Hey, I'm a day late because I had some pressing priorities yesterday and was unable to wrap up and post. I finished this "chapter" or "intro" today (i know outside the time frame but didn't want to leave it where it was and only had a little bit to complete the chapter). Anyways this is @inklings-challenge 's challenge
My theme isn't apparent here (its unfinished) but I was probably going for sacrifice, humility and grace.
Summary: A married couple is called by the king to time travel and gather people for his kingdom. Throughout their journey they endure hardship, evil forces, and people from all over, all while working through their new relationship.
xxx
“You got the list?” His wife asked as she turned the door knob. He nodded before the door creaked open.
The bell rang as the door opened to the little dusty shop. Shelves were filled with odds and ends from kitchenware to pottery. Animal skins and light clothing hung on the walls, beckoning the impending winter. Weapons were held behind the counter, protected by an old frail man stroking his beard and staring at the weekly paper, and chewing on the end of a pencil.
“Ah welcome! Take your time, take your time…” His bushy eyebrows raised to meet their glance briefly, acknowledging their presence before going back to his task.
“Th’ king told us to take what we need.” She muttered under her breath, walking into the shop. Her footsteps heavily pounded against the creaky wooden boards. She looked around the shop, picking up a doll here or fine china there, inspecting each item.
“Honey, we have to go to the counter.” Her husband reminded her, taking out a piece of paper and carefully unfolding it. He pushed up his glasses and glossed over the page before looking up at her.
“I know, it's just awkward to go up to th’ counter and just demand something, gotta make ‘em think you’re interested.”
“Don’t we have to-”
“Oooooo are those dice?” She snapped her head around to a small black bag, picked it up and dropped the dice in her hand, The 6 sided die swirled in pinks and blues, glittering in the low lantern light.
“Hyacinth, dear, let’s stay focused.” Silvaeus gently put a hand on her shoulder. She huffed and put the dice down. They approached the counter and her husband put the list down on the counter. The old man peaked at the list. “May I help you young’ins?”
“Yeah, we were sent by th’ king, he told us ta pass this note along and gather th’ stuff from you, he paid it forward.” She noted.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Right and I’m the mayor of this town. Now, what’s you really want but to thieve your way into things?”
The couple looked at each other and sighed. Silvaeus dug through his messenger bag and pulled out a small scroll. He unraveled it to reveal a written note and a seal at the bottom.
“So? Anybody can write a letter.”
“Sir, I urge you to take a closer look at the seal.”
The old man grumbled as he put his stuff down, and dug an old magnifying glass out and inspected the seal carefully.
“Well I’ll be tootin’...” He muttered and shrugged. “I’d been expectin’ you two then. Younger than I thought but who’m I to judge the king?”
He got off his stool and waddled to the back. A few moments later he came out with a bundle of cloth. Laying it out on the counter. Unbundling it revealed two double edge swords, a map, a couple flasks, and a bag of coins. He took a few coughs to clear his throat, and then proceeded to gesture among the objects.
“Although I reckon you two received a couple directions, let me guide you. You are to travel time to collect persons to dwell into his kingdom. This is a very dangerous task at hand, but tis what you were called to do. Are you sure you want to receive this?”
They both nodded in agreement.
“Good. Your swords are your most important objects. They will open the portal, slay evil you may come across, and be your “right of passage” per say. Your map will change to your environment, and your coins will be your starting for your needs to be met. It’s only a small amount but if you work to invest, much more will be given. Don’t worry, your money will be confirmed to be good anywhere. Finally your flasks are for water and water only- but they will never run dry. Keep them filled as much as you want, but they will always be enough for your journey. Any questions?”
“No sir.” Hyacinth shook her head as they filled both their bags with the items.
“Good.” He huffed and brought out his paper again. “May the king’s blessings go with you.”
“And also with you.” Silvaeus nodded. They both turned, and then left the shop.
Here’s my part of the @inklings-challenge . Posting it on my sideblog as it turned out quite long. Warning: I’m German, so my English might not be the best, I hope it’s readable. -toulouseec
The little girl looked down the way to her right, then the way to her left. Finally, she decided on the one to her right. After a while, the path got slimmer and steeper as she got deeper into the forest and higher up in the mountainside. She didn't notice the hours passing as she was too curious about where this tiny path would lead her. Suddenly, she was standing in front of a stone wall. In the stone was a hole. The sun was shining upon it like a flashlight, telling her to go inside. The girl hesitated for a minute; then she stepped inside the cave. It was a small cave, but it had something cosy to it. The girl was surprised as the cave looked like someone was living inside it. There was a huge bed on one wall (though it was shaped like a bird's nest), the walls were covered with books, and on one little cupboard was even a small tv. 'It must be a huge human that lives here' thought the girl to herself as she noticed the enormous size everything had. Then she remembered that she was the one standing in someone else's home and turned around to leave.
But as she turned around, she was startled. A creature was stepping over the doorstep. A creature with four legs and two wings. It walked on two of its legs and carried a pile of books with the other two. A creature the girl had only read about in novels to this day. She didn't know what to do. The dragon only stared at her. The girl noticed it was wearing glasses. She was the one to break the silence. "You...you're a dragon." She wasn't sure whether the dragon lifted its eyebrows in anger or amusement. "Yes, I know. And you're a human who invaded my home." "Sorry, I didn't know this cave was inhabited. Especially not by a dragon." "Why not by a dragon? Are dragons not trustworthy enough to rent them your caves?" "No, that's not what I meant...it's just...I didn't know dragons existed." The dragon blinked. "You didn't know dragons existed?" he repeated."How could you not know, What do they teach you in schools?" "Well, usually that dragons are creatures of novels and fairytales... just like unicorns." The dragon scoffed. "Typical. I retire for not even two decades and they pretend I never existed!" The girl was a little confused. "You're retired? From what?" A shadow fled over the dragon's dark eyes. "It doesn't matter." He said after a while. "Yes, it does!" insisted his young guest. "No, it doesn't!" Smoke was coming out of the creatures' nostrils: "And for you, it's time to go home now!" As if to underline that their conversation was over now, the dragon dropped itself into a victorian armchair and turned on the tv.
The girl was surprised by his sudden reaction. Something was keeping her from leaving him alone, she felt he hadn't retired by his own free choice and she had the urge to help this mysterious creature. Carefully, she stepped to his side. Without turning away from the tv, the dragon rolled his eyes and grumbled: "Why are you still here? You want me to eat you for dinner?" "You won't do this." The girl answered with a certainty she wasn't even sure she had. The dragon turned off the tv and faced his little guest. "Okay fine, what do you want? A fly home? A fly to your school to show your teachers I still exist? What?" "I want to hear your story." The shadow crossed the dragon's face again. "I have no story." "Yes, you do. Why are you hiding in the woods? And why did everyone forget about you?" "I'm not hiding. I am retired." "Why?" "Because I'll eat you if you ask me that again." "No, you won't. You're a good dragon." The dragon stared at her with a sad look on his face. He shook his head. "No, I'm not, sorry to disappoint you." "If you aren't, then why didn't you eat me on the spot?" The dragon remained silent for a while.
He lifted himself, walked to one of his shelves and stared at it as if he had never seen it before. Then he whispered: "You have no idea what I've done. What evil I am capable of." The girl shook her head: "You're not evil!" Suddenly, life came into the old reptile's body: he turned around, a small flame emerged from his nose as he yelled: "I'm a monster! I don't deserve mercy or forgiveness!" His visitor tilted her head: "Why doesn't a monster deserve mercy or forgiveness?" The creature looked up, tears in its eyes: "What?" he sobbed. The girl shrugged: "I think you deserve forgiveness, no matter what you did. Especially since you truly regret it." "How do you know I do?" "Well, whatever it was, you've been hiding in here for the last decades. I suppose out of fear to hurt someone again." Now, the dragon looked at her with a face that almost seemed like he was smiling. And yet, it remained sad. "You are one smart girl, aren't you?" "I am...will you tell me what happened?"
The reptile sighed, crawled to his nest and patted it with his tail as a silent gesture for his guest to sit down beside him. Then he started talking. "I killed six people...and destroyed twelve houses. If you were born thirteen years earlier, I could have killed you." "What are you talking about?" The dragons sighed again. "You've heard of that big fire in your city back in the Eighties, right?" "Yeah, but...what did you do?" "The fire was my fault!" "But, I thought it was a truck loaded with petrol that crashed into a café." The dragon rolled its eyes. "Yeah, that's the story the newspapers wrote. But it's not true. There was no truck, there was no petrol, there was just me, a young and stupid dragon who wanted to find out what happens if I breeze fire on the river floating through the city. Well, the answer is, the river was on fire...but so was half the city. A city I was supposed to protect." The dragon buried his face in his claws and started to sob heartbreakingly.
The girl couldn't help it: she wrapped her arms around the desperate creature. Slowly, the sobs turned quieter. The dragon murmured: "Now you know. You still think I deserve forgiveness?" "Yes." answered the girl immediately. "But what do you mean, you were supposed to protect them?" The reptile stared at her and blinked, visibly confused. "You...you really don't know?" "About what? An hour ago, I didn't even know dragons existed!" "Alright, alright, I'll explain it. We dragons have been the guardians of this country for about 1000 years now. Placed in service by the kings of the middle ages. I mean, the common people don't really see us anyway, I guess that's the reason they forgot about me that fast. We live deep in the forest and mountains. Since the forests are becoming fewer and noisier, the dragons have decreased in number. After World War 2 -you've heard of that one, have you? Good- 16 families were left. We made a pact with your new government. Every dragon family was assigned a state to protect. And every state had elected a council that was informed of the dragons' habitat and could contact it in times of need. My council was in your city, that's why I knew it so well. And I loved this city so much"-the dragon sniffed and rubbed his eye with his claw- "But now I can never come back there." The little girl remained silent for a while. It was a little shocking to hear that her country's history wasn't at all like she had learned it, that it, in fact, had dragons in it that somehow only the government and a certain council seated in her tiny unimportant city knew about. But putting her feelings aside, she knew she had to help this dragon haunted by its past mistake. But how?
Suddenly, an idea came to her. "Hey, dragon? Why don't you come with me, back into town?" "No way! What if I burn it down again?" "You won't!" "I'd rather stay here with my books and my tv!" "You can return here later, but I really want you to meet someone. Please!" The dragon grunted, his nostrils smoked again. "Fine. I'll take you there. Climb on my back."
The dragon landed on the rooftop his rider was pointing at. The little girl slid off his back. "Wait here, I'll be back!" she said and went through a door. The dragon was curious as to what she wanted to show him. A few seconds later, the door opened again, and the little girl pushed an elderly man in a wheelchair onto the rooftop. The man had lost a leg, his face was covered in scars. Burn scars as the dragon realized. The old man looked at him. "Hello," he said with a strange sound in his voice. The dragon stared at him: "Who...who are you?" A sad smile crossed over the man's face. "I was there, the night you made a wrong decision. I lost my first wife and my house that night...and my leg." The dragon hid his face in shame. "Then why don't you just kill me now?" The man smiled again, this time, it seemed sincere. "Because I forgave you. I did so a long time ago." The dragon was confused. "A long time ago? But how did you know it was me? How are you not even surprised to see me? I thought this town had forgotten about dragons" A smirk crossed the man's face: "To be honest, we forgot about you on purpose. Yeah, sorry about that, old friend. You see, the common people had banned you dragons into the stuff of legends and fairytales a long time ago. By the time you set the river on fire, the only people who knew right away it was you was my friends and me on the council. Two of us saw that as proof that dragons were doing more harm than help and suggested hunting you all down. We others couldn't let that happen, so we made up the story of a crashed truck, deleted all proof of existing dragons from the media and sent someone to all dragon families in the country to warn them. They hid, and it took only a few years of pretending they never existed to make those who hadn't forgotten anyway believe so. Those that insisted they did or even do were called fantasy nerds in the best, insane in the worst case. And those two council members who wanted you dead gave up trying to convince the world after they didn't even manage to prove the existence of the Loch Ness monster. And you know your cousin Larry is not exactly trying to hide when he's on vacation."
The dragon was speechless. "You...you did all of this for me? After everything I've done to you?" "We know you never had any evil intention. And we forgave you. It's about time that you forgive yourself." The dragon nodded: "Maybe it is. I'll try." "Good", answered the old man. To his granddaughter, he said: "Bring me back inside, baby." Before the girl could do that, the dragon asked her: "Wait, little one, what's your name?" The girl smiled: "My name is Grace."
We made it guys! Here's my story for the @inklings-challenge. I think of it as a trailer for a bigger story because I fell in love with the concept and I'm definitely going to add on more later. Also, I totally forgot to give this a title until 5 mins ago, so I'm calling it "Searching" for now, but might change it later. Without further ado...
Ethan thought he had woken up, but apparently, he was still asleep. If this was a dream, it must be a very boring one, for all he did was lay on the ground shivering, just like he did every morning. He had to be awake. But if he were awake, then how could he hear someone talking in the other room?
“….3 to 5 minutes…87%…be patient…”, came snippets of a female voice from the hallway. Ethan staggered over to the source of the sound, the main computer in the ship’s control room. For the first time in - he didn’t know how long - the screen was on. The automated voice spoke again. “System update complete: the ship has reconnected to signal.”
The first thing he did was check the date. Tears welled up in his eyes. It had been one year.
After setting his coordinates to the country’s largest space station, Ethan decided it was time to catch up. His hands shook as he searched “Ethan Nate Masterly”. He skimmed the headlines from oldest to most recent.
19 years ago, a blog post from All About It Magazine: “Millionaire Philanthropist Eli Masterly adopts second son - ADORABLE BABY PICTURES INSIDE”
He didn’t need anything that far back. He trimmed his results to news stories within the last year.
12 months ago, an article from Astronomical.edu: “Time for Take-Off: See Ethan Masterly and his ship, The Perdita blast into space - LIVE!”
10 months ago, Celebrity Updates: “Ethan Masterly may be joyriding through space with billion dollar equipment: officials say that his ship was supposed to return weeks ago”.
9 months ago, several news stations with headlines to the effect of “After month-long rescue mission, all passengers on the Perdita return home - except Ethan Masterly”.
7 months ago, Space Science Magazine: “There was nothing we could do”: In trial, passengers on the Perdita testify that the pod sent to rescue Masterly malfunctioned.
6 months ago, Modern Reporter: “After months of searching, astronauts and government officials declare Ethan Mastery to be permanently lost in space.”
Ethan shut the computer down and sat on the ground for a while. “So everyone thinks I’m dead.” His mind turned to the entourage that left him behind with the faulty escape pod. He couldn’t blame them. Plenty of people wanted him dead anyway, and for good reason.
He lay his head against the ground and sighed as he thought about the world he was going back to in a matter of days. “The government hates me, the press hates me, and apparently my friends all hate me too. Isn’t that pathetic? The only one who doesn’t hate me is my-”
Many of you are concerned about me and my desire to continue the investigation into my son’s disappearance last year.
Some say it is impossible for him to have survived. I disagree. Ethan’s ship was designed to harness the raw molecules available in space into food, fuel, and energy for as long as he needed it to. I find it perfectly plausible that gravity may eventually pull his shop close enough to Earth for us to contact him once more. But the bigger question that many of you have presented is not “Can we try to save Ethan?”, but “Should we?”. That is what I intend to address.
For those who may not know: Ethan has been accused of stealing $300,000 of his inheritance money. That is untrue. Although I disagreed with his decision, I allowed Ethan to withdrawal the money when he turned 18. I have always believed that when boys become men, their decisions become their own. I stand by that.
Ethan has also been accused of stealing an additional $5,000,000 from Masterly Enterprises and putting it towards wastefulness and indulgence of all kinds - including a luxurious tour of the galaxy, and several illegal activities that I will not describe here. This is true. I will not deny that trying to make up for the money he took has nearly sent us into bankruptcy, and it has caused hardship for many people - myself included. So, then, why do I continue to look for him?
When I first adopted Ethan, he was a very energetic 6-year-old. On his first day living in my home, he bit his older brother, threw a wild temper tantrum over ice cream, and broke an antique lamp. After I gave him a stern dressing down, I left him in his room to think for a bit. When I returned, he was packing his backpack with clothes.
He asked me when I was going to send him back to child services for being a bad son.
I never loved him because he did what I wanted him to. I loved him because he was my son. He still is - will always be - my son. This is why have never stopped searching, and I never will. He will always have a home here, with me.
Thank you for reading.
Sincerely,
Ethan’s dad
After he was done reading, Ethan reprogrammed his coordinates.
For the first time in 12 months, Ethan knew warmth. First, it was the warmth of the earth when he tumbled onto the ground after his crash landing. Then it was the colors of the apple trees in Masterly Orchards, and the sun on his face as he walked on real earth. And suddenly, it was his father’s smile from the distance.
Over and over, Ethan tried to apologize. He tried to make Eli understand that he was a worthless son that deserved to be tossed out into the street. But all of that was drowned out by tears and laughter, and the first hug Ethan had had in a year.
Well, my inkling story is officially late. I’d to think of a time-travel joke to get me out of it, but I’ll just admit that I don’t usually try to polish stories to final draft stage. So I’m outright thrilled to have pushed this far, even if it took longer than I expected.
What we have here is the first third or so of the first chapter of a Time Cop Mystery Story. I do plan to try and polish the rest of this chapter and after that I am in the unwritten woods.
Team Tolkien - Time Travel - Theme: Grace - 424 Words - No Warnings for this Section, Murderous Peril Planned.
On a bench outside a twenty-first century cafe, Mac cradled a paper coffee cup in his hands. Soaking in the warmth and ignoring the smell.
“You’re being picky.” Rose put a pack of sugar into her own cup. “Drink. It’ll keep you warm.”
“I’m fine, ma’am.” Mac glanced down the street. The one good thing about the cold snap was that most people had the sense to stay indoors. It made individual pedestrians easier to pick out.
“The coffee’s fine too.” Rose added another sugar packet. “There’s nothing wrong with some untreated caffeine now and then.”
Mac glanced down at the cup. “They grow it in dirt, Rose.”
“The beans aren’t in- They wash them!” Rose said as the third sugar packet poured in. “The 1820s would kill you. You would die.”
“I’d bring a water bottle.”
Rose’s warm cackle cut through the cold air. She shook her head, lifted the coffee cup up, and took a slow deliberate swig. Then she grimaced, pulled off the lid, and started pouring in another sugar packet.
“You need to start taking care of yourself.” She scolded. “Do you want me to enjoy my retirement or not?”
Mac blinked and refocused on the street. “Did you get your paperwork in?”
“Yep. It’s all official.” Rose sighed blissfully. “All I’ve gotta do is run a couple more errands, foist a report or twenty onto you, and I’m a full time grandma.”
The air was stinging. Mac nodded. “Good.”
He could feel her staring. “You’ll be fine, you know that right?”
That hung in the air for a moment. Mac cleared his throat, put his coffee on the ground, and reached into his coat pocket. “I got you something.” He pulled out the gift.
“It’s too big to be a watch!” She tossed the coffee in a nearby bin, and grabbed the gift. “Unless you put the watch box into a slightly bigger box. In that case, you’re out of my will.”
Mac let his shoulders loosen. “It’s not much.”
“Don’t downplay it.” Rose turned the too-big-to-be-a-watch box over in her hands. “It’s so sweet of you. Thank-” She glanced up and shoved the box in her pocket. “There he is.”
The suspect walked down the street, huddled in a coat that would be very discreet in 30 years.
Mac shot up, and tried to walk smoothly. No running, no drawing attention. He glanced behind him to make sure Rose was following. She tossed his cup in the trash.
Faith of Our Fathers
Teaser: The ruined ship was like a ghost on the horizon. Some days it showed stark and clear against the skyline while on others it drifted almost beyond sight. Today it towered above the group of pilgrims, slowly growing as they drew closer.
The ruined ship was like a ghost on the horizon. Some days it showed stark and clear against the skyline while on others it drifted almost beyond sight. Today it towered above the group of pilgrims, slowly growing as they drew closer.
Mr. Lyle Thomas could remember when their numbers were larger. He thought fondly of following his grandparents along a freshly worn trail to visit the SS Future Hope, one hand secure in his grandfather's large hand as they walked. There had been celebrations, and he'd felt important when his grandfather pressed the mushroom spore into his hand.
"Find a good place to plant it, and be thankful."
Now it was a mixed group of vehicles, leaving little trace in the waving grass. It was a quicker trip these days, to be sure, though he wouldn't say with authority that was why there was less interest and fewer pilgrims. His daughter Cait, accompanying him though she hadn't wanted to spend her day off on a trip into the wilderness, sat in the grav sled with him, the motor of their electric pony thrumming as it pulled them along, and complained about the music.
"Can't we listen to something newer?"
He patted the chunky radio with its heavy speakers. The old hymns sounded thin--not enough bass in the recording for the settings--and a poor substitute for voices raised together as they walked. But the words were still the same, and the tunes familiar. "Driver chooses the music."
"Can I drive?" she asked.
"Maybe on the way back," he allowed.
Cait huffed, dissatisfied. "You know they're saying at school that it's all wrong, that those on the Hope weren't heroes at all."
Mr. Thomas frowned, remembering watching his grandmother ease her way into the old engineering section, with its melted pipes and twisted walls. She'd slowly bent to tuck her mushroom into a forgotten corner--he'd been impatient by then, his own planted long ago on a clear section of panelling--and her voice wavered through a hymn of praise, thanking God for life and deliverance from evil.
"They weren't any better than anyone else, and it's foolish to say they were," parroted Cait. "We can read what really happened in the history books and the stories are just that."
"That's what they say, is it?" asked Mr. Thomas.
"Yes," said the girl. She shifted restlessly in her seat. "We have pictures, and memorials, back in New Haven. Why go all this way--and for what?"
The landscape changed, grasses thinning and dying as they entered the affected area around the ruined ship. Built to transport colonies between worlds, the SS Future Hope had fallen apart in the atmosphere. Her piloting crew fought the controls to bring her down with as little loss of life among the passengers as possible. The impact dug an enormous crater, throwing up waves of earth and carrying shreds and shards of the outer structure for miles. Stories said the survivors fell on their knees and thanked God for deliverance from a fiery death and persecution.
The bulk of the ship had cracked into two halves, enough remaining intact to create the illusion of a ship when one was far away. The shadow of the foredecks fell over the grav sled, and both passengers shivered. Sensors beeped, politely reminding them to engage safety gear. Mr. Thomas pulled on his mask, checking the bell clapper and seals and then looking at his daughter. She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, Dad. See?" She wriggled the mask, showing it was seated properly on her face, and clipped the filter box to her belt. Gloves went on over their coveralls. Leaks in the Hope had either vented or seeped into the ground long ago, but the unhealthy look of the area encouraged caution.
"Good," said Mr. Thomas. He slowed the pony to a stop some distance from the public entrance. Others parked closer, but he didn't mind the walk. A group of pilgrims passed, coming from even further out, and he smiled as he heard them singing in unison, their voices filtered slightly through their masks.
"Great is the Lord and worthy of praise… By His power He proves He is love..."
"They're good," said Cait. "They must be a professional choir."
He nodded, pulling the box of mushroom spores out of a coverall pocket. "Do you want yours now, or later?"
She shrugged. "Later, I guess."
A large sign had been erected by the entrance, detailing the story of the colony founders gathering their brethren and embarking on the SS Future Hope to escape slavery or death should they not conform to their world's expectations. They'd come a great distance--passing the point of no return--when engine malfunction dropped them here. New Haven was founded on the survivors' beliefs, and as it grew and flourished they returned yearly to the wreckage--first to mourn the lost and later to remember why their families had risked everything on taking a colony ship to the unknown. They planted mushrooms and flowers, the mushrooms to restore the ruined earth, and the flowers to make it beautiful in due time.
The outer skin of the spaceship was gone, revealing struts. Early pilgrims had concentrated their efforts here, and now the entry to the Hope was a garden contrasting with the bleak surroundings and solemn aspect of the ruin. Clear paths marked the usual tours--the bridge, the passenger quarters, and one small but distinct way up to the highest point of the ruin.
"I didn't remember it being so big," said Cait.
It hit Mr. Thomas the same way each time. Space ships were not meant to be approached on foot, from this angle. It made you wonder how anyone would trust themselves to something so fragile. Catching the thought, he laughed at himself. He travelled regularly on business trips between planets, expecting a safe journey from each spaceship he boarded--and surely early colonists had done the same.
He followed his daughter as she picked the longest trail, scrambling up scaffolding and only glancing at the few plaques pointing out areas of interest. It was not an easy climb. Several walkways were narrow, the structural supports looking like wire. Cait moved with the agility of youth, while her father moved doggedly in her wake. He preferred to visit the passenger quarters, telling the story of the great-great grandparents and their family squeezed into a cabin with another family, trying to imagine bringing his own, smaller, family somewhere in the same space.
They paused on a viewing platform, gazing inside the hold. Light shafted down from above, giving dim illumination to the holographic projection showing the supplies the colonists had brought along. But behind that stretched empty space. Cait folded her arms on the rail, looking thoughtful, while Mr. Thomas caught his breath.
"Do you suppose those people at school have ever come here?" she asked.
"Maybe," said Mr. Thomas. "But you've seen how easy it is to forget what it's like."
She nodded. "And this isn't the same as experiencing what they went through."
"No. But this is something we have done, parents and children, since landing."
"But is it right to be thankful?" asked Cait. "Sure, it must have been scary, but are they the heroes we say they are? Were they really fleeing persecution?"
"It's hard to imagine now we have amicable relations with the worlds they left," agreed Mr. Thomas. "But does that excuse you from being thankful? Maybe… maybe we'll look back someday and say we were pleased by the wrong things. But I'd say it's worse to not be thankful at all, as if it's not a worthy exercise."
He stopped, not sure she was listening to him. Was it worth his time and effort to argue that the heart of the celebration was that God had taken their flawed efforts and mistakes and allowed them to build New Haven anyway?
They came out up-top to a cool breeze, refreshing after the long climb. Mr. Thomas drew in a long breath, glad to be out of the narrow corridors for a moment. The view was spectacular, with the sky clear all the way to where New Haven was laid out like a toy city on the plains below. A few other pilgrims moved about the platform, talking and laughing but paying no attention to the other visitors. Mushrooms sprouted in odd places, some so far out you wondered how they'd gotten there in the first place. A thin coat of moss had begun, showing the mushrooms had broken down enough to support growth.
"Shall we plant ours here?" asked Mr. Thomas.
"You usually put yours in the family cabin," said his daughter.
"You want to go there?"
"Maybe."
He thought again of his grandmother. "When I was your age, my grandma wanted to go somewhere out of the way. I wonder if we could find the spot."
"Where?" asked Cait, sparking with sudden interest, and he could only hope it lasted long enough to get them into the engineering section--which the impact had placed below ground-level.
From the highest heights to the lowest of lows, Mr. Thomas thought, and also, I don't remember when I last walked so much here. Resigned, but also eager, he checked his memory against the schematic map showing the easiest routes around the Hope and set off with Cait at his heels.
An elevator took them down through the cargo hold, the car feeling small in the empty space. On the floor, Mr. Thomas opened the door that would take them to the lower levels.
"When I was a boy," he began. "We came here every year." As they walked through a tight corridor he reminisced about the feeling of his grandfather's hand around his own, the readings and ceremonies, the way it sounded when the choir master stood and led the congregation in a hymn of praise. "They talked about how important it was to remember, and I wondered how anyone could forget. And then I thought that it was always the same every year, and how tired I was of hearing the same things."
"Seems like folk are tired of saying the same things," said Cait, referring to how little of the ceremonies remained. "Maybe they don't ring true anymore?"
"Maybe," said Mr. Thomas. "But I wish I could hear them again. And I wish you could have heard them. My stories don't do the experience justice."
It grew warm again as they descended, not that they'd been chilled by the open air. Mr. Thomas began to sweat under his face mask and he brushed his forearm against his forehead to try and quell the itch. Walls kept out the cooler outside air, and few people opened the connecting doors and airlocks when storms blew them shut again. They passed rooms where wires dangled, and sections of pipe had burst long ago. There were gaps where pieces had been scavenged for reuse. Consoles with melted screens testified to the original disaster. Father and daughter stepped carefully, feeling their way, suspecting that signs ought to have been posted to keep the place off-limits. Mr. Thomas pulled out a pen-light, its slender beam throwing the engineering section into stark relief and sending their shadows dancing over the walls.
"Dad?" asked Cait, breaking the silence. "What if I don't believe?"
Mr. Thomas felt his heart twist like the pieces of equipment that surrounded them. He didn't know if he had the right words. "I can't believe for you, honey--though I would if I could! But I can only pray I've shown you that it's worth the effort."
He risked a look over his shoulder, but his daughter was hidden in the shadows. She moved past him, ducking under a twisted cables of wires that had fallen out of the ceiling and then holding it aside for her father.
"I don't think anyone's been here since great-grandma."
"You just think that because no one's here now."
She made a face at him.
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Thomas as they entered the next room. "I remember this bit here. See how the red fused into an oak leaf shape?"
"If you say so, Dad." Cait made a show of examining the abstract design formed by the combination of elements. "I think it looks like a wrinkly hand."
He waved the criticism aside. "No, but it was right here, under this fallen slab."
They bent down. Mr. Thomas shone the pen-light into the nook, not expecting to see anything but dust. To his surprise there was a small colony of mushrooms feeding on the panel innards. Beneath their efforts, a tiny white flower blossomed.
"Great-grandma planted this?" asked Cait.
"I think she did," said Mr. Thomas. "Yes."
"But that was so long ago."
"Yes."
"And she never saw what happened!"
"I suppose not. I don't remember coming back here again with her."
"But I get to see it."
"Yes."
"Weird."
He smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."
"Do you think they got lonely?"
"They're mushrooms," said Mr. Thomas. "They're just doing what they were designed to do."
"We should put ours here too," said Cait.
Together, they opened the box and pressed the fresh spores into place a little ways from the original spread, singing the simple hymn of remembrance.
"Because the Lord our God is good… His mercy is forever sure… His faithfulness at all times stood… and shall from age to age endure!"
"Is that what great-grandma did?"
"Yes," said Mr. Thomas. "Just like that." His daughter slid her gloved hand inside his, and he squeezed it gently. "Thank you for coming with me," he told her.
"I guess it wasn't so bad," said Cait. "...Can I drive on the way back?"
I was glad to get Team Tolkien because it allowed me to work within my established universe, which is a non-magical alternate Edwardian era, more or less. But the story was originally a portal fantasy, which is why some of those elements have bled over, even though any “travel” is strictly within-world.
This is technically Chapter Two of the first book of the series, but you do not need to have read Chapter One to understand it.
If Rachel Doncath had to spend one more moment in Rafelle Cottage, she would come dangerously close to screaming. Not that it would have made any difference. No sound she could produce could drown out the blare of Uncle Ange’s endless monologues about boxing, cures for any ailment, and how he felt about the Premier Ministre, who awakened every morning intent on ruining the country. Informative though Uncle Ange’s discourse may have been, it was hardly a suitable backdrop for finishing a mathematics lesson.
Nevertheless, she suffered through it and slammed the book shut on the last of the problems. Her mother was occupied elsewhere, so correcting her work would have to wait. In the meantime, Rachel had an hour of leisure before anyone would expect her to start chores, and she meant to spend it in the best way possible: rereading her favorite of the Books of Yew. All she needed was a quiet corner.
Rafelle Cottage had precious few of those. Its ten rooms and attic barely sufficed for nine residents: Rachel, her two sisters, her mother, her grandparents, an aunt, a cousin, and the cook-general. With company infesting the parlor and sisters still bent over their lessons in the sitting room, Rachel was counting on the solitude of one of the bedrooms.
But it was not to be. She could hardly concentrate on a book in the room she shared with her cousin Ettie—calling herself Rieton lately—lolling on the bed with a hand mirror and brooding over life’s tragedies. Her mother’s room would have been ideal had not its proprietress poked in her head to order her errant daughter out. Finally, Rachel curled up on the floor of her grandfather’s study, between the standing globe and a trunk piled with wavering stacks of old papers, but she hadn’t got farther than a chapter before her grandmother found her and informed her that this was Grandpapa’s room and she shouldn’t be there. Rachel saw no point in observing that Grandpapa hardly used it anymore and was unlikely to enter while beset by the doctor and Uncle Ange. Defeated, she cleared out.
The cottage, meant to be the Doncaths’ haven of refuge during their sojourn in Faysmond, had all but shut its doors to the girl with her finger still tucked in the well-worn book. Rachel slumped against the wall in the dark of the upstairs corridor. Even here, Uncle Ange’s voice echoed as clearly as if she were sitting beside him. She rubbed her throbbing head. She needed to escape.
Desperation made her bold. She would not ask permission to go into the back garden. She would simply put on her coat and slip out the door, as she used to when she and her brother Deniol visited as small children. The garden was not at its best in mid-March, for it was still cold, but it would be blessedly solitary, and that was all that mattered.
Moments later, Rachel ran across the terrace and into the embrace of the kindest garden she knew. The lawn, misty green with March rains, spread out before her, overhung with the open arms of low-leaning trees and bushes. They crowded each other, holding hands and hobnobbing even in their early spring half-sleepiness. The leaves that made mottled shadows on the grass in summer were still absent, but an outbreak of buds on the limbs promised the return of the trees’ familiar dress. Most of them were fruit trees—apple, pear, cherry, crabapple—and soon to make a flashy appearance in white and pink and fuchsia. The flowers bordering the garden walls still awaited their orders to awaken, but spikes of bulbs poked up in secluded corners. In a few weeks, the garden would blaze with the colors of daffodils, tulips, and irises.
Rachel trod toward the bench under the crabapple tree with heavy steps and drooping shoulders. This abandoned place, holding its breath for spring, was not the garden of her childhood. The gray skies dimmed all color. The swing in the apple tree had come undone and hung lopsided. A birdhouse lay half-smashed in the muddy water of the cast-iron birdbath. Rachel’s brother ought to have been running at her side, armed with a lethal wickets ball, and Grandpapa ought to have been clipping the rose bushes. But Dennie was miles away at the naval academy in Corege, and Florentin Carothier didn’t tend his garden anymore. He engaged a boy from the village to cut the grass and keep the berry bushes from engulfing everything.
It was that very boy, Fulbert Homard, who was crossing the lawn now, swinging his shears carelessly in one hand.
Lonely though the garden had seemed, now it was stiflingly crowded. Rachel sprang from the bench, clutching her book to her chest, and darted through the nearest escape route, a blue door in the wall. For the tree-hung, rose-lined paradise off the terrace wasn’t her grandparents’ only garden.
The Far Garden on the other side of the blue door stretched longer and barer than its predecessor. A shed at the far end overlooked the kitchen plots in their raised beds. On one side, instead of a wall, a hump in the earth divided the Carothiers’ garden from Monsieur Puits’ next-door. It was Florentin’s pride that he and M. Puits were such good neighbors that they never needed a wall. Rachel had been instructed since childhood in the importance of respecting this treaty by never setting foot past the hump without express permission. She had always wanted to stand under the Puitses’ willow tree and admire up-close the little wooden ducks lined up there. But she dared not cross the hump unbidden, and her wish must die with her.
The other side of the Far Garden was even less welcoming. An enormous tangle of blackberry bushes loomed over the lawn. Many years ago, it had begun as a modest bush paying its rent in succulent fruit, not unlike the tame raspberries off the terrace. But as time passed, the blackberries had discovered their power. No one fought them back. So they grew, higher than a man’s head, wider than Rafelle Cottage. They crept an inch or two farther over the grass every year and threatened to overtake the garden. Florentin Carothier had trimmed them as a matter of form, but even he, an intrepid gardener, never dared take on the blackberry bushes. He assembled his children and later his grandchildren every summer to pick the berries and offer themselves up to be pricked and scratched by brambles in the hot sun. In return, the Carothiers dined on blackberry jam, blackberry pie, and blackberry clafoutis for months.
Every child in the Carothier household knew to respect the bushes. One did not approach them lightly. Traveling their perimeter was a journey to be supervised by a responsible adult lest one get lost en route or succumb to the beckoning branches. Rachel’s grandfather had taken her and Dennie round the bushes once, and Rachel had been terrified of seeing the remains of a squirrel Grandpapa said had died back there. But all she saw, besides the bushes, was the wall they backed against. This wall towered over the other garden walls, higher than the blackberries, and in its middle, cradled by red bricks, was a green door.
“Where does it go?” Rachel had once asked.
“It’s locked,” Grandpapa had said simply, and that was enough for her, for Grandpapa knew everything.
Rachel had no intention of making a second circumnavigation this afternoon, but the bushes wouldn’t mind if she read on the lawn in their shadow until Fulbert went away. She checked the grass for dampness and settled cross-legged on a patch within sight of the blue door. She was alone in the Far Garden with only the song of an exuberant robin for company. Not even the foliage whispered their secrets. They dozed beneath the overcast skies, as indifferent to the girl among them as if she had been a stray insect.
Rachel opened her book to the second chapter, the one in which Princess Yewna (unaware of her true name and identity) is driven by a threat on her life to set out on her adventures, accompanied by a creature of her own invention. Rachel had read The Enchanted Land of Yew dozens of times. She knew every word, and yet, like an old and dear friend, it never bored her. Yewna was just saying, “Quietly now! All we have to do is trudge,” when Fulbert took her advice and trudged into the Far Garden, whistling and pushing a clattering lawn mower.
At the sight of Rachel, he scowled and said something in Faysmondian. His remark was beyond her vocabulary, but she didn’t need a translation. She was in his way, and he objected to her hanging about interfering with his work. His precise words were much less formal and far more verbally embellished, but that was the gist of it.
Despite the limitations of Rachel’s Faysmondian, the phrase for “I’m sorry” was burned into her brain, and she babbled it now as he approached with the mower’s bloodthirsty blade rotating nearer and nearer. He was not in a merciful mood.
Rachel stumbled to her feet. She couldn’t return to the other garden; he was blocking the way. She couldn’t cross the hump to M. Puits’ garden; she might as well lie down and let the mower run her over. That left only one place.
Rachel ran for the back side of the blackberry bushes.
* * *
Once she was out of Fulbert’s sight, rounding the bushes proved a more painstaking task than a properly dramatic escape would allow. The overgrown branches left little space between them and the high wall, and Rachel’s hands were more than a little scratched by the time she found the green door. The paint had worn away a little more from the elements and neglect. The knob was rustier. No one had opened it for years, if ever. No one would need to follow her here.
At the foot of the door, where the grass aspired to marsh height, Rachel settled down with her spine against one of the doorposts and rejoined Princess Yewna. But even the road to certain adventure couldn’t distract her from the oddity of the green door. Why would one bother putting it in and painting it such a cheerful color, only to hide it behind blackberry bushes and leave it locked? There must be neighbors on the other side, but if they were so standoffish, they wouldn’t have allowed a door in the first place.
Rachel put her finger in the book and her eye to the keyhole. She could make out nothing but indistinct greenery on the other side, not unlike her grandparents’ garden. Just another back garden like any other in the village of Rosières, fussed over by some elderly person and off-limits to children most of all. Yet she pressed her eye closer, as if that would reveal anything worth seeing.
As she leaned further on the door, it gave a little.
As if it wanted to open. As if it could open, if given the chance. A securely locked door wouldn’t have moved beneath the pressure of one girl’s head against the keyhole.
Slipping in a hair-ribbon to mark her place in her book and tucking it under her arm, Rachel rose to her feet and gripped the grimy knob in both hands.
She gave it a twist, first to the right, then the left. It moved.
She turned it all the way. The bolt clicked.
Leaning on the door, she inched it open. The hinges screamed in atrophied pain, and Rachel cringed, certain the entire village had heard that. But when she stepped through and stood with her back to the doorpost and the door ajar behind her, she found herself the only one in sight in the most beautiful garden she had ever seen.
It was more like a park than a garden, stretching as far as she could see in every direction with wide patches of clipped lawn dotted in the distance with sheep. Clumps of trees like small forests obscured any buildings. There were no blackberries on this side of the wall, but the doorway was overhung with ivy and the promise of dripping blooms. Surrounding Rachel on either side, an abundance of shrubs and other large plants ran rampant. A faint haze of pale green buds hung over them like a veil, and they waved their leaves in the slight breeze, calling her forward. Their foliage intertwined, sprawled along the ground, and pointed like a signpost toward a patch of nearby trees at the well-trampled grass path that lay at Rachel’s feet.
The sun had broken through the overcast skies, washing this garden in a dazzling glow and sending beams through gaps between the trees. Not an insect buzzed, not a bird called. Whoever owned this place seemed to have abandoned it, albeit in remarkably pristine condition, held suspended in a spell preserving its glory.
Rachel drank it all in ravenously, but her mind spun. If there were an expansive estate just next door to her grandparents’ cottage, someone would have mentioned it by now. Surely she would have noticed any gates the many, many times she had passed down the road. But a grand residence (if indeed one existed somewhere beyond the far trees), inhabited or not, would explain why her grandparents never associated with these next-door neighbors, as they did with the Puitses, who were of their class.
Whoever might own this garden, Rachel had no business trespassing on their property any more than she did crossing the hump in the Far Garden. If her mother knew where she was right now, she would be appalled. She would swoop through the door, drag Rachel through, make her issue a formal apology to the owners, and accept whatever punishment they chose to dole out. Rachel of course had no intention of trespassing that afternoon. She had been merely curious about the green door, and now that she knew where it led, she should return to the Far Garden, close the door behind her, never open it again, and read behind the blackberry bushes in peace, satisfied in her new, if useless, knowledge.
And she would do that. But it would be a shame to come this far and not get a thorough look. Just a look. She wouldn’t touch anything or go too far. Only to those trees, through which she thought she could see some sort of building. The walk wasn’t difficult with that already-cleared path, but she still saw no sign of life that could account for such well-kept grass. As she neared the trees, she saw why.
In a clearing stood a stone building with the pointed gables and arrow-shafts and arched windows of a castle—in ruins. The roof had completely gone. Vines poked through the glassless windows. Crumbled bits of bricks lay on the ground, half-covered in leaves. No one had lived here for a very long time.
And since the inhabitants had long deserted this place, they wouldn’t mind Rachel exploring it. It wouldn’t be trespassing. People toured old buildings all the time; that was called sightseeing, and it was perfectly respectable.
Nevertheless, Rachel approached the trees with snailing reverence. Her footsteps through the grass were deafening, but not so loud that she couldn’t hear the voices in the distance.
She paused mid-step and turned. Two men in the distance were running and shouting in Faysmondian—at her! The clattering of the tools they held reminded her of Fulbert mowing her grandparents’ garden this very minute. And, as with Fulbert, she lost her head and, clutching her book to her chest like a shield, bolted without thought into the trees, toward the ruins, praying for the cover of the undergrowth. She gritted her teeth in resignation at every slap of a low-hanging branch or vine, at scratch from a bramble. It was what she deserved, and comparatively merciful, considering the extent of her crime.
Finding no door on the nearest side of the crumbling castle, she wound her way into the clearing, dotted with surprisingly neat bushes that would probably flower later in the spring. And it was beside one of these bushes that she encountered the elephant.
It was a young elephant, shorter than she, raising its trunk to the bush to browse off it, the way giant elk did with the birch trees in Rachel’s home in New Archangel. Rachel froze, racking her brain for the etiquette for elephant encounters. In a lifetime of being instructed what to do in case of meeting a bear or giant elk or other fearsome creature, the possibility of an elephant had simply never come up. So she invented her own protocol.
She sprinted toward an opening in the ruins clearly meant for a long-since rotted-away door. Overgrown grass drooped across the entrance, and she caught a glimpse of more greenery within. Holding her breath, she plunged in, ducked into the nearest corner, and huddled with her head on her knees, wrapped in her arms.
This estate was not abandoned; there were gardeners—of course there were, how else would the garden have stayed so well-kept? How else would the elephant—no, she couldn’t explain the elephant. Had she been in such a panic that she had imagined it? Or was it the pet of some wealthy eccentric? Whatever the case, with this place inhabited, Rachel had indeed violated the sacred rule against trespassing.
She had no excuse. She knew better. She had made her choice completely cognizant of wrongdoing, all because of an inconsequential curiosity. And now she would pay for it. The gardeners would catch her any minute now and drag her in to meet the master of the estate, who in his outrage would not only do to her whatever happened to vile trespassers but also inform her mother of her waywardness. And perhaps that was worse than owning up to some unknown aristocrat.
The gardeners’ voices had long since faded. If the elephant had seen her, it must have had no interest in giving chase, for she hadn’t heard a single thumping footstep. A remarkably inert creature.
Rachel took a long breath and let her heartbeat slow down before unburying her head to take in her surroundings.
Inside the roofless ruins was an enclosed garden. Its walls were hung with dripping vines that would cover the stones with greenery by summer. A few trees had been trained to grow flat against the walls, with contorted limbs sprawling like spiders’ legs. Beds along the foundation displayed overgrown bushes and, at their feet, the first giddy round of bulbs, pale but enthusiastic crocuses with faces upturned to the heavens, proudly announcing their arrival. And leaning against the wall nearest Rachel was a yellow bicycle.
No one who could have lived in these ruins could have owned such a modern device, much less left it behind in such usable condition. Rachel uncurled herself to take a closer look. The bicycle bore the marks of wear, but only from recent use. The mud on its wheels had not dried. The bicyclist, whoever he was, must not be far off.
Rachel couldn’t leave the ruins through the doorway, not with that elephant on the loose. Retreating further into the ruins might mean discovery by an irate aristocrat who would prosecute her for trespassing. With nowhere to safely go, she must take one chance or the other.
Clutching her book, she rounded the bulbous bush beside the bicycle and plunged deeper into the garden.
On the other side, the wall had deteriorated so much that it was now the right height to sit upon and had padded itself with a coating of moss for the ease of visitors. Rachel could easily have climbed over it, were it not already occupied.
A girl about her age lay on the wall at full length, with one hand flopped over her chest. Her long, loose white gown and masses of curly black hair like tangled vines cascaded over the stones. Tucked amid the curls on one side of her head was an enormous poppy, as bright and fresh as if just plucked from its bed. An identical flower had fallen and lay crumpled on the ground beside her. One of her satin slippers was threatening to part company with her foot. Her eyes were closed and her lips clamped tight.
Rachel fingered the spine of her book nervously. This girl could have escaped from an illustration of a Yew story. No one with any claim to reality would leave her arms and shoulders bare like that outdoors in March. But even such carelessness seemed more likely than stumbling upon a real, live wood-faery.
Live, for she did appear to be breathing. She didn’t stir as Rachel approached or when she knelt beside the trailing hem of the gown. Raising a daring hand, Rachel reached for the fabric. Her fingertip barely brushed it—solidly real, with the faint, familiar bump of woven threads—when it shifted out of her reach. With a single fluid launch, the girl sat bolt upright and opened her dark eyes.
There was no escaping this time. That face had distinctly seen her. Those eyes stared back into hers. Rachel had been caught.
The girl spoke to her rapidly in Faysmondian. Rachel understood a word here and there, but otherwise it might as well have been the tongue of another world.
“Pardon me,” she replied haltingly in the same language. “I speak only a little Faysmondian.”
“Coregean, then?” said the girl. At Rachel’s nod, she said impressively, “Tableau vivant. I am the Sleeping Maiden. I have been here for a hundred years and I have been guiding the prince to my rescue through our shared visions. If he doesn’t get lost on the way.”
Rachel didn’t know how to answer that. It would be impolite to ask the point of reenacting a fairy-tale scene without an audience to appreciate it.
Silence didn’t faze this girl. “How did you get here?”
Rachel hung her head. “Through the green door in the wall.”
“The door that’s always locked? But how?”
“Weren’t you the one who unlocked it?” asked Rachel. At the moment, that seemed the most plausible explanation.
The girl tossed her hair. “If I could unlock it, would I still be here? You had to have opened it yourself somehow.”
“I—just turned the knob and it opened today. I don’t know why. But I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
That had to be a rhetorical question, with Rachel’s presence as living proof of her crime. “I’m trespassing on your property. I know I don’t have any right to be here, but I came anyway. I don’t even have an excuse. I just really, really wanted to know what was here, and I should have left as soon as I saw. I’m sorry.”
“And curiosity is a dreadful sin, would you say?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” hazarded Rachel. “If it’s curiosity about...something you aren’t supposed to be curious about. I am very sorry. I will accept whatever the consequences are, just please don’t tell my mother.”
“Do I know your mother?”
“I suppose not?”
“Then why should I tell her? I wouldn’t know her if I saw her, if you’re not mistaken.”
“But you’re supposed to tell people’s parents when their child commits crimes. And since my father is at sea, it would have to be my mother.”
The girl raised her eyebrows. “In all my years of imagining criminals getting into my garden, you look exactly like what I pictured. And I know what I’m going to do with you.”
Rachel cringed, awaiting a blow, physical or verbal.
But the girl sprang up in a cloud of trailing white and fluttered to the other side of the bulbous bush while struggling to slip her shoe back in place without hands. She returned with a box-like object which she held out to Rachel.
“Would you please photograph me?” she asked simply.
It was a camera, just the right size to sit in one hand, with various holes and knobs whose uses Rachel didn’t recognize. First a bicycle and now this. Wood-faeries apparently had more modern conveniences than mortals gave them credit for.
As the sense of the gesture sank in, Rachel shrank back. This girl must be mocking her. Her long mouth had spread into a wide smile nearly as curly as her hair. Her dark eyes sparkled mischievously. There was something almost familiar in her long, olive face, with its strong nose and jaw—perhaps a resemblance to the Otionovian people Rachel once lived among. The girl seemed harmless enough, but anyone in possession of such a grand estate was not likely to take kindly to being crossed, especially in a means of recompense for a grave transgression.
“But I’ve never taken a photograph before,” said Rachel in a small voice.
“Oh, it’s the easiest thing in the world!” said the girl. She pointed to Rachel’s book. “If you would put that down. You hold it here”—she shoved the camera into Rachel’s hands and positioned them on a level with her waist—“and you look in there to frame the shot. And then when you’re ready you just flip the shutter.” She pointed to a sort of small lever on top of the box. “And that’s all there is to it. Do you think you can do it?”
“Well,” said Rachel, overwhelmed by this sudden, rapid wealth of information, “I suppose so—”
A squeal from the girl nearly deafened her. “Oh, thank you!” she cried, throwing her arms around Rachel. “Thank you so much! I thought I’d never find anyone to do it, after I went to all this trouble with the dress and the flowers, you know. It would be a shame to waste it. Or to waste this day. Isn’t this the most beautiful weather?”
“It’s cloudy again,” said Rachel, backing away lest the girl touch her again.
The girl waved that away. “The sun will be back any moment. It has to do something to keep things interesting.” She draped herself across the wall in a close approximation of her previous pose, with her arm flung over her heart with artful carelessness and an expression of Tranquil Slumber.
“Which one do I look through again?” asked Rachel nervously.
“On the left. I mean, my left. Your right.”
Holding the camera at waist-height, Rachel contorted herself down to get a view. The camera displayed a tiny girl enclosed in the shape of a small photograph. With shaking hands, Rachel struggled to position her just right in the frame. As soon as she thought she had arranged it level and symmetrical, she doubted herself and had to try again.
The expression of Tranquil Slumber was fading from the girl’s face. “Is everything all right?”
“Your train’s bunched up,” said Rachel.
The girl sat up, addressed the problem impatiently, and resumed her sleeping pose, which, if she had actually fallen asleep thus, would have guaranteed her a numb arm on awakening.
“Better?” she asked, flicking a stray curl off her face.
“Yes!” Rachel gasped and pushed the shutter before she meant to. The camera flashed, and the photograph was taken, either to effect or to ignominy and a waste of film, as time would tell. “I probably got it wrong.”
“Getting it wrong would be not taking it at all,” said the girl. “Now let’s try another!”
She struck several more poses—peeking from behind the bulbous bush, kneeling on the ground with a flower in one hand, looking over a shoulder—and while Rachel meticulously framed each shot and pushed the shutter with shaking hands, the girl chattered.
“Do you live in that blue cottage on the other side of the wall?” she asked. “The one with all the blackberries?”
“Not exactly. But we’ll be stopping there for a long time. Do you know my grandparents? Florentin and Adelie Carothier?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” said the girl. “I’ve never even heard their names.”
“Then how do you know they have blackberries?”
The girl’s hair hung over her face as she wiped grass from her hem. “Doesn’t everyone have blackberries? We probably do. Somewhere.”
“We?”
“My mother and I. We live here.”
Rachel frowned. “You live in a ruined castle?”
“What?” The girl brightened when Rachel gestured to the walls around them. “This isn’t a castle at all. It’s just an old tithe barn. No one’s used it in four hundred years, and no one ever lived here. We’ve got more ruins, but Mother and I don’t live in them. Just an ordinary small castle—you can’t see it from here—and it’s only ruined when I chip the plaster or spill something on the floor.”
She said this offhandedly, as if inhabiting a castle were no less mundane a fact of life than lessons and chores.
Rachel, however, couldn’t believe her ears. She had never met anyone who owned so much as a mere grand house. Her parents had sometimes gone to dinners at the halls and manors of high-ranking naval officers, and she had pressed her mother for every detail afterward. This girl was likely a gentleman’s daughter, one more than a little above her in class, and Rachel must remember to mind her manners more than usual.
“Forgive my misunderstanding, mademoiselle,” she said.
“Oh, please,” said the girl, “call me Rietta.”
Rachel smiled. “I can remember that. That’s my cousin’s name. But there are many Riettas my age, of course. Were your parents admirers of the Queen? Or rather, the Princess, when you must have been born.”
“Yes,” said the girl slowly. “I believe they were. But it’s an old family name too, so I was stuck with it one way or another. I rather like it though. It’s something everyone will remember, and it’s a nice feeling to know everyone knows your name. What’s yours, by the way?”
“Rachel Doncath.”
“Well, Rachel, I think that’s enough photographs here.”
Rachel, much relieved, tried to hand Rietta back her camera, but Rietta was too busy slinging her train over one arm and marching away toward the doorway.
“Come on!” she called. “Let’s take some more by the trees.”
“No!” shouted Rachel, louder than she had meant. She ran after Rietta and grabbed her arm. “Don’t go out there. There’s an elephant on the loose. I don’t know how it got here or why, but I know I saw it. Don’t go. You could be killed.”
Rietta’s eyes widened, and her arm beneath Rachel’s fingers stiffened. She pulled away, and Rachel shrank back.
“It just so happens,” Rietta said grandly, “that this elephant is an old friend of mine. Come!”
And Rachel followed with timid resignation. Rietta, her arms flung out and her draperies fluttering behind her as if constructed from butterfly wings, skittered along the same route Rachel had taken earlier, straight for the bush where the elephant had been browsing.
It was still there, its trunk suspended in the same position, never bringing down a mouthful of foliage. For this elephant couldn’t move its trunk if it wanted to. It was constructed of some sort of bent wood, with eye holes and a tail and small tusks.
“Dangerous little fellow, isn’t he?” said Rietta.
Rachel crossed her arms. “It looked real enough earlier. From far away.”
“I wish he were,” said Rietta, throwing her arms around the elephant’s neck. “Eugène wouldn’t hurt anyone, the darling.”
Rather excessive affection for a creature made from bent wood, but Rachel waited in silence until Rietta, tired of Eugène, recalled her mission and boldly charged toward the trees. She did not see Rachel pause to pat Eugène before scrambling to catch up to her.
Every snap of a photograph sent a shudder through Rachel, as if she were about to crack an egg or break a bone, but quitting this session was not an option. Rietta had every right to report Rachel’s trespassing to her family if she refused to comply. Rachel would take photographs all afternoon if she had to, although it might mean being late to help with dinner and getting scolded.
Rietta stopped beside an oak that had grown sideways, with a thick branch bent halfway to the ground. “How about this one?” She adjusted her hair and gown, arranging the train artfully in front of her, and struck a pose of Mysterious Allure. A wood-faery without wings, albeit a rather rumpled one.
“Perfect,” said Rachel, just as much to herself as to Rietta as she framed the shot. This one practically arranged itself, if only she could keep her hands steady. And she would have, if a sudden cry from a bird directly overhead had not made her jump and hit the shutter with startled fervor.
And jam it firmly in place.
It would not budge, no matter how she jostled it. She didn’t dare exert too much force, lest she damage it further. But she couldn’t leave this probably expensive camera in such a state.
Rietta exchanged Mysterious Allure for Restrained Impatience. “Is everything all right?”
“I think I broke it,” said Rachel miserably. “I don’t know what I did, but it’s stuck. I’m so sorry.”
Rietta flicked aside her train. “Let’s have a look at this.” She snatched the camera and fiddled with it, muttering asides. Rachel distinctly made out the Faysmondian for “idiot,” in the feminine, no less. She should have known this was coming. Rietta had been pleasant enough as long as Rachel had properly performed her bidding, but after an idiotic error like this, any chance for leniency ceased to exist.
Rietta swatted a strand of hair out her face and glared. “It’s never done this before. But—” She cocked her head, listening. Footsteps were crashing, nearer and nearer, accompanied by dishearteningly familiar voices. The two gardeners who had tried to chase Rachel, red-faced and armed with shears and hoes, had finally caught up to her. Rachel ducked behind the nearest thick tree, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but Rietta, still holding the damaged camera, stood her ground.
“Come on!” whispered Rachel frantically, but the impending doom didn’t seem to concern Rietta at all.
Nor should it, Rachel remembered. Rietta lived here. Rachel was the only interloper, and she had not only trespassed but destroyed a valuable camera beyond hope of repair. Rietta would surely report her crimes, and the men would drag her back to Rafelle Cottage, probably by one ear, to present her in disgrace to her entire family, but not before they hauled her in to be reprimanded by Rietta’s mother, who stormed into Rachel’s imagination as one of those severe grand ladies, long-nosed, tight-lipped, and formidable of character.
From behind the tree, Rachel listened to the gardeners asking Rietta indignant questions in Faysmondian. Too late now to make a bolt for it. Escape would only increase the appearance of guilt. Rachel’s best chance at this point was abject contrition.
She crept out in the open, knocking her knee on the tree trunk and bruising herself in the process. She tried not to flinch at the pain. It was as much as she deserved.
Rietta was speaking to the gardeners in rapid Faysmondian, using the wide gestures and expressive cadences typical of the language. Rachel couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded perturbed. Her words, at their breathless speed, were hard to decipher for one with primarily a textbook knowledge of Faysmondian. Rachel recognized a few words here and there, such as “garden” and “I do not like it” and—“my friend”? Most gentlemen’s daughters would not use such a term of a member of their staff. Perhaps it was ironic, or—
That wasn’t all she had said. Rachel’s brain was slow to process, but she was almost certain that the pronoun Rietta had used shortly before those words was not “you” or “he,” but “she.”
She is my friend.
Rachel had known Rietta less than an hour. She had trespassed on her property, had probably been impudent to her multiple times, and had broken her camera beyond hope. And yet here was Rietta, after calling her an idiot moments before, bestowing upon her a title she had done nothing to earn.
Surely Rachel had misheard something.
The gardeners didn’t seem convinced either. They eyed Rachel with the wariness they might direct toward an aphid among roses. Rietta said something sharp and waved them away as if swatting flies. As they retreated with polite reluctance, she turned back to Rachel. “I got rid of them all right. They won’t dare bother you now. Now where were we?”
“Your camera,” said Rachel softly.
“Oh.” Rietta examined the machine in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there.
“I can pay for it. I don’t have much money, but I can give you all I have now and then the rest later. Perhaps I could clean Madame Puits’s house for her or be her companion in the afternoons. I don’t know. But I will pay for it.”
“Don’t bother.” Rietta wrinkled her nose at the camera and abandoned it at the foot of the nearest tree. “It’s old. If it hadn’t jammed for you, it would have for me sooner or later. I can pinch some tools and open it up and have a better look tonight. It’ll be good as new tomorrow.”
“Are you certain?” said Rachel.
Rietta lifted her chin. “Would I have said so if I didn’t mean it? Of course I’m certain! You have my word. I will fix it.”
“Thank you. It’s very good of you.” Rachel twisted her hands, unsure how to put her next question. “Did you—I mean, did I hear—earlier, when you were—”
A clang from a church bell finished the sentence for her in four chimes. It was far too loud to have come from St. Liane’s in the village; if Rachel hadn’t known better, she would have thought the sound came from the castle grounds. But that detail was the least of her worries. Her mother would expect her to manifest in the kitchen by four o’clock. Any later, and she would arrive to a mournful recitation of all her tasks that others, martyr-like, had undertaken in her absence.
“Yes?” said Rietta. “You were saying?”
“I have to go! I have to get home now. Which way is the green door?” Rachel’s eyes roamed frantically from tree to tree but found no trace in sight of the path to the boundary wall.
Rietta’s face fell. Even the poppy in her hair seemed to droop. “Really? But we were having so much fun! I was, at least. Weren’t you?”
“It’s not that,” said Rachel. She had been enjoying herself, she realized to her surprise. What had begun as penance had become almost a game. “My mother will be cross.”
That got Rietta’s attention. “Oh! We can’t have that. You can borrow my bicycle. It’ll get you there in no time.”
Not for someone who had never ridden a bicycle. Rachel shook her head. “Thank you, but—I’d rather walk. Which way?”
* * *
The walk through the garden by the boundary wall had stretched a thousand steps longer as Rachel sprinted it with Rietta at her side. Rietta chattered faster than their feet, packing in as many words as possible about nothing in particular—the flowers, the sheep in the far meadow, a pond somewhere beyond the trees where she fed the fish and called them all by name. Rachel nodded in the appropriate places, but she hardly heard half of it. The garden and even Rietta’s voice were fading to a blur, replaced by the dismally real prospect of the hot, crowded kitchen and the unchanging chores awaiting her. Part of her hoped the wall would have vanished in the last hour, sealing her in the castle grounds.
No such luck. The wall loomed as solid and secretive as ever. The green door, creaking as it swayed in a slight breeze, remained open as she had left it.
“May I?” asked Rietta. Not waiting for an answer, she poked her head through the doorway and gasped. “They’re even bigger than I expected!” she almost shouted. “How did you grow them so huge? Do your gardeners never cut them?”
“Shh! They’ll hear you,” said Rachel, unable to fight the trembling. Every second wasted cost her a little more of her grandmother’s wrath.
“Oh, I don’t care. What’ll they do? Come out and say hello? I can handle that.”
“It’s all right for you. But then they’ll know I trespassed. And I am still sorry for that, by the way.”
Rietta crossed her arms. “I do wish you’d stop apologizing. We’ve been over this already. There’s nothing to apologize for. Don’t think of it as ‘trespassing.’ Such an ugly word. You were…” She mulled the matter over. “You were invited post hoc!”
“I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think they’re going to believe that one.” Nevertheless, a smile had crept into the corners of Rachel’s mouth and hovered there. She was invited.
“You were supposed to come. Why else would the door be open today after years and years of being locked? I’m not a bit sorry you came. And I hope you’ll come again? If the door is still open? Please say yes!”
“Well,” said Rachel, “I don’t know if my people would like it.”
“I don’t see why not. They wouldn’t if they only knew that—” Rietta cut herself off, as if the words had burned her lips.
“That what?”
Rietta examined her shoe tips, letting her hair hang over her face. “That I—that your friend has invited you. Of course.”
No one at home would believe that either. But as Rachel took in the now upturned face, with its solemn expression and anxious eyes, she found that she could believe it. At least for the moment.
“Thank you,” she said.
It was not a yes. But it was not a no either. Rietta nodded with understanding.
As the door closed with a decisive click behind Rachel on the blackberries’ side of the wall, a barely hushed “Until tomorrow!” spouted from the keyhole. But Rachel had no time to answer. The racket of Fulbert’s mower had ceased, leaving her way to the cottage clear, and besides, the moment of return from the enchanted land never left one much opportunity for reflection. Isidora Peale in The Marvelous Magician of Yew after being sent home had barely touched her native ground before bursting back into her aunt’s cottage and offering to help with supper, only realizing once she had gone indoors and the portal had long since melted away that she had left behind—
The Enchanted Land of Yew wasn’t tucked under Rachel’s arm where it belonged. She had set it down—when? It must have been when Rietta handed her the camera and she had to make room. She had left it in the ruins, for the elements and the insects and the merciless gardeners and—for Rietta to find and dust off and bring back to her own room. Rachel knew it as surely as if she had seen her new friend in the act. Rietta would ensure her book would stay safe and ready for its owner to take it home tomorrow.
After all, Rachel had not told Rietta no. And it was impolite to refuse an invitation from a friend.
