Traitor in the Realm

An excerpt from Traitor in the Realm

I was careless once
and got lost.
It took a long time
to find my way home.
~Kallan MacKinnon, tenth-grade essay

1

THE FINDING

     Looking back, I cannot say whether it was the fox,
or Ethel, or simple procrastination that changed our
lives forever. That summer I learned the hardest tests
in life don’t come from a teacher.
     Picture a dark-haired teenage girl running through the
woods, ponytail swinging from side to side. I trotted along a
shadowy path right after sunrise, ignoring my empty
stomach while keeping Ethel in view. The hen ran an erratic
course, staying well out of reach. I had to catch her before
she got near the waterfall. The noise would terrify her.
Besides, I’m shaky when it comes to heights, and the trail
there is twenty feet above the stream. Even though I was
near home, the gloomy woods disoriented me. I’d dashed
out of the house without my cell phone, which made me feel
even more lost and alone.
     “Come on, Ethel,” I cooed.
     Ethel was our best egg layer and our favorite. My foster
brother, Matthew, and I expected her to win an award in
the county fair the following week. We had plans for the
prize money; soccer gear for him, art supplies for me.
     “Ethel, stop. I have yummy food.” I ran with my arm
outstretched, a mound of chicken feed bouncing in my palm.
I kept my eye on the hen instead of the trail.
     Bad idea.
     I tripped on a root and sprawled on the forest floor. The
chicken feed flew in the air, then rained down like hail. I
swore and sat up. A small fantailed bird swooped down from
a maple tree. It pecked at Ethel’s back while she zigzagged
down the trail. When it raised its beak for another jab,
sunlight glinted off a row of pointy teeth. I gasped and
covered my mouth with my hand. At the taste of dirt, I spat
and wiped my mouth on my sleeve.
     Toothed birds died out millions of years ago. I’d learned
that at the age of six from my paleontologist father. Matthew
and I were nearly sixteen now. I wished my dad was still
around. He’d love the bird’s disturbingly prehistoric
appearance. I figured it must be a mutant like the snake
with the clawed foot I saw online.
     The strange bird chased Ethel out of sight. As her
squawking faded away, I became aware of another sound—
the pounding of water on rocks.
     The waterfall. Crap. I slammed my fist on the ground
and cursed the fox that riled up our Rhode Island Reds that
August morning. There were always chores to do at our
summer cabin in the Adirondacks. A couple of days before,
Matthew, Grandpa, and I removed the old chicken coop
roof. The next day we were busy and didn’t get to replace it.
We thought it wouldn’t matter, but this morning the fox
scattered the chickens all over the property.
     I got to my feet. Matthew strode down the path toward
me. He held our youngest chicken, Tess, under one arm
and Chanticleer, our rooster, under the other. As I brushed
dirt and leaves off my clothes, I remembered the hard words
Matthew and I had shouted at each other the week before.
Since the argument, we hadn’t had a conversation unless
Grandpa was with us. To be honest, he’s Matthew’s grand-
father and, for the last year, my foster father. I’ve known
him most of my life though, so I call him Grandpa too.
     I rewound the elastic on my ponytail and waited for
Matthew to speak.
     “Hey, Kallan. Who’re you after?” His voice was soft.
     I matched his quiet tone. “Ethel.”
     “She’s the last one to catch. Grandpa and I rounded up
the rest.” Hands full with Tess and Chanticleer, he nodded
at my arm. “You’re hurt.”
     Dark beads of blood oozed from my forearm. I wiped the
blood off with my tee shirt. I cleared my throat. “We should
have fixed that coop yesterday.”
     He was silent for a while. “I wish we had,” he finally
said. “We were all busy until dark, though.”
     “I didn’t have to paint so long. The art show’s not for a
few weeks. And you kicked the soccer ball around for hours
after helping the vet at the ranch.”
     “Can’t make varsity without practice.” His mouth
widened in a yawn. We usually slept in on summer
vacation.
     I stifled a yawn of my own and reached out to smooth
Tess’ feathers. “You’ll make it.”
     Matthew smiled at my vote of confidence. “Thanks.”
“Anyway, it wasn’t only us. Grandpa worked on his
book late into the night.” He taught medieval history at a
university and was writing a book about games in the
Middle Ages.
     “That’s all in the past,” Matthew said. “Let’s find Ethel.”
     I pushed past a branch that blocked the trail, and we
entered a noisy, misty space. The hill was steep on the right
of the narrow path, the sky hidden by leafy trees. The
stream lay below us to the left. On the far side of the stream
stood a tall cliff of ivy-covered rock. Ahead of us, hazy spray
from the waterfall filled the air and glistening droplets
spattered the ivy leaves.
     We had explored every inch of the woodland on
Grandpa’s property over the years. When we were little, we
pretended it was a magical world and searched for fairies in
the bushes and leprechauns under ferns. Ethel was
nowhere in sight. I knew magical beings hadn’t taken her.
     “Ethel must’ve gone behind the falls.” I bit back my fear
of slipping off the trail and smashing into the rocky stream
bed. “I’ll get her.”
     “I’ll come with you.”
     “No way. The noise will spook the chickens.”
     Where the trail went behind the waterfall, a rock ledge
jutted out, forming a narrow roof. The fantailed bird flew
out and nipped at my hair. Busy with the chickens,
Matthew didn’t notice. I batted it away and said, “Oh, come
on.”
     Matthew clucked to Tess and Chanticleer as we
continued on the path, stepping around the muddy
patches. I glanced to my left where the ground sloped down
to the churning stream. My knees wobbled. I swung my
head away and focused on Matthew’s slim back.
     The space behind the waterfall shone with greenish
light. The chickens cackled and Matthew tightened his hold
on them. We hurried as much as we dared to get past the
curtain of water. A few steps beyond the falls, the path
ended at the rock wall on the far side of the stream.
     Matthew shook his thick chestnut hair out of his eyes,
flinging water everywhere. “Where’s Ethel?”
     Before I could answer, the prehistoric bird flew out of
the tangle of vines that covered the cliff and landed on a
scraggly bush near us.
     Matthew’s jaw dropped. “What is that? Are those
teeth?”
     “Yep. Where could it have come from?” As if in answer,
the bird flew back into the mass of leaves.
     Matthew nodded at the cliff. “D’you think it has a nest
in there?”
     I pulled aside a handful of vines. What had always been
a solid rock wall now had an opening six feet high clear
through it. I blinked. Nothing changed. The space was three
feet long and wide enough for a person to walk through.
Keeping a tight grip on the vines, I leaned forward to get a
better look and flinched when a tingling sensation flowed
down my spine like a trickle of electricity.
     The air shimmered; its fuzzy edges fluttered against the
rock as if in a light breeze. On the far side of the opening
hung another tangle of vines. Through gaps in the leaves, I
saw Ethel strut like a princess across a meadow. Unlike our
dim early morning woods, midday light bathed the meadow.
A creature flew across the patch of sky in my view. It had a
thick body and reminded me of a dragon illustration in my
old fairy tale book. A sensation of squirmy caterpillars filled
my stomach, making me grateful we’d missed breakfast.
     “Do you see a nest?” Matthew asked.
     “Nope. No nest.”
     He squinted at me. “What’s wrong? You’re pale.”
     I bit my lip. “The cliff. I can see through it.”
     “What d’you mean?”
     “There’s a . . . I don’t know what to call it. An archway.
A tunnel. I can see daylight on the other side.”
     “Pipit, that’s not possible.” I grinned at his pet name for
me. Maybe he’s forgiven me after all.
     I pulled the vines farther to the side. “See for yourself.”
     Matthew stepped in front of the space and let out a low
whistle. He squared his shoulders. “Ethel’s out there. I’m
going after her.”
     “Wait. That tunnel. It’s not natural. Where does it lead
to?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the back of one of the camps
down the road.”
     “Can’t be. The cliff is the side of a hill. There shouldn’t
be any daylight.”
     His shoulder rose in a shrug. “We’ll figure it out after I
get Ethel back.”
     “Don’t go. That place gives me the creeps.”
     He considered me. “It probably gives Ethel the creeps too.”
     I stamped my foot. “Forget about animals for once!”
     The color drained from his cheeks. He seemed as
shocked as if I’d slapped him. I let the vines fall into place.
“Sorry. I feel bad about losing her too.” I took a deep breath.
     “It’s crazy to go through there. We don’t know what’s on the
other side.”
     “Looks like a meadow.”
     His mouth was set in that stubborn way that meant he
wouldn’t change his mind. I gave it one more go anyway.
     “Something’s not right. Please stay here.”
     Ignoring me, he said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He
thrust the chickens toward me. As I took them, Chanticleer
struggled and jabbed my scraped arm with his beak. I
yelped and lost my grip. Chanticleer and Tess dropped to
the ground with a noisy flapping of wings and raced
through the gap in the rock. Matthew took off after them.
     He was my best friend; I couldn’t let him face the
unknown alone. My pulse beat in my ears, drowning out
other sounds. I thought I heard Grandpa calling from
across the stream. Peering through the haze of droplets
though, I couldn’t see anyone. I stepped into the cool air of
the rough archway. The same buzzy, electric sensation
zinged through my body as before, and the hairs rose on
the nape of my neck. When I reached the end of the short
tunnel, I took a step back to make sure it worked both ways
and we wouldn’t get trapped on the other side. Reassured,
I hurried after Matthew.
     After a few steps, I turned around to get my bearings so
we could find the tunnel again after we caught the chickens.
I saw a rockface similar to the one in our woods. Vines
covered this one too, although the leaves were pale green
and heart-shaped, not dark and lobed, like ivy. My fingers
trembled as I tore off handfuls of foliage to mark the spot.
     Matthew had stopped his chase to watch me. Hands on
hips, a smirk on his face, he pointed to the top of the cliff.
     “The archway is below that oak. Easy to find, since it’s the
only tree up there.”
     I stuck my tongue out at him. We laughed, like old
times. I caught up to him and we went in search of the
chickens.
     The sun shone hot on our heads and the air smelled of
cherries. The scent came from an orchard that filled the
back end of the meadow. Holes large enough to trap a foot
littered the uneven ground. Tall birds with long necks and
small heads grazed in a fenced enclosure. They resembled
moas. My dad said moas had been extinct for hundreds of
years. Could these be emus? Whatever they were, their
tough beaks and clawed feet could have pitted up the earth.
     To our right sat a two-story house, several
outbuildings, animal pens, and a stone barn. As much as I
wanted to believe it was a farm in upstate New York, I
couldn’t. Two dark shapes passed overhead. With their long
narrow heads and short bodies, I would have called them
pterodactyls if they weren’t extinct too. My toe caught the
edge of a hole and I stumbled. When I raised my head again,
the creatures were distant smudges in the sky.
     We’d picked our way halfway across the grassy meadow
when Matthew stopped short and I almost collided with
him. Behind us, Grandpa called out our names. I waved
him over. The three of us could round the chickens up
faster.
     I nudged Matthew. “Grandpa’s here. Where do you
think we are?”
     “No idea.”
     “Did we go through some kind of time warp? Are we in
the past?”
     “Don’t think so.”
     “Why not?”
     “That’s why.” Matthew’s voice was strained, and he
stared straight ahead.
     Two people dressed in pine green tunics and fawn
trousers approached us. They appeared to be about our age
and could have passed for students from our high school,
dressed for a play about the Middle Ages. Except for one
difference.
     Furry, catlike tails hung a foot below the hems of their
tunics.
     My heart thumped in my chest, pounding out a rhythm:
“not real, not real, not real.” I wanted to run back home,
but my legs had forgotten how to move.
     The tailed pair stopped a few yards away. The girl had
a short stick she held straight out toward Matthew. Her
expression was serious. Still, I thought she might be joking
around. The boy eased a gleaming dagger out of a sheath
and pointed the tip straight at me.
     Not a joke. We were in trouble.

To read on, purchase a copy of the whole adventure at Amazon.
Observe and imagine!