ABACUS
Authors: Chris McGowan
ABACUS
by
Chris McGowan
BOSON BOOKS
Raleigh
Published by Boson Books
An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.
ISBN (ebook): 978-0-917990-07-6
Text copyright © 2011 by Chris McGowan
Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Doron Ben-Ami
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any data storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.
Neither the Publisher nor the Author shall be liable for any damage which may be caused or sustained as a result of the conduct of any of the activities in this ebook, from not specifically following instructions or conducting the activities without proper adult supervision, or from ignoring the cautions contained in the text.
For information contact:
C & M Online Media, Inc.
3905 Meadow Field Lane,
Raleigh, NC 27606-4470
email:
[email protected]
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McGowan, C., 1942-
Abacus / Chris McGowan
ISBN 978-0-9810831-0-0 paperback
ISBN 978-0-9810831-1-7 hardcover
1. ScienceâExperimentsâJuvenile literature. I. Title.
PS8625.G67A63 2010 jC813.6 C2009-904096-4
Summary: Thrown together with her science-geek kid brother AP, Kate
travels through time, stalked by a sinister attacker. True events are historically correct and readers can repeat AP's experiments.
Visit the author's website at http://
www.AbacusAdventure.com
Dedication
To Emma, Carter, Miles, Raquel and Nathan, with love.
Contents
Chapter 10: Counting the Seconds
Chapter 23: The Battle of the Little Bighorn
Chapter 26: Anyone for the Sun?
Chapter 29: Conjuring up Magic
Chapter 30: Ramesses the Great
Acknowledgem
ents
First and foremost I want to thank a legion of youngsters who read an early draft of
Abacus
, giving me such valuable feedback. In alphabetical order they are: Caden Armstrong, Emily Betteridge, Laura Blackmore, Devin Cassidy, Michael David, Whitney Gemmill, Cory Green, Justine Kavanagh, Chloe Lavington
, Eloise Lavington, Emily Lostchuck, Adam Nickerson and Kyle Niece. Without your enthusiastic help, this book would never have happened.
When I anxiously approached John Lester, Principal of Regency Acres Public School, Aurora, with my unusual request to have
Abacus
critically reviewed by some of his pupils, he was immediately supportive. I thank him for his time and trouble in setting up the at-arm's-length reviews, and for arranging for me to meet with the youngsters after the fact to discuss their comments. I also thank him for his continued interest in the project. Kevin McHenry, Headmaster of St. Andrews College, Aurora, kindly arranged for a similar review of the manuscript in the Upper School of his institution. I thank him for organizing the reviews and for monitoring the process throughout. Jennifer Wills of St. Marguerite d'Youville School, Ottawa, read
Abacus
with a group of her Grade Five students. I thank her for her valuable comments and enthusiastic endorsement.
I am sincerely grateful to Doron Ben-Ami for his superb cover art. Working with such a gifted artist has been a privilege and a most enjoyable experience. I thank him too for his encouragement and inspiration at times when these were most needed.
Sandy Bogart Johnston provided encouragement and guidance during the early stages of this project, for which I warmly thank her. My thanks also to Mary Macchiusi for her valuable advice, support and encouragement in my publishing endeavors.
I am truly grateful to Dimitra Chronopoulos for the meticulous care she took in copy editing the final draft of the manuscript. What a great joy it has been working with such a professional. My thanks also to Caroline Kaiser for her careful attention to detail in proofreading, and for her encouraging words.
My sincere thanks to Nancy McAllister, President and Director of Acquisitions of Boson Books, for taking on this project, and for her zeal from the outsetâworking with you has been a great pleasure. My thanks also to David McAllister, Senior Vice President and Director of Technical Operations, for making it all happen.
Pat Morrison, my big sister, has been enthusiastic about
Abacus
since she read the first draft many years ago. Feisty like Kate, she has been pushing for its publication ever since, for which I am truly grateful.
Some years ago, Liz, my sea-anchor, sat in silence on a long drive north to our friends' cottage, as I charted the story line of
Abacus
. I thought she would advise me to stick to non-fiction, but instead she encouraged me to put pen to paper. Aside from her support through the ups and downs of this project, she has used her professional book background with sage advice, proofing and correcting. I am blessed in having such a supportive wife.
Last, I thank my two lovely daughters, Claire and Angie, for their support and encouragement, and for blessing me with the wonderful grandchildren to whom
Abacus
is dedicated.
Chapter 1: Past Times
Kate stared out the window as the cabin crew demonstrated the safety features of the Boeing 767. They were about to take off from Boston's Logan International Airport.
“It's not fair,” she grumbled. She was quite capable of looking after herself while the rest of the family went to England. Summer was almost over and Kate wanted to spend the last of it with her friends. She'd be missing baseball too, and she was one of the best players on her team. Sure, Uncle Miles had died suddenly, but her parents could sort out his things without her help. And the last thing she wanted was to spend the next two weeks with her twelve-year-old brother.
“Have you buckled up?” asked her father, turning around from the seat in front.
“Do you want some gum to stop your ears popping?” added her mother beside him.
“My buckle's done up,” Kate snapped. “And no, I don't want any gum. I am fifteen, remember, not three.” Heaving a loud sigh she turned toward the window again. Her fair hair reflected in the glass like goldâshe'd spent ages getting it just right.
“How about you, AP?” asked Mr. Littleton.
“I'm good,” his son replied, glancing up from his book. He was excited about visiting England again. “I put on my seat belt when I sat down.”
“You're so perfect,” sneered his sister. “Lucky me to be sitting with a world traveler.”
AP, ignoring the taunt, continued reading.
Like father, like sonâMr. Littleton had his nose in a book too. His wife, Samantha, began chatting with the woman across the aisle.
“Are you folks traveling back home to England?” asked the woman, detecting Mrs. Littleton's English accent.
“No. We're from England, originally, but we live in the States now.” She nodded toward her husband. “Ken got a job at Woods Holeâthe Oceanographic Institution. He's a marine biologist.”
“That covers a wide area,” said the woman, thinking of everything from plankton to whales. “What's his specialty?”
“Large open-sea fishes, like sharks and tunas,” replied Mrs. Littleton, surprised at the questionâmost people had little idea what marine biology was about. “I think that's where AP, our son, gets his love of science.”
“AP?” queried the woman. “That's your son's name?”
“No, not exactly. Those are just his initials.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “He can't stand his real namesâArthur Percival. Ken chose them. We agreed that I'd name our first child and he'd name the second. He's always been interested in the Arthurian legend.”
“Arthur Percival,” repeated the woman, looking puzzled.
“You know, King Arthur and Sir Percival.”
The woman smiled vaguely.
“Sir Percival was one of the Knights of the Round Table. Ken's read a lot about them. Of course, there's no evidence King Arthur ever existedâwriters made up the legend during the Middle Ages. Anyway, that's how our son became AP.” Samantha smiled, “Kate's lucky she was born first. Otherwise she'd have been named Guinevere!”
The woman nodded. If she'd been christened Arthur Percival she would have kept it quiet too.
“Look at that, Kate,” said AP, pointing out the window as their airplane gained height. “See the mist above the wing?” Being short for his age, he had to stretch up to see properly. “Millions of tiny water droplets, condensed from the moist air. It's caused by⦔
Kate cut him off. “I don't want one of your dumb lectures. Science is boring and you're even worse.” With that, she popped in her ear buds and turned her iPod to full volume. AP returned to his book, Basic Aerodynamics for Inquisitive Flyers.
After the in-flight supper, AP read for a while and then nodded off. Kate, unable to text her friends, flipped through the magazine she'd bought. An article on career choices caught her attention. Then she filled out a quiz on music groups.
She glanced at her sleeping brother. Between science and schoolwork, she doubted he could name a single band. She nibbled on some pretzels, watched two movies, and stayed awake all night.
Their plane landed at London's Heathrow Airport at 10 o'clock the next morning. The Littletons trudged over to the baggage claim area with the other jet-lagged passengers. With the time difference between England and Boston, it was only 5 a.m. as far as their bodies were concerned.
* * *
“How far is it to Uncle Miles's place?” moaned Kate.
“Two or three hours,” said her mother, settling into the passenger seat of their rental car. “Try catching up on your sleep.”
“I would if I had any room back here!” she growled. “How come England has no decent-sized cars?” She banged her hand against the door to emphasize the point.
“I'll move my seat,” said her father, inching forward until his knees almost touched the dashboard. “How's that?”
“Better. At least I can breathe again. As for you, shrimp...” She glowered at AP, who was minding his own business. “Keep your distance!”
“For goodness' sake, leave your brother alone!” snapped her mother. “Don't spoil this trip for everybody.”
Mr. Littleton started the engine for what promised to be a long journey. AP buried himself in another book: A Field Guide to British Birds.
Soon they were on the highway, leaving London. As Mr. Littleton got used to the new car and driving on the left side of the road, he started to relax.
“Neither of you knew Uncle Miles,” he began. “Nor did I reallyâhe was much older than me. Strange too.”
“You shouldn't talk about your brother like that,” admonished his wife. “Especially now he's dead.”
“Well, he was odd. He had no friendsânever married.”
“How odd?” asked Kate, taking a sudden interest.
“He lived a solitary life,” replied her father. “He never seemed to wantâor needâother people.”
“Like someone else we know!” said Kate, nudging her brother in the ribs. “Was he into books and science too?” AP refused to take the bait.
“Not so much books,” continued Mr. Littleton. “His big thing was antiquesâantiques and travel. He lived in many different parts of the world.”
“Wasn't he in Africa for the last few years?” asked AP.
“Yes, until his health began to fail. He caught malaria on an earlier trip there. Goodness knows what else he picked up.”
“How long did he have his antique shop?” asked AP, fending off Kate's attempt to claim more of the back seat.
“A couple of years. Long enough to fill the place with all his stuff. Plus the antiques that were already there.”
“So it was an antique shop before Uncle Miles took it over?” asked AP.
“Past Times has been an antique shop for as long as anyone in Saxton Burleigh can remember,” replied his father. “And it's several hundred years old, like the rest of the village.”
AP sat back, visualizing thatched roofs and timber-framed walls. Kate, already bored with the conversation, opened her magazine.
They left the highway soon after stopping for lunch and were now driving down country lanes. The conversation between Mrs. Littleton, who was trying to read the map, and her husband, who was trying to follow her instructions, showed they were lost. “We should have paid the extra and rented the GPS,” said Mr. Littleton.
“Give me the map,” snapped Kate. “I'll navigate.”
Kate's sense of direction was legendary in the Littleton family. After studying the map, she glanced at the afternoon sun. “We're heading southeast and Saxton Burleigh is southwest,” said Kate confidently. “Make a right at the next intersection.”
Her father knew from experience that she would be right.
The trees on either side of the lane arched overhead, concealing the sky and making the Littletons feel as if they were driving though a living green tunnel. Minutes later the lane opened up into a road just wide enough for two cars to pass each other.
“This is it?” gasped Kate. “Saxton Burleigh?”
A medieval church stood on one side of the road, overlooking a cluster of thatched cottages. Strung along the other side were a post office and a row of small stores. And there, at the end, was the antique shop. Mr. Littleton parked outside and fumbled for the spare key. “Here we are,” he announced. “Let's go and check it out.”
Past Times was just as AP had imagined it. Everything was old and musty, from the creaking floorboards to the low-beamed ceilings. Antiques and curios filled every space. There were rickety chairs with spindly legs, grandfather clocks, stuffed birds, flintlock pistols, African masks, Chinese vases, shelves of books, darkened oil paintings, and a suit of armor with one leg missing.
“Wow,” gasped AP, staring around him. “This place is amazing.”
“I'll say,” muttered Mr. Littleton. Taking care of Uncle Miles's affairs included the enormous task of listing everything in the shop. “Where do we start?”
“This is a big job,” agreed his wife. “But it'll be easier once we get organized.”
They found a small kitchen at the back of the shop, with a sink, stove and tiny fridge. Upstairs were Uncle Miles's living quarters. A small dining table with four chairs stood in the front room, with a threadbare sofa and television in one corner. Dominating the room was an antique cabinet, its polished top cluttered with old TV guides and unopened bills. The drawers, crammed with papers, were too much of a temptation for AP.
“Hey!” snapped Kate. “Stop poking in other people's things!”
“Carry on, AP,” said his father decisively. He rarely lost his temper and Kate, hearing the anger in his voice, was smart enough to back off.
“Kate, see if there's anything on TV,” suggested her mother. “English television's different from ours.”
Kate fiddled with the knobs and tried changing the channels, but all she got was snow. Exasperated, she went downstairs to see if there were any cold drinks in the fridge.
“Look what I just found!” AP was waving a black book in his hand. “A diary that Uncle Miles wrote in Africa. The bottom drawer's jammed full with them.”
“Let's see,” said his father.
While they scanned the diaries, Mrs. Littleton examined two wooden crates, which were taking up most of the floor space. The shipping labels showed they were from KenyaâUncle Miles's last address before returning to England. Both had been opened. One was empty, aside from a single wooden mask lying on the bottom. With its enormous forehead and long morbid face, the carving looked ominous. The other crate was still full.
Mr. and Mrs. Littleton wanted to complete their list before an antique dealer came to price everything the following week. But they knew nothing would get done unless Kate could be kept occupied, so Mrs. Littleton slipped downstairs to tell her about the crate.
“All sorts of treasures might lurk inside,” she began. “You could unpack while AP makes a list.”
Reluctantly, Kate agreedâmaybe she would find some neat jewelry among all that stuff.
Kate turned on the radio and, to her surprise, found a station with “real” music.
“Look at the size of that elephant!” exclaimed AP minutes later as his sister unwrapped another animal carving. “The biggest so far.” He patted the rich red wood. “Which do you likeâthe rosewood or the ebony ones?” He picked up a small rhino that was as black as night and surprisingly heavy.
“Red, black, wildebeest, warthogâwho cares?”
Kate found a variety of bracelets and necklaces made from colored beads, and tried several on. Some animal pendants, threaded on thin leather cords, caught her eye too. Then she came across one that was uniqueâa finger-length rectangular frame, with nine vertical rows of beads.
“Here, try this,” she said slipping it over AP's head.
“Hey, it's an abacus. A tiny one. But why is it with all this stuff? The abacus came from the east, not Africa.”
“An abacus?”
“You know, an ancient calculator. I used to have one when I was little, remember? Mine was way bigger though. I played with it for hours.”
“You would!”
“This one works the same way mine did, except the rods are vertical instead of horizontalâthat's the âtraditional' way of making them.”
“So how does it work?”
“See the beads in this row?” He pointed to the far right. “They each count as one unit.”
“Okay,” said Kate.
“Each row has ten beads. If I move one of these beads to the top, that counts as one.” The beads fitted the rods tightly, so they stayed in place when he moved them. “Now, if I add four more beads, I've got five. Each of the beads in the next row counts for ten. So if I move three of them up to the top of their rod, I've got thirty. Thirty plus the others makes thirty-five.”
“Brilliant! What would we do without an abacus?”
“It gets harder. The third-row beads are each worth one hundred, then one thousand⦔
Kate stifled a yawn.
“With nine rows of beads you can count up to hundreds of millions.”
She sighed.
“Watch this,” he continued, pushing the beads in the two rows on the right back to the bottom again. “Say you wanted to enter 1524âa random number. You start with the fourth row from the right and move one of the beads to the top of its rod. That's the one thousand.” He then moved five beads to the top of the third rod. “That's the five hundred.” Next, he moved two beads to
the top on the second rod, finishing off by sliding four beads to the top of the right-hand rod. “And that's the twenty-four. See? It's easy.”
“If you say so.”
Crowded Planet's latest hit, “High Water,” blared from the radio.
“What's that tiny black button at the bottom for?” Leaning on his shoulder, Kate reached down and pushed it with her finger. Suddenly, the room filled with brilliant blue light, silhouetting AP and his sister like shadows.