“What’s this?”
“A necklace. For you, Beila Durand. Take it with you when you leave.”
I consider protesting, but then think about the fact that a man I can’t see just made a necklace materialize in front of my eyes. I probably shouldn’t argue with the man. Instead I ask, “Who is he?”
The cloak simply bows. “As you have learned, I cannot answer questions. You must discover answers for yourself. Farewell, milady.”
“Yeah, uh. Farewell.” I do my best at a half-curtsy before grasping the door handle with one hand, keeping the necklace safe in the other. As soon as I’ve pulled the door far enough to slide through, I take my first step. Next thing I know, I’m lying awake in my dark bedroom, with no necklace. That should’ve been obvious to me—nobody brings things home from a dream—but I feel disappointed anyway.
The LED display of my alarm clock reads 12:58 AM. I haven’t even slept an hour. Still, I feel completely energized. Who was that man? What does he have to do with the griffin, and the invisible woman, and the tunnels? Why was he determined not to tell me anything I hadn’t already figured out by myself? What was the big deal about that necklace?
Wide awake now, I pull out my computer and type as much as I can remember about the necklace into a web search. Nothing remotely close to my dream comes up. I try different combinations of descriptions for the cloaked man or the tunnel rooms, but all I get are images from fantasy movies, costume sales, and catacomb exploration trips in the Middle East.
The great wooded area from the map comes back to mind and refuses to leave. Images and half-baked ideas swirl through my mind, trying to connect all these different elements. Finally I decide there’s really only two things I could do right now: go back to sleep and hope for a new dream, or investigate the woods.
It’s the middle of the night. It’s dark and it’s dangerous, but I ignore the voice in my mind that says I’m an idiot. As quickly as possible, I get a backpack ready to go with a flashlight, my sketchbook, a pen, a few graphite pencils, a camera, extra batteries, my cell phone, a water bottle, and a few granola bars. Then I shed my gray cotton pajamas and change into jeans, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, long socks, and sneakers. At the last minute, I throw extra shoes and socks in my bag before leaving a note on the kitchen table about going for a morning walk. They won’t see it for a few hours at least, but if anything does go wrong I’ll have my phone.
The door clicks shut behind me. I lock it and slide the key into my pocket. Briefly, I wonder if I should’ve printed off the map…but really, once I get past my yard, the old crabapple trees, and the farmers’ fields, it’ll be nothing but trees until I reach that one dead-end road. I look up at the sky and take a deep breath. The stars seem to push me forward and encourage me. I couldn’t see any of the stars in all of New York City, with all the light pollution the city gave off. The night is much clearer and brighter in the countryside, and I feel connected with history, using the natural light like this. Of course, it’s barely a few minutes’ walking before I’ll need the flashlight.
It doesn’t take me long to walk past the yard that’s unchanged from the last time we lived here. Even the sandbox on the porch and swing set are still here, although I’m sure we’ll have to get rid of the rusted, moldy things. Soon I’m following the odd double-sided trail left by the tire marks of the farmers’ tractors that drive through here often to reach the fields during the warm seasons. Once I’m past the fields, though, the trail curves back through the planting area and I’m left to wander in a general forward direction.
As soon as I’m actually enclosed in the trees, questions and second-guessing bombard me. How stupid can I be? Coming out here to actual woods, with poison ivy and ticks and probably bears and who knows what else, alone in the middle of the night? And for what? A strange dream or two.
But then I tell myself I’m out here already, and completely prepared for trouble, so I might as well have a look around before turning back. I lose track of how many sticks snap and leaves crunch under my sneakers. It’s a good thing I’m not running from anything like in my dreams—this is slower going than I expected, and I’d certainly never be able to hide making all this noise.
My phone reads 1:45, but I keep going. It seems like only a few more minutes pass before I check the time again, but now my phone says it’s a little after three. My head starts to ache; the lack of sleep is finally having an effect on me.
I turn to go back. That’s when I look around me, shining the flashlight in every direction, and realize I really am lost. In the back of my mind I kind of knew this would happen—again, alone in strange woods at night. Still, it’s unnerving. I can’t even think of what to do. Then I discover that my phone, the one thing I figured would be useful in any situation, is useless. There’s no signal here, and no satellite signal is picking up on GPS. Even if I could call Dad or Damien and have them look for me, that would still take forever. I can’t believe I got myself into this. Something inside me pulls me on. Might as well start heading back the way I came. I take a few deep breaths as I walk, focusing on getting home rather than all the things that could happen now.
I’ve gone a good distance toward who knows what when I realize the area around me looks familiar. The thought of a particular spot with nothing but trees and twigs, no identifying marks or anything, being familiar is ludicrous. Still, I know this area, this particular part of the woods. At first I think it’s from the dream, but then I realize I played here with Damien and his friends, even Viviann on occasion, as a kid.
My pace quickens until I’m almost running, leaving a deafening path of broken everythings behind me, running toward the road and houses and home. I grin and laugh out loud, out of breath but relieved to not be lost anymore. I got myself un-lost in the woods in the middle of the night. I’ve found home!
That’s when something catches on the top of my sneaker. I trip and fall, holding out my arms and wincing against sharp sticks or the rough bark of tree roots. But instead, I feel nothing underneath me; darkness and dirt swallow me up until I’m falling into cold, pitch-black air.
Three
The square room is exactly the same, with its torches and deep red dirt walls. My body aches from the fall, and it takes me a few minutes just to get up. Head throbbing, I stumble to the wall and slowly reach out to rub hard-packed dirt, neither warm nor cold, slightly moist. I wipe off my fingers on my jeans, leaving three faint red streaks.
No invisible hands, French women’s voices, or screech-roaring griffins find me. I decide to do the only thing I can—turn to my left and walk forward, into the tunnels, to meet whatever’s waiting for me there as bravely as I can. I walk slowly, keeping one hand against the tunnel wall. My eyes take longer to adjust to the uneven, low lightning than they did in my dream.
The tunnel’s longer than I recall, although I suppose there are many possible reasons for that. Maybe it just seems longer since I’m not running, or maybe I’m being particularly slow due to that awful fall. Of course there’s always the possibility that my dream, being only a dream, was a bit fuzzy on the details.
Finally, I reach the end of the tunnel and pause. There’s only one way I can go—a turn to the right—so I’ll have to just keep following the wall. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. My hand drops to my side, and I step forward.
This tunnel, too, is just as I remember—carved wooden doors between more identical torches, and other tunnels branching off, but no people or animals, or inhabitants of any kind. It’s just me, standing in impossibly built dirt tunnels, finding my way by torches rather than flashlights or streetlights.
Then I feel something touch my hand and I jump, completely terrified. When I turn to see thin air where I can still feel a hand, I’m actually relieved. The irony doesn’t escape me. Still, after the terrible sounds from my own dreams and the frightening descriptions from Dad’s, silence and invisible hands are comforting. The hand slips into my own, and I’m certain it
must be human.
“Are you…well, um, hello. I’m Beila. Are you the woman I met before?”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Beila?”
It’s the same voice as before, but no longer frightened—instead curious, and relieved, and honestly sounding like she might cry. I smile. “Yes, it’s me. I’m Beila. What’s your name?”
“I Adele. Si—” A tremulous breath. “Friend.”
“Where am I?” I try to speak slowly and clearly, hoping she understands me well enough to converse. She doesn’t answer, though; instead, her other hand wraps around our clasped hands, and she begins to pull gently. We’re standing at a fork between two tunnels, one directly in front of me and one to my right. I let her guide me down the tunnel on our right.
A few doors crack open, but there’s no one inside the rooms or out in the tunnels. “Adele, are there others? More people like you, unseen?”
“Oui, il y en a d'autres. People, more.” Her accent is hard to understand, but the foreign parts sound beautiful. I even think I can make out a few words. I’m not sure how I would know, but then, we Americans seem to take a word or two from nearly every language out there.
We pass two tunnels and some sort of greenery on our way. I decide to ask Adele later about the greenery, if it’s some sort of park, or even a way to get outside. Once we reach the end of the tunnel, we turn left—it’s the only way we can go—and continue down that path, too, past more wooden doors. Near the end of the hall, the doors are different. There are words carved into them. At the very end of the tunnel stands a door unlike any I’ve seen yet. It’s bigger than those in the tunnels and more elaborately carved, but smaller than the ones from that cloaked man’s room. They’re beautiful carvings, of people and trees and villages and all sorts of things. The carvings are like little scenes, scattered across the door. Centered at the top of the door is a rectangle carved to stick out a little, with ‘Mlle. Beila’ carved in scrolling type. I may be a beginner in French class, but I’m pretty sure “Mlle.” stands for “mademoiselle.”
Adele places my hand on the curled metal handle. This door is the only one I’ve seen with any outside handle at all, though of course I never saw the outside of the cloaked man’s doors. With one pull, the door eases open silently, and I slowly enter my new room. The door eases shut behind me, and I assume either there’s magic involved in all this or Adele came in behind me.
The room is made of the same smooth, hard-packed dirt as everything else. The furniture, though, is beautiful—antique, carved, white wooden bed, wardrobe, vanity table, and chair. A white marble fireplace takes up a large middle portion of one wall and lights the whole room. There’s even a mirror, a beautiful, bronze-framed mirror, hanging above the vanity. They’re all so beautifully and exquisitely carved that the sight takes my breath away. I stand in front of the closed door, admiring the room, until I feel Adele’s hand gently pushing the small of my back, trying to get me to the bed. I perch on the edge of the delicately stitched, silky bedspread and watch as the doors of the wardrobe open, seemingly by themselves.
I can’t pretend it’s not absolutely insane to see medieval-looking garments, with the dresses’ elaborate designs and the underclothes’ complicated folds, float through the air and lie across the foot of the bed. There are black gowns and ivory gowns, billowing cornflower skirts and delicately stitched burgundy bodices, and that’s just the outer clothing. I’m sure the other, mostly off-white, pieces containing a lot less fabric are things like petticoats and shifts and crinolines, but I couldn’t tell a nightgown from an under-gown if my life depended on it. It’s overwhelming. What I wouldn’t give for my closet back home right now, full of clothes whose names and functions I recognize. My city reputation for fashion know-how holds no foundation whatsoever down in this crazy place.
The invisible Adele takes out what must be two or three complete outfits’ worth of clothing before taking my hand and pulling me up. I feel more than a bit uncomfortable with the idea of undressing in front of a strange woman I can’t even see, but from what I know, it was common for girls to help each other dress in the olden days.
When I’m finally dressed like a proper gentlewoman, or at least what I imagine that phrase would entail, I wonder why it took so many years for fashions to simplify. Certainly, if it took me this long just to get dressed every day, I’d invest a good deal of my time and money in inventing something easier to wear. I start to walk toward the mirror—I have to go past the wardrobe and stand on the other side of the bed to see myself—but Adele’s hand on my arm holds me back. She pulls out the vanity chair, turns it away from the mirror, and awkwardly guides me into it so that I never see my reflection.
With an assortment of combs, brushes, pins, clips, and adornments from the vanity, Adele’s unseen hands clip and comb and pin my hair this way and that, twisting and braiding and trying all sorts of styles before she’s finally satisfied. The sheer amount of expensive-looking, shiny things laid out on the dresser would make my head hurt if her tugging and twisting weren’t already doing that. When she’s finally satisfied, she puts them away and pulls out yet more drawers filled with even more expensive-looking sparkly things—jewelry! This step seems a bit more decisive for her than the dressing and hair-fixing bits, which is a little disappointing. I’m definitely thinking of coming back later to examine what I’m pretty sure was a diamond and sapphire necklace.
She pulls from the wardrobe pointy, shiny-fabric-covered shoes that complement my red and gold gown and slides them on my feet. I think we’re done, but no—she still has to do makeup! Of course, this strange place with its medieval clothing and elaborate furniture has makeup that’s not quite what I use, but Adele is certainly familiar enough with the powders and paints. I just hope the stuff resembling very bright foundation was made after the whole discovery-of-toxic-lead part in history.
Finally, she’s done doing me up. She puts away the mysterious outdated cosmetic substances, then takes my hand and pulls me up and around to admire her work in the mirror.
I’m impressed, and a bit stunned. What happened to Beila Durand, chic city girl? In the mirror I see a woman I hardly recognize. My long, dark brown hair sweeps back into some sort of circular twist, with the curly ends hanging out around the circle. Little wispy curls frame my face, and a strand of age-tinted pearls rests around the top of my head, like a halo. The makeup is actually fairly understated, but I can tell I look paler than usual, with lips painted enough to be distinguished from the rest of me. My gown has a wide square neckline. The pure white, lace-covered front piece tapers down between deep red velvet sides to my hips and then curves into a point. The skirt is formed by some sort of underlying piece of shimmery gold, embroidered fabric that shows through the front triangle-shaped cut in a red velvet overskirt. Both the white front piece of the bodice and the gold part of the skirt are framed by what look like thick red velvet ribbons trimmed in gold spiraling threads. The sleeves are long and pointed, matching the red velvet in the skirt and bodice sides. Where the sleeves and bodice meet, the tiniest cap of undecorated gold fabric puffs out. Aesthetically, it’s beautiful, but I wouldn’t quite say it’s my style. Viviann would absolutely die if she were ever put in anything like this.
“Oh, Adele, this is…this is something. You’re an artist!”
I’m not sure if she understands any of my words, but my good intentions are clear, and she laughs. The sound stirs me deep inside. It’s the same gut feeling I got when I met Cecelie and felt like we could be friends for ages.
When Adele tires of me staring in the mirror—it doesn’t take long—, she grabs my hand and leads me back out of the room and down the tunnels. Once again, she passes by the labeled doors. We stop at the first ordinary door. She knocks once before pushing it open and going inside, leaving me to stand in front of the empty-looking room.
“Louna chérie, viens ici. Venez rencontrer la princesse. Cette fille s’appelle Beila!”
Princes
s? I’m certainly no celebrity, but down here I’m not sure how anything works. Based on how I look, I very well could be a princess. I feel velvety and painted enough to be one.
The shuffling of a child’s feet follows Adele’s words. I feel Adele’s hand taking mine and putting a new, smaller hand in my own. “Beila, c’est Louna. Elle est ma fille. Ah… me girl.”
“Oh, your daughter! Why, hello there, Louna.” I give the new hand a friendly squeeze and smile. She doesn’t answer. “Feeling a bit shy? Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”
Adele replies for her daughter. “Elle est muette. Muette, elle ne peut pas parler ”
It takes me a minute to play over Adele’s words in my head, but I remember that “parler” has to do with talking in French. I realize that “muette” seems very similar to “mute.” Can the girl not talk at all?
Adele takes my free hand and places it on her own adult face. It’s odd, feeling another person’s face just to get to know them. A thin layer of dirt coats her skin; her cheeks are rounded with just a hint of sagging. I think of the Helen Keller stories from middle school literature class and suppose this is what being blind feels like. After a few moments, she takes my hand and places it on Louna’s face. The girl seems uncertain at first, but then I can feel a little bit of a smile coming out. Damien would love the chance to explore the ideological and theological ramifications of an invisible people in an underground world like this. I’m just feeling uncomfortable and out of place. It’s hard to get an idea of what people look like from feeling their faces, but I guess I still am glad to have some way of knowing these invisible people. And it’s nice to know I haven’t scared the girl, especially since she’s the first person since Adele I’ve actually met down here.
Adele and Louna lead me down the tunnel, going door to door. Louna hangs back, holding her mother’s hand and occasionally mine, never making a sound. Meanwhile her mother introduces me by hand and voice and sometimes face to my new neighbors. I’m already exhausted and confused after the insane day I’ve had, and this gown weighs several pounds at least. I want to just go back to my room, to my own clothes, and sleep, but I don’t want to be rude. This isn’t my world or my home, after all.
World of Shadows Page 3