Mistle Child (The Undertaken Trilogy)

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9781416991182: Mistle Child (The Undertaken Trilogy)

Silas visits the ancestral home of the Umber family to learn ancient family secrets in this “dark and gothic” (School Library Journal) contemporary ghost story, the second book in the Undertaken trilogy.

Silas Umber has finally come into his own as the Undertaker of Lichport when an invitation arrives: a mysterious word carved into the door of his house. Intrigued, Silas ventures beyond the marshes to visit Arvale Manor, the ancestral estate of the Umber family.

There, he discovers that the extended Umber family may be dead, but they are not gone: Indeed, many of them still dwell in Arvale, waiting for an Undertaker to return and preside over the Door Doom, an archaic rite that grants a terrible power to summon and bind the dead in judgment, forcibly sending them to their eternal rest.

As Silas reluctantly assumes the mantle of Janus, the Watcher at the Threshold, he begins to learn more about his strange and ancient family. And deep below the earth, in the catacombs and sunken towers, grim spirits grow restless at his arrival—hungry for freedom and eager for vengeance. As the only living Undertaker at Arvale Manor, Silas must put an ancient wrong to right, as he discovers that even a house of ghosts can be haunted by its past—for in matters of family, we are who we were.

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About the Author:

Ari Berk is the author of the Undertaken trilogy and Nightsong, illustrated by Loren Long. He works in a library filled to the ceiling with thousands of arcane books and more than a few wondrous artifacts. When not writing, he moonlights as professor of mythology and folklore at Central Michigan University. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son. Visit him at AriBerk.com.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Mistle Child


NIGHTMARE TIME.

From the ruined lighthouse clinging to the rocks stacked high above the sea, a gray ghost-light swept out over Lichport.

Every evening, for over a week, on the very edge of town, the miasmic beam shone down from that tower. Grim weather descended with that light: furious winds and buffeting rain. And when the storm rose into a gale and screamed from the cliffs and whipped the surf into flying sheets of foam, that’s when the bad dreams began. It was mostly in the Narrows, where folks lived closest to the lighthouse; they would wake, terrified, from awful dreams of drowning and shipwrecks and muted voices crying through slowly rising bubbles far beneath the surface of the sea. Even in the upper part of town, people were affected.

But not Silas Umber, the Undertaker of Lichport. He wasn’t sleeping anyway. Not since a few nights ago, when someone burned the name of the old Umber family estate into his front door. Silas had spent the rest of that night pulling books and records from the shelves of his study, anything he could find that would tell him more about the house called Arvale. He had a large pile of these on his desk, awaiting his attention. But the lighthouse would have to come first. People were talking. Letters requesting help had been coming in every day since it started. Nights were bad for the rest of the folk in Lichport, and Silas knew they expected him to end the trouble.

Mrs. Bowe, who lived in the house attached to his, woke screaming six days ago and hadn’t had a good night’s rest since. Silas’s mother called him two days before to say the dreams were so bad that she had resorted to only napping in a chair during daylight hours. Silas had spent several evenings at his mother’s house across town, playing cards with her from midnight until morning because he was worried she’d go back to drinking to calm her nerves. Things had eased a little between them. They were talking to each other now, not at each other. He knew his mother was proud of him in her way. She still had trouble saying it, Silas could tell, but things were better. She had come to his dad’s wake and had begun talking about Amos civilly. Silas had even invited his mother to move in with him once more. And although she declined, saying again the house on Temple Street was her place now, and the only way she was leaving was feet first, she took her son’s hand warmly and kissed his cheek for having asked.

But the nightmares were fraying the edges of everything.

Now Silas looked out from a high window in his house. In his hand, the death watch was silent, its ticking stilled by his thumb against the dial. Silas could see, clear with the ghost-sight the watch bestowed, the beams of sickly gray light turning out from the lighthouse and falling like a pall over land and sea.

At first, Silas thought the light might have been one of the occasional phantasmal glimmerings seen near the ocean. These were not uncommon, and while they might be related to sunken ships, or some poor soul lost beneath the waves, no ghost ever manifested, and the lights would usually vanish almost as soon as they appeared. But this was different, and people in town, his town, were suffering.

Enough, he said to himself. Enough.

He opened the enormous funereal ledger that contained everything his father and the other Undertakers of his family knew about ghost lore and death rites. Scrawled throughout the book and upon its margins were the notes, instructions, and gleanings of his ancestors, those previous Undertakers who, like him, sought to bring Peace to the unsettled dead.

The ghost of the lighthouse had been known to his father, but only through secondhand accounts. Silas had read an entry in his father’s handwriting that explained that the ghost of the lighthouse would never appear to him, though he had tried to speak to the spirit on more than one occasion. For several days, and as the nightmares continued to run like wild things through the town, Silas read and read, making an especial study of the lighthouse and its sad history. He devoured newspaper accounts, memoirs, notes, rumors: everything he could find in the ledger and in the large collection of books on local history that spilled from the shelves of his father’s home library.

When he had learned all he could on the subject of the lighthouse and its last occupant, Silas set out for the cliffs, a little before dark. In the months since his father’s death, he had diligently applied himself to Undertaking, reading widely, and practicing the arcane rites he’d read about in the ledger when and where he could. And while Silas wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to help, he was resolved to try. In his mind Silas carried a name, held it like a talisman with which he might be able to settle the dead within that spindle of brick perched upon the rocks. He prayed the name would be enough.

The sky was pouring down pitch as Silas walked quickly along the cliff toward the old lighthouse. He wore an oilskin cape over his father’s jacket and held a small lantern. As he approached the high tower, he reached into his jacket pocket and took hold of the death watch, that ancient timepiece that when stopped, compelled the dead to become visible to the living. Silas drew no comfort from how quickly the silver warmed in his hand. It was as if the death watch wanted to be held and used. It made Silas feel uneasy.

Before even reaching the door, before stopping the hand of the death watch, he could sense the past of the place weighing down on him, more and more with every step, pulling at his feet as though the earth itself were trying to hold him back. He picked up his pace and when he reached the door, he took out a large iron key lent to him by Mother Peale, who had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on the place many years ago. She had been only too happy to hear that Silas would try his hand at bringing Peace to that haunted tower.

“You take this key and do what you can, Silas Umber,” Mother Peale had said. “You know we’re all for you, no matter what happens. And remember, if you don’t come back, your funeral is paid for by the townsfolk, as is customary, so don’t you worry. It’s all taken care of should it come to that.” Mother Peale had smiled and winked at Silas then, to rouse his good humor. Silas had smiled back, but hadn’t found it terribly funny.

At first, the key wouldn’t turn in the lock. Silas twisted it back and forth, worried that it might break. Finally, the rust gave way and the lock turned, but when Silas pushed the door, it wouldn’t budge. He shoved it, then struck it with his fist as though the door might fly open by the sheer force of his rising aggravation. Finally, in anger, Silas threw his full weight at the door, hitting it hard with his shoulder, and the door relented. A damp, salty smell flowed out from the darkness beyond the doorway as he stumbled inside. He held up the lantern, its weak light barely making an entrance into the inky black of the room, and then closed the door behind him. He walked to the center of the room, set the lantern on a small uneven table, and took the death watch from his pocket. Opening the jaw of the small silver skull, he brought his thumb down hard on the dial. He could feel the watch’s little heartbeat slow and then stop. Silas closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and opened them again.

Where only a moment ago there had been an abandoned room with a few pieces of rotted and broken furniture, now a new scene glimmered before him. A wood-burning stove glowed on the far side of the room and a few toys lay scattered on the rug. In the middle of the room, a table was set with a cloth and candles. A hutch against the wall bore dishes and mugs. Here was a comfortable family home.

A sudden movement caught Silas’s eyes. A shadow was drawing away from the wall. Slowly it lengthened out across the floor, and began to rise and take shape. The shadow moved against the light to place itself in a chair across the room from Silas. There, now, smiling faintly, was a young man, perhaps in his twenties. His body gave off a gray ineffectual light, as though he were a candle seen on the screen in an early film.

“Good evening,” said Silas to the ghost, breathing slowly, steadying himself.

“Is it evening? I hadn’t noticed,” the ghost replied absently.

“Almost. I am looking for the keeper of this lighthouse. Is that you?”

The ghost looked away. “No. That is my father.”

“May I speak with him?”

“I am afraid not, sir. He’s not here at present.”

“May I ask where he is?” Silas inquired.

“My father’s not here. Just me now. The son.”

Silas was surprised. He knew that the lighthouse keeper’s son, who had died with his mother in a shipwreck, had been an infant. So who was this? Was there another son? Had the records he’d consulted been incomplete? There was something in the ghost’s voice—a knowing hesitancy—that made Silas uneasy.

“I need to speak with your father,” Silas said again, this time putting some iron into the words.

The ghost began to shake. He looked at Silas, then toward the window.

“I think I know you. . . . I’ve seen you, sitting out there, with a girl.” The ghost smiled wanly then. “You were with a strange girl. Her skin was like the moon—”

“I don’t remember,” Silas said. While he couldn’t recall the particulars, he knew the ghost was right. He’d been there with a girl. What was her name? No. He didn’t want to start on this topic. Not now. Memories of her . . . of the girl . . . made his heart ache, and he hadn’t come to the lighthouse to talk about his own losses. “But,” he said instead, “I am pleased to meet you. I am Silas Umber. I am the Undertaker. I am here to help you.”

“I am Daniel. Daniel Downing.” As the ghost spoke the name, he seemed to dim and lose the definition of his form. His edges blurred.

Now Silas was confused. Daniel had indeed been the lighthouse keeper’s son, the very son who had died out upon the reef with his mother when their ship struck the rocks. Thus far, Silas’s experience had been that ghosts appeared as they were at the time of their passing, or as they had been at some especial point during their life. Ghosts only had full knowledge of what they had been and what they had done during their lifetime. So how could a child appear as the man he had never become?

“Now, if you please. I would like to speak with your father.”

The ghost looked down at the floor and shook his head.

“He’s not here. I told you.”

“Are you sure?”

The ghost looked up, his eyes rheumy and unfocused. “It’s time to light the lamp,” he whispered.

“All right,” Silas said, trying to encourage him. “Let’s have some more light.”

But the ghost looked frightened and only repeated, “Time to light the lamp.” The ghost began to open and close his hands as though he were giving some kind of frantic semaphore to the floorboards. “It’s getting dark.”

“It is. Night is coming.”

“Oh, God,” said the ghost.

“You don’t want to light the lamp? May I help?”

“I do. I must. It’s just that . . . the light affects me badly . . . my head.”

“Let’s climb up together. I will help you.”

“All right,” said the ghost passively. The color of his form deepened and darkened, becoming more present, the buttons on his clothes coming into focus, and he added, “If you like, I can show you the spot where my father jumped.”

“Thank you,” replied Silas, his nerves prickling at the ghost’s mention of the suicide. “That will be fine.”

They climbed the steep stairs of the lighthouse together. When they reached the uppermost chamber, the great lamp of the tower burst into spectral flame and began to turn, casting its grim light over the sea and land and the tower itself. As the beam passed through the ghost, Silas could see another aspect, another face, hiding just below the glimmering ashen surface of the ghost’s skin. It was older, but not vastly different from the one Silas had seen only a moment ago. When the beam swung away, the older face vanished, and the young man was there again.

“Let me show you where he jumped, Silas Umber. Just here. You see, the rail is not so high. Just here, the waters below are churning and churning. They never stop. How restless the sea is . . . that’s where you’ll find him. Down there.”

Silas tried to turn away from the rail, tried to focus on something, anything other than the dizzying descent and the noise of the waters crashing on the rocks. He looked at the lamp room and found it changed. The piercing light now seemed to pass through the solid walls of the building. And just as the death watch had altered the appearance of the room below, now the beam illuminated a space different from the one Silas had first seen; the room appeared in the full flush of its heyday long ago, long before the lighthouse was abandoned. This spectral effect was taxing on Silas’s eyes and the repeating flash of past, present, past, present made him dizzy and disoriented. He knew the spectral effect was a warning, but Silas could not yet perceive which way lay hidden rocks and which way the safe harbor. To steady himself, he ran his own name through his mind: I am Silas Umber, Silas Umber, Silas Umber. As he did, he remembered what it was he came to do, and his face flushed with resolve. By speaking his name, by saying the word “Umber,” he could sense his father’s steadying presence. Silas stood up straight and pushed back his shoulders, feeling, in his blood, that a part of his father was always with him.

The ghost stood at the rail, looking out at the sea.

Silas stepped close to the ghost and said, “I believe I know who you are. You are J—” But before Silas could continue, the ghost began crying out in a rapid circle of words.

“Gone . . . all gone. I have nothing now. No one. All my fault. Now all is lost. All is lost. All is lost. . . .” And like the rising of a sudden gust, the ghost lifted quickly into the air above the railing, his eyes darkening, their sockets becoming black and empty.

Over and over and over like a prayer, Silas called out the ghost’s true name. “Joseph Downing! Wait! Joseph Downing, be still!

The ghost stood upon the cold air, holding himself in the posture of an angry child, fists thrust up over his ears.

“No!” cried the ghost. “My father is below! I am his son. This is my home.”

Standing his ground, Silas shouted back. “You are Joseph Downing! Hear these, my words! You are Joseph Downing, the keeper of this light—”

The ghost fell upon Silas, trying to push him from the tower, his blurring form buffeting Silas with a freezing blast of air. The great wind took Silas off guard, raised him up off his feet, and made him lose his balance. He fell forward, nearly over the rail. Looking down, Silas wove his arms through the railing and held it fast. Silas looked up. The ghost was hanging in the air before him out beyond the protective rail. And all the while, the dark light continued to go around, washing the world in successive veils of its dismal nightmare-light.

When the lamp beam poured over Silas, his own name began to unravel. In that light, he heard only the call of the waiting rocks below and the deadly churning of waters. His arms loosened on the rails. He stood at the edge of the tower as the ghost swayed back and forth against the backdrop of the black sky, crying with a throat of storm, crying shards of a lie, a tale grown twisted and fal...

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Book Description SIMON SCHUSTER, United States, 2014. Paperback. Book Condition: New. Reprint. Language: English . Brand New Book. Silas visits the ancestral home of the Umber family to learn ancient family secrets in this dark and gothic (School Library Journal) contemporary ghost story, the second book in the Undertaken trilogy. Silas Umber has finally come into his own as the Undertaker of Lichport when an invitation arrives: a mysterious word carved into the door of his house. Intrigued, Silas ventures beyond the marshes to visit Arvale Manor, the ancestral estate of the Umber family. There, he discovers that the extended Umber family may be dead, but they are not gone: Indeed, many of them still dwell in Arvale, waiting for an Undertaker to return and preside over the Door Doom, an archaic rite that grants a terrible power to summon and bind the dead in judgment, forcibly sending them to their eternal rest. As Silas reluctantly assumes the mantle of Janus, the Watcher at the Threshold, he begins to learn more about his strange and ancient family. And deep below the earth, in the catacombs and sunken towers, grim spirits grow restless at his arrival--hungry for freedom and eager for vengeance. As the only living Undertaker at Arvale Manor, Silas must put an ancient wrong to right, as he discovers that even a house of ghosts can be haunted by its past--for in matters of family, we are who we were. Bookseller Inventory # BZV9781416991182

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Book Description SIMON SCHUSTER, United States, 2014. Paperback. Book Condition: New. Reprint. Language: English . Brand New Book. Silas visits the ancestral home of the Umber family to learn ancient family secrets in this dark and gothic (School Library Journal) contemporary ghost story, the second book in the Undertaken trilogy. Silas Umber has finally come into his own as the Undertaker of Lichport when an invitation arrives: a mysterious word carved into the door of his house. Intrigued, Silas ventures beyond the marshes to visit Arvale Manor, the ancestral estate of the Umber family. There, he discovers that the extended Umber family may be dead, but they are not gone: Indeed, many of them still dwell in Arvale, waiting for an Undertaker to return and preside over the Door Doom, an archaic rite that grants a terrible power to summon and bind the dead in judgment, forcibly sending them to their eternal rest. As Silas reluctantly assumes the mantle of Janus, the Watcher at the Threshold, he begins to learn more about his strange and ancient family. And deep below the earth, in the catacombs and sunken towers, grim spirits grow restless at his arrival--hungry for freedom and eager for vengeance. As the only living Undertaker at Arvale Manor, Silas must put an ancient wrong to right, as he discovers that even a house of ghosts can be haunted by its past--for in matters of family, we are who we were. Bookseller Inventory # AAS9781416991182

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