I’m off to see some forbidden tunnels.
I head down what I’ve deemed “the side tunnel”—it’s the only tunnel with no doors, except the forbidden tunnel, possibly. The last thing I need is suspicion or extra attention, so I smile and wave and call ‘bonjour’ to everyone who notices me walking by and calls out—which must be about every person in this tunnel.
Before continuing my journey to the forbidden tunnel, I stop in at the garden for a drink at the well. Of course, when I get there, a deafening commotion ensues as everyone insists that Beila, the princess, should not have to wait in line. I know squat about modern-day France, but medieval underground French villagers have impressive lung capacity. Not until I’m at the well do I realize that, naturally, I don’t have anything to get water with; thankfully, the villagers are all more than willing to share with their honored guest. Will I get used to the celebrity status, the attention, at some point? Should I want to get used to it? Half the people in the city were there to “make it big,” thinking the so-called “Big Apple” was the place to discover their big-bucks creative future. They’d give anything to have this kind of adoration, be it from a fan base in the big city or the population of a small foreign village. Right now it disturbs me, that these people who live in such poor conditions think nothing of it and will give anything to serve the outsider, who already lives better than they. Maybe I’d feel better if I did more to earn their respect than just fall down a hole, accidentally.
Everyone wants to talk to me. The children want to show me finger-drawings they drew in the dirt and teach me to play their pebble-based games. The women want to talk, even though we can’t fully understand each other. The men all offer to help if there’s ever anything I need. I assure them all that I’ll remember their promises and will return to spend time with them another day. Part of me feels bad about not giving these selfless people the one little thing they ask of me, but being the center of a mob’s attention is overwhelming enough without the mob being invisible and speaking in a foreign language. Even if I weren’t on a sort-of mission today, I wouldn’t be able handle this level of pressure.
When I’m finally out, I have to force myself not to run to the end of the tunnel. After all, I still can’t draw suspicion, and there are plenty of eyes on me. Once I’m at the end of the tunnel, I turn left toward the houses, away from the forbidden tunnel’s entrance. I stop to listen, to wait and see if there’s anybody in the tunnel. Not being able to see anyone puts me at a disadvantage; in fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a miracle I haven’t just walked into someone by now. The villagers accommodate well for my lack of sight. I wonder if they can see each other, or if they’re just used to knowing where others are? They can clearly all see me, at least.
The tunnel sounds clear. I turn back around and walk quickly until I come to the first turn. I’m not sure whether to turn here or keep walking. I look down the path beside me. It’s a left turn, and the whole tunnel turns to the right again a little way down. Up ahead of me, there’s an entrance to another tunnel. I step into the left turn next to me and stop to think, resting my back against the wall. Closing my eyes, I pull up all the memories of my nightmares and dreams I can find.
I recall walking around with Adele and Louna. I remember Dad’s story, and my own recurring nightmare…There! When I’m running with the hand—with Adele, I know now—and the griffin is roaring and she’s terrified, almost dragging me along the dirt, we always pass by the first tunnel. That second one at the end is where we go, into the cave.
The way home.
I jolt away from the wall, eyes wide. I could go home, right now. I could go back to my own house and my school and normal clothes and Viviann and Damien and Dad. I could go home.
Suddenly I feel like my skeleton has been converted to Jell-O. I fall back against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the ground, skirts poofing up around my legs. I could go home, if my dream is entirely correct and that cave is my doorway back into reality. Would I end up in the woods where I fell? Would I wake up in my own bed, like in my nightmares and the times I opened the door in the cloaked man’s room? Would I find myself somewhere else entirely, like standing at my house’s front door or in the middle of a random street in New York? However it happened, that cave must somehow be able to take me back. It did before, in my dreams. So far nothing else from my dreams has been wrong.
I could go home.
But something holds me here. This tunnel, the one I’m standing in, the one I’ve yet to see in dreams or waking hours, waits to be explored. I mean, I could always have a bit of fun before leaving, right? And why—how—did I end up down here in the first place? Dad said the griffin talked about redemption, and everyone does act like I’m incredibly important. Maybe there’s a reason I’m here. If there is, shouldn’t I figure it out before I leave?
Then there’s the whole matter of this entire place being magical—gardens without sunlight, rooms that fill themselves, fires and torches that correspond to the sun, invisible people living like a medieval—or, you know, maybe Renaissance—village. I can’t even remember people’s names yet, much less their customs or routines or language. Who in their right mind would come to a beautiful, enchanted world and run away without even beginning to enjoy the place?
Not to mention, I haven’t been down this tunnel in real life before. It might not even be the way home. These tunnels are forbidden. I could go charging down that tunnel looking for a way home and find something truly dangerous. Even if there’s nothing to find, do I really want to go blazing and excited into a dead end? Just because my dreams haven’t been mistaken yet doesn’t mean they can’t still be.
I push that thought away. My dreams have gotten everything here right so far. Logically, they got the cave bit right too.
It’s not like these tunnels are going anywhere. I read a book for a school assignment once, about a girl trapped in this magic nightmare of a castle where the rooms and halls all changed every day. She kept discovering new rooms, but then it would take her hours to find them again. My situation is nothing like that. I could always come back here and leave, whenever I wanted. Just the fact that I could go home, if I wanted, whenever I decided, makes this whole underworld experience seem suddenly very different to me. I feel less like a celebrity trapped by strangers’ expectations than I did this morning…I’m more like an honored visitor, like an ambassador visiting Japan or somewhere, enjoying their visit but eventually happy to go home.
I can go home!
An image fills my mind, an image of soft black fabric and a beautifully carved wooden chair. The memory of my promise to the man in that five-walled room is the final piece that makes my decision. I promised him I would find him; he must be down here somewhere. I’ve already seen all the tunnels except this one, be it in a dream or my tours with Adele, and I’ve yet to find him. So, logically, he must be somewhere beyond this path.
I will go home. Just not today.
I walk quickly down the tunnel, twisting and turning with it—left and right and back again, with no apparent order or reason, and with quite a few dead ends. It’s like the tunnels don’t want me to find my way. I remember that school book again with a pang of unease. The dirt itself seems to be working its hardest to confuse and frustrate me. That might work on a worm or a mole, but I’m human, and it’s going to take more than some convoluted tunnels to make me give up!
Finally, though, I’ve reached something new. The dirt around me seems to have some sort of white rock underneath, smooth and hard and cold to the touch. I run my hand along the wall as I walk, more slowly now. Then the tunnel takes a sharp left. I turn the corner and gasp.
This is no dirt tunnel.
The red, moist soil gives way completely to a high arched ceiling and wide walls, all made of mottled white marble bricks. It’s chilly in here. I suppose the earthy surroundings in the tunnels make better insulation than wide marble hallways. The walls are smooth and flat, with little
lines between the bricks clearly visible. One brick’s edges are chipping off, and I run my finger along the jagged edges. It’s cold and rough, but weathered enough that it doesn’t tear at my skin.
I glance up at the ceiling and find I can’t pull my gaze away. It’s a work of art, in the architectural sense of the word. Divided into eight rows are giant squares with thick edges sticking out. Each square has a large carved figure in the center—the carvings alternate between long, slender-necked dinosaurs and the letter F, decorated with curled vines and tiny dots. The two designs seem nothing like each other and not at all related, and I wonder at the significance of their being selected for this building.
The floor is some sort of stone or tile, smooth enough that I think my shoes back home would squeak on it. I lean against the wall and manage to reach down and remove my shoes. The contact between my bare feet and the cold, smooth floor sends shivers up my body, but I don’t care. I’ve been wanting to ditch the ill-fitting medieval footwear all day, and there’s nobody here to protest.
Up ahead, a double marble staircase spirals up beyond the high ceiling, framed by two further hallways going in either direction. I walk toward the stairs. I wonder if there’s any other buildings or unexpected architecture down here in the tunnel world. I might be wrong, but I’m pretty certain this is the only tunnel I haven’t been down before—well, this one and the one with the cave.
The staircase turns out to be a disappointment. I climb up and discover a door at the top, just to find that it’s not real. The door isn’t just locked—there isn’t a key hole or doorknob to lock in the first place. Why in the world would someone have an elaborate staircase that just leads to a false door, I wonder, frustrated. But I won’t let a fake door spoil my fun. I hurry back down the steps and wander further along the hallway to my right.
Only two rooms are located in this hall, so I figure I’ll get through quickly. The first door, unlocked, opens to a bedroom. Considering the pristine condition and absolutely silence, the room is obviously empty. I step inside and let the door fall shut behind me, walking around to get a better look at the place.
The elaborate white bed and vanity are similar in style to the ones in my “Mlle. Beila” room, but with different patterns in the carvings. There’s also a matching mirror, vanity stool, lounge chair or chaise or whatever that thing’s called, wardrobe, and nightstand. I haven’t exactly memorized the layout of my room, but I’m fairly sure the arrangement of furniture here matches my room. Even with the same setup and furnishings, though, the whole room gives off a distinct feeling. Instead of dark red dirt walls, the walls are bright and cheery here. I rub my fingers against a spot near me, again noticing how much cooler it is here than in the tunnels. The wallpaper is cream-colored and smooth, and garland-carved molding is fitted in the edges where the walls meet the ceiling. Long, rectangular panels of fabric hang between the furniture, with floral patterns stitched in the middle and gold threaded edging. There’s even a small gold and crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling.
The chandelier is what makes me finally notice—even though the room has a fireplace, a huge, beautiful marble fireplace, it’s not lit. No torches burn here, and the candles in the chandelier aren’t lit. Why is the room so bright? It actually looks like…sunshine. I whirl around, searching for windows. After a moment, I see one across the room from the door, between the wardrobe and the bed. I don’t know how I overlooked it when I walked in. A window! Down here, in this underground world. It’s been days since I’ve seen any sun. I walk up to the glass until my nose almost touches it, but I can’t make out anything. I can’t really tell why. Is it fogged, or dirty? With the condition of everything else in this room, I highly doubt that. Is it that kind of etched glass made to let light in without letting you see through? It doesn’t have any sort of texture, visible or tangible. There’s just…nothing there. I step back, wait a moment, try again, but it’s no use. There’s literally nothing to see out the window—no sky, no dirt, nothing but soft, natural light.
The magic in this place just gets stranger the more I learn about it.
After discovering the window, I peek in a few drawers and open the wardrobe, but I don’t find anything I couldn’t find in my own room. I feel like I belong in here—probably because this room is so similar to my own, just cheerier—but technically, I’m snooping. For all I know, this could be someone’s room. I didn’t even think of the possibility that people, invisible or not, might live here. Just because the room’s empty now doesn’t mean it always is. After all, Adele did say the tunnels are ruled by a royal. I leave quickly, not wanting to be discovered poking around some queen’s royal chambers.
The room across the hall is another bedroom. This one is predominantly black and red, making it dark both visually and atmospherically. The furniture is dark and arranged differently, but as far as grandeur and design are concerned, it’s not too different from the first room. I poke in and glance around for only a moment before leaving, eager to find something other than the living quarters. I walk around the staircase and reach the next door, which is yet another bedroom—this one rich in yellows and golds. It’s my favorite color scheme so far, actually. I don’t step inside this time. Eventually I’ve got to find something that’s not a bedroom. The fourth door I open finally holds a more exciting discovery.
It’s not the biggest library I’ve ever seen, or the most beautifully decorated. But it definitely is the grandest. There’s something glorious and serene about it—almost an air of divinity in the place. The walls are made entirely of bookshelves, all full, all gleaming with the reflection only well-kept, quality wood offers. There’s even a few ladders for reaching the higher shelves, the sliding kind attached to the shelves like in movies. The middle of the room has a few equally towering bookshelves. Between these shelves stands as a pair of ornate chairs with golden edging and legs and cream-colored padded upholstery. At the back of the library, a row of tall windows come down from the ceiling to the edge of a long, upholstered window seat, almost like a bench. I walk toward this seat, ready to rest my legs for a moment after walking around in this heavy princess getup all day.
When I’m seated, I lay my head back against the window and immediately notice two things. One, the window glass is warm. Not hot or anything, but warm, like it would be if the sun really was shining on it. Two, the ceiling is painted. I mean Renaissance painted—like Raphael or Michealangelo or Da Vinci might do. I can only see little bits of blue and white where I’m sitting. I jump up and walk between the bookshelves to find a spot where I can see the whole thing. It portrays some sort of heaven scene. There’s a blue sky and sunlit clouds, and almost a dozen adorable chubby cherubs playing and flying and smiling down from heaven. I’m a little disappointed the design is so…I don’t know, cliché or something, but it’s still far better than anything I could draw, much less paint. It completes the image of a palace library, that’s for certain.
Part of me wants to stay in here for a while, maybe see if I can find something in English here, and I promise myself I’ll come back. But there’s still who knows how many more rooms to explore, and I have no idea what time it is. I still have to find that cloaked man, too. He’s in a dirt room somewhere, and the lack of dirt in this…palace, I guess I’d call it…makes me think that perhaps there’s another tunnel I don’t know about. Or maybe the tunnel to the cave branches off with more paths. Regardless, I close the library doors as I exit and press on.
The next room I enter is some sort of great hall or meeting room or possibly throne room. I don’t know much about palaces. There’s a long wooden table surrounded by chairs, and the wall across from one end of the table dips in a bit to hold two thrones. This room has the most open space I’ve seen since I came to this strange world. I didn’t realize until I entered the palace how cramped and closed-in living underground could make a girl feel. Still, I don’t spend more than a few minutes looking around. Other than thrones and a tab
le, there’s really not much to see.
Down the hall from the throne room is a kitchen. I’m reminded that this is a Renaissance palace. The place is all wood and firestoves and old pots and spoons. It’s certainly not fancy, and there’s no stainless steel here. I move across the hall to the dining room. Here is another long wooden table, with a runner decorating the center and two chandeliers hanging overhead. Pretty, grand, old-fashioned, but not that interesting. Actually, it looks like a bigger version of a fancy dining room I saw on a TV show. At the end opposite from the door I came in, the room has a wide doorway in the wall, with sliding wooden doors. I cross through them into what must be a ballroom. There’s no furniture; the floor is decorated with rich colors in elaborate geometric patterns. A parade of grand paintings and portraits hang on the walls. Three windows illuminate the room between paintings on the wall to my left. I look up and find, just as I hoped, that the ceiling is painted—a similar style to the library ceiling, but the design is more detailed, portraying various well-dressed gentlemen and ladies mid-dance. I wonder if they’re meant to look like real people who once lived, or if they’re just pretty paintings. The biggest chandelier I’ve seen in this whole palace glitters and sparkles in the center. The design of the chandelier is unique, and if I stand in just the right spot, it looks like a fountain in the painting-people’s room.
I notice how low the sunlight from the windows seems to be getting, and remember that I’m a long walk from my room. I leave the ballroom and reluctantly glance down the hall next to it, wondering what splendors it leads to, before returning to grab my shoes. My still-bare feet have just touched soil when I hear a frightening sound from somewhere too close behind me—a terrible, screeching roar louder than anything I’ve ever heard here before. The sound of nightmares echoes in the marble hallway around me.
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