Riven: Young Adult Fantasy Novel (My Myth Trilogy Book 1)

by Jane Alvey Harris

  I twist hard on the wooden seat, twining the two ropes together. A tight thrill of anticipation squeezes my stomach when the coil reaches its apex…pauses…then sends me twirling back the other way, a mad top.

  Wings outstretched I taste the breeze. Woodsy hints of white pine and sweet clover flavor the air along with something wet and utterly refreshing. It must be the stream that runs downhill past the beehives to the vineyard.

  “Emily?”

  “Claire, you’re awake!” Dizzy but happy I come to a stop and wobble to my sister. “We’ve got to get a drink from that stream, it tastes amazing!”

  She eyes me skeptically.

  A dragonfly zips close, flitting in front of me at eye level.

  “Bug, look, it’s Xander,” I exclaim. Kneeling, I clasp Claire’s hands. “Can you keep a secret?” She nods. “See those trees over there, behind the goat shed?”

  “Are those redwoods?”

  “Yes. And guess what. The Fae live in that forest.”

  Her eyes get big. “Our Fae? From the Seventh Kingdom?”

  “YES.”

  She squeals. “Will you show me, Emma?”

  “They like to keep hidden, but we can go exploring later with the boys. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we found the Doorway and broke the Seal and traveled to the First Realm?”

  “Oh. My. Gosh. YES.” Her eyes light up. “Hey, Emma? Are there goats in the goat shed?”

  “Yep. Aunt Meg and Uncle Ian have goats, horses, bees, and chickens. If you’re really lucky you’ll get to milk the goats, muck the stalls, and gather the eggs. Plus, Aunt Meg has a garden. Best pea-pods you’ve ever tasted.”

  “No thanks on horse-poo and pea-pods,” she crinkles her nose. “You seem happy, Emma. I’m glad.” She leans against my forehead with hers. “Do you know how to milk a goat?”

  “I do. Funny, right? I forgot how much I love this place.”

  The back door opens. “Good morning you two!” Nancy steps outside. “I thought for sure you’d sleep in today after being cooped up in that van for so long. How are you both feeling?”

  Claire rushes to give her a hug. “Isn’t it amazing here, Aunt Nancy? Did you know there are goats?”

  “I did know that, Dear. I used to live just down the mountain a little ways.”

  Claire goggles. “No one tells me anything.”

  “I’ll tell you something right now. Your Aunt Meg’s making pancakes and she’s asking for your help.”

  Claire skips inside without another word.

  “How are you, Emily?”

  I know Nancy loves me, but I still can’t help pulling my cardigan closer now that we’re alone. I have a lot to be embarrassed about.

  “I’m better. Sorry…about everything. Thank you for coming here with us. I haven’t seen my mom’s family in a long time. I don’t think they like us very much.”

  “They’re good people, Emily. They love you children and your mother. And I have to say, that Gabe of yours is rather fond of you too. For him to drive me all the way out here…. It worked out perfectly that Ian needs extra help with the harvest this year. You’re awfully young to have a serious boyfriend, but there’s something about him…”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I stammer, turning the same shade of violet as the grapes in Uncle Ian’s vineyard. “He just…I don’t know… We haven’t even…” Ugh. I can’t explain. Because he isn’t just some lifeguard from the pool, either. I can’t deny we’re connected somehow.

  Nancy puts her arm around my shoulders and steers me to a bench next to Aunt Meg’s garden. The sharp herbal tang from the tomato plants makes me long for chips and salsa. I’m never as hungry anywhere as I am when I’m here.

  “Emily. Do you know what my profession was before I retired?”

  I shake my head, squinting at the morning sun reflecting off her glasses. Strange. I’d never even wondered.

  “I was a Child and Family Guidance Counselor.”

  Shame crams into my empty spaces. She knows something’s wrong with me.

  “I know you have a lot on your mind.”

  I study my hands.

  “I’ve kept an eye on you in particular since you moved to Dallas, Dear. I’m impressed at your remarkable resilience. You’ve had to be strong for your brothers and sister for a long time, and that wears on a person. You’ve got a lot on your plate, and I want you to know that I’m here for you. You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”

  Anything? asks the little girl.

  Not anything, says the woman.

  It’s like I’m balancing on a tightrope meters above the ground. Below me on the left the little girl in two braids and a pinafore dress stands in a field of dried wheat gazing up at me. She holds a balloon in one hand and the handlebar of a bicycle in the other.

  Below me on the right is the woman. She’s dressed in a crisp pencil skirt and patent leather pumps with a single string of pearls around her neck. She stands in front of an immaculate house with fresh painted eaves, looking up at me with her hands on her hips.

  Lean mangy lions stalk the perimeter of their landscape. The little girl and the woman don’t seem to notice the lions, or the Gray Man.

  The Gray Man stands in the distance where the two different landscapes meet. His face is obscured in shadow from the brim of his hat. His posture is casual, but menace underlies the easy way he holds the rifle at his side. The slick-oiled scope and eight-round clip of his Remington make me uneasy. I can’t tell if the Gray Man is protecting the little girl and the woman in my brain, or keeping them prisoner. The only thing I know for sure is that he is lethal.

  I waiver high above them on my rope while they stare up at me in silence. Are they waiting for me to fall?

  “Talk to me Emily.” Next to me on the bench Nancy covers my hands with hers.

  “I think I’m going crazy.” My voice is a whisper.

  “Why do you think that?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the little girl, the woman, the Gray Man, and the lions will all disappear. What do they want me to do? Why aren’t they saying anything?

  “Sometimes there are voices. In my head.”

  “Can you tell me what they sound like?”

  I look at Nancy, surprised. She doesn’t sound like she thinks I’m nuts. Her voice is normal. Is this a trick?

  “It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me, Dear. I was only curious if they sound at all like the voices in my head.”

  The little girl in the wheat nods at me. The woman studies her shoes, but I can tell she’s paying attention. The Gray Man with the Remington isn’t doing anything at all. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

  “There are two main ones.” I choose my words carefully because they’re listening. “One is a little girl. She believes in Magic and she always wants to pretend. The other is a woman. She…well…she isn’t very nice.”

  “What kinds of things do they say?”

  The Gray Man lifts his head. From under the brim of his hat he stares directly into my eyes, moving his chin from side to side: NO.

  A shock runs through me. “I don’t know,” I answer abruptly.

  Nancy nods. “Most people don’t recognize the self-talk from their different egos, Emily. The voices get jumbled in with the rest of the mind’s noise, but everyone has many ego states. If I’m correct, two of your egos are in conflict with each other, either because they feel threatened by something happening externally, or because they’re holding onto traumas they haven’t processed yet from the past. It will be important to learn to communicate and compromise with them so they feel valued.”

  “Wouldn’t I know it if I had past traumas to process?”

  “It isn’t unusual to keep secrets from ourselves.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Not at all.” />
  “Everyone has these egos?”

  “Everyone. Usually, egos navigate in our subconscious subtly without us ever noticing. I bet you didn’t start to hear the little girl and the woman until they started arguing.”

  She’s right.

  “Those voices probably developed to protect you when you needed them, to help you cope at times in your past when you were struggling or afraid. They each have different ways of handling difficult situations. If you open yourself up to listening, you might hear other voices too—perhaps a nurturing parent or a natural child. You can refine these voices, Emily. You can integrate them into one True Voice all your own, based on your personal reality in the present.”

  “How will I recognize my True Voice?” The Gray Man still watches me.

  “Well, your True Voice is the voice of the woman you’re becoming. When you hear it, you’ll feel more like you than ever.”

  I’m empty. Hopeless. The only time I’ve ever heard a voice like that was when the White Faerie spoke to me. I’m pretty sure talking to imaginary creatures isn’t healthy. I just nod though. I don’t want Nancy to know I’m a lost cause.

  “Gabe told me about your panic attacks, Dear. I understand why you took your mother’s medication, but there are other ways to deal with your anxiety and the situations that trigger those emotions.”

  I hunch forward on the bench. My feet are cold. It was stupid to come outside in flip-flops.

  “He also told me about your story. About the First Realm and the Seventh Kingdom. About the Fae.”

  The little girl and the woman gasp. My feet slip on the tightrope above their heads, I barely keep from toppling. “It’s just something I made up…I know it isn’t real…”

  “It’s incredible. There’s truth in the imagination, Emily. There’s insight in dreams. Albert Einstein said, ‘If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairytales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairytales.’ I hope you’ll look for opportunities to be alone here, Emily, to dream and use your imagination. Will you try?”

  It’s like flying. The tightrope no longer digs into the bottom of my feet. My muscles aren’t cramping to hold my balance. There isn’t anything under my feet anymore, just sky. It’s disorienting and exhilarating at the same time. Nancy thinks my imagination is good.

  “Here’s your homework: I want you to listen to the little girl and the woman, really listen. Ask them what they want, what they need. Experience your emotions and memories without judging them or reacting to them…just feel them instead of burying or ignoring them and soon enough they’ll go away. I won’t lie to you, Dear. What I’m asking you to do isn’t easy and it won’t be comfortable. But you’re strong and brave, Emily. I know you can make peace with those voices. That is when you will find your True Voice. With practice you will learn to trust yourself the way I trust you.”

  Sitting on this bench next to Nancy I’m doubtful of my bravery and strength. Sometimes my emotions come out of nowhere. Sometimes they’re so frightening and so powerful that I’ll do anything I can think of to make them go away. The idea of just holding still and experiencing them terrifies me.

  “Nancy, when is my dad getting here?”

  “He arrives the day after tomorrow.”

  “And then he’s taking us home with him.” It isn’t a question.

  “What would you like to have happen?”

  “I’m only seventeen. It’s not like I have a choice.”

  “When you learn to hear and trust your True Voice, you’ll discover you have more choice than you think.” Nancy lowers her glasses to the tip of her nose. Her eyes are ringed by dark green, flecked with amber. They make me think of thick primeval ivy on ancient pitted stone. “By the way, how’s the pain in your shoulder blades, Dear? And your headache?”

  A tingle traces up either side of my spine. “Better, thanks.”

  “Good. Now, I was on my way to the hen house to collect the eggs. You don’t mind going for me, do you? That’s a Dear.”

  With that Nancy squeezes my hand, leaving me on the bench, speechless and unalone.

  Seventeen

  Things are getting pretty strange.

  Scratch that. Things have been strange for a while now.

  Nancy might be more concerned about my mental health if she knew I don’t only make up fairytales for my brothers and sister—that just before she came outside I was pretending I have actual wings.

  I braid my hair as I walk down the path to the hen house, ordering my thoughts while my fingers work, mulling over my conversation with Nancy.

  Ugh. She’s a child psychologist. She’s probably been psychoanalyzing me for years. Waiting for me to mess up? No. That’s not Nancy. She’s never given me any reason to mistrust her. But I still couldn’t tell her everything about the voices or what they say.

  I’m disturbed by the appearance of the Gray Man. Where did he come from? What does he want? And what’s with the lions?

  I shudder in my flip-flops. The inside of my brain is a crowded, dangerous place these days. How am I supposed to find my True Voice in that mess?

  I leave the path, cutting through a field of tall grass. Nancy said to trust myself. How can I when I’m not even honest with myself?

  I take a big breath and clench my fists. Determined, I speak a truth I’ve been ignoring for a long, long time: “I don’t want Dad to come home.”

  I’ve never said that out loud before. Never even admitted it to myself. Now I can’t stop repeating it like a chant: “I don’t want him to come home, I don’t want him to come home, I don’t want him to come home.”

  No lightning snakes up from the ground, no ominous thunder claps.

  But no relief, either.

  It’s true, though. And not just a little true. One hundred percent true. There’s not one fraction of a percent of a percent in my body that wants to see Dad. Does that make me a bad person? I feel guilty.

  It’s okay that you don’t want to see him. It’s okay to feel guilty. Trust yourself.

  I stop in my tracks. The words are distinct, but far away. Like a thrown voice. A trick.

  Did someone hear me talking to myself and answer back?

  “Emily!” Aidan’s voice calls to me from the tree line down the hill and across the stream. A second later he bounds out of the birches, scrambling along the rocky hillside and skipping across half-submerged stones spanning the running water. In seconds he flings himself into my arms.

  I hold him close, awash with joy. It’s feels like months since I saw my fourteen year-old brother last, not just overnight. Has he grown? “You look like an elf!” I exclaim. He’s dressed in soft cords and a light woven shirt I’ve never seen before. His hair smells of trapped sunshine, warm and boyish. Someone must have made him bathe. “So, Mr. Dorky T. Dorklington, how have you been?”

  “Ermahgerd,” he answers in his groan-inspiring valley girl impression. “I been, like, totes fine, thanks for asking, Ms. Fartnose.”

  I gasp. He’s carrying a small wooden bucket. It’s a quarter of the way full with plump raspberries and I’m starving.

  I shovel a fist-full into my mouth. “These are so good,” I mumble.

  “Nice manners.”

  Ignoring him, I continue snarfing ripe purple fruit. “So, Aidan,” I say when I reach the bottom of the bucket, “how do you like this situation? Do you remember this place at all? Are you bored out of your mind yet?” I wipe the juice from my chin with my fingers and clean them off on the back of his shirt in exaggerated strokes. I’m not sure what, exactly, has triggered this ebullient high, but I want it to last. “Is Jacob awake too?”

  “Generally speaking, I frown on nature,” Aidan answers, “and the bunk house smells like a zoo, but otherwise it’s alright. Uncle Ian says later Jacob and I can do target practice with him and some of the guys who work fo
r him.”

  I picture tall canvas targets and bows and arrows like from Robin Hood. “That sounds cool I guess, as long as you’re safe. I mean, with adult supervision, obviously. Huh. Do you think he’d let me play, too?” I link arms with him and pull him with me back to the path.

  “I dunno. He just said Jacob and me. Maybe he thinks you’re too delicate. Besides, you hate guns, remember?”

  “I don’t hate target practice with bb guns, Dork. I’m actually a pretty good shot.” I bump him with my hip, twisting my leg to kick him in the butt while maintaining my place on the narrow dirt trail.

  “Yeah, I don’t think the guys who work here use BB guns. Uncle Ian said I could use his Glock. I told him you wouldn’t like it but he said we’ve been raised by women for too long and we need to start acting like men.”

  “Nice, Aidan,” I smirk. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he said. Oooh, is there a merit badge for boys who shoot semi-automatic weapons?” I’m cracking myself up.

  Aidan rolls his eyes.

  I turn to face him, grabbing his bucket and blocking his path mid-stride. My mouth forms a straight somber line. “But for reals, Aidan. Have you been able to figure it out yet?”

  “Figure what out yet?”

  I lean closer, suppressing giggles. “Why I can’t seem to stop myself from PUSHING YOU IN THE BUSHES!” Hooking my foot around his ankle and shove him sideways off the path into the tall grass.

  I laugh as he disappears. Adjusting the bucket handle in the crook of my arm I skip off toward the hen house…

  …and freeze.

  Jacob, Gabe, and Uncle Ian are coming up the path towards me.

  “Oops.”

  “Did your sister just push Aidan into the weeds?” Gabe asks Jacob.

  I back up, bend over, and haul Aidan to his feet. “How embarrassing, Aidan! You must have stumbled,” I say loudly. “You should really watch where you’re going…” my voice trails off. I pull a twig from his hair.

  “Yeah, stumbled over your foot,” Jacob hoots.

  Aidan brushes dirt from his pants. “Why? Why must you always trip me and push me and pinch me and do whirling jump attacks on me? I’m the good brother!”