The Midnight Folk
by
John Masefield
Illustrated by Rowland Hilder
Afterword by Madeline L’Engle
THE NEW YORK REVIEW CHILDREN’S COLLECTION
NEW YORK
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Text copyright © 1927, 1957 by The Estate of John Masefield
This text, newly corrected from the manuscript by Philip W. Errington,
copyright © 2007 by The Estate of John Masefield
All rights reserved
First Published 1927; reprinted 1927, 1931, 1932, 1935, 1949, 1957, 1959,
1961, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1973, 1976, 1977,
1985, 1987, 1991, 1994, 2000
The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:
Masefield, John, 1878-1967.
The midnight folk / by John Masefield ; illustrated by Rowland Hilder.
p. cm. — (New York Review books children’s collection)
Summary: Talking paintings and animals help Kay in his attempt to outwit the witches and locate his great-grandfather’s buried treasure.
ISBN 978-1-59017-250-6 (alk. paper)
[1. Buried treasure—Fiction. 2. Fantasy. 3. Great Britain—History—1936-1945–Fiction.] I. Hilder, Rowland, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.M373Mi 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008019264
Cover design by Louise Fili
Cover illustration by Nikki McClure
For a complete list of books in the New York Review Children's Collection, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Contents
Title page
Copyright and More Information
Dedication
THE MIDNIGHT FOLK
Note
Afterword
For J. & L.
IT HAD BEEN an unhappy day for little Kay Harker. To begin with, at breakfast time the governess had received a letter from his guardian, Sir Theopompus, the chemical powder merchant, to say that he would be there for lunch, but would like lunch at 2 p.m., as the trains did not suit. This made the governess cross, or, as she called it, “put out.” On giving the order to Jane, the cook, for a very good lunch at two o’clock, instead of one, Jane was put out, for it was her afternoon off and she did not like to be put upon. Ellen, the maid, was also put out, because if you have lunch so late, it is teatime before you have finished washing up. Jane and Ellen between them put the governess much further out, and then it was lesson time: Divinity, French, History and Latin.
Divinity was easy, as it was about Noah’s Ark. French was fairly easy, as it was about the cats of the daughter of the gardener. History was not at all easy, as it was all about beastly Odo. He longed for Odo to come into the room, saying, “I’m Odo,” so that he could jolly well shut him up with: “Well, O, don’t.” He got knapped on the knuckles rather tartly over History; then came Latin. That morning it was all adjectives, especially a loathsome adjective called Acer, acris, acre, sharp or piercing. It was that that put him out.
It came right at the end of lessons; that was the worst of it. As he was longing to be out of doors, he was always looking out of the window, watching the pigeons. He had to repeat acer line by line, in a sort of catechism.
The Governess: What is sharp?
Kay: Acer.
The Governess: Feminine?
Kay: Acris.
The Governess: Neuter?
Kay: Acre.
The Governess: Now the nominative; all genders.
Kay: Acer, acris, acre.
The Governess: Meaning?
Kay: Sharp.
The Governess: Or? What else can it mean?
Kay: Piercing.
The Governess: Accusative?
Kay: Acrem . . . Acris, acre?
Here the governess scowled rather, and would not say if he were right. Instead, she said: “Genitive?” But how was he to leap at the genitive when he could not tell if his taking-off point, the accusative, were sound? Besides, had it a genitive? Could you say “Of sharp?” What would be the genitive? Could it be acrae, acri, acri? That didn’t sound right. What did sound right? Not quite acrorum, acrarum, acrorum.
“Well,” the governess said, “what is the genitive?”
“Acrostic, acrostic, acrostic?”
“What?”
“Acrumpet, acrumpet, acrumpet.”
“You’re a very idle, impertinent little boy,” the governess said. “You will write it all out five times, and I shall tell your guardian, Sir Theopompus, when he comes. Now go and have your milk, but not your biscuit; you haven’t deserved one; and mind you come to lunch with washed hands.”
The governess’s Christian names were Sylvia and Daisy. Kay had read a poem about a Sylvia, and had decided that it was not swains who commended this one, but Mrs. Tattle and Mrs. Gossip. He loved daisies because the closer one looked at them the more beautiful they seemed: yet this daisy was liker a rhododendron. She was big, handsome and with something of a flaunting manner, which turned into a flounce when she was put out.
She left the schoolroom with something of a flounce after passing this sentence about the “no biscuit with his milk.” He had had his biscuit stopped before, more than once. He had invented a dodge for making up for the loss of biscuit. He used to go to the kitchen cupboard, where the raisins were kept, and get a handful of raisins instead. Ellen was his devoted friend, and Jane thought that raisins were very good for him.
But this morning, alas, things had gone badly in the house, and Ellen and Jane were cross. When he put his hand into the blue paper bag for the raisins, Jane stopped him.
“Now, Master Kay,” she said, “you put down those raisins, or I shall tell your governess about you. You go taking those raisins and then it’s put down to me. You’ve got plenty of good plain food without going stuffing yourself. That’s how little boys get a stoppage. And I don’t want you bothering about in my kitchen when I’m as busy as I am. I’ve put your milk in the dining-room long ago.”
There was nothing for it but to go.
In the dining-room another trouble showed. There, on the sideboard, with his head in the tumbler of milk, which was tilted so that he was lapping the last remnants of it, was Blackmalkin, one of the three cats. Kay shooed him away, but three-quarters of the milk had gone, and Kay would not drink what was left, because the cat had breathed in it, and Kay had heard that a cat’s breath always gave you consumption.
He went into the garden without milk or biscuit. Before he could settle down to any game, he was called indoors to wash his hands and then to put on a Sunday collar ready for Sir Theopompus. He loathed Sir Theopompus, a stout, red-faced man with eyes staring out of his head, as though he were at the point of choking. The worst of Sir Theopompus’s coming was that there was always a lovely dinner, but “no contentment therewith,” only the scowl of Sylvia Daisy if he did anything wrong.
Presently Sir Theopompus arrived in his fluttery way, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, his umbrella with the gold band and his gold watch and chain. The governess presented her reports, but mercifully never said anything about the Latin adjective. Sir Theopompus didn’t say much to Kay, happily, but from time to time would ask some question, such as “Are you enjoying your history? Got as far as the first Reform Bill yet? And what is your opinion of Lord Palmerston as a statesman, hey?” Then, after some more talk and another helping of goose, he would switch on to geography. “Know all about latitude and longitude, hey? What latitude are you in
now, do you suppose?”
Towards the end of dinner, when he was shiny with his lunch, Sir Theopompus asked: “And what are you going to be, my young man? Got any plans yet?”
“I was rather hoping that I could be a jockey,” Kay said timidly. A look of displeasure came upon Miss Sylvia Daisy’s face.
“Not thinking of being a sailor, like your great-grandpapa?” Sir Theopompus said. “Do you know about your great-grandpapa?”
“Yes, I know something,” Kay said.
“Oh! and what do you know?” said the governess very sweetly.
“He was a sea captain,” Kay said, “and went a lot to the West Indies and Santa Barbara.”
“Yes,” Sir Theopompus broke in; “and he took away the Santa Barbara treasure worth about a million pounds, as some think, and his crew mutinied, put him ashore and ran away with it. Pretty pickings for a crew of seamen. Of course, some say,” Sir Theopompus added as he rose from his chair, “some say that your great-grandpapa brought that treasure home with him and hid it somewhere. Have you come upon any treasure in your grubbings?”
“No,” Kay said.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Sir Theopompus said. “If you’ll find that treasure and tell me where it is, I’ll go an honest halves with you.”
“But it wouldn’t be an honest halves,” Kay said, “because you’d have done none of the work and all the treasure belongs to the Santa Barbara priests.”
“Oh, so that’s the line you’re going on,” Sir Theopompus said. “Now, you cut, for I’ve got to talk business here.”
Kay went out into the garden and amused himself until teatime, wondering what the two could find to talk about, though he supposed that it was mostly about himself. Tea was very early, although lunch had been so late, because Sir Theopompus had to catch the 4.30.
Tea, with Sir Theopompus there, was a dismal function in the drawing-room, with the tea-set known as the Lowestoft and the stiff rosewood chairs which Kay was to be sure not to scratch.
“Well, have you found the treasure, hey?” Sir Theopompus asked.
Kay said that he had not.
“It seems to me,” Sir Theopompus said, “that you’re making this young man something of a moony. When I was a young fellow, by George, the thought of treasure would have set me going, I know. Don’t you want to find it, hey?”
“Everybody says that it was never here, sir,” Kay said.
“Oh no,” Sir Theopompus answered. “But a good many say that it was here and is here somewhere. Those West India merchants were a pretty odd lot of fellows, if you ask me. A lot of piracy and slaving going on there. I dare say your great-grandpapa was no better than his time, and a million pounds is a big temptation in the path of a man who’s been just a merchant skipper.”
“Sir, he was a very good man,” Kay said. “His portrait is in the schoolroom.”
“Well, he was a very good man, was he?” Sir Theopompus said. “He didn’t bring back the treasure that he was trusted with. We know what to call men of that stamp in the City, by George!”
The day had been full of contrariety. Now something in the day and in Sir Theopompus combined to Kay’s ruin.
“Well, I don’t care,” he said. “You oughtn’t to condemn a man who isn’t here to answer.”
“By George,” Sir Theopompus said, “we shall have to put you into Parliament.”
He went rather turkey-cocky about the gills, snorted, and said that he had to catch his train. When the wheels of the fly had scrunched along the gravel out of the gate, the governess turned upon him.
“What a very impertinent little boy you are, Kay,” she said; “not only to me this morning, but to your kind guardian, who has come here specially and solely to see how you are getting on. It would have done you good if he had boxed your ears soundly and sent you packing.”
“I don’t care,” Kay said. “He oughtn’t to have said that about great-grandpapa Harker, because it isn’t true.”
“You are a wicked little boy, Kay,” the governess said; “You will go straight to bed this minute, without your bread and milk.”
The little boy went upstairs to his room, in the old part of the house: there were oak beams in the ceiling; the floor was all oak plank. The bed was big and old, valanced to the floor, and topped by a canopy. Kay was very much afraid of it at going-to-bedtime because so many tigers could get underneath it, to wait till he was asleep; but tonight he did not mind, because it was still only sunset. He had two windows in his room. One looked out on a garden, where Nibbins, the black cat, was watching some birds; the other looked out over a field, where there was a sheep-trough. He did not like the look of the trough in the long grass, because it looked so like a puma, with its ears cocked. Beyond the field, he could see the stable, where Benjamin, the highwayman, had once lived.
Now in his room there were two doors, leading to different passages, which was terrible after dark, because of footsteps. On the wall were two coloured prints, The Meet and Full Cry, one on each side of the fireplace. Over the wash-hand-stand, as it was called, were two old pistols wired to nails. They were called “Great-grandpapa Harker’s Pistols,” and Kay was to be sure never to touch them, because they might go off. Then, on the other side of the room, there was the dressing-table, valanced to the floor, which made a very good secret room, where nobody ever looked for you. In the corner, near this, on a shelf on the wall, stood an old model of a ship, which Kay was never to touch, because boys are so destructive. This was the model of “great-grandpapa Harker’s ship,” the Plunderer, which had disappeared with the missing treasure so long before.
A very terrible thing about the fireplace was the stone hearth, “as big as three men could lift,” Jane said. Ellen said that a stone like that was a sure sign that somebody had been murdered and buried there, and that if Kay wasn’t a good boy, he would come out and warn him. Cook said once, “she had seen him come out” and “he was all in black,” which was a sure sign; “and he wanted to speak,” she said, “only it wasn’t his time.”
This night the rooks were very noisy at their going to roost; the peacocks were screaming, and the brook at the end of the garden could be heard. “It is going to rain,” Kay thought. He lingered over his undressing because he hoped that Ellen or Jane would smuggle him some bread and milk when the governess went to supper; but it was Ellen’s evening alone, when she always did her ironing, and Jane was out.
By and by the sun went down behind the wooded camp, known as King Arthur’s Round Table, where King Arthur was supposed to ride at full moon. When the sun had gone, all the world glowed for a while; but it was not wise to wait till the glow had gone, because so soon the dusk began, when the owls would come, and the footsteps would begin, and the tigers would stir under the bed and put out their paws, and the scratchings would scrape under the floor. He knew that he had not been good and that “he” might “come out and warn him.” He got into the bed with a leap, because then you dodged the paws. He got well under the clothes for a minute, to make sure that he was not pursued. Luckily none of the tigers had heard him. The worst of it was that tigers look out for wicked little boys. When Kay came from under the bedclothes he could not be sure that there was not a tiger lying in the canopy above him. It was sagged down, just as though a tiger were there. If it were to give way, the tiger would fall right on top of him. Or very likely it was not a tiger but a python, for that is what pythons do.
Now it became darker, so that he could see a few stars. Footsteps passed in the house, sometimes close to his door, so that gleams of candlelight crossed the ceiling. Very strange creakings sounded in the house; there were scutterings to and fro, and scraping scratchings. By and by he heard the governess, who had finished her supper, come to the room beneath him, the library, as she usually did in the evenings. He was cross with her for stopping his bread and milk, but glad that she was there. She opened the piano and began to play. Usually she played things without any tune, which she said he couldn’t und
erstand yet because they were classical.
This night she played something that had a sort of tune, and then began to sing to it in a very beautiful voice, so that he was rapt away at once into joy: there were not any more tigers, nor pythons; only a mouse gnawing in the wainscot; or was it someone playing on a guitar and humming some song about a treasure?
☆
After a time, he did not think that it was a guitar, but a voice calling to him, “Kay, Kay, wake up.” Waking up, he rubbed his eyes: it was broad daylight; but no one was there. Someone was scraping and calling inside the wainscot, just below where the pistols hung. There was something odd about the daylight; it was brighter than usual; all things looked more real than usual. “Can’t you open the door, Kay?” the voice asked. There never had been a door there; but now that Kay looked, there was a little door, all studded with knops of iron. Just as he got down to it, it opened towards him; there was Nibbins, the black cat.
“Come along, Kay,” Nibbins said, “we can just do it while they’re at the banquet; but don’t make more noise than you must.”
Kay peeped through the door. It opened from a little narrow passage in the thickness of the wall.
“Where does it lead to?” he asked.
“Come and see,” Nibbins said.
Kay slipped on his slippers and followed Nibbins into the little passage: Nibbins closed the door behind him and bolted it.
“I’ll lead the way,” he said. “Mind the stairs: they’re a bit worn; for the smugglers used to use these passages. But there’s lots of light. Take my paw, as we go up.”
They went up some stairs in the thickness of the wall; then a panel slid up in front of them and they came out onto the top landing. Nibbins closed the panel behind them. It was dark night there on the landing, except for a little moonlight. The house was very still, but looking down over the banisters into the hall, Kay thought that he saw a shadow, wearing a ruff and a long sword, standing in the moonlight. The cuckoo-clock in the nursery struck twelve.
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