Molly knelt down. “Oh, Miss Penny.” She stroked the girl’s hair. Her wiry black strands were softer and touched with an auburn hue that almost glowed in the sunlight. “You’re old enough to look after yourself now. Besides, Kip an’ me got our own road ahead of us. I promise, though, you’ve not seen the last of me.”
“Will you …?” The girl took an enormous, trembling breath. “Will you visit often?”
“I canna say.” Molly smiled. “But when I do, I expect you’ll give me a good and proper tucking-in. Fair?” She crossed her heart to show she was serious.
Penny did the same. “Fair.” She wrapped her arms around Molly’s neck, squeezing her with surprising strength.
There were more hugs and good-byes and a good share of tears. Molly even saw Alistair shyly approach the wagon and offer Kip a crudely formed branch, which he had shaped into a crutch—a new Courage. She was pleased to see Kip take it and shake his hand. At last, Molly and Kip climbed onto the bench of the wagon and, with a flick of the reins, Kip steered them across the bridge and up into the valley.
olly and her brother rode in silence for some time, each of them mulling over all they had seen and experienced, and what they were leaving behind. When they reached the crossroads, Kip pulled the reins, stopping the wagon. “Where to?” he said.
Molly squinted against the sun. The road spread out before them in three directions, all of them glowing with dew and steam. “I got no idea.” She slid a hand into her coat pocket. A smile played on the corners of her mouth.
“What is it?” Kip said.
Molly pulled her hand out, showing Kip the oilskin parcel that Hester had left them. It was very light and fit easily in the palm of her hand. “She said it was somethin’ special. Somethin’ we might want.”
Kip leaned close. “You think we should open it?”
“I think the time might be right.” Molly carefully removed the twine. She unfurled the oilskin, holding her hand underneath to catch whatever was inside. But nothing came out. “The skin’s empty,” she said, feeling a twinge of disappointment.
“No, it ain’t.” Kip took the skin from her and turned it over. He spread it out on the bench between them, smoothing out the creases. The inside of the skin was marked with faded blue lines that ran together to make roads and rivers and mountains and seas.
“It’s a map,” Molly whispered.
“And look!” Kip pointed to a place in the topmost corner where the land had been marked with a red dot. “Do you think it’s a buried treasure?”
Molly shook her head. She ran her fingers over the skin, tracing the roads. She recalled Hester’s words. She had said she wasn’t the “settling-down” type. “I think … I think it’s a home!”
“How do you know that?”
Molly shrugged. She thought of the look in the woman’s eye as she handed Molly this final offering. “I just have a feelin’.” Molly smiled.
“A home, eh?” Kip took the map, staring at the twisting little roads. “It looks like an awfully long way,” he said. “We’ve little food and less money.”
Molly peered into the trees. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear the faint honeybee drone of an old hurdy-gurdy. “I bet there’s more than a few folks willing to swap room and board for a good story.” She winked at Kip. “And I know a whopper.”
Kip took the reins, urging Galileo onto the middle path. The wagon rocked and rattled as it rolled over the muddy road. “I hear there’s dragons in some lake up north.” he said. “Maybe we can stop on the way?”
“Oh, they’re a sight to behold!” Molly put an arm around her brother. “If we’re lucky, maybe the flyin’ ones will be out for summer!”
Molly and her brother swapped stories as their little wagon carried them out of the valley and into the warm light of the new day.
riting this story was a story in and of itself. Nine years and countless drafts stand between the original idea and the book you now hold. I would be remiss in not mentioning some of the books, facts, and people who helped me along the way.
The first and greatest inspiration was Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. My father read this book aloud to me when I was eleven years old, and it scared me silly. Indeed, it was during a Something Wicked–inspired nightmare that I caught my first glimpse of the Night Gardener. I have since always imagined that the Gardener’s haunting visage lurked just beneath the surface of Mr. G. M. Dark’s smile.
Another crucial work was The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving. This book long ago taught me the rare pleasure of stories that contain both horror and humor. It includes many famous episodes, chief among them “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle.” At some point while writing The Night Gardener, I became lost in the gloom of the Windsors’ plight, and in desperation I went back to Irving. It was there I rediscovered a character I had all but forgotten: the roving story collector Geoffrey Crayon. Behind every tale hides Irving’s kind, mysterious storyteller, who guides readers safely through the darkest valleys; it was while reading this character that I first heard the voice of Hester Kettle, asking an important question about the difference between a story and a lie.
Two other favorite works helped me to better understand Molly and Kip. The first was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, whose characters are seeded into every page. An even greater inspiration was “Courage” by J. M. Barrie. “Courage” is not a book but a speech delivered to the students of the University of St. Andrews in 1922. It is as brilliant and stirring as anything you might expect from the man who wrote Peter Pan. “Courage” is about a walking stick, a storyteller named M’Connachie, and what it means to fight for peace. Most important, it is about what young people are to do in a world in which adults have failed to care for them. These are by no means the only works that inspired The Night Gardener, but they are the ones without which I could not have written my story.
History played a role in The Night Gardener as well. Being married to a Victorian scholar, I spend a lot of my time learning interesting facts about the nineteenth century—and by interesting I mean horrifying. Chief among them is the Great Famine in Ireland. The famine (or “The Great Hunger,” as it was often called) brought untold devastation to the people of Ireland. Between 1845 and 1852, an estimated one million men, women, and children died from starvation and disease. The problem was not a lack of food but the fact that the good food grown in Ireland was shipped to England, leaving only blighted potatoes behind for the farmers and their families.
Molly’s family and hundreds of thousands like it were forced to flee the country in search of work and food, first journeying to England and later to North America. The exact number of those who left Ireland is unknown, as few ships kept passenger lists. What is known is that these ships were very dangerous. One in five people who boarded a ship bound for America died at sea from disease or starvation—which led to these vessels being called “coffin ships.” These were not the only dangers. In 1850 alone, over a dozen ships were destroyed in storms that tore through the Atlantic Ocean and the Irish Sea. Those who did manage to reach their destination were—like Molly and Kip—often greeted with derision and scorn.
While Ireland continued to suffer into the 1850s, England began to enjoy remarkable prosperity. The expansion of empire, development of the middle class, and spread of industrialization created tremendous wealth in the Victorian era. There were, of course, many people left behind. Poverty among the lowest classes was devastating, especially in the cities, which were overrun with beggars. Even those in the middle class were not safe—more than a few men like Bertrand Windsor found themselves in debtors’ prison or worse.
The Victorian era was perhaps the last point in Western history when magic and science were allowed to coexist. As the world’s understanding of science and the natural world grew, so, too, did a fascination with magic, spirits, and fairy stories. In 1882, English scientists banded together to form t
he Society for Psychical Research, a group dedicated to investigating the paranormal. Great rational minds, like philosopher William James (brother of Turn of the Screw author Henry James) and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, dedicated their later careers to the investigation of ghosts and spirits. One can only imagine what Doctor Crouch would have thought of all this! It was while learning about these early ghost hunters as a boy that I first developed a desire to tell a ghost story of my own.
Beyond these sources, I have been helped in much more tangible ways by numerous friends and colleagues: Sally Alexander, Jim Armstrong, Katherine Ayres, Chad Beckerman, Tamar Brazis, Caroline Carlson, Liam Flanagan, Markus Hoffman, Doris Hutton, Lynne Missen, Joseph Regal, Thomas Sweterlitsch, Kate Weiss, Jason Wells, John Wheeler, and, above all, Mary Elizabeth Burke. To these people I say, Thank you. Your support is more than I could wish for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONATHAN AUXIER teaches creative writing and children’s literature. He is the author of Peter Nimble and His Fantastic Eyes. He lives in Pittsburgh with his family. You can visit him online at www.TheScop.com.
Jonathan Auxier, The Night Gardener
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