by Will Taylor
I kicked, pushing even harder, and felt something slide out of my pocket. It hit the floor and bounced, sending out a pair of sharp, metallic plinks. The Oak Key! I scrabbled with one hand, found it down by my knees, and pocketed it again. No way was I losing that key. It might be my only way back to camp and Maggie.
If there even was a way back.
No thinking about that, Abby. Back to pushing. I squinted into the light, gritted my teeth at more awful creaking from the panel—right by my ear, thank you very much—and pushed, pushed, pushed until finally the gap opened just wide enough for me to heave a whole arm through, propping it open.
I wiggled the fingers on my liberated hand. The stabby light was hot on my skin, and the air trickling through the gap smelled like ocean. Hmm. So the panel led somewhere outside. Maybe it was another summer camp! Was there a secret global network of linked-up summer camps? I was about to find out. Hopefully they didn’t all serve cucumber casserole.
By a completely embarrassing combination of pushing, grunting, and flailing, I managed to work my shoulder through the gap, then my head, my other arm, torso, backpack, and finally legs, and yes! I was free!
I heaved up onto my knees as the panel snapped closed behind me, and raised both hands against the glare, squinting around.
Hmm. So yes, I was technically free, but I was also completely confused.
I was kneeling on a huge stump surrounded by trees. Big trees, with silvery bark and long droopy green leaves. I didn’t recognize them.
The sky overhead was blue—like blue blue—and between the trees I could see a beach with golden sand and scattered white shells and gentle waves rolling in. This sure wasn’t Orcas Island anymore. For one thing, the sun was up. I must have linked somewhere hours away. Time zones away. Oceans . . .
But where?
I turned to search the panel for clues, yelped like my dad that time Matt and Mark somehow superglued themselves to the fridge, and jumped to my feet. There was nothing behind me. Nothing. Just more stump. There was no sign of a door, panel, tunnel entrance, or even pillow fort that could explain how I’d ended up where I was. There was just me, on a stump, in the sun.
Like I’d freaking grown there.
Seven
Abby
Okay. What? What what what what whaaaat?
I spun a few more circles, but the stump wasn’t giving up any clues, so I stepped down onto the springy grass and wildflowers growing around it.
Time for a status check. The trapdoor led to the coffiny thing, and the panel in the coffiny thing led here. I’d definitely gone through some sort of link. But judging by the vanishing act the panel had pulled after I squeezed through, this kind of link only offered a one-way trip.
And that was a problem. Unless I found another door or coffin dealy going back the way I’d come, it looked like I was trapped here. Meaning Maggie was trapped on her own at camp. Oh, doom. I had to get back pronto. I loved Maggie dearly, but she’d never make it two days at Camp Cantaloupe without me.
First things first, though. I was stranded in an unknown realm, and thanks to an entire lifetime playing along in Maggie’s imaginary adventure games, I knew exactly what to do: survey my surroundings and look for water and shelter.
I picked my way through the trees, heading for the golden beach and its army of pearly shells. Ooh, so many shells! I squished right up to the waterline and stared out. Ocean, as far as I could see. Nothing but ocean.
Fine.
I rehoisted the backpack on my shoulders, put the trees on my left, and set out to explore my new home.
Turned out I was on an island. A tiny island—I walked around the whole thing in maybe twenty minutes—but a beautiful one. There were rocky tide pools full of crabs and anemones on one end, a shady lagoon by a big field of boulders on the other, and those trees crowning the whole thing like a hat. I even found fresh water bubbling up between some rocks at the edge of the boulder field. Hey, at least I could check dying of thirst off the list of problems on my desert island escapade.
The funny thing was the island couldn’t always have been deserted; I mean, that stump didn’t cut itself, did it? But there were no other signs of past people. No empty buildings, no crumbling mosaics, no remnants of walls. Nothing.
Which also meant no way home.
My surveying did turn up one other mystery besides the stump: a kind of disturbance offshore not far past the little lagoon. A bubbling, like a boiling pot, only there was no steam or anything. It was very odd.
When I finally spotted my own footprints again, I kicked off my shoes and socks and waded into the water to cool my toes, looking out at the waves. The horizon stretched farther than I could spread my hands, one big rolling expanse of ocean, sky, and wind, so wide I could almost see the curve of the earth. It made my island feel like a little ship, sailing along on its lonesome.
With me as the only crew.
I really wasn’t a fan of being alone.
But hey, cheer up, Abby. It wasn’t the worst home ever. By their powers combined, the Oak Key and Shipwreck Treehouse had sent me here, and the thing to do now was try to enjoy it while I figured out how to get back to Camp Cantaloupe and rescue Maggie.
I returned to my stump in the trees, happy to see the sun had shifted enough to put it comfortably in the shade. Good. It was still the middle of the night for me, and after my adrenaline fest in the tiny wooden coffin or whatever, I was seriously considering a nap.
But actually I needed a snack first, and some company. Or the next best thing. I plopped my bag down, leaned against the stump, pulled out my camp journal, and settled in to write my best friend.
Dear Mags,
Heyyy! I hope you’re doing okay after whatever happened with the treehouse! And I’m so sorry you’re not here. I mean, I’m glad you’re not stranded like I am, but I know you really wanted to go through the trapdoor and have an adventure, so sorry you’re not. The trapdoor sent me through this sort of box-coffin thing, and then through another panel-door thingy that sent me here.
“Here” is an island somewhere in the ocean. I mean, obviously. That’s where most islands are. Do you think it means something that the trapdoor went from one island to another? You’d probably have a theory about that. Anyway, the sun’s up here, and it’s getting hot, so I’m guessing I’m far away from Orcas.
Here’s an island breakdown:
The Flappy Trees. (Where I’m sitting. The panel-door thingy sent me here, right in the middle of this super-mysterious stump. The trees are tall and flappy.)
The Beachy Beach. (Lots of this, it’s pretty.)
The Little Lagoon. (Flowers and fish and birds.)
The Inexplicable Boulders. (The other half of the island is covered with rocks, just because, I guess.)
That’s basically it. It’s a small island, and I’m all alone. You’d be proud of me—I surveyed for food and water and shelter first and made a mental map and everything! High five! There’s a place to get fresh water up by the boulders, and I think I can go fishing in the lagoon if I have to, but I hope I’m not here that long. I really like the word lagoon, by the way! Lagoooooooooon. And boulder. Bowl-derrrrr. Bowl-der-gooooon.
Anyway, I hope things aren’t too bad at camp, and that you’re covering for me with the counselors. Sorry you’re there all by yourself to deal with that. I’ll be back as soon as I can! I’ll keep writing down cool or interesting things, so you won’t be missing out on the adventure. I’m not sure if being stranded all alone on a desert island counts as an adventure, though.
Okay, writing that sentence out, it totally does. Either way I’ll take notes. Right now I think I’m gonna take a nap. I am the sleepy.
Talk to you so soon,
Abby
It was funny how much better writing the letter made me feel. It was almost like having Maggie there to talk to.
I returned the journal to my bag and was just pulling out my sweatshirt to use as a pillow when something caught my eye. I look
ed around, and my nap plans went right out the window.
There to one side, half hidden by the trees, was a door. A door, in a frame, standing in the grass among the trunks. And it looked . . . familiar. It looked almost exactly like the door that had started this whole thing.
It looked like the door in the Shipwreck Treehouse.
And at its base, scratching in the grass and flowers climbing up its sides, was a chicken.
Eight
Abby
“Hey,” I said, completely without thinking. “Hey, chicken.”
It was a very fancy chicken, with a white floofy body and a sort of matching hat thing going on. It did not look up.
I got to my feet and started tiptoeing toward the door. The last thing I wanted was to scare my new friend, but as I sidled closer, then closer, then so close I could have stretched out and poked the door with my toe, the chicken didn’t even acknowledge I was there.
Neither did the door, which I guess was normal door behavior. It looked really old up close. The wood was all rough and stained, and the grass and vines were climbing way up the sides. That explained why I hadn’t spotted it before: from some angles, it looked like a tree trunk. I stepped in to examine it while Chicken McNewfriend went on ignoring me, pecking at bugs in the grass.
The door in the Shipwreck Treehouse had had a handle, and the elaborate sun-carved lock. No handle, and the old-fashioned padlock and chain tying it to the frame were aged and grimy, with no carvings at all. Boo. That meant it probably wasn’t a match for the key stowed safely in my pocket. Wherever this door went—and it was a door, so it had to go somewhere—it wasn’t super likely it led back to the Shipwreck Treehouse.
“Can you tell me where this goes?” I asked my new friend. “Any chance it goes someplace useful?”
The chicken looked up, burped, and went back to the grass for more bugs. Which was fair, to be honest. I was asking a lot of someone I’d just met.
Well, there was nothing for it—I’d just have to pick the lock and find out for myself. My attempts at picking the lock on the Shipwreck Treehouse the summer before hadn’t been even a tiny bit successful, but what other choice did I have? Although I guess it made sense to at least try using the Oak Key first, just in case.
“Are you sticking around while I do this?” I said to the chicken as I dug in my pocket for the key. “If we’re gonna be hanging out, you should have a name.” I paused and considered. “I’m gonna call you . . . Wallace.”
“Do not be ridiculous, child,” said a voice from right behind me. “Her name is Ariadne.”
I shrieked at the top of my lungs, spun around, tripped, and landed on my butt in the grass.
A woman was standing over me. She was old, with a round, wrinkly olive face, silver hair piled around her shoulders, and dark eyes. And she was wearing, well, an outfit: black slacks, a flowy white blouse, silver chandelier earrings, and a gold-and-green silk neck scarf. She was also carrying two baskets. The one on her left arm was full of what were clearly Cheerios. The one in her right hand was empty.
I blinked up at her. Where on earth had this old lady come from? Had she been hiding the whole time I was exploring the island? Why hadn’t I seen her? Why was she carrying so much cereal?
There was a noise in the distance, and the lady looked back over her shoulder.
“Ah, here come the others.” She turned to me. “You know perfectly well you’re not allowed up here. But since you’ve decided to start the day by breaking the rules, you can spend the rest of it suffering the consequences. That means chores.” She had a strong accent I couldn’t place but spoke like she was used to giving orders in any language she liked. And her tone was making it clear I was in very big trouble.
“The others?” I said, getting to my feet. “Chores?” But Fashion Lady was pressing the basket of Cheerios into my arms, and then I saw them. The others were more chickens. So many more chickens. They came bopping toward us from the rocky side of the island, all clucking and grumbling and making chickeny noises. Ariadne greeted them with a polite burp as they surged around our feet.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Fashion Lady asked. She gestured to the basket. “Feed them.”
“Oh. Okay.” I tossed out a handful of Cheerios, and the chickens jumped on them like Samson on a badminton birdie.
“Scatter it about,” called the lady, crossing to a tree covered with flowering vines. She started pinching off blossoms one by one and placing them carefully in the empty basket. “Don’t clump it all in one place or they’ll make the grass thin.”
So, yeah. I fed the chickens. And the old lady picked flowers. On our magical island.
And no one explained a thing.
When all the Cheerios were gone and the chickens were dusting off the crumbs, I went over and joined my new boss, who was settled on the big stump, tying the flowers she’d gathered together in a chain.
“Chickens fed!” I said. “My name is Abby, by the way, if you were wondering.” I held out a hand. “What’s yours?”
Fashion Lady finished knotting two flowers together, then looked up with a face so stern it almost made the balmy, flower-scented air feel chilly. “Antonia,” she said. She examined me for several long seconds, then went back to her basket.
Well, that was kind of awkward. I lowered my hand. I was happy to have company again, and there were fifty thousand questions pecking at my brain, but it didn’t look like getting answers was going to be easy.
Still, I had to try.
“So, you live here?” I said conversationally.
Antonia flicked a crumpled flower out of her basket. “I do, Abby. I live in the Palace like I always have. Now will you stop this ridiculous charade?”
“Huh?” I said. Did she just say she lived in a palace? “Stop this what?”
“This charade! I’m sure you thought you were very clever, sneaking up here before my morning walk. I expect you gave yourself a grand tour of the island, yes? And now here you are, testing your luck with this make-believe game. You know, when I was younger, I carried trespassing children like you out to the lagoon and sent them below myself.”
“Below?” I squeaked.
“Right below the waves!” said Antonia. “But since I’m not as young as I was, your punishment will be a day of chores. Hard chores.”
She was on her feet before I realized she was moving. She waved a hand, indicating I should grab my stuff, then set off at a bit of a creaky pace through the trees. I pulled on my shoes, shoved everything into my pack, and followed. What else could I do?
The well-fed chickens tagged along. Well, most of them.
“Isn’t Ariadne coming?” I asked. My first friend in this place, with her odd, pretty name and floofy feather hat, was still pecking around the locked door that needed explaining.
“She always finds her own way,” Antonia said without looking back. “Keep up.”
Okay, something seriously, seriously weird was happening on this island. On top of all the other mysteries piling up like chickens around a Cheerio, Antonia clearly thought I knew who she was. And that for some reason I was pretending not to. What would happen when she found out she was wrong?
I trailed Antonia through the Flappy Trees, past the Little Lagoon, and around one side of the Inexplicable Boulders. I thought I’d explored the whole pile pretty well before, but I got another surprise as Antonia stepped up to a big lopsided stone, slipped neatly behind it, and disappeared. A hand slid back into view, beckoning me to follow.
Whoa. I angled in after her and found Antonia standing beside a set of stone steps leading down. Down into the island.
“How . . . ? Wha-ha?” I said. The chickens milled around our feet, settling into cool pockets of dust and dirt between the boulders around us, clearly right at home.
“After you,” Antonia said, standing to one side in the cramped space.
Hmm. Going into other people’s secret lairs hadn’t been on my list of things to do today, but I wasn’t
going to find a way home on my own. And frankly, this looked like it might be pretty cool, even if there were chores involved. Feeding the chickens hadn’t been too bad. What other sorts of chores could there even be on a desert island?
Maggie would have ideas. Probably involving polishing every grain of sand on the beach, or ironing out all the crinkled seaweed, or scraping the barnacles off passing krakens.
Ooh, Maggie. I could absolutely not forget to keep up my adventure notes for her.
Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I stepped onto the staircase—Antonia grumbling about her knees behind me—and headed underground.
Nine
Abby
The steps led down into a sort of cave amid the boulders, with a patio floor leading up to a set of carved double doors. There was a bench beside the doors, and a mat for wiping our feet. Lines of sunlight angled down from all around through the rocks, making the dust the chickens were kicking up shimmer. The air was cool and smelled like stone and the flowers in Antonia’s basket. It was a nice moment.
“This is awesome,” I said, smiling around. Antonia pinched her eyebrows together like she thought I was trying to be funny, tugged open one of the double doors, and waved me through.
One of the things I love most about my house back home is the clutter. Me, my dad, my brothers, Samson, none of us are super neat, and before the pre-move cleanup our house was packed with books, third-grade art projects, blankets, sports gear, and cat toys. All the sprawly mess of a close family. It was familiar and homey and perfect and I loved it.
But this place took clutter to an Olympic gold medal level.
I’d stepped into a massive room, way bigger than the cafeteria at school. It must have stretched out all the way under the rock pile. And it was fancy. The ceiling and what I could see of the walls were carved and decorated like a ballroom in a Disney movie. The floor at our feet was white marble. There were no windows, but wall sconce thingies and rows of chandeliers made the place so bright and shimmery, it instantly made me think of the NAFAFA Hub.
