Sign of the Raven - Hardcover

Hearn, Julie

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0689857349 ISBN 13: 9780689857348

Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2005

Synopsis

Mind the gap.

Something odd is going on in the basement of an old house in London. An inexplicable gap has formed, a gap in time that links the present to the past. And twelve-year-old Tom, who discovers the gap while on a visit to his grandmother, is torn between both worlds.

Lured by a mysterious voice, Tom leaps into the early eighteenth century, to a time when circus "freaks" like the Bendy Man and the Gorilla Woman appeared at Bartholomew Fair. The voice he hears belongs to Astra, a tiny changeling child, whose limbs are no bigger than a man's thumb. She has called him into the past, because she is convinced that Tom is the only one who can help her and her friends from danger. Doctors are paying a high price for unusual bodies to dissect, and Astra and her friends are prime subjects.

But Tom is dealing with difficulties of his own. His mum has cancer and is constantly fighting with his gran. And then he discovers a dark secret in his family's past...a secret that pulls the strands of time together and might just close the gap forever.

About this title

About the Author:

Julie Hearn was born in Abingdon, England, near Oxford, and has been writing all her life. After studying to be a journalist, she worked in Australia and lived in Spain, before returning to England, where she worked as a features editor and columnist. She is now a full-time writer. Her first book published in the United States was The Minister's Daughter.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Notice

A Changeling Child

To be seen next door to the Black Raven in West

Smithfield, during the time of Bartholomew

Fair: a Living Skeleton taken by a

Venetian Galley from a Turkish vessel in the

Archipelago. This is a Fairy Child, supposed

to be born of Hungarian Parents, but chang'd

in the Nursing. Aged Nine Years or more; not

exceeding a Foot and a-half high. The Legs

Thighs and Arms so very small that they scarce

exceed the bigness of a Man's Thumb, and the

face no bigger than the Palm of one's hand; and

seems so grave and solid as if it were Threescore

Years old. You may see the whole Anatomy of its

Body by setting it against the Sun. It never

speaks. It has no teeth but is the most voracious

and hungry creature in the World, devouring

more Victuals than the stoutest Man in England.

Gives great satisfaction

to all that ever did,

or shall, behold it.

Chapter 1

It was the stench seeping in through the car windows that bothered Tom the most. Rank and beefy, it reminded him of the way dogs smell after a walk in the rain. Smelly dogs made him think of Goldie, left behind in Dorset, and for a moment the page of the London A to Z he was supposed to be reading blurred and swam in front of his eyes.

Quickly, he knuckled the wet from his face. Had his mother noticed? If she had, he would say it was sweat. And that he felt sick. It was late morning, the middle of August, and hot enough for even a skinny twelve-year-old to be melting like a lolly. Add the stink of Smithfield meat market, leaching through traffic fumes, and anyone with nostrils and a stomach in working order was bound to feel bad.

His mother, in profile, looked surprisingly fit considering she was driving in circles, unable to remember where her own mother lived, and had more reason than most people to feel like throwing up, with or without a pong in the air.

"You all right, Mum?" His voice was gruff. A yes or no answer would do him.

"Tired. Just tired. I'll be glad to stop."

They came to a roundabout. It was somewhere Tom recognized. "We've done this one," he said. "Twice." His mother circled it three times more, looking for signs.

Go round again, thought Tom, and I really will chuck. The smell was getting worse. He tried breathing through his mouth. Tasted offal on his tongue. Liver without the onions. His mother, he knew, had a brilliant sense of smell; could recognize anything from gas to a bunch of flowers through several closed doors. How come she wasn't complaining?

"Can't stand much more of this stink," he muttered.

"What stink?" She seemed genuinely surprised. "I can't smell anything. Oh! Hang in there, Tom-bola. This is it, I think."

She took a sudden left, sending a training shoe, a tangle of wire coat hangers, and the book Living With Cancer: A Family Guide slithering from a badly packed wodge of their stuff on the backseat.

"MU-um!"

The book had whacked against the back of Tom's head. He turned and shoved it, hard, out of sight beneath a pile of brightly colored towels. The coat hangers jangled on his lap.

"What's the point of bringing these?" he grumbled. "Gran'll have loads."

His mother wasn't listening. She had pulled over, stopped the car, and flung off her seatbelt.

"Give me that A to Z," she said. "This isn't right."

They were in a wide cobbled street. One way. No exit. There were no houses, and no other cars; just the flank of the meat market, rearing to their left, and a large white van parked up ahead, its engine thrumming. Two men were trundling what looked like a clothes rack across the bumpy road. Pig carcasses hung upside down from its hooks, their trotters clicking like castanets, their snouts grazing on air. Tom watched the whole contraption go jouncing and clattering along. The smell was so thick here that he feared for his lungs.

One of the meat men, catching sight of the boy's face, pale as a cheese through the car windscreen, winked at him.

Tom flinched. "Hurry up, Mum," he snapped. "This is gross."

His mother looked up. There were dark smudges under her eyes and the bright yellow hat she had put on that morning, to cover the stubble of her hair, no longer looked fresh as a daisy.

"All right, love? Need any 'elp?" The man who had winked at Tom came swaggering across to the car, wiping his hands on his belly. There were smears of red all down his aproned front, as if he had just performed open-heart surgery or painted a field of poppies. The rack of pigs was in the back of the white van now. Refrigerated.

Tom wanted a drink very badly. Something ice cold, sharp, and clear like a Seven-Up or mineral water with lime. His gran, when they finally found her, would probably offer him Ribena from the same bottle she had got in for his last visit.

It was hard for him to picture his gran, or her house. How long had it been? Ten years, at least. Almost his whole lifetime. Let's see. Railings. He remembered those. Wrought-iron railings, tall and sharp as spears. He had wanted one to play knights of old with; hadn't understood that you couldn't just pull one up and put it back after slaying a few imaginary dragons. He remembered lots of steps and stairs, a hug that had too many bones in it, and a lunch with too much cheese. He remembered a room, dark as a goblin's yawn; a room where someone...

"That's great. Brilliant. Can't think how I missed it." Tom's mother tossed the A to Z onto the dashboard, eased her seatbelt across her chest, and turned the key in the ignition. "Thank you," she said through the window to the meat man. Her voice had an edge to it. She was off men. All men. Even helpful ones.

"No problem. You take care, darlin'. Nice old pub next door to yer mum's place. Not too rowdy. Get yerself in there for a bottle of stout and a nice beef sarnie. That'll put the color back in yer cheeks." He straightened up, slapped the side of the car, and sauntered back to his van.

"Knucklehead," muttered Tom. "Cack for brains. Bilge-artist."

"At least we know where we're going," said his mother. "At least we'll be there in a minute."

The car kangaroo-hopped as it joined the main road. The animal smell appeared to be fading. Good job, thought Tom. Good job.

"A nice beef sarnie indeed," his mother sighed. "If only it was that simple, eh?"

Tom had no answer to that. No answer at all. He let his head fall back against the passenger seat, closing his eyes against the traffic, the heat, and the brave yellow hat. Let his mother look out for the right landmarks--the railings, the tall house, the pub sign with the bird on it. This was her journey. Her thing. He hadn't wanted to come.

He felt the car slow, then stop, heard the click of his mother's seatbelt coming off, sensed exhaustion and discomfort in the slow exhalation of her breath. "We're here," she said. "Pile out, Tom Thumb."

It was a relief to get out of the car, to stretch his legs after the long journey. The railings in front of the house looked shabbier than he remembered. Not at all like the spears of a valiant knight. The pub next door looked pretty dingy too. The Black Raven.

"Hello, darlings! Did you have to fight your way through traffic? It's so appalling here now, with those beastly great lorries. I was just beginning to worry..."

Tom's grandmother stood in her doorway, several steps up from the street. Tall and slim, her white hair cut in a geometric bob, she wore a pale trouser suit and enough silver chains to anchor a ship. Her smile was a sickle of lipstick; her eyes a mystery behind a pair of shades. There was a glass in her left hand with something fizzy and a slice of lemon in it.

His mother took hold of his arm. He wanted to comfort her and shake her off about equally. Why hadn't his grandmother come down the steps to greet them properly? They were family, weren't they? The only family she had left? And one of them was lucky to be standing here at all! Okay, so the old bat had gone ballistic when his mum and dad split up. But that was ancient history now. It was stupid to carry on minding about your precious daughter being a single parent -- particularly when your precious daughter had a lot more to worry about, nowadays, than being minus a husband.

As for his mother, she wasn't usually lost for words, however sick, or tired, she was feeling. Why didn't she say something to make this easier?

His mother's voice, when it finally came, was croaky but calm. "Hello, Mummy," she said. "Fab hairdo. Smarter than mine."

Nice one, thought Tom, and laughed. His grandmother's smile slipped, but only for a second. "Get yourself in out of the sun, Catherine," she said. "Tom will bring the luggage up. Such a tall chap now. I'll make a pot of coffee. You must be gasping."

Tom tightened his grip on his mother's elbow. She shook him away. "I'm fine," she said. "You go and get our stuff in."

Tom will bring the luggage up. Such a tall chap now....Part of Tom wanted to run ahead; to catch his grandmother before she reached the kitchen. She needed telling that his mother didn't drink coffee anymore. That, actually, quite a lot of people who had cancer wouldn't touch caffeine with a ten-foot bargepole, and wasn't she a stupid old bag for not thinking about that?

He stood beside the car, wishing he could drive. You wouldn't see him for dust. He would be back in Dorset so fast, the tires would smoke. His mates would be hanging out by the war memorial this afternoon, with nothing to worry about except keeping an eye on their mountain bikes and being home in time for tea. He hoped Matthew's family would remember that Goldie loved chips and was allowed one or two, as a treat.

"Are you coming in, Tom darling? I've poured you some Ribena."

His grandmother was beckoning from a first-floor window. Sunlight flashed on her rings. She was still wearing her shades. Wearily, Tom grabbed a big armful of c...

About this edition

• Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
• Publication date: 2005
• ISBN 10: 0689857349
• ISBN 13: 9780689857348
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 336