Angela's Alien Read online

  The trees thinned a few minutes later and, just as she had said, a clearing opened that allowed them to see out across the reservoir. A group of large boulders occupied the clearing’s center, looking almost like a small fortress. Angela walked straight over and sat down against one of the rocks.

  “Here we are!” she said. “This is it.”

  Everyone’s cheeks were bright with cold by this time. Though the sun was out, the air was freezing.

  “You landed here?” Walter asked doubtfully.

  Angela nodded. “It was late afternoon. I could see the sun going down over there.” She pointed up toward the dam, visible in the distance through a screen of protruding tree limbs. “If you crouch here, you can stay pretty warm.”

  Poco sat beside her with a skeptical glance. “Did the aliens just throw you out, or what?”

  “I came down the same way I went up, I guess. In some kind of light beam that made my head fuzzy. When I finally woke up, I figured out where I was. That’s when I saw Juliette,” she added.

  Poco’s head whirled around. “Here? Where was she?”

  “Down there by the water.”

  “I’ll go check,” Walter said, and ran off.

  “She looked as if she was waiting for something,” Angela continued. “You know how cats hunch down and pull in their paws? I went to say hello, but she didn’t get up.”

  “Hello!” Poco cried. “You should have brought her home. She was probably sick and couldn’t walk. Can you see her anywhere?” she called to Walter.

  “She’s not here now,” he yelled.

  “No,” Angela said, “she wasn’t sick at all. In fact, she was looking sort of younger, and happy. She kept watching the sky and purring to herself. I patted her for a while, but then I had to go.”

  “You left her alone? That was bad, Angela.”

  “But Poco, she could have come. She knew who I was. She was waiting for something else. So I said good-bye. It was what she wanted.”

  “Good-bye?” Poco’s eyes glistened with tears. She turned her head away to hide them.

  Walter had come back up the slope from the water. “I think I know what she was waiting for,” he said.

  “What?” Poco peered around.

  “For night,” Walter said. “To get picked up.”

  “Picked up! By who?” Suddenly Poco’s face changed. A flicker of hope streaked across it. She glanced over desperately at Angela. “Angela Harrall, is this really the truth? I have got to know absolutely. You saw Juliette waiting here? And she was looking up at the sky and purring?”

  “I did,” Angela said. “I promise. Cross my heart.”

  “So it might have been …”

  “The aliens,” Walter whispered. “Look what I found down near the water.” He took Poco’s hand and put in her palm the little collar Juliette had worn. Hanging from it was the tiny silver box.

  “I can’t believe it,” Poco said. “And there’s still dried catnip inside. Whew! I’d know that smell anywhere. I guess the aliens didn’t like it either.”

  “Oh, rubbish!” Georgina muttered under her breath. She’d believe in Angela’s aliens but not anyone else’s. Angela was looking quite amazed herself, but Poco and Walter didn’t notice. They were standing together, gazing happily up.

  “The unknown,” Poco was saying to him. “It’s always there, hiding out where it’s never expected. I knew Juliette would leave, but not with aliens. She certainly is going to another world.”

  “Where I hope they feed her better than they fed Angela.” Georgina’s sharp eyes rested on her friend.

  In the bright sunlight, Angela looked so beautiful. Her long, dark hair was flooding down her back, and her cheeks had turned rosy from the wintry air. She was almost too fine, Georgina thought, and a low, wormish feeling crept into her heart.

  “Is it true you’re a model?” she asked fearfully. “We heard you got discovered.”

  Angela laughed. “Good grief, I’m too young for that. I found out you have to be fourteen at least, and starve yourself, and wash your hair all the time. I intend to get fat and sloppy, and have fun. Speaking of which, lunch! I almost forgot. Come on!” Angela jumped up. “My father’s going to need a lot of help.”

  “Oh, Angela,” Georgina said, as they walked away, “I’m so happy you came home. It was terrible without you.”

  “Was it? I’m glad.” Angela smiled and took her arm. “I’m planning to stay forever, in case you want to know.”

  A Personal History by Janet Taylor Lisle

  I was born in 1947 to young parents starting a life together in a tiny New York City apartment, just after the Second World War. My father had been a bomber pilot flying out of England during the war, a shattering experience for him. Returning from Europe, he took a job at the New York Herald Tribune. City living worsened his anxieties, however, and so my family and I moved to a rented house on a quiet road near the Rhode Island seacoast.

  My first memories are of this place: the woods and fields around my home and the rocky shore nearby, where my father fished and gradually regained his emotional balance. By the 1950s, he had found a job at an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. I was the first of five children, and my four brothers and I grew up in outlying Farmington, walking to local schools and later attending private school in West Hartford. But every summer, my family returned to Little Compton on the Rhode Island coast. The place, a natural haven for sea birds and wildlife, was more home to us than any other. It would become the imaginative setting for many of the stories I later wrote, including Forest, The Lampfish of Twill, and The Great Dimpole Oak.

  My father revered fiction. At one time, he had contemplated becoming a fiction writer himself. From our earliest school years, my brothers and I internalized this aspiration. We were a reading and writing family, familiar with overflowing bookshelves and tables stacked with books. We were accustomed to seeing our parents reading in the evenings, and to being read to ourselves. By third grade, I was writing stories and feeling magical about it. My pencil was a wand. I waved it and my imagination fell open onto the page. It was all so easy.

  By high school, though, I had lost this wild and fearless sense of writing. In my classes, I began to read the novels of the great writers, Henry James, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and Virginia Woolf, among many others. I compared my work with theirs and saw my own ineptitude.

  At fourteen, I left my family to attend a girl’s boarding school. It was a completely different world. I missed my brothers and parents, but among my teachers was Miss Arthur, who taught me how to write a tight, well-constructed sentence. Three years later, I entered Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. I majored in English and learned the art of writing a pleasing term paper. But I kept my head down when it came to more imaginative forms of writing. I was self-conscious, thin-skinned, and mortally afraid of criticism. In a way, my education had silenced me.

  The war in Vietnam was raging when I graduated in 1969. Like many young people at that time I opposed American intervention there, including the killing of civilians and the US draft that threatened to put my friends in harm’s way. My new husband was among those at risk. Together, we joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) to shield him from service. For the next two years I lived in Atlanta, Georgia, organizing food-buying cooperatives in the city’s public housing projects and teaching in an early childcare center. The work opened my eyes to a world of poverty I’d barely glimpsed before. My old yearning to write flared up. I went back to school—journalism classes this time—at Georgia State University. It was the beginning of a reporting career that extended over the next ten years.

  Journalism, with its deadlines and demand for clear, straightforward text, has often been a precedent profession for authors. So it was for me. I learned to write all over again, and lost some of the self-consciousness that had dragged me down before. A decade later, when my daughter’s birth kept me at home, I was ready to test a voice of my own, through fict
ion. “Voice,” in fact, was suddenly my greatest strength. After years of newspaper interviewing, my ear was attuned to catching intonations that can underlie an ordinary remark and reveal unspoken meaning. I could write these kinds of sentences in my stories to bring my characters to life.

  In 1984, my first book, The Dancing Cats of Applesap, was accepted for publication by Richard Jackson, editor of Bradbury Press. “I love your cats! Call me!” he wrote in a letter I’ve kept to remind myself of the moment when I “became a writer.” I had lucked into a talented editor. Jackson’s belief in the power of voice in fiction, and his uncanny sense of narrative timing would soon make him famous in the children’s book world. We worked together over the next fifteen years, publishing some of my strongest titles, including Sirens and Spies, Afternoon of the Elves, Forest, and The Lampfish of Twill.

  Today, I live full-time in Little Compton, Rhode Island, in a gray shingled house near the same rocky beaches I tramped as a child. The area’s storms and tangled woodlands, open pastures and salt water ponds, still make an appearance in almost everything I write. Like my father, I’ve found my balance there.

  Lisle and her mother in Rhode Island in 1948.

  Lisle’s mother reading to her children at their Farmington, Connecticut, house. From left to right: Geoff, age six; Crane, age two; Lisle’s mother; Lisle, age eight; and Hugh, age six. All the cards in the background indicate that this photo was taken around Christmastime, and they are “probably reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

  Lisle at age eleven, in Farmington.

  Lisle with her husband, Richard, and her daughter, Elizabeth, at their Little Compton house in 1978.

  In 1983, Lisle received her first acceptance letter for fiction when Richard Jackson, editor of Bradbury Press, made an offer for The Dancing Cats of Applesap.

  Lisle’s first book signing (for The Dancing Cats of Applesap), at Davoll’s General Store in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, in 1984.

  This photo was taken in Petworth, England in 1986. The tree behind Lisle was her inspiration for The Great Dimpole Oak, published in 1987.

  Lisle and her brothers in a photo taken in the early 1990s at their Warren’s Point house, in Little Compton.

  An elf village built by third graders at East School in New Canaan, Connecticut. The village, which the kids named “Elf Canaan,” was a school project connected to Afternoon of the Elves, inspired by Lisle’s visit to the school.

  Lisle circa 2001 at Warren’s Point in Little Compton, Rhode Island—the setting for the coast of Twill in her novel The Lampfish of Twill.

  Kayla, Lisle’s Siamese cat, at seventeen years old. She often sleeps on Lisle’s writing desk when Lisle works, and she is the model for Juliette in Lisle’s Investigators of the Unknown series. When Lisle does school presentations, she tells children that Kayla is her muse. Perhaps she is.

  Lisle hard at work in her writing room, in 2001.

  Lisle with her husband, Richard, and her daughter, Elizabeth, in Little Compton in 2005.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1996 by Janet Taylor Lisle

  cover design by Connie Gabbert

  978-1-4532-7187-2

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  INVESTIGATORS OF THE UNKNOWN

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