A puppeteer pulling strings, I tug my lips up in a dutiful grin.
“That’s what I like to see. Come carry this jam in from the car.”
Four
The kids watch South Park without me. My plate of chicken and potatoes grows cold on the countertop while I drip sweat in the garage tearing open plastic bins and cardboard boxes like something obsessed, making a huge mess I’ll have to clean up all too soon but right now all I care about is finding that damn wooden box.
It has to be in here somewhere.
My back cramps as I bend over a giant cardboard box marked with Kids’ Rooms/School in bold Sharpie, up to my elbows in what were recently organized stacks of elementary school projects and class photos.
Long undisturbed must clogs my nose and paper cuts pepper my fingers. A stinky combination of rudely awakened dust and perspiration turn my hair to strings but finally it’s here in my hands.
The smooth polished wood glows like it’s just been buffed. A wide rectangular ribbon adorns the top, etched with the same angular symbols around my arm.
Trance-like, my fingers trace the Celtic figures.
I had completely erased the memory of this box.
Collapsing on the concrete and leaning against the Civic, a low moan escapes from deep inside. Is this early onset dementia?
It’s Magic, Emma, the little girl insists. Open the box. See what’s inside.
A twitch starts at the corner of my right eye but my hands remain clasped in my lap, unmoving. I don’t want to unclasp the lid. Not now, not ever.
I set the box down. On autopilot, I gather all the file folders and papers and pictures I’ve flung around the garage and put them back in containers, not really paying attention what goes where, just gathering and placing and covering and closing while in my mind I stand and stare at a locked door. There’s movement behind it. I can hear shuffling and whispering, a flutter of large wings. The scent of springtime steals from beneath the doorjamb, beckoning me with curling fingers.
Almost, in my peripheral vision, the little girl skips in a delighted circle, eager and excited, while the stern woman folds her arm, tapping her foot in disapproval.
That’s it, then. All clean. Well, clean enough.
“Hey, guys. Take care of your dishes,” I say to the kids as I walk past the family room with the box behind my back. “I have a headache. I need a shower.”
“But Emma you didn’t even…”
“I’ll be down in a little while, Claire.”
“But will you read to me before bed?”
“Sure.” I take the stairs two at a time to my room and bolt the door behind me.
Both bathroom doors are locked and the lights are off. The shower is roomy, with a bench in the corner but I huddle on the floor directly beneath the fall of water, unfolding bit by bit as the warmth opens me.
It’s funny. Minutes ago I boiled in the garage, but the second my butt hits the cold tile in the shower I morph into an ice princess, shivering like I’m moments away from frostbite, like I’ve never not been nearly-hypothermic.
Time to face facts.
Fact One: I’ve branded runes into my arm from a box I didn’t remember.
Fact Two: I have no memory of branding myself.
Assumption: I’ve been losing time.
Conclusion: I’ve got to stop taking sleeping pills.
That’s another funny thing, (not funny ha-ha). I hate meds, especially since Mom became so dependent on them the last couple years, finally checking out completely. I blame pills for everything…for Mom losing her job, for me flunking out, for losing my friends, too.
I couldn’t even make up the credits I failed last year in summer school because I’m suddenly the under-aged-unwed-mother of my own siblings.
But meds have always been part of our family’s life—there’s always been a pill at the ready for any ache or pain. A couple weeks ago when my insomnia got worse and I was exhausted and snapping at the kids, I was desperate enough to take a sleeping pill.
And ohmygosh it was amazing. After swallowing, I laid in bed trying to beat my fastest Sudoku time like I do every night, and soon I couldn’t help giggling at how hilariously stupid I was, getting slower and slower until suddenly I woke up an hour later clutching my phone with all the lights still on. I switched them off and slept straight through until morning and woke up a brand new person.
Our medicine cabinet is practically a micro pharmacy. Mom has tons of stuff in there. She prefers painkillers and muscle relaxants to Ambien these days so I figured why not? No one would miss a few pills. If they help me sleep and I’m more patient, it would be stupid not to take them. When Mom’s better and life is back to normal I won’t need them anymore and I’ll stop. Easy Peasy.
One problem. Apparently they make me sleep a little too soundly.
It doesn’t quite add up, though. Sleepwalking is one thing, but sleep branding? And it doesn’t explain how I remembered the symbols so exactly when I haven’t seen that box in at least five years; or how I reached all the way around my own arm.
But there isn’t any other answer.
Honestly, it’s kind of a relief. Maybe I’m not going crazy. Maybe I’m just extremely stressed like Nancy said…stressed about taking care of everyone, stressed about repeating junior year, stressed about alienating Sophie and our squad—and even though I try not to think about it—stressed about Dad coming home.
Is it so unusual the symbols made it into my dreams when I finally got good sleep?
Every part of me is warm and pliant now in the dark. I slide down onto my side in a loose fetal position, my bad arm sheltered from the spray by my body. I wish I could live in the shower forever.
Contentment spreads into all my nooks and crannies like butter melting on toast when I think about the contents of the box. How silly I was…being afraid to open it, afraid to remember. Huddled against the locked door of my room fifteen minutes ago, my fingers had actually trembled.
I hoped/feared the list and definitions of the runes that had come with the box were inside, but the minute I unclasped the latch and lifted the lid, every thought of the strange symbols vanished.
Tiny eager fingers tug at a briar-patch knot in my chest.
I told you it was Magic, Emma.
All sorts of forgotten things have ended up in the box: a rainbow-colored enamel dragon pin from China, rough-carved figures from a nativity set, a Polly Pocket, an engraved letter opener, a beaded cuff, and a souvenir-shield from Medieval Times.
But it was the smallest object that made the breath snag in my throat.
Two sections of the translucent cicada wings were still attached, top to bottom, resting dry and weightless in my palm, luminous like a rose window, as if they held trapped sunlight.
I used to collect them as a little girl. Mom said I had ‘an unhealthy cicada obsession’. She couldn’t understand why I was so fascinated by the dead body of something that freaked me out so much when it was alive.
It’s because at six, I was convinced cicadas were faeries in disguise. It made no sense—such delicately perfect wings attached to such grotesque bodies. It had to be a trick. I would trace the wings on paper and replace their horrible eyes and bulging thoraxes with lithe figures clothed in gossamer.
That’s how I learned about the Fae. They began to visit me in their insect and spider forms, peering over my shoulder, curious about the drawings I made.
It took us awhile to trust each other, but before long, we were whispering secrets.
They told me about their home in the First Realm, where there are seven kingdoms ruled by seven brother kings. The Good King Foster was the seventh son of the High King and ruled the Seventh Kingdom with his wife and their three sons…
A slight drop in the water temperature interrupts my daydream. I reach up to adjust the knob, then sink back d
own in darkness. The tiles radiate heat throughout my entire body. I bask in head-to-toe peace.
One day when I was seven an over-excited spider crawled down from the ceiling and onto my shoulder while I was in the shower…just like I am now. “You’ve got to come with me, Emma! Right away, hurry, hurry!”
Stop this nonsense at once, young lady. You’re not a child anymore, Emily. Spiders don’t talk. You don’t have time for daydreams now.
Defiant, I stick my tongue out at the cross woman’s words and turn my attention fully to the spider in my memory.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“No time to explain!” Spider practically hyperventilates. “Hurry up!”
“But where are we going?”
“The First Realm, of course. The Seventh Kingdom!”
“Spider. I’m bare-naked,” seven year-old-me protests. “Besides, I don’t know the way to the First Realm.”
Clearly exasperated, he takes a calming breath. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or not wearing here. You’re wasting time! Don’t you want to see her?”
I realize it will be easier to follow instructions than try to find out what Spider is on about. Plus, I already have an idea who the “she” is, and my belly squeezes in anticipation. “Yes. Yes, I want to see her.”
“Quickly then, follow me!” and he scuttles through a smallish crack in the grout where the shower floor and wall come together.
When I emerge on the other side of the crack I’m not naked or wet anymore…I’m clothed in diaphanous fabric that shifts and moves with my body, swirling in constant motion.
And Spider isn’t a spider anymore. He’s a young boy with pointed ears and a sheaf of arrows slung across his back.
By now, I’ve already learned the basics about the Fae. For instance, in the First Realm the Fae are normal human-size. They’re all Faeries, but the boys and men are called elves and don’t have wings, while the women and girls are called maidens and do have wings. When they visit me in my world—which they call the Second Realm—as bugs, I can tell the boys from the girls because everyone with wings is a maiden and everyone without wings is an elf.
For months all any of them have been talking about is the birth of Princess Nissa.
Spider tugs at my arm, leading me down a cobblestone street toward a staggeringly tall lacewing iron gate. Beyond the gates soar spires of a fairytale palace.
“Everything’s so slow in your realm, Emma, especially you! This is the first time she’s been outside the castle walls. Hurry up or we’ll miss her!!”
I’m a bobble-head on a bumpy road. My chin swings every-which-way, feasting on the sparkling honeysuckle air, the serene entanglement of polished stone and creeping wild strawberry runners beneath my hurried footfall, the chiming laughter of celebrating Fae.
“Spider, let go of her at once, you’ll pull her arm off!”
I recognize my dragonfly friend’s voice and suddenly she’s standing next to me…minus the exoskeleton and antennae. I wonder where her sister Twist is?
“Xander, it’s you! Oh my goodness. You’re so… Your wings…they’re so…big.”
Her grin is huge and playful as she turns ballerina-slow, showing off just a bit. “You like?”
My heart pinches with longing. “More than anything.”
“They’ve only just unfurled all the way. You can touch them if you want.”
Oh. I want.
They’re stronger than I’d imagined, and slippery, like the skin of the dolphin I met at SeaWorld last year. My finger glides across the tiny panels between veins, trailing cerulean and lavender ripples in its wake.
“You’re taller than me, Xander.”
“Of course I am, you Goose,” Xander laughs. “I’m nearly fourteen and you’re only seven.”
“Seven! She’s seven, and the princess is ten!” Spider jumps up and down. “Come on Xander, come on Emma. We’ll miss the entire party if we don’t go now. I’ve never seen a real live princess before. She’ll probably have grandchildren before we get there if you don’t hurry up!”
“Ten?” I scowl. “But she was just born! You said she was a baby…”
“That was weeks and weeks ago in your world, you Goose! Today is her tenth birthday!” Xander laughs.
There’s no time for bewilderment. Spider leads the way. Our feet fly across a shortcut of quilted grass to an enchanted garden crowded with elves and maidens.
Glittering fountains flavor the sunshine aquamarine. A harp’s scale plays hide-and-seek with the breeze, together tumbling from dizzying heights to twine and untangle in dark lush secret places beneath the bowers of blossoming trees.
The princess sits dutifully, dwarfed on an enormous gilded chair surrounded by elaborate gifts in honor of her birthday. Oohs and ahhhs rise and fall through the congregated Fae as each gift is brought forward and unveiled.
But Nissa’s feet wiggle restlessly as she thanks the bearer of each present, and when no one’s looking, her gaze slips again and again to the handsome boy standing just to her left side, holding something behind his back.
What could he be holding behind his back?
Whatever it is, the princess seems as curious as I am, until her attention is entirely fixed on the boy and the teasing smirk covering his whole face.
On Nissa’s right, her mother the Queen leans to whisper in the King’s ear. He nods and assesses the situation with a good-natured chuckle, then rises to his feet and announces: “My good people. We are honored by your attendance at this celebration of my Nissandra’s tenth birthday.”
The assemblage’s applause is genteel and sincere. They clearly adore the darling princess, whose tiara has slipped in her raven-dark curls down over one brow, and whose fingers pick and pull at the elegant ribbons adorning her dress.
Spider, Xander, and I have sneaked around back of the grape trellis in front of which Nissa daintily squirms. Through the curling vines I watch the King kneel before his daughter and pull her onto his knee.
“I had no idea,” he says, “a heart could hold so much love until you came and showed it how, my darling Nissa.”
Sweet, slender Nissa reaches up as high as her arms will go to grab round her father’s neck and place a petal shaped kiss on his dusky cheek.
“I love you, Papa.”
“I’ve sworn an oath, my daughter, to protect you from any pain, from every sorrow. You need only depend on me, and you shall never want. Tell me daughter. What is it you want right now that I can give?”
Nissa whispers in his ear. He throws back his head and bellows a laugh. “So shall it be. Young Kaillen, your Princess desires to know what you have hidden behind your back.”
Kaillen steps forward. He’s younger than Nissa, but already straight and strong and tall. Nissa’s face lights up as he bows one knee before her.
“Don’t be a knave, Kaillen. Show me what you’re hiding!”
“I’m not a knave, I’m your bodyguard,” the boy replies petulantly. “And the thing I’m hiding is your birthday present, as you know full well.”
“Don’t make me wait any longer,” she pleads. “It’s the only present I’ve wanted all day!”
The King rises and sets Nissa in her chair before addressing the crowd. “Thank you for your generous gifts. Please, enjoy the party and the Royal Gardens. You are welcomed here. Our bounty is yours as well.”
With that the crowd disperses. Spider pulls both Xander and me on tiptoe feet closer to the small princess and her smaller bodyguard.
“Give it here, oh please Kaillen! Why are you such a tease?”
“A kiss first, and then it’s yours.”
“Is he allowed to talk to her that way?” I’m shocked. “She’s a princess!”
“Kaillen is the General’s son. He’s sworn to protect Nissa. Besides, they’ve been closest frien
ds since he was out of the cradle,” Spider answers.
Nissa removes her tiara and her fingerless gloves, then stoops to kiss Kaillen’s cheek.
“Now hold out your hands and close your eyes and I will give a great surprise.” Kaillen instructs. Nissa obeys.
Kaillen brings an enormous warty toad from behind his back and plops it in Nissa’s outstretched palms. Her eyes dart open, she squeals in delight.
“Kaillen, oh Kaillen! You’re the best knight and the best friend and the best boy in all the land. Thank you, thank you. I already know his name,” she announces, hugging the great slimy thing against the front of her gorgeous gown. “I’m going to call him Peter…” Her voice grows faint as she and Kaillen skip off merrily toward the vineyard. The last thing I hear her say is, “Royal toads eat only late summer golden grapes instead of flies…they grow gardens in their giant bellies…”
The sun is setting behind the towering trees of the primeval garden. I shiver in my bare feet.
“Emma, are you all right?” Xander asks. “Only, you’ve gone a bit blue around your lips.”
I touch my lips with chilled fingers when pounding starts right behind my head, so loud it makes me jump.
“You’ve got to go now, Emma,” Spider says. “Before you catch pneumonia. Where’s the Path, Xander?”
“Goodbye, Emma.” Xander places a funny kiss on the tip of my nose and playfully pushes me backwards. “We’ll visit soon.”
The sensation of falling and incessant knocking pulls me bolt upright from the shower floor. Oh God. It’s freezing.
Banging continues on the hallway door.
“I’m in the shower! Who is it?”
“It’s me, Claire. I need to pee. You’ve been in there forever.”
Riven: Young Adult Fantasy Novel (My Myth Trilogy Book 1) Page 3
