her fingers might as well have been made of peanut butter. She was very shy and probably would have thought that any place anyone asked her to sing was the wrong place to start, but Kindergarten? Nonetheless, having Mrs. Plumkettle as a guardian was such a relief that she kept her trepidations to herself.

Abigail and Baggy were both Adiaphoran refugees. Mrs. Plumkettle, captain Sodpeg and the Blusterbuffs were members of the Adiaphoran Refugee Mission.

Adiaphoran Refugee Mission? Like A-R-M? Like arm? she had blurted out upon meeting Mrs. Plumkettle.

Precisely, she had replied, Some groups lend a hand; we give the entire arm. … But, don’t call it that in public; some of them don’t like the acronym.

Why not?

I suppose, she said sighing, that they feel that it diminishes the work we do if it doesn’t take as long to say.

The people of Adiaphora have a fairly high standard of living. They aren’t all rich, but they are comfortable and rather impressed with themselves. They do, however, regularly indulge in the nasty habit of chucking out citizens who don’t measure up.

It is said that remaining on the island is easy, if you follow the rules. Unfortunately, there is little consensus about what those rules actually are. Abigail and Baggy were particularly confused by this. Whenever they did hear a perspective, it was easy to point to all sorts of exceptions. Many who seemed to follow the rules were tossed off, while others who had obviously broken them remained on the island. Incidentally, Adiaphora is connected to the mainland of Lodahg by a narrow strip of craggy rocks and is, therefore, not really an island strictly speaking, but that is neither here nor there.

When she arrived in the Free Commonwealth of Lodahg, Abigail had her guitar and backpack, to which her parents had strapped a sleeping bag, air mattress and small tent. In addition to clothing and some of her prized possessions, they had supplied her with water, trail mix and some cash. Baggy had been similarly equipped by his parents though without the guitar. He carried tools and an old, film camera.

Families could leave Adiaphora with their banished relatives, but it meant giving up everything. Since their parents had jobs, mortgages and other children, this was out of the question.

No one was told why they were being evicted. The letters were all the same. They announced the recipient’s date of expulsion, wished them well and reminded them that by leaving they were fulfilling an important role in preserving a high quality of life on the island.

Abigail was very upset about this. She felt humiliated and angry. Baggy said that he didn’t really care and that, if they hadn’t kicked him off, he would have left anyway. They hadn’t known each other well on Adiaphora, but he liked to say that, if they had, they would have probably been thrown off even sooner.

3

Along the Way

While the Fluffer-Noodle chomped on a biscuit, Abigail ran upstairs and changed into jeans and a short-sleeve shirt with the school emblem. After stuffing the cash in her pocket, she opened the cupboard under the staircase and placed Mrs. Plumkettle’s envelope in her backpack.

A wooden hall rack had been built into the underside of the balcony near the front door. Mounted into its vertical sides was a high shelf with a brass rod. Sitting on its bench, Abigail put on her sneakers.

She grabbed her blue day pack, sunglasses and baseball cap from the shelf and slipped a plastic bag into her pocket. She would use the school’s guitar. Mrs. Plumkettle notwithstanding, it was much too warm for a windbreaker.

She removed Curly Connor’s leather harness and leash from a hook by the door. Before she could call him, he was by her side.

With the harness over her shoulder, she attached the leash to his collar and said, Wanna go to Kindergarten?

Curly Connor wiggled his bottom in opposition to his wagging tale. He loved kindergarten kids.

Telling him to stay, she stepped outside and held the storm door open. She called him, and he waited proudly on the patio as she locked up.

A chime rang out from a plastic rectangle on her key chain. It’s 1:24 p.m., a female voice announced as Abigail pocketed her keys.

She wrapped the leash around her left hand and said, Forward, find your spot.

They followed the same route that Mrs. Plumkettle had taken, veering from it to walk past the Victorian and through the wrought iron gate. When the Fluffer-Noodle crossed the sidewalk to the curb and stopped, Abigail unfastened a clip just above the one attached to his collar, nearly doubling the length of the leash.

He hopped off the curb and sniffed around before lifting his leg. When he finished, she shortened his leash and at last allowed him to wiggle into his harness.

Traffic passed in lazy clusters, as they walked in the shade of the huge Maples lining Old Applebutter Hill Road. Curly Connor stopped suddenly, and Abigail stretched out her left foot to investigate. They had reached the curb at the side street west of Mrs. Plumkettle’s.

Returning her left foot to the sidewalk and raising her right slightly, she said, Good Boy, curb. Forward.

Walking with Curly Connor gave her the most wonderful sense of freedom. True, she had not yet lost that crumpled up look from years of staring at the ground or the permanent cringe that comes from always expecting to run into something. Nonetheless, she was looking up, enjoying the blurry snapshots of pale blue, bright green and gray as they darted around her, alternately washed out in bursts of sunshine or obliterated in deep shade.

The air was full of bird song and the chatter of squirrels. At the next corner they turned left and crossed Old Applebutter Hill Road. Heading south on Maplewood Avenue, they heard the squeaks and squeals of a shopping cart.

Smart Dog you’ve got there, young lady, a man called.

Thanks.

Abigail felt very fortunate to have a guide dog. Curly Connor was, after all, the only thing about not being able to see that was truly excellent. Also, no doubt due to the advocacy of the Mission, the guide dog school had accepted her in spite of her age.

When they stopped at Butler Street, the last crossing before the school, she heard the parallel traffic moving on her right and gave the forward command. Curly Connor, however, stayed put.

As she was about to repeat the command, Abigail felt a hot rush of wind buffeting her knees. A car was making a hard right onto Maplewood. She praised the Fluffer-Noodle vociferously for his disobedience.

Groups of students were trickling out of the upper school. The light breeze carried snippets of their conversations. Some, on break, were headed to Village Square for ice-cream, while others were off to cheerleading or track practice.

The campus of the Paul Plumkettle Learning Center was south of village Square. It was named for Mrs. Plumkettle’s late husband, a much loved educator. The upper school, a blocky two story red brick relic of the 1920s, had once been Applebutter Hill’s public high school. Today, however, Abigail and the Fluffer-Noodle would take a path through the grounds to the lower school, a white clapboard house on a bluff.

Look, it’s the big sissy. Unpleasant jeering from a group of older boys pierced the playful chatter.

Big? asked another in feigned astonishment.

Ah, my apologies, said the first boy with an elaborate bow, He is a bit of a runt.

This sort of thing always made Abigail uncomfortable. On Adiaphora, some of her classmates had delighted in similar behavior toward her.

As the taunting continued, she caught the names of several of the tormenters: Kegger, Lou and Ryan. A group of girls were giggling in response to the boys.

Abigail heard the pounding of small feet on the grass. Breathing hard, a boy ran onto the sidewalk ahead of her. He stopped abruptly and approached Curly Connor, who licked his hand.

Curly Connor, you’re such a good boy, arncha.

Abigail could barely hear his greeting. Normally, she did not allow people to pet her guide dog. His trainers had gone out of their way to explain why it was a bad idea.

But, this was Christopher Posterly, a timid thirteen-year-old at least a head shorter than Abigail. He had shared a room with Baggy last fall when they all lived on campus in Transition House, before being placed with guardians.

Hi, Christopher.

Christopher did not look up or acknowledge her in any way.

Hey, Guys, it’s the cry baby and the big blind mouse.

Adiaphora’s refuse.

Abigail was becoming concerned. The older boys were closing in. Christopher bolted toward the lower school, dropping some of his books.

This hasty retreat inspired another round of taunts and threats to run him down. Abigail and curly Connor turned to face the boys. Fortunately for Christopher, with benches and trees lining both sides and a dog blocking the way, they didn’t have a clear path to chase him.

Well, you sure are a bunch of jerks, she said trembling.

Woooooo, they chorused as the girls giggled even harder.

Hey, look, Chrissie’s gone and dropped his books, said one in mock sorrow.

Jones, why don’t you pick up your friend’s books for him? They’re right in front of me, said the one called Kegger, tapping the sidewalk with the toe of his large shoe. When she did not move instantly to do so, he added, What’s the matter? Afraid I’m gonna kick yuh?

Abigail had heard Christopher’s books fall and knew that they were nowhere near Kegger. Curly Connor was staring reproachfully at the boys, and they seemed reluctant to come any closer. Giving him a long leash so that he could maintain his watch, she turned slightly and swept her foot across the sidewalk until it hit pay dirt. She picked up a notebook and several papers.

Wooooo, Kegger, she has your number.

How did she …?

Lou, did you see …? Their voices had grown quieter and less theatrical, and the girls had stopped giggling.

Come on, we’ll be late for practice.

After they walked away, Abigail grabbed Curly Connor’s harness handle and said, Find Stuff. He led her to a bench under which she found another tablet.

At the lower school, Phesty Mushrot, Plumkettle’s Industrial Arts director, had just installed a new porch swing. Abigail’s mood brightened when she heard the excited squeals of several girls trying it out.

Phesty was sitting on a wicker chair sipping a cup of coffee, his wooden cane against his leg. He was a short, strong fireplug of a man with slate gray hair and beard. Pundu, his donkey, had been un-harnessed from his cart and was grazing nearby.

Well, it’s Abigail Goongleheimer Jones and Curly Connor, he boomed with a broad smile.

Hi, Curly Connor. Hi, Abigail. called the girls as Abigail climbed the steps and entered a different world.

4

Who’s in the Cubbyhole?

Other than the computer and language labs in the basement, there was little about the two and a half story Plumkettle Lower School that was ordinary. To the left of the entrance hall, the French doors to the living room were open. Students on sofas and arm chairs were discussing their jobs at Plumkettle’s goat dairy. To Abigail’s right, a low, round-cornered, L-shaped counter marked the area where the headmistress and her assistant had their desks.

Jack Gannon, the assistant, had just answered the phone. He was a young man with sandy, waist-length hair, pale blue eyes and a soft accommodating voice. Abigail had heard that he was an excellent guitarist, had a band and played gigs on the weekends.

It was the headmistress, Verna Williams, who greeted her. A formidable black woman in her forties, Mrs. Williams had a fierce zeal for her job, watching over her staff and students with a benevolent intensity that enabled her to turn problems into teaching opportunities.

Holding out Christopher’s books, Abigail stammered, Uh, I th-think these are Christopher’s. He … he dropped them on the sidewalk.

Thank you, Abigail. I’ll see that he gets them.

Did your dog scare him? asked Jack, hanging up the phone, I saw you together, and then … he took off …

He’s not scared of Curly Connor, she said regaining her voice, They like each other. She hesitated and then added, S-some older boys were giving him a hard time.

Jack and Mrs. Williams exchanged significant looks. From beyond the headmistress’s office, Abigail heard the happy, involved voices of students