Kerka's Book Page 3

  We swept to the center of the clearing on a path of fairy-flung rose petals. A grassy mound rose as we approached. Birdie and I had sat on willow chairs and eaten dinner at a table set atop a larger version of this rise. Only one woven willow chair stood by the table on the mound now, and the large leather-bound book—The Book of Dreams—was already in place.

  Fairies came out of the willows as we walked, so that when I reached the chair, they hovered to my left and right, conveying the same sense of urgency I felt in Queen Patchouli’s brisk pace. Without waiting to be told, I sat down and stared at the ancient book. The silver lettering on the cover seemed cast in the blue light of moonbeams even though the sun was now spilling over the tops of the trees into the clearing. Morning had come quickly.

  “It’s time to write your dreams, Kerka,” Queen Patchouli said solemnly. She flicked her wrist, and the massive book opened to a blank page.

  A fairy wearing a golden gown and a goldenrod wreath on her blond hair brought a peacock feather and a shell to the table. The feather was a quill pen. The shell had a blue lid made of fish scales. Inside was a pool of silvery blue ink.

  “Reading the dreams of your ancestors is a privilege we usually bestow on our fairy-godmothers-in-the-making, but time is an important factor for you, Kerka.” Sighing, Queen Patchouli looked uncharacteristically apologetic. “We dare not dally, and thus we will forego the ritual of writing your dream within a dream.” Queen Patchouli bowed her head slightly. “You may begin.”

  I knew what the queen meant about dreams within dreams. I was a little disappointed not to get to read my family’s dreams, but if there wasn’t time, complaining wouldn’t help. Hoping that if I wrote fast, there would be enough time to at least see my mother’s entry, I picked up the quill pen. Dipping the pen in the ink, I wrote my dream, which was simply:

  My handwriting was bold in the center of the page. I signed my name at the bottom and dated the page at the top.

  I set down the pen. Birdie had told me that drawings, glitter stars, and lace had magically appeared on her page when she finished. My page remained as I had written it—a single, unadorned sentence. A twinge of disappointment faded when I realized that the presentation of my dream described me perfectly: to the point, with no frills.

  “Finished already?” Sounding surprised, Queen Patchouli stepped closer. The fairies sitting on toadstools murmured softly and exchanged glances.

  I held up my hand when a small picture of a squirrel appeared on a corner of the page. Suddenly drawings of fall leaves and acorns scrolled across the top of the page to a gray wolf in the other corner. The autumn foliage design changed into evergreen sprigs and pinecones down the outer edge of the page to a reindeer in the bottom corner. Green holly with red berries linked the reindeer to an elf wearing a red cap in the opposite corner, and interlaced blue icicles completed the border along the inside edge. Perhaps I wasn’t so plain after all. When nothing else appeared, I lowered my hand. “Now it’s finished.”

  “Very well, then,” Queen Patchouli said, gathering the mist back around her. “Every girl who enters Aventurine has the chance to change things for the better here and in the real world. Although you are starting from behind, you’ve already proven your ability to face challenges and overcome them. Therefore, the time you did not spend writing your dream can be spent in the dreams of your ancestors.”

  I struggled not to grin, and Queen Patchouli pretended not to notice my struggle.

  “Knowing the hearts and secrets of those who came before you in the Pax Lineage may help,” said the queen. With a wave of her hand, the misty net floated free of her dress and turned blue as it settled over the table and me.

  The tattered pages of The Book of Dreams began to turn, going faster and faster until they stopped suddenly on my mother’s dream.

  June 21, 1987

  Tuula and I have been fighting for months. We are standing on opposite cliffs across a wide canyon screaming our different reasons why we are mad. My sister should be the one person in the world who understands me. Someone has to end this fight. I will wrap my “sorry” in a wind rope and throw it across the wide gulf to her. I will keep trying until Tuula and I cross our Kalis sticks again in honor of the Pax.

  Britta

  I never knew that my mother and aunt fought. I always thought of them as the two teenage girls in the photo with their arms around each other in their folk dancing outfits. My aunt had gone on to be a peacemaker for the U.N., but my mom was the quiet one, making her own kind of peace in our village in Finland, a helper of women, a part-time dance teacher, never expecting praise or notice.

  Queen Patchouli closed the book with another wave of her hand. Then she led me to a spot under the magnificent magnolia tree. “You must change into proper fairy-made attire before you begin your mission.”

  “What is my mission?” I asked. I was anxious to know, but Queen Patchouli clearly wasn’t ready to tell me.

  “Clothes first.” Pale blue fairy wings fluttered as the queen squared her shoulders and lifted her regal chin. Raising her arms like an orchestra conductor, she flicked her wrists again, pointing first to the right, then to the left.

  Responding to the queen’s command, vines sprouted from the ground in a circular pattern. Stems thickened and leaves widened as the vines grew and wove themselves into a large, overturned green basket with a doorway in the front. I watched as flowers blossomed over the canopy and streamers of morning glories grew downward, forming a curtain over the open doorway. A carpet of clover and violets blanketed the interior and stretched out to where I was standing. If Birdie had been there she would have laughed. The fairy queen liked things to be dramatic, and sometimes it was funny to what lengths she would go in order to create just the right effect.

  “You’ll find everything you need inside,” Queen Patchouli told me. “Just open your backpack.”

  Thanking the fairy queen, I rushed down the flower path.

  “Dress warmly!” Queen Patchouli called.

  Eager to find my stick and get on with my quest, I pushed aside the morning glories and entered the garden dressing room. My backpack was nestled in the violet carpet at the back. Falling on my knees, I unbuckled it and immediately sprang clear when a thumping sound came from inside it. I scrambled backward and narrowly avoided being impaled by the wooden spire that zoomed upward out of my backpack. When the spire was ten feet tall, it began to unfold in a dozen different directions. Wood cracked and shuddered as panels slammed against each other until a completed wardrobe towered above me.

  Getting to my feet, I faced the magical closet. A mountain-and-stag design that matched my backpack was carved into the double doors, along with a leopard’s head framed by crossed Kalis sticks above the doors. The handles on the three drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe were shaped like cat’s paws, proving once more that Aventurine was different for everyone, just as Zally had said. This wardrobe matched me, as Birdie’s had matched her.

  Remembering that time was critical, I opened the wardrobe. There were mirrors on the inside of both its doors, but it wasn’t stuffed with fairy-made clothes for every imaginable occasion like Birdie’s had been. Instead, everything I found was practical for winter and similar to things I had worn back home in Finland: pants and boots, sweaters and tops, coats, hats, mittens, and gloves in bright colors. No matter what I chose to wear, I would be warm and reminded of home—albeit a little more colorfully than I was used to dressing! I guess the fairies had to have fun, too.

  I didn’t mind not having too many choices; I liked wearing a school uniform so I didn’t have to spend time deciding what to wear every day. I didn’t waste a minute now. Peeling off my soccer uniform from the dream I didn’t have, I put on orange cargo pants and tied them with a sash, then pulled on a soft blue long-sleeved T-shirt. I riffled through a short stack of sweaters and found a turtleneck in a dark raspberry with snowflakes on the cuffs. I picked socks that matched the sweater.

  After I laced u
p a sturdy pair of hiking boots, I spent a little longer looking at the coats. I needed something warm but not too bulky. I chose a long turquoise coat made of a soft material I had never felt before. It was trimmed and lined with spotted faux fur, and an embroidered brambly design decorated the cuffs and hem. The instant I stuffed a pair of red mittens into the roomy coat pockets, the wardrobe collapsed twice as fast as it had formed. When the transformation was finished, the tip of my Kalis stick stuck out the top of my backpack.

  A fairy dressed in violet came into the dome carrying a woven basket. She carefully folded her wings to fit through the doorway and held out the basket, saying, “These are for your journey.” The basket contained a drawstring pouch, which looked like it was filled with food, and six large pea pods.

  I took the pouch from the basket and put it in my backpack. Then I reached for the pea pods. I put five of them into my pack, then, curious, held the last one and started to poke at it gently.

  “Don’t!” the fairy warned, staying my hand. She took another small pod from her basket, held it up, and jabbed it with her finger. The pea pod expanded until it was as big as a zucchini. The stem end split open, and the fairy poured water from the pod into her hand. “Like magic,” she said.

  Or a big mess, I thought. But still, if handled correctly, it was amazingly useful and practical.

  “Ready?” the fairy asked. I nodded and, draping the coat over my arm, followed her outside. When we cleared the doorway, the flowers on the canopy burst, creating a shower of colorful petal confetti. The vines untangled and retracted until they disappeared back into the ground.

  Queen Patchouli sat in a swing made of weeping willow branches. When she rose to meet me, the branches untwisted and returned to their natural state. “You and your sisters are very different, and you are all missing a vital part of yourselves,” the queen said. “Biba doesn’t speak, and Rona is running away from her pain.”

  “What am I missing?” I couldn’t think of anything.

  “If your mission is successful, you’ll find out,” Queen Patchouli said.

  “What is my mission?” I asked again.

  “You must first find Biba’s voice, Kerka. If you do, you should be able to discover and remedy the missing parts of yourself and Rona without too much difficulty. But if you fail to find Biba’s voice, neither you nor Rona will be able to return to Aventurine. It is possible that Biba would have another chance for herself, but she is too young to know for sure now.”

  The quest seemed so unfair and outrageous, I couldn’t help but say something. “How am I supposed to do that?” I asked. “Birdie had to find a stone and heal a blighted tree, things you can see and touch. And she had me to help her!”

  Queen Patchouli watched me, her expression showing neither anger nor sympathy. “True,” she said. “But each girl is different. You could not possibly expect to do something like Birdie’s mission, something you have already come through. It only means something if it is a true challenge.”

  “But a voice has no substance!” I argued. “It is an impossible task. I am happy to climb mountains and swim rivers and run miles and—”

  “You may do all those things as well, but they would be less challenging than what you have been asked to do,” Queen Patchouli said, arching an eyebrow. “Now ask yourself, why would I send you on a mission you had no hope of completing?”

  I saw the truth buried in her question. “You wouldn’t,” I answered sheepishly.

  “The fairies of Aventurine exist to help fairy-godmothers-in-the-making achieve wisdom and control of their powers,” Queen Patchouli reminded me. “I have something that will help you.” She took a small blue pouch from the folds of her dress and pulled out a rope with three large knots in it. “These knots will help you control the wind, a Pax Lineage skill you haven’t mastered yet but one you will need.” Queen Patchouli handed the pouch to the violet fairy, who tied it to the leather thongs on my belt.

  “Will I be able to ride the Redbird Wind again?” I asked hopefully. Birdie and I had ridden the mighty Redbird Wind together. It had felt just like flying, and I had loved every single second.

  “No,” Queen Patchouli said. “You’ll be going elsewhere, and these knots work differently from the feathers.”

  “How about Zally’s map?” I asked.

  “You won’t need the map,” Queen Patchouli said, softening her tone. “All you need are landmarks: Glass Lake, Three Queens, and a snowy mountain. You’ll know the way.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, but I hoped it was true. The directions sounded simple, but I knew it would be harder than it seemed. Still, there would be some mountain climbing, so that would be fun. I’ve always loved hiking, and snowy mountains didn’t worry me. Plus I had the magic rope with knots, so I’d ride the wind somehow; now I was looking forward to just starting.

  “Follow your instinct, and look for the Kalistonia Fairies.” With those words, Queen Patchouli kissed my forehead. Then she turned in a swirl of green and walked into the woods, disappearing instantly. The remaining fairies followed her, vanishing, as well, into the foliage.

  4

  Three Paths Twice

  I stood on the edge of the woods. Instinct. What did my instinct tell me? It told me to look around carefully and make an informed decision. I pulled aside the branches that the fairies had just gone through. There were three distinct trails going through the willows.

  The left-hand path looked like it was covered with pine needles; the middle path was made of sand. A squirrel sat on the right-hand path, which was made of small gray pebbles, staring at me. I couldn’t tell if it was the same squirrel I had met earlier, but it seemed like a sign. When the squirrel scampered down the path and then paused to look back, I made a decision. I followed the squirrel.

  The little animal ran ahead of me, staying out of reach. It paused now and then, twisting its brown head around to make sure I was still there. The path wove on beyond the willow trees and through an evergreen forest strewn with rocks and ferns. As I walked, the air grew cooler, and I was just thinking about putting the coat on when I almost stumbled as the path became wide stone steps leading down to a large lake. The moment I stepped onto the lake’s bank, the squirrel turned and darted back the way we had come.

  “Good-bye!” I called, feeling suddenly alone. It was possible I would be by myself for this whole quest. It would have been nice to have someone with me, but I knew that I would be all right. This way, I could do exactly what I thought I needed to do without having to explain things to anyone. It could save a lot of time, being alone.

  As I stared out over the lake, I realized what Queen Patchouli had said was true: I didn’t need a map. The lake’s surface was so still—like glass—and the pointed peaks of the three mountains on the far side of it were bathed in an unworldly golden glow. The mountains had to be the Three Queens, and the fairy-built raft of willow logs floating in the reeds would take me to where their slopes began.

  I folded my coat and placed it on the raft beside a long pole. I wore my backpack so there was no chance of dropping it in the lake—unless I fell in. Aventurine is full of surprises, and something that looked safe could easily be dangerous. Large creatures might live in the lake or the calm water could suddenly become a tidal wave or a whirlpool. I had learned how to swim with Birdie, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it again without the river maidens’ magic. I was thankful that at least the idea of swimming didn’t bother me anymore, or this would have been a lot harder.

  Gripping the sides of the raft with both hands, I pushed off. Jumping aboard just as it left shore, the tips of my toes touched the water. I didn’t get far. Cattails and reeds along the banks snagged on both ends of the raft. Lying flat on the raft, I paddled with my hands until it floated free. Then I sat up and paused to get my bearings.

  The fairies hadn’t given me a paddle, but I could push the raft with the pole, at least until the lake got too deep. Shifting carefully, I looked over the raft’s
edge. The water was so clear, I could see everything in detail right down to the bottom of the lake. A translucent yellow fish with a rainbow top fin swam through plants with clear round leaves. A school of pink wiggly worms followed the fish.

  Grabbing the pole, I stood so that my weight was evenly distributed. The raft rocked a little on the quiet water, but I felt steady. I slipped the end of the eight-foot pole into the water and pulled it out when it touched bottom. Most of the pole remained dry, telling me that the water was shallow. I was still close to shore, though, so the water could get deeper in the middle.

  Setting my sights on the three distant mountains, I put the pole back in the water and pushed. The raft moved forward. I pulled the pole partway up, jammed it into the bottom again, and pushed. After a few minutes, I settled into the rhythm of the poling motion—plunge, push, lift. It reminded me of music or playing a game. Every song, dance, or sport has a rhythm all its own. I can tell that I’ve got the hang of something new when the rhythm feels right.

  But there’s a downside, too. When I get into the zone of whatever I’m doing, it’s like being lulled to sleep. So I wasn’t ready when something yanked on the pole and almost pulled me into the water. I sat down hard and hung on to the pole—without it, I’d have to paddle with my hands all the way across the lake, and I didn’t have time for that!

  One of the logs the raft was made of was bigger around than the others. I pressed my heels against it for leverage and pulled the pole back. The thing in the water pulled harder and dragged me close to the raft’s edge. I looked down at the water and saw beneath the surface a giant, flat bluish-green creature that looked like a stingray with pincers for a mouth. The pincers were clamped around my pole.

  I played tug-of-war with the ray until my arms got tired. Pulling wasn’t working, so I yanked the pole back and forth as fast as I could. The stingray didn’t let go—instead, its pincers broke off as if they were made of glass! I felt terrible. I hadn’t meant to hurt the creature.