Leepike ridge, p.1
Leepike Ridge, page 1
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by N. D. Wilson
Cover art © 2014 by Jon Foster
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Wilson, N. D. Leepike Ridge / N. D. Wilson p. cm.
Summary: While his widowed mother continues to search for him, eleven-year-old Tom, presumed dead after slipping underground while drifting down a river, finds himself trapped in a series of underground caves with another survivor and a dog, and pursued by murderous treasure-hunters.
[1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Caves—Fiction. 3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 5. Buried treasure—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W69744Lee 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006013352
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89216-5
v3.0_r1
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
For more than forty years,…
1. Time (Once Upon A)
2. Voyage
3. The Mountain’s Belly
4. The Second Suitor
5. Dark Encounter
6. Sky Water
7. King Fisher
8. Infestation
9. Reginald Spins His
10. Diving for Sunshine
11. Circumspected
12. ’Dads and Jam
13. Easter
14. Crazy Berry
Author’s Note
Gratitude
Preview of 100 Cupboards
Other Yearling Books You will Enjoy
Copyright
For my boys and my beauties
For more than forty years,
Yearling has been the leading name
in classic and award-winning literature
for young readers.
Yearling books feature children’s
favorite authors and characters,
providing dynamic stories of adventure,
humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.
Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,
inspire, and promote the love of reading
in all children.
~ one ~
TIME (ONCE UPON A)
In the history of the world there have been lots of onces and lots of times, and every time has had a once upon it. Most people will tell you that the once upon a time happened in a land far, far away, but it really depends on where you are. The once upon a time may have been just outside your back door. It may have been beneath your very feet. It might not have been in a land at all but deep in the sea’s belly or bobbing around on its back.
In this case it was in a land, for the most part. If you know of a valley where a small mountain peak once shaped like a crescent moon has tumbled down and disturbed the old willow trees growing beside a slow stream, then this story does not begin far, far away, and you’ve probably already heard it. But if you, like me, had to be told about this valley and the stream and the old, dry house chained to the top of the enormous rock beside the foot of the mountain, then this story does begin once upon a time in a land most definitely far, far away. Anyone close to this valley is sure to have heard of it.
Our story had already begun when the dust-covered delivery truck found the gravel road leading into the valley and followed it to its end beside the old willow rock. Two men got out and glared at the wooden stairs that crawled up to the house.
“Don’t know what sort of people would build up there,” the driver muttered.
“People who liked rocks, maybe. Or views.”
“Or stairs.”
Thomas Hammond, who was down by the stream with a red plastic cup full of leeches, heard them and turned to watch. They fished the large refrigerator box out of the back of the truck and strapped thick belts beneath thicker bellies, preparing to tote it to the top, two more deliverymen in a long history of deliverymen who would sweat and curse their way up the long, curving stairs. Finally, at the top, his mother greeted them and held the kitchen door open as they squeezed the box inside.
Tom had traveled around the sun eleven times when the delivery truck brought his mother’s newest fridge, but a number doesn’t really describe his age. His father had been gone for three years, and that made him feel older. He was the sort of boy who had many friends when he was at school, but what they knew about him was limited to his freckles, brown hair, long arms, and the clenched determination that settled onto his face when he was angry or competing. His smile, which was wide and quick, was always surprising, and his laugh, which lived in his narrow belly, was unpredictable. In games, any games, he was the first to dive for a ball, to slide on concrete, or to get a mouthful of dirt. He was taller than many of the boys in his class, but not the tallest, and he always seemed to have scabs.
Wait for the rest of the story, and you will know him better when I am done.
People thought Tom’s house was chained to the top of the rock for a reason. Some said the first house in the valley had been built down by the stream and that the spring floods had washed it away. The second house, they said, had been built on top of the rock, but one of the big summer thunderstorms had blown it off. So the third house had been chained to spikes bored deep into the stone. But no one really knew why or when the house had been built, only that it was there now and it had stayed put through lifetimes, though occasional electrical surges were hard on lightbulbs and appliances. The lightbulbs were easy to replace and the appliances were usually under warranty, so Tom’s mother, Elizabeth, didn’t mind. She didn’t have to carry the new ones up the stairs.
When the truck had gone and the dust had settled, Tom dumped forty-seven confused leeches onto the bank, where he thought the birds would find them and be pleasantly surprised. Cup in hand, he jumped through the long grass and ran up the stairs to look at his mother’s shiny new refrigeration. At the top he found the box. It was lying on its side, carefully arranged and waiting for him. He bent over and looked in. A long brick of white foam filled the bottom, and a small stack of cookies sat on it, all the way at the end. Why? Tom wondered. Why does she think I still want to play in boxes?
Tom got down on his knees and retrieved the cookies. Back on his feet, he ate thoughtfully as he kicked at the fridge box and watched it skid across the rock. He kicked again, and the box tumbled down the rock and out onto the breeze. Tom watched plastic packing bags slip out, followed by the large piece of foam. The box bounced in the gravel drive and rolled into the long grass, but the foam floated nicely, clearing the first willow trees. The plastic bags disappeared.
“Hey!” his mother called from inside. “You’d better get that all picked up before some duck chokes on it! Come in and see the fridge!”
“We don’t have ducks,” Tom said. He stared at the last cookie in his hand, counted the chocolate chips, and then slid the whole thing into his mouth.
It was a nice fridge, too big for the corner of the kitchen where it would live out its electrically dangerous life. It was black and shiny, in sharp contrast to the dingy kitchen, and it had water and ice in the door. The last two fridges had both had the water and ice dispensers in the door but had never dispensed either one. They wouldn’t work without a water line, and a water line had never been run.
“Well, you can head back out,” Elizabeth said when the tour was over. “Try not to be too long, though. Jeffrey is coming to dinner, and I’ll need help setting.” She gave him half of a wide smile. “And see if you can track down all that trash you just spread through the valley.”
She pushed her blond hair behind her ears and turned back to the pile of potato peels in the kitchen sink. Tom stood at the door, looking back at his tall, slender mother with her hands full of potato. He usually liked to watch his mother cook, but he didn’t like watching her cook for Jeffrey.
Tom found the box easily enough. He danced around it, picked his spot, and then kicked it back toward the base of the stairs. He liked the sound it made, and he liked how far one kick could send something so big. Searching for the plastic bags and the foam, he crossed the stream on an old fallen log, wandered into the willow trees, and walked from canopy to canopy, pushing his way through the curtains formed by the weeping branches. Occasionally he could see his house, perched on top of the rock, and occasionally the whole world would disappear and he would be left with nothing but the trunk and branches of a willow and a nest full of noisy birds hanging out over the slow water.
It was in one of these willow worlds that he found the foam. It had landed high up in the tree, and never had To
When he had collected a small pile, he began to assault the large foam brick from within the tree. Or at least he tried. A vertical throw is difficult enough without a tangled canopy of branches getting in the way. Tom would lean as far back as his balance would allow, cock his hand low to the earth, and then, starting with his legs and stomach, he would uncoil, bringing his arm around as hard as he could. The rock would rattle in the branches, and Tom would duck and dart around, trying to avoid getting hit, until it returned to the soft earth with a slap or to the muddy water with a plop.
He was on his second pile of rocks, and his shoulder was beginning to ache, when he finally hit the white slab. The rock bounced off a branch on the way back down and hit him on the arm, but Tom didn’t mind. The foam slid down the willow branches like a sled. It slowed, then tripped free and spun out into the water.
Nearly an hour passed, and Tom didn’t know it. He traveled two hundred yards beside the stream, assaulting the floating foam with clods, rocks, branches, and mud. At times, he approached the water’s edge with a slick lump of willow wood and hurled it at the white craft, sending the foam into the reeds with the splash when it fell short. Sometimes he retreated and bombarded the thing from a distance, assigning the foam a variety of villainous passengers, most of whom drowned.
Tom had almost rounded the bend in the valley when he saw the dust trail of what he knew must be Jeffrey’s little car. He then noticed the time and the grime on his hands, and he wondered if he’d heard his mother yelling for him a little while before. He couldn’t be quite sure.
The foam ended up tucked beneath a willow tree, and Tom, breathing heavily, met Jeffrey at the bottom of the stairs. Tom had every intention of being polite. At least, he wasn’t planning on calling the man any names.
“You’ve been playing hard,” Jeffrey said, and reached out to touch Tom’s head. Tom ducked and then straightened up slowly, looking Jeffrey in the eye.
“What game was it?” Jeffrey asked.
“Nothing,” Tom said, and he stepped around him and hurried up the stairs. His mother met him at the top. She was smiling, but Tom saw her glance at his hands and sweaty hair.
“Wash up,” she said. “I called for you.”
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Hello, Jeffrey.” The cheerfulness in her voice bothered Tom. “You got a haircut!”
“I got ’em all cut,” Jeffrey said. But Tom heard nothing else because he shut the kitchen door behind him.
Everyone said Jeffrey was a nice man. He was also tall, with lanky limbs and a saggy middle. Worse than that, he had a saggy chest and wore unbuttoned polo shirts. He always smiled, regardless of the situation, and taught fourth grade at Tom’s school. He drove a little green car the color of dry toothpaste. To Tom, he had been Mr. Veatch until this summer, when suddenly he had begun dropping by (from his house near school, about twenty miles away) and wanting to be called Jeffrey. As far as Tom was concerned, having to call him Jeffrey was just one step closer to having to call him Dad.
Over dinner, Jeffrey smiled and nodded. He commented on the potatoes. He said he’d spent his day at the library reading up on local history. He thought the nice weather was due to end and wouldn’t last through the rest of the weekend. He had heard storms were on the way for Sunday, Monday at the latest. Then he turned to Tom.
“What have you been up to today?” Jeffrey asked. He was chewing while he talked. I don’t even do that, Tom thought. He didn’t look up. He was sculpting his potatoes.
“Thomas has been playing with the box from the new refrigerator,” his mother answered.
Tom’s head snapped up, and he felt his teeth squeak.
“Was he, Elizabeth?” Jeffrey asked. “Was he? Oh, I remember those years. One time, I managed to convince my parents to let me save a box from one of our moves—we were always moving—and I took all sorts of things in there and had them all arranged like I was selling them. I must have played store in that box for a week before it finally collapsed after a rain.”
Tom was incredulous. This man was admitting to having played store in a box for nearly a week. Tom stared at Jeffrey’s long head with its curly, receding hair and the small flap of skinny-man fat that hung beneath his chin.
“I did all sorts of things with boxes,” Jeffrey continued. Now Tom was staring at his lips, two chapped leeches that belonged in a cup or, better yet, on the bank waiting for the birds. Except the birds would probably be too grossed out to touch them.
Jeffrey was still talking. “It’s healthy for a young boy to use his imagination. I often think that those childish games are what made me what I am today. I remember using one box for a pet store for all my stuffed animals, and another time I missed school so much over a summer vacation that I played classroom almost every day. But that wasn’t actually with a box. I did that with the blankets on my bed.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said. She put her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, and smiled. “I think Thomas was playing a cruder game. I sent him to pick up all the trash that had blown off the rock, and he ended up playing war with a piece of Styrofoam in the creek.”
“I wasn’t playing war,” Tom said. Still, he thought, it was better than selling stuffed animals out of a box.
“You were throwing things at it.”
“I was throwing things at it. I wasn’t playing war.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I opened the window, and I could hear you making all the same noises you make when you play with your army men.”
Tom went red on the outside. Inside, he went black.
“I,” he said, and arched his eyebrows into his hair, “do not play with army men.”
Jeffrey was laughing. “Oh, you don’t need to be embarrassed,” he said. “It’s natural that a boy your age should still be playing with toys. Even war—though a preoccupation with that particular game could be unhealthy.”
Tom stood up.
His mother stopped smiling. “Tom?” she said. A thousand thoughts poured through Tom’s head. One hundred things to say. He felt his face relax and his jaw pop, creep forward, and lock. Tom stared at Jeffrey through half-lidded eyes and knew that, just like at school, he wouldn’t say anything. Then, to his surprise, his mouth opened.
“Don’t ever touch my mother,” he said, and he found himself outside. The screen door banged behind him.
Tom stood on the rock and looked around. His impulse was to go down to the creek and find the piece of packing foam, but that was not an option. He would not be seen with the foam again. He walked to the back corner of the house and stared at the chains that anchored it. Two chains came off the corner, one at the base and the other higher up, near the edge of the roof. Both were attached to the same spike in the rock. After a balancing act, a slip, and some scrambling, Tom was on the roof. A few seconds later he was on the peak, then sitting on the chimney. He did not intend to move until the dust had settled behind Jeffrey Veatch’s car, if then.
It didn’t take long. Tom sat on the chimney on the house on the enormous rock and overlooked his valley. He stared down at the tops of willow trees and at the stream. He looked at the meadow grass on the other side, and he waited. One solitary mud hen moved in and out of reeds along the water. It isn’t a duck, Tom told himself. And it wouldn’t try to eat a plastic bag. Then the kitchen door opened, and Tom stopped overlooking and began overlistening.
“Well, Elizabeth,” Jeffrey said, “I’ll leave you to think over what I’ve offered.”
“You don’t need to go because of Tom.” She didn’t sound happy. Tom thought she sounded like her arms were crossed.
“I want to give him a little space for now. Don’t be too hard on him. It’s normal. He doesn’t really dislike me. His anger is with himself.”
Elizabeth and Jeffrey ended the conversation with pleasantries, and Tom watched Jeffrey’s back descend over the edge of the rock. When the little car began spreading its dust trail, Tom’s mother spoke.
