Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Auxier, Jonathan, author.

  Title: Sweep: the story of a girl and her monster / by Jonathan Auxier.

  Description: New York: Amulet Books, 2018. | Summary: In nineteenth-century England, after her father’s disappearance Nan Sparrow, ten, works as a “climbing boy,” aiding chimney sweeps, but when her most treasured possessions end up in a fireplace, she unwittingly creates a golem.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018014305 | ISBN 978-1-4197-3140-2 (hardback) | eISBN 978-1-68335-406-2

  Subjects: | CYAC: Golem—Fiction. | Chimney sweeps—Fiction. | Homeless persons—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Orphans & Foster Homes. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Homelessness & Poverty. | JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.A9314 Swe 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2018 JONATHAN AUXIER

  ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT © 2018 DADU SHIN

  MAP ILLUSTRATION COPYRIGHT © 2018 JONATHAN AUXIER

  BOOK DESIGN BY CHAD W. BECKERMAN

  JACKET DESIGN BY ALYSSA NASSNER AND CHAD W. BECKERMAN

  JACKET TYPOGRAPHY BY HANA NAKAMURA

  JACKET COPYRIGHT © 2018 AMULET BOOKS

  Published in 2018 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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  For those who have saved me

  MARY, PENELOPE, MATILDA, AND HAZEL

  Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  ~ William Shakespeare, Cymbeline

  The imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay.

  ~ Mary Wollstonecraft

  PART ONE

  INNOCENCE

  THE GIRL AND HER SWEEP

  There are all sorts of wonderful things a person might see very early in the morning. You might see your parents sleeping. You might see an ambitious bird catching a worm. You might see an unclaimed penny on the sidewalk or the first rays of dawn. And if you are very, very lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the girl and her Sweep.

  Look! Here they are now, approaching through the early fog: a thin man with a long broom over one shoulder, the end bobbing up and down with every step. And trailing behind him, pail in hand, a little girl, who loves that man more than anything in the world.

  The girl sticks to the man like a shadow. If he hops over a puddle, she hops, too. If he skips along a rail, she does the same. It is clear just by looking at them that the little girl belongs to the man, just as the man belongs to the little girl. And as they pass between sleeping houses, they sing at the top of their lungs:

  With brush and pail and soot and song!

  A sweep brings luck all season long!

  The song is not particularly special. Their voices are not particularly sweet. But when they sing, the most unusual thing happens. Instead of people snapping their windows shut to block out the sound, they rise from their beds, one by one, throw back the curtains, and decide to love the world just a little bit more. Parents suddenly feel the urge to hug their children. Children suddenly feel the urge to let them.

  And every person, young and old, spends the rest of the day softly humming the song of the girl and her Sweep.

  For as long as the girl could remember, the Sweep had been at her side. First he carried her in a sling over his back and fed her bottles of milk. When she got a bit older, he would let her ride upon his shoulders and pick apples from the trees they passed. And when she got older yet, they walked together like true equals.

  The Sweep shared everything with the girl. If he had a scarf, he would let her wear it during the cold days and take it for himself on the hot ones. If they found a loaf of bread, the girl would eat half and pass the rest to the Sweep; he would eat half of what remained and then give it back to the girl; then she would eat half again; and so on. They would trade the loaf back and forth like this until the bread was gone and their bellies were full.

  The Sweep let the girl share in his work, too. First he just had her scoop ashes from the hearth, but when the girl became a bit stronger, he let her climb chimneys with him. From the start, the girl was a natural climber. She had long limbs, just like the Sweep, and her thin frame could wriggle through even the tiniest flues.

  Being inside a chimney is a frightening thing; it’s so dark and cramped that one can scarcely tell which way is up. And so when the girl and her Sweep climbed inside a chimney, they would sing to each other. The Sweep, who always went up first, would brush out soot and nests and cobwebs, singing all the while. And the girl knew that all she had to do was follow his voice and she would be safe.

  Eventually the two of them would emerge from the top of the flue, filthy and triumphant. The view from a chimney stack is a truly majestic thing. For miles in every direction all you can see are rooftops and more rooftops, like tiny dunes stretching to the horizon. Many times the Sweep remarked that kings and lords couldn’t wish for a better view—and he should know, because he had swept a few palaces in his day.

  Of course, life was not always easy for the girl and her Sweep. Many nights were cold and wet. Many days were humid and hungry. More than once they entered a new town and quickly found themselves surrounded by a band of disgruntled local sweeps. Whenever this happened, the Sweep would ask the girl to watch the tools while he and the other sweeps talked things through in the alley. He would emerge a few minutes later, limping slightly, his clothes a little torn, but smiling as broadly as ever. He would report to the girl that the other sweeps had told him of a neighborhood just a few miles off with some particularly good houses. In thanks for this valuable information, he had decided to give them all the money in his pockets.

  When the Sweep did secure work, he would get paid a coin or sometimes even two coins. On his way out the door, he would always warn the homeowner to burn the chimney hot all night long—just in case any sparrows tried to make a nest up there. (This was a special joke between the girl and the Sweep, and it was all the girl could do not to spoil things by laughing.)

  Later that night, once the sun had set and the town was asleep, they would return to the same house, and the girl would clamber up the rain gutter to the edge of the roof and let down a rope for the Sweep to follow after her. Then, walking very carefully, so as not to make any noise, they would lay blankets against the smoking chimney stack, which was warm to the touch, and make their beds.

  Most children despise bedtime and will do anything to avoid it. This is because they are forced to sleep under scratchy covers inside stifling houses. If they could sleep like the girl and her Sweep—on warm rooftops beneath a canopy of stars—they would understand
just how magical bedtime could be.

  As they stared into the infinite dark, sometimes the Sweep would tell the girl stories about their day. Other times they would just lie in silence. But every night ended the same way: with her falling asleep against his chest as he stroked her hair and sang her their special lullaby:

  With brush and pail and soot and song!

  A sweep brings luck all season long!

  As the Sweep sang these words, the girl would drift off—dreaming of stars and seas and adventures far, far away.

  This was life as the girl knew it. And every night she slept soundly, knowing that she and the Sweep would have each other forever.

  VOICES IN THE DARK

  “Nan, tell us about the Sweep.”

  It was dark in the coal bin, but Nan could tell it was Newt who was asking. Newt was newest to Crudd’s crew. He was barely six years old; he didn’t know all the rules. The first rule was you never asked another climber about his life Before.

  There were five climbing boys in the coal bin: Newt, Whittles, Shilling-Tom, Roger, and Nan. Nan wasn’t a boy, but you’d never know that to look at her. She was as grimy as the rest of them. “Who told you about the Sweep?” Nan said. “Was it Roger?”

  “Keep me out of it, Cinderella,” Roger muttered. He called Nan “Cinderella” because he thought it annoyed her. He was right.

  “No one told me,” Newt said. “I dreamed about him. Last night I slept in your corner. I dreamed him and the girl were both singing to all the people. Only I woke up before I could hear the words.”

  This was a thing that happened: the dreaming. Every so often one of the boys would say that he had dreamed about the Sweep. Nan couldn’t explain it. It seemed to happen whenever one of them fell asleep close to her. All she knew was that she didn’t like it. The Sweep was hers.

  “It was about you, wasn’t it?” Newt whispered. “You’re the girl from my dream.”

  “No,” Nan said. “I’m the girl who wants to go to sleep.” She’d spent fourteen hours climbing chimneys and knew there were more waiting for her tomorrow.

  “You’re splashing in the wrong puddle, Newt,” said a raspy voice by the slat window. It was Whittles. He was only eight, but his voice sounded like an old man’s on account of breathing too much chimney soot. “Me and Shilling-Tom been dreaming about the girl and her Sweep for years. Not once have we gotten Nan to fess up that it’s her.”

  “Aye,” said Shilling-Tom. He was Whittles’s best mate. “You might as well try to get a second helping from Trundle’s pot.” Trundle was the woman who cared for them. If you could call it that.

  “I won’t fess up because it’s nonsense,” Nan said. And it was nonsense. How could two people have the same dream?

  “Is the Sweep a real person?” Newt asked. “He sounds lovely. Much nicer than Master Crudd.” He whispered this last bit. Just in case Crudd could hear him upstairs.

  “Sweeps aren’t supposed to be lovely,” Nan said. “They’re grimy and tough as stone. Just like chimneys.” Maybe lovely was a fine thing to call a person in Newt’s old life, but he was a climber now. He wouldn’t last long if he kept using words like that.

  She heard the boy move closer. “Please, Nan?” Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she could see the outline of his head. With his curls shaved off, he really did look like a newt. They had named him well. “Just tell me if he’s real. I promise I won’t tell the others.”

  “Don’t beg. A climber never begs.” That was another rule.

  “Maybe I can sleep here next to you?” He clasped her arm. “Then I’ll dream about him all on my own?”

  Nan knew what the boy was saying. He thought that somehow the dreams were coming from her, which was impossible. She pulled away. “Find your own corner.”

  “Aw, go easy on the kid.” It was Whittles. “It’s only been a week since he . . . you know . . .” He didn’t say the rest. None of them knew what had happened to Newt’s family to have him end up here, but it had to have been bad. It was always bad.

  “I’m not begging,” Newt said. “But it’s a true fact: I can’t sleep without a bedtime story. My mummy always says . . .” He corrected himself. “. . . always said . . .” His voice faltered. “It’s just I thought hearing a story about the Sweep might help me fall asleep.”

  Nan remembered when she had felt the same way. That was a long time ago. That was Before.

  “I can tell you about the Sweep.” Roger had crawled out from his spot under the stairs. “He was Cinderella’s old master before Crudd snatched her up.” Roger was the oldest climber on the team and knew about her life Before. She hated him for that. “Only to hear Nan tell it, that Sweep was like a prince stepped right out of some fairy story. But he’s no prince, believe me. Why, she was hardly your age when that Sweep of hers up and—”

  “That’s enough,” Nan said.

  “I’ll say what’s enough,” Roger shot back. “Do you know the really sad part? Five years on, and she still thinks he’s coming back. How’s that for—?”

  “YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH.” There was violence in her voice. She could feel everyone in the room watching her.

  Whittles broke the silence. “A fight between Nan and Roger? Now, that I’d pay to see.”

  Shilling-Tom laughed. “I got a shilling here that says Nan lays him out flat.”

  Nan heard him flip his prized coin and catch it. In all her years of working with Shilling-Tom, she had never actually seen the coin, which he kept hidden safely so that other boys wouldn’t take it.

  “Save your money.” Nan didn’t need them goading Roger into a fight. He was twice her size and fought dirty. She glanced up at the window. Dawn would be coming in a few hours, and they would all be back on the streets, brooms in hand. She suddenly felt very tired.

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered to Newt. “You’ve got your first climb tomorrow, and we wouldn’t want you to nod off in the flue.” This was meant to be a joke, but it was not a funny one, because that had happened once to a boy named Hi-Ho. He had broken both legs and ended up a beggar.

  Nan listened as Newt made a sort of whimper and retreated to the far wall of the coal bin. He would cry himself to sleep, as he’d done the nights previous. But eventually he would get over it.

  Nan brushed the loose clumps of coal from the floor and rolled over on her side, knees to her chest. It was the way she had always slept—like an infant waiting to be cradled.

  The stone floor was cold. Her only pillow was a burlap sack, turned black from years of hauling loose soot. Nan reached a hand into her coat pocket. Inside she found a charred clump of soot—a treasure she kept with her always. She called it her “char.” It was small and crumbly and unnaturally warm, like a little ember in her pocket. She couldn’t explain how, but the thing seemed to burn with its own inner heat, which radiated year in and year out, no matter the weather. It was the only thing she had left from Before.

  Nan took a deep breath and closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

  But she did not sleep.

  Instead, she remembered the Sweep.

  THE SWEEP’S GIFT

  The girl was just six years old when it happened.

  She and her Sweep had both gone to bed as they always had, nestled against a chimney stack beneath the starry sky. But when the girl woke the next morning, her Sweep was gone.

  She did not worry straightaway. Chimney folk are natural rovers, as rootless as the four winds. She assumed her Sweep had nipped off to forage for breakfast—they called these little trips “belly quests.” He would come back any moment now, with ripe figs stolen from a low bough or quail’s eggs swiped from a nest or even (if they had money) day-old rolls from the baker.

  But the Sweep did not come back with figs or eggs or rolls.

  When morning turned to afternoon, the girl began to let herself worry. They had only just recently come to this new town—the great kingdom of London. The Sweep had told her all sorts of stories about dragons in t
he river and banshees in the fog, and she wasn’t sure which of them were true and which were play.

  The Sweep liked to pass the time by telling stories. And so the girl now told herself stories. She made up fanciful tales about magic bookshops, talking fruit trees, and blind thieves who could open any lock. The stories were all brilliant. But no matter where she started, every story always led her back to that rooftop—alone, hungry, waiting for her Sweep.

  The girl scolded herself for becoming afraid. For all she knew, this was some sort of new game. The Sweep was probably hiding behind one of the chimney stacks, waiting to jump out and surprise her. “Ha-ha!” he would say, and scoop her up in his arms. “My little sparrow has flown at last from her nest!”

  The girl got up and started to check the rooftop. She checked the stacks and peered over the eaves. She could just make out the words on a sign hanging by the entrance of the house directly beneath her—

  ~ WILKIE CRUDD, Esq. ~

  “The Clean Sweep”

  The girl remembered how funny she found this at the time: the idea of a sweep being clean.

  She widened her search. She checked the rooftops across the entire block, taking care to look behind every stack, even poking her head into the chimney pots.

  At last she returned to the spot where she had started, more frightened than before. She took up the Sweep’s coat, which lay folded beside her sootbag.

  And that was when she saw the hat.

  There is nothing more sacred to a chimney sweep than his hat. It remains with him at all times—even in the privy and the bath. “To lose your hat, even for a moment,” the Sweep often told her, “is to summon a thousand tragedies.” He was always telling the girl stories about foolish chimney sweeps who mislaid their hats, only to have a church steeple or a wild elephant come down on their heads. He had also promised that someday, when he became too frail to climb, the hat would be hers.