Royal Ransom

PUFFIN CANADA

ROYAL RANSOM

ERIC WALTERS
is the highly acclaimed and bestselling author of over fifty novels for children and young adults. His novels have won the Silver Birch Award three times and the Red Maple Award twice, as well as numerous other prizes, including the White Pine, Snow Willow, Tiny Torgi, Ruth Schwartz, and IODE Violet Downey Book Awards, and have received honours from the Canadian Library Association Book Awards, The Children's Book Centre, and UNESCO's international award for Literature in Service of Tolerance.

To find out more about Eric and his novels, or to arrange for him to speak at your school, visit his website at
www.ericwalters.net
.

Also by Eric Walters from Penguin Canada

The Bully Boys

The Hydrofoil Mystery

Trapped in Ice

Camp X

Run

Camp 30

Elixir

Shattered

Camp X: Fool's Gold

Sketches

The Pole

The Falls

Royal Ransom

Royal Ransom

ERIC WALTERS

PUFFIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

(a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in Puffin Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2003

Published in Puffin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),

a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2004

Published in this edition, 2008

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)

Copyright © Eric Walters, 2003

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Walters, Eric, 1957–

Royal ransom / Eric Walters.

ISBN 978-0-14-316863-8

I. Title.

PS8595.A598R69 2008       jC813'.54          C2008-902536-9

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without

a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at
www.penguin.ca

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For the teachers, librarians and teacher/librarians
who foster the love of reading

Chapter One

“J
AMIE, WAKE UP
!” my grandmother said as she shook me out of a solid sleep.

Before I could even think to say anything my still-shut eyes were hit by piercing light as I heard the
whiz
of my blind shooting up. I pulled the covers over my head.

“Hurry up, Jamie.”

“What time is it?” I asked sleepily.

“Time to get up.”

“I figured that's what you
think,
but what time
is
it?” I asked as I peeked out.

“How should I know?” She shrugged her shoulders. “It's not like I ever owned a watch.”

“But we do have a clock,” I pointed out.

“And you have one of those fancy computer things, and that satellite TV thing, and that microphone oven—”

“
Microwave oven
,” I said.

“Whatever it's called. I'm not going to be using any of them anytime soon either,” she argued. “I'm not sure if there's room in this house for all those newfangled things and this old woman.”

“There's plenty of space for all of you,” I said.

It had been almost two months since my grandmother— my mother's mother—moved in with us. And two months
before that my grandfather had died. My grandparents had lived just three doors down, so it wasn't like I hadn't seen them every single day of my life. Still, it had taken a lot of convincing to get my grandmother to move in. She said she didn't want “to get underfoot.” She finally agreed only because my mother said she'd be doing
us
a favour. Between my father being away flying charter groups in and out and my mother working on her art, she said it would be helpful to have her around to take care of the house, and me. So she and her things moved into our place.

“Maybe I could just go back to sleep for a
little
while,” I suggested.

“Back to sleep!” she snorted. “You've already wasted the best part of the day. The sun has been up in the sky for hours already.”

“That doesn't mean much. This time of year the sun is almost always up.”

“Either way, you're awake, so you might as well get up!”

My grandmother reached down, grabbed the covers and pulled them off. I was still tired and really wanted to sleep, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. Reluctantly I climbed out of bed.

“Besides, you have work to do,” she told me.

“Work?” I asked hesitantly.

She nodded. “I thought you might want to help do some work with your cousin Kenny.”

“I might
want
to do lots of things, but working with Kenny isn't one of them,” I said.

“Kenny needs your help.”

“All I know is that helping Kenny usually means me
working
and him
watching
me work.”

My grandmother gave me a small smile. She knew that what I had said was true, but she would never say a bad word about a relative. And when almost everybody in the whole village is related to you in one way or another, that meant that I'd never heard her say a bad word about anybody.

“So just what are Kenny and me doing together?” I asked.

“Cutting some wood.”

“We already have all the wood we'll need for next winter!” Most of it I'd cut and stacked myself, so I knew exactly how much we had.

“Didn't say it was for us,” my grandmother said.

“So Kenny's going to watch me cut
his
wood?” I protested.

“Didn't say it was for him either.”

“Then who?”

“Auntie Francie.”

“Auntie Francie! Kenny and me … mostly me … we already put in all the wood she'll need for next winter.”

“She said she needs more wood. She likes to keep the place real warm.”

“Couldn't she just put on another sweater?”

“You feel the cold more when you get older because your blood isn't as thick,” my grandmother said. “Do you want the poor old woman to feel cold?”

What was I supposed to say to that?

My Auntie Francie, who was my grandmother's oldest sister, lived in a little house at the edge of town. She had no electricity, and her place was heated by wood and lit by oil lamps. Kenny and I had already worked for two whole
days to put wood up for her. We'd done maybe ten face cords. That should have been more than enough to heat a place twice as big as her house for the whole winter.

“I heard from Kenny's mother that
he
didn't complain about helping out again,” my grandmother said.

“That's because he hasn't actually done anything yet,” I argued. Kenny had spent most of the time driving his four-wheeler, bringing back the wood I'd split or “scouting” new stands to be cut. It was amazing how he could keep out of sight until the work was finished.

“The more you argue about work, the less time you have to eat before you go.”

“I'm not arguing,” I argued.

“Oh, so you're looking for a fight. Now just go and eat your breakfast before Kenny arrives. I'll fix you something.”

“Where's Mom?” I asked.

“Took her sketchbook and went out hours ago.”

“Sounds like everybody's up except me,” I said. “What have you been up to?”

“Dusting. Arranging. Sorting.”

“Again?”

“Got lots of things to take care of,” she said.

Of course when my grandmother moved in she brought with her a lot of her things. And of all her things, her most prized possession was her “collection.” My grandmother collected memorabilia of the Royal Family. She had books and spoons and posters and plates and little statues and magazines and videos. Everywhere you looked, there was an image of somebody in an evening gown and crown or tiara staring back at you.

Even though it didn't do anything for me, I had to admit that it was a pretty amazing assortment of stuff. Of course it would have been even more amazing if it had been something that was the least bit interesting. My grandmother had to be the only Native Canadian in the whole country who was so fascinated by the Royal Family. It all began more than thirty years ago, when her husband—my grandfather—was hired as a guide for a couple of “Royals” for a canoe trip. They gave my grandmother the first piece in her collection: a signed picture of the King of England and his son. It was framed and hung over her bed. She always used to say that if her house ever caught fire she'd grab that picture first, her family photo albums next and my grandfather third.

There was a knock at the door.

“You get that and I'll grab you something quick to eat,” my grandmother said.

There was more knocking. Kenny wasn't usually that anxious to start working.

“Hold on, Kenny, I'm coming!” I yelled out. “What's the big . . ?” I stopped mid-sentence as I opened the door. It wasn't Kenny, it was Ray, one of my other cousins.

“You really thinking you might see Kenny up this early?” Ray asked.

“I don't even know what time it is,” I answered.

“Around six-thirty.”

“I thought it was later,” I said. “He's coming here and we're going to go cut some wood for Auntie Francie.”

“That should be fun,” Ray said. “I've been out cutting wood with that guy half a dozen times and I don't think
I've ever seen him lift an axe. I'm not even sure he knows which side of it to sink into the wood.”

“I just thought that was how he was with me.”

“That's how he is with everybody. If he put half as much effort into working as he does avoiding work he'd be something to watch,” Ray said. “You really want to go out with him?”

“I don't want to, but I don't think I have much choice.”

“Ah … now that's where you're wrong,” Ray said with a smile.