The Land of Yesterday

by K. A. Reynolds

  Nearing the attic stairs, the temperature dropped. The paintings, wallpaper, floors, their skin, and even the daisies binding them whitened with a kiss of frost. The water grew exceedingly cold. Despite the chill, their ever-brightening lanterns kept them warm.

  “Cecelia Dahl!” The floors shuddered with Widdendream’s voice. Yet neither Cecelia nor Mazarine paused. They continued upward and onward toward Aubergine. “Since your mother has sided with the enemy, our deal is off. You know what happens next.”

  Cecelia turned to her mother in panic. “It’s going to hurt Father—permanently.”

  Mazarine’s steps quickened. “We’re not going to let it.”

  While they climbed the tiny staircase to the attic, Aubergine called out from inside. “Cecelia, Mazarine!” His voice sounded strained. “Is that you?”

  Mazarine flung herself at the door, unconcerned with the barbed black vines snaking the wood. “Aubergine! You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice.”

  “Oh souls, I have missed you both terribly.” His delight turned serious fast. “But we don’t have much time. . . . You won’t like what I’ve become. You should run while you have the chance.”

  Cecelia and Mazarine shared a determined yet weary glance. “What are you talking about?” Mazarine asked. Each word squeezed with worry. “What has Widdendream done to you?”

  A massive SMASH interrupted his answer, followed by a muffled cry. They stood before the locked entrance, hearts thundering, hair undulating in slow arcs. Cecelia, trying not to think about her forehead going numb or that her back felt more and more paperish, grasped the doorknob and set her jaw.

  “Are you ready?” Mazarine asked, wavering slightly on her feet. Her mother’s cage had broken through her skin. Her neck had fully papered, along with much of her collarbone. The only things holding her up were the daisies. Cecelia didn’t know exactly how much flesh her mother had left, but she knew it couldn’t be much.

  “Ready,” Cecelia answered, pushing her fear away.

  “Enter and die, Dahl family—CRUMBLE TO DUST LIKE MY HEART!” The attic shook as hard as a snow globe. Lightning cracked through the water; every light bulb in the house surged.

  “Never!” Cecelia shouted. “Stand back if you can, Father. We’re coming in.”

  Mother and daughter rammed the door so hard it blew off its hinges with a jagged crack. Cecelia and Mazarine tumbled into the attic and fell on top of each other. Still, with the help of their armor, they rose.

  The bare bulb burst with light, as bright as a comet. Soggy cardboard boxes, old clothes, and shreds of parchment undulated through the thin layer of water covering the floor. Family photos, most of Mazarine, skimmed the surface. The heavier things—old lamps, dusty chairs, stacks of books—occupied the corners. Thorn-covered vines and black rot wound between everything yet did not move. Cecelia scanned the dim attic but found no sign of her father.

  Out of the darkness, a voice floated softly toward them. “Hello, my loves.”

  Aubergine’s words emerged from the back-corner shadows, slow and strange.

  “Aubergine?” Mazarine dived toward the back wall, chasing his voice. Something stirred near the corner, like wind ruffling the pages of a book. “Where are you?”

  “Sorry, Dahls,” Widdendream interrupted, sounding closer than ever before. “Daddy has become a bit too”—its attic eyes turned up as if it was grinning—“attached to me to come out and play.”

  Heart beating behind her eyes like a bird trapped in her skull, Cecelia followed her mother toward the back of the room.

  Mazarine screamed.

  “Mother?” Lantern flickering wildly, Cecelia froze.

  “Cecelia!” Mazarine cried through her fingers and faced the side wall. “Your father,” she choked. “Oh, Widdendream, what have you done?”

  Chapter 24

  The Hideous Truth

  A thatch of hair, a section of dark purple suit, and a select few fingers and toes poked out from the shredding wall.

  “Oh souls,” Cecelia gasped, legs weak. Not only had most of her father turned into paper, but Widdendream had sucked him into the wall and made him a part of it. “Widdendream, why did you do this? You said you’d let him go!”

  Widdendream laughed under its breath. The water rippled and swayed with its reply. “You failed to keep your promises to me, so why should I keep mine to you?”

  The daisies armoring Cecelia and Mazarine growled and lunged at the walls like a pack of rabid dogs.

  “Cecelia.” Aubergine’s face scrunched tighter as the wall pulled him in further. He struggled not to choke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Mazarine dropped to her knees before her husband. He eyed his wife like a last goodbye. “And look at you.” Aubergine smiled lovingly. “Always so beautiful. Gods, I’ve missed you, Maz.”

  Cecelia and her mother each grasped what they could of his hands, and stared into his eyes—one of flesh, one of paper.

  “And I have missed you.” Mazarine kissed his cheek. Diamond-like tears bobbed around her and then floated away, caught in her dim lantern light.

  Every muscle in Cecelia’s body clenched. Biting back her own tears, she turned away from her father and addressed Widdendream. “Why are you hurting him? He’s never done anything to you.”

  “That’s a laugh. All your father’s ever done is damage me, leave me to clean up his mess, and then try to abandon me, too. You don’t know how it feels to spend every bit of energy, day in and day out, keeping those who depend on you safe, only to have them neglect you, mistreat you, and dismiss you!”

  Seawater roiled around their feet, bubbling with rage.

  Widdendream shifted its window eyes onto Mazarine. “When you were leaving, I was worried, scared. Your tears seeped into my floor as you paced. I wanted to help, but you wouldn’t let me. Then you walked out the door without even saying goodbye.”

  The floors trembled and lights flashed. Cecelia moved closer to her mother and father and clasped their hands.

  Widdendream glared at Aubergine. “Then he just let you go—sail off to this wasteland of tears and death from where no living things return! A real friend would have stopped you from leaving me. But you left anyway, and I’ve never felt more alone!”

  Widdendream’s thunderous howls ripped through the room as it dragged Aubergine deeper into the wall.

  “Widdendream, stop!” Cecelia cried. “I’m the reason this all began. I was the one who neglected you the past few years. I was a terrible friend, and you didn’t deserve that. I am truly sorry for hurting you, for not being there for you, for breaking my promise that fateful night. . . . I swore to check on you, glue the knob back on your broken banister if you were too ill for the job. But I fell asleep, and Celadon died.” Cecelia’s hair curled lovingly around her neck. “I’d do anything to take it all back. But I can’t. I’m the one who deserves your wrath. So please, take me, but leave my parents alone.”

  The churning water stilled to slow waves. Widdendream stopped absorbing Aubergine. Maybe it would let her father go after all?

  Lantern shining through her armor, Mazarine pushed herself to her feet and addressed Widdendream. “I’m sorry, too, old friend, for leaving you the way I did.” Mazarine stared straight into its attic-window eyes. “Sometimes, when we’re grieving, the choices we make are selfish ones. It’s a form of survival. We don’t mean to hurt anyone, but occasionally, that’s just what happens, isn’t it? I beg, if our friendship ever meant anything to you, don’t blame my husband and daughter for something I’ve done. The Widdendream I knew and loved wouldn’t do that.”

  The temperature dropped lower. The walls themselves seemed to scream, “The Widdendream you knew is gone. Thanks to your daughter and what she did to our boy. It’s her fault I became this monster!”

  Aubergine strained to push his vanishing mouth forward. He focused on a hole in the baseboard at the bottom of the opposite wall, usually covered by piles of junk. Aubergine c
hoked, seeming to sip words from the sea: “The truth is, you feel equally to blame for Celadon’s death, don’t you, Widdendream?”

  The floor warped and swayed. A sudden blast of water and attic debris pushed Mazarine and Cecelia across the room.

  “Stop now, Aubergine,” Widdendream roared. “Or you will regret it.”

  As Cecelia and her mother fought their way back, Cecelia’s mind reeled. Could guilt be making Widdendream act this way? Widdendream’s rage had begun right after Celadon’s death. And the attic that held its spirit had turned dark and poisonous, which was exactly the way Cecelia’s guilt made her spirit feel. But why would Widdendream feel responsible when Cecelia had accepted the blame?

  As her mother made it safely to her father’s side, Cecelia remembered Celadon’s nightmare: “Something pushes me and then I fall.”

  Had something else happened the night her brother died that drove their kindhearted home to its cruel-hearted ways? Maybe if Cecelia could get Widdendream to open up about its guilt, she could help it expel the poison stuck in its spirit? Maybe then it would stop hurting her parents and this nightmare would end.

  “Widdendream . . . ,” Aubergine pleaded. The right side of his mouth disappeared behind the wall. “Be reasonable, just liste—”

  “ENOUGH!” Widdendream drew the last of Aubergine’s feet and arms through, until all that remained of him was his eggplant-colored lapels and the paper half of his face.

  “Widdendream,” Mazarine implored from Aubergine’s side. “You must stop this, please, for me.”

  The curtains over the attic windows closed. Widdendream moaned with deep sorrow yet did not answer. Cecelia faced the black hole at the base of the far wall that her father had focused on earlier.

  If she was going to save her family, the time to act was now.

  “I know something else happened the night Celadon died, Widdendream.” Cecelia strode confidently toward the ratlike hole. The water rolled and bubbled, splashing against her shins. Her entire face had papered, and much of her back felt paper-numb. Strands of hair broke from her scalp and drifted to the tattered ceiling; they tried to swim back to Cecelia but were lost in the current of tears. Nonetheless, Cecelia persisted. “Something that made you feel ashamed.”

  “No,” Widdendream snarled. The sea grew denser, colder. A flair of nervousness rippled through the damp air. “You know nothing!”

  “Widdendream?” Mazarine’s lantern light had dimmed significantly. Her hair undulated in silver waves toward what remained of Aubergine. “What are they talking about?”

  In a flurry of daisies and hair, Cecelia continued. “You had something to do with Celadon’s death, didn’t you? Something that made you feel guilty enough to hide it, even from the one you considered your best friend.” Widdendream cried out like a frightened animal. The waters stilled. Cecelia stopped before the hole in the baseboard, her back to her parents. “If you care for Mother as much you claim, you’ll tell her the truth. After all, she forgave me. She might do the same for you.”

  “I don’t deserve forgiveness,” Widdendream replied. “You hurt me, Cecelia. I lost everything because of you, and now you’ll lose the same.”

  “Cecelia . . .” Mazarine’s panicked voice sliced through her thoughts, followed closely by a muffled cry. “Cecelia, oh souls—”

  Widdendream almost sounded sorry when he said, “Say goodbye, paper girl.”

  Cecelia swung around just in time to witness the rest of her father vanishing into the wall and her mother, daisy armor and all, entering alongside him right after. “No!”

  Mazarine, halfway absorbed, struggled to free herself to no avail. Cecelia pulled at her mother, but she wouldn’t come free. Her paper skin chafed off in Cecelia’s hands. The last of her mother’s light drained away. “Widdendream,” Cecelia cried. “Give them back this instant!”

  “It’s no use, Cecelia,” Widdendream said softly, maybe even sincerely. “I’m taking them from you, as you took your mother and brother from me. Maybe now you’ll understand how it feels to be truly abandoned by those you love.”

  “Cecelia!” Mazarine’s boots, hands, and her cage—with Celadon’s paper ghost still inside—protruded from the wall. Wide-eyed and frantic, Mazarine whispered, “Never forget how much I love—” Her mother’s voice cut off. The wall swallowed her hair and the daisies and her heartbreakingly familiar face in one gulp.

  Cecelia’s lantern suddenly brightened, illuminating the last of her mother—a single extended hand. Cecelia grasped her mother’s hand for the last time. Mazarine’s fingers opened like a budding daisy to reveal an object: the tiny likeness of Joan of Arc, which Cecelia had told her mother only moments ago to hold for luck. Cecelia curled her fingers around the idol. A breath later, her mother’s fingers vanished.

  “No!” Cecelia pounded and ripped at the wall where her parents went in. “No, no, no!” But the more she clawed and scraped, the faster her fingers crumpled and bent and turned to pulp under her daisy armor. No matter what Cecelia tried, she couldn’t break through the wall. Cecelia dropped her hands to her sides. “Widdendream, where are they? What have you done with my parents?”

  The house replied in an echoing boom, “I’ve made them a part of me.”

  All grew silent as the reality of the moment sank in:

  1. Her father and mother were gone.

  2. Cecelia was the last paper Dahl.

  3. She could not let Widdendream take her.

  Jaw clenched, lantern dim, and breath fast, Cecelia fought to control her anger. She was angry at Widdendream for not telling her what happened that night and turning evil. Angry at falling apart. Angry that her parents were gone and that Celadon had died. And now she was angry at her whole family, including herself, for not taking better care of the home they loved that had always been there for them.

  Maybe that was the difference between her and Widdendream, Cecelia thought suddenly as she willed her breath to slow. No matter what she was going through, she always had someone at her side who believed in her, who helped her be strong and brave and kind when she didn’t know how. Even when Cecelia made mistakes and it wasn’t easy, she always had someone who loved her anyway. But in Widdendream’s time of need, it had had no one, not even Mazarine.

  Maybe Widdendream needed someone to show it the same loving care.

  Maybe I could be that someone.

  And maybe then Widdendream would give my mother and father back.

  “Widdendream, come out from behind your walls. Let me see you face-to-face.”

  No answer.

  Cecelia knelt before the opening at the baseboard, lamplight spilling all around her. “I know you’re angry with me. I admit, what you did just now made me angry, too. But like it or not, we’re family. And families, well, we make mistakes, don’t we? We mess up and hopefully learn from it. If you come out and let me show you how sorry I am, maybe we could be friends who laugh and help each other, like we used to be, instead of enemies who hurt each other, like we are now.” Cecelia heard a distant sniff. “If you do this one thing, I’ll leave you alone. If that’s what you want. I’ll leave and never return.”

  Cecelia dug past the daisies twining her sweater pocket and dropped mini Joan inside. As she did, her fingers bumped against her miraculous pen of tears.

  The Caterwaul must have returned it in secret.

  A rusty echo creaked out from the small entrance before her. Cecelia peered inside. A hatch within the hole flipped open.

  Cecelia leaned in closer.

  A miniature Victorian cage, similar to the one inside Cecelia and her mother, perched deep in the shadows. Yet this cage had no lantern and had nearly corroded to dust. Another creak and the cage door opened.

  A pair of glowing eyes blinked on in the hidden dark.

  Chapter 25

  Widdendream’s Confession

  A person-shaped being made of sour green mist emerged from the decaying cage in the hole of the baseboard. When the door of the smal
l creature’s enclosure slammed shut behind it, the cage crumbled to dust. Immediately, the attic fouled with an overpowering scent of rot. Cecelia tightened her fist around the pen in her pocket and held her breath as the spirit stepped out into the light.

  A dark-green W marked its chest. The spirit, no bigger than Cecelia’s hand, moved forward as if every breath it took ached. It shielded its eyes from the glow of her lantern like a creature too long in the dark and regarded her with a defiant glare. Yet, within its large black eyes, Cecelia saw a surplus of pain. She hurt for what it once was: a shining and beautiful soul, and a most kindred friend.

  “You’ll never make it out of here, you know,” the decrepit spirit told Cecelia. “We are divergent, abnormal, broken. The Sea of Tears eats things like us alive.” It gestured to the submerged floors. “See what it did to my handsome black vines? They’re all but useless now, like me.” When it glanced up at her, she thought she saw a faint flash of light in its dark eyes.

  “You’re Widdendream’s spirit.” This was not a question.

  The tiny crooked thing groaned. “Before your family ruined me, perhaps. But now,” it snapped, “I’m an ugly lost thing. I am sad, cold, and alone—as I deserve to be.”

  Cecelia wanted to hate it for taking her family and causing them so much pain. Yet she couldn’t help but feel sorry (and partly responsible) for its actions, as she knew how heavy a burden dark hearts could be.

  Maybe, Cecelia thought, while staring into the dim light in its eyes stubbornly trying to ignite, if she could draw that light out, she could help them both.

  “What I said about Celadon before you took my parents into your walls was true, wasn’t it?” The small green spirit growled at her. Cecelia’s hair swayed threateningly in a visual roar in reply. “You feel at least partly responsible for his death. But if Celadon’s fall down the stairs was an accident, and fixing the banister was my responsibility, then why should you feel guilty at all?” Anguish twisted its face. Still kneeling before it, Cecelia leaned closer and softened her voice. “I know how much you loved Celadon, Widdendream, and doubt you’d hurt him on purpose, but if there’s something I don’t know about how he died, please tell me so we can move on.”