Henry and the Guardians of the Lost. Jenny Nimmo
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ran to the gates.
There was nothing welcoming about the old neglected-looking house but, for some reason, Henry felt drawn to it. He took a few paces towards the ornate rusted gates. A bell pull hung from a pillar on one side, its iron handle encrusted with lichen.
Henry went right up to the gates. He saw that part of the pattern at the top was formed from letters. There was a T, an L and an H. The other letters were rusted and misshapen but when Henry screwed up his eyes they became clearer. He made out a word, then another and another. An unmistakable name: ‘The Littles’ House’. And there was the white bird, perched on the porch roof.
Was this the place Pearl had meant him to come to? It looked deserted. What was he supposed to do now?
Before he could decide an ancient front door began to open. Even from the gate Henry could see the scratches and deep scars in the wood. He imagined soldiers kicking and battering the door in some long-ago battle.
There was a creaking and a shuddering, then a white-haired man appeared in the entrance. Henry found that he couldn’t move. The man wore a white shirt, a long leather waistcoat and green velvet knee-breeches. He began to approach Henry along a mossy, paved walk. On either side thistles and tangled briars reached to the man’s waist. He arrived at the gate and stared at Henry through the curling iron-work. He was short and wide and his face had a weathered tan. His eyes were a curious yellow, his lashes long and white.
‘Spy or rover?’ asked the man.
Henry stood his ground. ‘If I was a spy I wouldn’t tell you, would I?’
‘Suit yourself.’ The man turned away.
‘Wait! Please!’ begged Henry. ‘I think my aunt wanted me to come here. I don’t know why, but she wrote down the name. Look!’ He held Pearl’s note up to the gate.
‘She’s left off an s, and an apostrophe,’ said the man.
‘I can see that, but she was in a hurry,’ said Henry.
‘You were supposed to wait for Mr Lazlo,’ said the man. ‘He was detained for a time – a problem with the mayor.’
‘I didn’t find my aunt’s note straight away, and then these children, the Reeds, said I should come home with them.’
‘Dratted kids,’ grunted the man. ‘They did that to Flora, but we managed to get her out.’ He reached under his waistcoat and unhitched a ring of heavy keys from his belt. Choosing the largest he pushed it into a lock in the centre of the gates and pulled one open. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to Henry. ‘My name’s Herbert. I’m porter, handy-man, jack-of-all-trades and more.’ He winked.
‘I’m Henry, and . . .’ Henry looked round for Enkidu but the black and white cat had leapt in from of him. The cockatoo flew into the open doorway calling, ‘A plague on both your houses,’ and Enkidu bounded after it.
‘We can’t have cats in here,’ said Herbert. ‘You’ll have to get it out.’
Henry had no intention of getting Enkidu out of the house. If he was going in, then so was his cat. He followed Herbert up the path. When he reached the ancient, scarred door, he had a moment’s doubt. But where else could he go?
‘Get a move on.’ Herbert spoke from the shadows beyond the door. ‘You’re letting the outside in.’
Nervously clenching his fists, Henry stepped over the threshold. He had the oddest sensation of moving backwards, not forwards. He shook his head, and hunched his shoulders as Herbert closed the door behind him. The air was filled with whispers.
Facing Henry, on the other side of a musty-smelling hallway, was a wide wooden staircase. It rose to a landing where a large gilt-framed mirror reflected nothing but dust. Henry’s legs felt all at sea as the flagstones beneath his feet dipped into hollows and then rose unexpectedly.
A shaft of light brightened the hall as Herbert opened a door and proudly announced, ‘The kitchen.’
Henry thought, It’s just a kitchen. But as he stepped into the room he realised that it was not just a kitchen. It could better be described as an experience. The walls rose up and up until they reached a domed glass ceiling. The huge skylight was made of hundreds of topaz-coloured panes, giving the whole place the look of an old-fashioned photograph.
Below the ceiling two great oak beams ran the length of the room. They were hung with copper saucepans, cauldrons, bowls, ladles and other utensils the like of which Henry had never come across. They were all so far out of reach he wondered if anyone ever used them. And then he became aware of a stepladder, the tallest he had ever seen, and almost at the top, a very, very tiny woman.
‘Hullo!’ the tiny person squeaked. ‘You’re late.’
‘I know,’ said Henry.
‘Better late than never, eh?’ said Herbert. ‘Henry, meet Twig.’
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Twig.
‘A bit,’ Henry admitted.
Twig then did the most extraordinary thing. She leapt from the ladder, on to the top of a vast dresser. Every shelf was crammed with cracked and stained crockery, all piled higgledy-piggledy; plates balanced on bowls, cups teetering on one another. How it all stayed put was a mystery.
Bending over, Twig selected a large plate from the top shelf. Tucking this under one arm she bounced back on to the ladder, skimmed halfway down, and jumped on to the impossibly long table. It was only then that Henry saw the girl. She sat at the very end of the table. Behind her a window as wide and as tall as four doors rose above a giant stone sink. The girl’s hair was as red as a flame. She was reading a book and took no notice of Henry whatsoever.
Twig ran across the table and peered into Henry’s face. Her own was brown and leathery, but she had gentle dark eyes and a kind smile. She wore a long pink dress, a blue checked apron and furry slippers. Her brown hair was cut very short and her small pink ears were set unusually high on her head. The tip of her long nose was as active as a finger.
‘Will eggs do?’ Twig asked Henry.
‘Eggs will do very well,’ he said. He had eaten rather a lot of eggs recently, but one more wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned, and he was very hungry again. He glanced at the red-haired girl and sat on a chair some distance from her.
‘Ankaret, it would be nice if you could be polite for once,’ Herbert said, throwing a disapproving look in the girl’s direction.
She didn’t respond.
‘Perhaps she’s deaf,’ said Henry.
That did the trick. The girl looked up with a scowl. Her face was as pale as paper, her eyes were green and her nose and cheeks were covered in freckles. ‘I happen to be reading a very interesting book,’ she said, ‘and I haven’t got time for small-talk.’
Henry had never been one to give up easily. ‘My name’s Henry,’ he said. ‘I suppose yours is Ankaret. Unusual name, if you don’t mind me saying.’
No response.
From the corner of his eye Henry had been watching Twig. In a matter of seconds she had shinned up the ladder, brought down a frying pan and rolled two eggs from under a chicken sitting in an old armchair. Now she was standing on a stool and frying the eggs in a peppery-smelling oil.
The stove crackled, the eggs sizzled and the topaz sunlight made the copper pans gleam. Henry felt almost at home.
At the very end of the room, half-hidden by the vast dresser, a door suddenly opened and a boy poked his head in. ‘I smell eggs,’ he said. ‘Can I have one?’ He came into the room and stood beside the stove.
‘You’ve just had tea,’ said Herbert.
‘Have I?’ The boy jerked his thumb at Henry. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Herbert.
‘I’m