The Dark Hills Divide Part 1

The Dark Hills Divide.

(Land of Elyon #1).

Patrick Carman.

Acknowledgments.

I would like to acknowledge the following individuals and organizations for their contributions to this work: Jeremy Gonzalez, Jeffrey Townsend, and Squire Broel. Without them this book would still be in a box in my closet.

The fine folks at Book & Game Company in Walla Walla, Was.h.i.+ngton; Third Place Books in Seattle, Was.h.i.+ngton; and Barnes & n.o.ble in Kennewick, Was.h.i.+ngton. Your pa.s.sion for the work was the spark that got things moving.

Brad Weinman for his epic cover ill.u.s.tration that caught the attention of so many.

Kathy Gonzalez and Matt McKern, a couple of hardworking, talented people without whom this book would not have seen the light of day.

Peter Rubie, a cool cat and a great agent. Thank you for your tireless work in bringing this book to market.

David Levithan. If you're lucky enough to find an editor with as much heart and talent as David, you have done well.

Gene Smith for finding, reading, and championing the book.

And Craig Walker, for whom I hold the deepest respect and admiration.

At every locality where ocean meets land, there are the cliffs of dark, jagged rocks. If you look over the edge, there lies a mist a few feet below; so thick, you can't see the water. As far as the eye can see, nothing but white, puffy mist, as if we hang in the clouds and to step off the edge would leave us falling for days. If not for the violent sound of the waves against the rocks somewhere far below, one might suppose our lands were an island in the sky.

Beyond the Valley of Thorns, ALEXA DALEY.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.

"Mending Wall," ROBERT FROST.

CHAPTER 1.

Warvold.

"Stop that chattering or we'll have to go back and sit by the fire," said my companion. He removed his large, thick cape and draped it over my shoulders. I had to hold it up to keep it from dragging on the street, but it felt good, and my last few s.h.i.+vers quietly subsided.

The sun had set, and the lamps glowed above the streets with sharp yellow spears, one every twenty feet on both sides along our way. Illuminated by the soft light, the cobblestone paths made for a dreamy stroll. As we rounded each new corner we were greeted by another twisting row of lamps, houses, and small storefronts. Some of the doors were painted bright blue or purple, but the houses themselves, crammed tightly together, were all whitewashed stone.

We walked together, not saying a word. The town was quiet except for the occasional distant hoot of a perching night owl atop the wall as it searched for rats and other vermin. Down at the end of a darkened footpath we arrived at a locked iron gate. He produced a golden key from his pocket and drew it to a small oval container hanging from a chain around his neck a locket I had seen many times. I watched as he opened the container and removed another key. He was our leader,

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the man who had ventured farther than the rest of us into the mysteries of the outside world. It made sense that he would be the keeper of a hidden key. He was the keeper of so much of our history and so many of our deepest secrets. I watched as he inserted the key into a lock on the gate and swung it open on its rusty hinges.

He disappeared into the darkness, calling me to follow quietly. I groped for his hand, which he took in his, and we walked farther, his cape now dragging behind me. He stopped, took my hand out of his, opened it full, and pulled it forward until I felt the smooth surface of rock still warm from the day's cooking. Reaching as high as I could, I felt a seam and then more rock.

"It's the wall," he said. "I thought you might enjoy touching it." Except for his breathing, I heard nothing. After a while, he continued. "I spent my youth building this wall to keep dangerous things away. I sometimes wonder now if I've kept them inside."

"Why would you say that?" I could make out his features as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was deep in thought, staring at the wall as he moved his delicate fingers across the seam. Lines ran all along his weathered face, and the hair from his head and beard tangled together into a fluffy, white ma.s.s.

"I tell you what, Alexa -- why don't we sit a spell and I'll tell you a tale. We need to stay low or old Kotcher will get his dogs to come looking for a nibble."

He had a reputation for conjuring up frightening tales

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about giant spiders crawling over the wall to eat children, so naturally I was concerned. "What sort of story are you going to tell?" I asked.

"Actually, it's more of a fable. I heard it a long time ago, during my travels, before all this." He swept his hand in front of him, a far-off look in his eye. "Most people don't know how much I traveled when I was young. I walked for miles and miles in every direction for months on end, all alone.

"But Renny and then Nicolas came along, and I grew more and more protective. I had terrible fears of being away from them, so I stayed closer to home. Before long I was building these walls to protect my family and everyone else."

Both of us were sitting now, and he looked me in the eye as he continued. "You remember one thing, Alexa. If you make something your life's work, make sure it's something you can feel good about when you're an old relic like me." He paused, either for effect or because he had forgotten what he was going to say next -- I wasn't sure which. Then he resumed.

"When I was on one of my far-off journeys, I heard this fable. I liked it so much I memorized it." And then he told it to me, and it went like this: It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant,

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Though all of them were blind, That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and st.u.r.dy side, At once began to bawl: "G.o.d bless me! But the Elephant Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, "Ho! What have we here?

So very round and smooth and sharp? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: "I see," said he, "the Elephant Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee.

"What most this wondrous beast is like

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Is mighty plain," said he; "Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree."

The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "Even the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Then, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, "I see," said he, "the Elephant Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right And all were in the wrong.

"Not bad for an absentminded old man," he said. "Stop being so gloomy. I think you've got a fine memory."

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"A lot of secrets are held inside these walls; a lot more are roaming around outside," he said ominously. "I think the two are about to meet."

He mumbled something else about "them being right all along," but he was quieter now, muttering to himself.

We continued to sit and listened to the soft evening wind blow in. Something about his words -- something about the night -- crept under my skin and made me s.h.i.+ver even harder than before. Something felt very wrong. Something much bigger than me.

"I'm getting cold, can we go now?" I asked.

He gave me no reply, and as I glanced up at him on that clear, cold night, it was obvious at once that Warvold was dead.

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CHAPTER 2.

THE ROAD TO BRIDEWELL.

I was twelve years old, short for my age, with skinny arms and k.n.o.bby knees. My father often joked that he could run my forearm through his wedding ring (sadly, this was only a slight exaggeration). I had sandy-colored hair, which I kept in a braid nearly all the time.

A few hours before Warvold's death, I was traveling with my father from our hometown of Lathbury to Bridewell. Being a girl of twelve and lacking adventure, our annual trip there was the most antic.i.p.ated time of the year for me. It had been a quiet day on the road, though hot beyond belief for so early in the summer.

In Bridewell there was a building that at one time had been a prison. A work camp, really, where the vagrants and convicts from our towns used to be kept. During the day, the prisoners would go outside the wall, doing the hard labor their sentences required.

When I say wall, I do not mean the prison wall, although that wall did exist. The wall I am speaking of is the one that surrounded all of Bridewell, which encircled not only the village and the old prison, but stretched out along each side of the roads leading to the three cities of

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Lathbury, Turlock, and Lunenburg. Our kingdom was a wagon wheel made of stone. Bridewell sat at its hub, with the other three towns on the end of the three spokes. On the afternoon before Warvold's death, we were traveling on the Lathbury spoke on our way to Bridewell.

The walls loomed above us on both sides of the road, holding in the heat like a long, skinny oven. I was hot and bored.

"Father?"

"Yes, Alexa?"

"Tell me the story of when they built the walls."

"Haven't you grown tired of that old legend yet?"

Of course, I knew very well he enjoyed telling it. My father had a great love of storytelling, and this was one of his favorites. I didn't have to wait long for him to begin.

"Thomas Warvold was an orphan. On the day of his thirteenth birthday he wandered off from his hometown, all of his belongings stored in a single knapsack. For years no one knew or cared where he'd gone. A seemingly worthless child with no parents and no future to speak of; it's doubtful anyone even noticed he had departed. But he was a spirited boy, smart and full of adventure. Much later, after he became famous, there were those who speculated he was an aimless wanderer for twenty years or more, gathering treasures from far-off places in The Land of Elyon. Others suggested he lived in the wilds of the enchanted forests and mountains beyond these very walls. In any case, it would seem that he grew to be a