Kerka's Book

by Jan Bozarth

  “We are, but I can’t prove it,” I pointed out.

  “I believe you.” Aunt Tuula scooped the pancakes off the griddle, putting two on each plate.

  “I have something for you, too.” Rona handed me a card and watched while I opened the flap. There were three tickets inside.

  “Are these for the opening night of your ballet?” I asked, hoping I looked as pleased as I felt.

  “For you, Aunt Tuula, and a friend,” Rona said. “Maybe Birdie Bright would like to go. Those aren’t ordinary tickets. They’re backstage passes.”

  “Super!” I threw my arms around Rona’s neck and hugged her. “I bet you’ll be the best wolf ever.”

  Aunt Tuula added two sausages to the pancakes and set the breakfast plates in front of us. After a playful tussle over the syrup, Rona and I took turns talking between bites. By the time we finished eating, we had covered all the high points of our adventure.

  “Well, you girls are certainly off to a good start with your fairy godmother training.” Aunt Tuula poured more tea.

  “There’s a whole lot more to being a good fairy godmother than I realized,” Rona said.

  “I’ll say!” I reached for another tangerine.

  When the phone rang, Aunt Tuula answered it. She listened a moment, then held the receiver out to me. “It’s your father, Kerka.”

  I set my half-peeled tangerine aside and wiped the juice off my fingers with a napkin. My hand shook a little when I took the phone. As much as I loved Aunt Tuula and New York, I missed the rest of my family back in Finland. “Hi, Dad!”

  He wished me a happy birthday and asked how I was doing. He sounded happier, as though the weight of sadness and worry had been lifted off him, too. After he gave me a quick report on my old soccer team, he said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  There were some muffled thumps, then —

  “Hi, snow leopard,” Biba said in Finnish.

  “I’m so happy to hear your voice, Biba!” I said, a huge smile on my face. I was also happy that Biba remembered our Aventurine journey. “How are you?”

  “I’m hungry!” Biba laughed.

  “You’re always hungry!” I joked, laughing with her.

  The rest of the weekend alternated between Kalis dancing and lazy lounging. Rona was totally committed to mastering the Climb the Sky step, and she wanted my help. As soon as she returned from ballet rehearsal, we practiced until we were too tired to walk. Then we watched a movie; ate some of Aunt Tuula’s fantastic cheese, tomato, and cauliflower casserole; slept; and started all over again on Sunday. By Monday morning, I was glad I had to go to school. I couldn’t wait to tell Birdie in person about my mission in Aventurine, and my aching muscles needed a rest.

  It was still cold in New York, and a brisk breeze blew through the concrete canyons. I loved exhaling frosty breath and hearing the crackling sound of salt and ice under my boots as I walked toward the Girls’ International School of Manhattan. I now felt as free on the city streets as I had on the top of Dayling Mountain.

  An elderly couple strolled arm in arm ahead of me. I didn’t try to pass them on the narrow stretch of sidewalk, but slowed my pace instead. I had plenty of time, and I didn’t want to be rude. Besides, I was enjoying the city with the interest of a fairy-godmother-to-be. On this particular morning, as though celebrating my success, all seemed right in the world.

  “Oh dear!” the elderly woman cried out when her husband’s hat blew off his head. “There goes your favorite cap.”

  The old man hobbled after the hat, but he couldn’t catch it. He stopped at the curb, too breathless to chase the hat into the street.

  The hat tumbled down the center of the busy street toward the oncoming traffic. With a wave of my hand, I asked the wind to catch the hat just before a cab rolled over it. Then, snapping like a whip, the wind flipped the hat back toward its owner. The old man grabbed it.

  “How did you do that?” his wife asked, amazed.

  “Don’t know, but I got my cap back.” He took her arm again. “And now I’m really ready for bagels and coffee.”

  My first waking-world good deed was a simple task that had touched only two lives, but the gesture made me feel like a real fairy godmother. It felt good.

  • • •

  Birdie was waiting for me by the front door of GIS. She was all smiles and bouncing on the balls of her feet. She obviously had something huge that she wanted to tell me. I was sure my stories about Aventurine were bigger and better, but Birdie didn’t give me a chance to even say hello. She greeted me with a loud “Happy birthday!” Then she shoved a chocolate cupcake with a pink candle in my face.

  “For me?” I took the cupcake and licked the frosting. “Wow. That tastes really good.”

  “That’s just a tease,” Birdie said, jiggling with excitement. “You’ll never guess who I just found.”

  I thought about it for a second. “I give up,” I said. “Who?”

  Birdie gave a wide grin with her braces showing. “Zally the magic mapmaker, that’s who!”

  Acknowledgments

  This book is inspired by my many years as a dancer. So I must thank my earliest dance teachers from when I was nine to sixteen years old, Maxine Asbury and Patsy Swayze of the Greater Houston Civic Ballet Company. I want to also give a nod to my current teacher, Minna of Finland, who is bringing out my “inner” kickboxer and martial artist—a must for perfecting a Kalistonian Zephyr. I give thanks to the children in my life, young and old, who believe in animal spirits and who will howl at a full moon with me. Thanks to Diana Gallagher for her help in realizing my story, including Kerka, the spirikin, and Ardee. The mountain climb was worth it! Thanks to my design and production team in Austin—Mario Champion, Mo Serrao Cole, Lurleen Ladd, Maria Meinert, Anne Woods, Roanna Gillespie, Evan Bozarth, Dustin Bozarth, Kim Cristiano, Andrea Burden, Cameron Jordan, and Jan Wieringa. It is a blast to work with such talented and dedicated people who believe in this dream and put their souls into the work. And thanks and much love to my son Shane Madden for cowriting and producing the amazing Kalis dance song, “121.”

  The Aventurine dream continues, thanks to Mallory, Chelsea, and the tireless marketing and sales staff at Random House.

  A Memorial Note from the Author

  Andrea Burden, the illustrator of Kerka’s Book and Birdie’s Book, passed away in December 2009. She left behind two daughters, Bella and Indira. Andrea was a consummate mother, daughter, friend, and guide, and was a true fairy godmother to many. She was an artist who brought forth the feminine in everything she did. When I conceived of Kerka’s story, I never imagined that its central theme involving the loss of a mother would hit so close to home. Andrea will be loved forever through her art and her daughters and these books.

  About the Author

  Jan Bozarth was raised in an international family in Texas in the sixties, the daughter of a Cuban mother and a Welsh father. She danced in a ballet company at eleven, started a dream journal at thirteen, joined a surf club at sixteen, studied flower essences at eighteen, and went on to study music, art, and poetry in college. As a girl, she dreamed of a life that would weave these different interests together. Her dream came true when she grew up and had a big family and a music and writing career. Jan is now a grandmother and writes stories and songs for young people. She often works with her own grown-up children, who are musicians and artists in Austin, Texas. (Sometimes Jan is even the fairy godmother who encourages them to believe in their dreams!) Jan credits her own mother, Dora, with handing down her wisdom: Dream big and never give up.

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  (Dear Reader, please note that the following excerpt may change for the actual printing of Zally’s Book.)

  Excerpt copyright © 2010 by FGA Media Inc. Published by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  From Zally’s Book

  From between a couple of wil
lows, I saw a lady coming toward me who was cooler than any fairy-tale princess. She was a real fairy. Not the tiny you-can-hit-it-with-a-flyswatter type of fairy, but a tall, elegant lady with delicate, iridescent blue wings that opened and closed like a butterfly’s. Flowers twined through her crown, which seemed to be made of dewdrops that had frozen into diamonds. Her hair was longer than mine, flowing to her knees, and she wore a beautiful, fluttery gown of the palest lilac. The scent of lilacs hung about her as well. A cascade of miniature silver bells on her earrings made a faint tinkly sound when she moved her head. She stopped a few feet away from me and, in a solemn voice, said, “Welcome, Zally.”

  How did she know my name? That’s when I knew it: I was dreaming. Still, I wanted to be polite. So I gave a small curtsy and said, “Thank you … Your Majesty?”

  She smiled. “You may call me Queen Patchouli. Come with me, Zally.” She waved a dainty hand toward the trees. “We should get started right away. Do you have any questions?”

  Questions? Of course I had questions! About a million, in fact. But instead of asking any of them, I blurted, “Why—I’m just asleep, right? What do I need to know about my dreams?”

  She tilted her head and looked at me. “You may be sleeping in your own world, but you are awake here. And this is no ordinary dream. This is Aventurine. You could spend days or even weeks here while you’re asleep in your own world. But you don’t need to worry about how long you stay in Aventurine. You’ll wake up in your own bed, and only one night will have passed.”

  My mouth fell open. “Did you say Aventurine? It—it’s real?” I followed Queen Patchouli down to the rocky stream, and we began to walk along it. The grass tickled my bare feet. “No, Aventurine can’t be real. I would know. It’s not on any map.”

  “Not yet,” she agreed. “But wouldn’t you like it to be?”

  I would love to see such an amazing place mapped out. I had often wanted to draw Aventurine and hadn’t been able to. It would be wonderful to see everything, draw maps of the landscape, have adventures. I thought of another question.

  “Are you the queen of all Aventurine?”

  As we walked beside the babbling stream, she explained that she was only the queen of the Willowood tribe of fairies, and that there were many more fairy queens throughout the land, each with her own queendom.

  “How many fairy godmothers are there?” I asked.

  “How many people are in a family?” she asked me in return.

  That was a strange response. “How much of the family do you mean? Just my parents and brothers and me? Six. With Abuelita, seven.”

  The fairy queen said, “That is just your family. But how many people are in any family?”

  I found the question frustrating. “That depends. Some families are very small. Or should I include cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents … great-grandparents, even? There are lots of ways to count family members, so there’s no easy answer.”

  She nodded. “That’s how many fairy godmothers there are.”

  I tried a different question. “Do I know any other fairy godmothers?”

  “You know your mother and grandmother, don’t you? You will learn to recognize others.”

  “How old does a girl have to be to become one?” I asked.

  “Most potential fairy godmothers begin their serious training between twelve and fourteen.”

  Not exactly what I had asked. “How long does fairy-godmother training take?”

  “How long does it take someone to become a brilliant musician?” Queen Patchouli countered.

  “You know that’s not a fair question. Everyone’s different.” I frowned. “Some people have no interest in becoming musicians, so they don’t even try. Some enjoy music but never get really good at it. Others have natural talent and develop quickly. Then there are people who have to work hard for ages until they get to the same point.”

  “Exactly,” said Queen Patchouli.

  We walked and talked for what felt like hours. Eventually we passed through a dense grove of trees, then out into a glade. There, flower-bedecked fairies flitted about doing their work—whatever it is that fairies do. At the center of the glade stood a small desk and chair. On the desk was a large leather-bound book the size of an unabridged dictionary. I wondered if it might be an atlas, and hurried forward to take a look.

  “This is The Book of Dreams, Zally,” Queen Patchouli said. “I need you to write your dream in it.”

  “But I don’t usually remember my dreams,” I said.

  The fairy queen smiled. “You are dreaming right now. And I guarantee that you will remember this dream when you awaken. But that is not the sort of dream that is entered in The Book of Dreams. The book is for your hopes and desires, what you would like to do or become. You could just write a hope for today, but far-ranging dreams are often more satisfying for the book. When you are done, we will talk about your quest.”

  “There’s not much to discuss, since I’ve never been on a quest.”

  The queen motioned for me to sit at the desk. “Well,” she said, “you are about to go on a quest. All the girls from your world who might someday become fairy godmothers come to Aventurine for training, which usually takes the form of a quest. The family talisman of their lineage is often important to their success, and the girls’ adventures help them learn how to use the gifts they were born with. Do not be afraid to use the cacao pod, Zally. It will not be harmed.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know what I would use the cacao pod for, but I knew by now that Queen Patchouli wouldn’t just tell me what to do. I laid my bag on the table by the book and sat down. “So Mamá and Abuelita sort of went to school here?”

  “Yes,” the queen said, “as the other women of the Inocentes line did before them. But not every girl who could become a fairy godmother does become one. Some girls choose a different path. And some …”

  “They flunk out?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m a good student. I get straight A’s. Don’t worry, I won’t fail.”

  “Aventurine does not have the sort of classroom you’re used to,” she warned. The fairy queen seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “In a sense, the entire land of Aventurine is an academy for teaching fairy godmothers. You are already in the ‘classroom.’”

  I chuckled. “I guess I should have realized that from the way you made me answer my own questions. Are you my teacher?”

  She shook her head. “Many girls who come to Aventurine start here with the Willowood Fairies. But it is when you leave us that your most important learning begins. Everyone and everything you encounter will teach you: the terrain, the creatures, your companions, your adventures. You will choose whom to listen to and how to learn, and in many ways you will be your own teacher. It is like that in the waking world as well—you just have to see it.”

  I gave her an uncertain look. “Okay, what’s my first assignment? Or homework? Or whatever you call it?”

  “First you will write something that you very much desire in The Book of Dreams. You’ll find that writing in Fairen, our language, comes naturally to you—you are speaking it already.”

  She waved a hand in the air. A snow-white peacock appeared, strutting toward us. The bird fanned out its sparkling tail feathers proudly, nearly blinding me as they caught the sunlight. Through squinted eyes I watched the peacock bow its head to the queen.

  Queen Patchouli bowed her head in return. “We need one of your feathers, my beautiful friend,” she said.

  Turning its back toward us, the peacock shook itself, sending out a shower of light, and released a glittering white feather from its tail. The plume drifted gently to the ground. Murmuring her thanks to the bird, the fairy queen picked up the quill and placed it gently on top of The Book of Dreams. She lifted the lid off a small shell bowl that sat near the book. Inside was a silver liquid.

  “Your pen,” she said, touching the feather. “Your ink.” She pointed to the liquid.
“Your paper,” she said as the pages riffled on their own and the book opened to a blank one.

  “What did Mamá and Abuelita write? Can I read their dreams?” I asked.

  The fairy queen answered, “They wrote what their hearts told them to write, and you will read it … eventually.”

  With that big book open, full of the dreams of fairy godmothers who came before me, and with the blank page facing me, I felt kind of intimidated. I’ve written stories and journals, but nothing that was part of a real book, a book that would be kept and read by others, a book that, by the looks of it, could be a thousand years old or more.

  But one of the reasons I’m a good student is that I’ve discovered a secret: sometimes when an assignment seems big, scary, or super-important, I just have to start writing—writing anything—and let my mind get buried in the subject. Once I get going, things get clearer, and I wonder why I was worried about it in the first place. So that’s what I did in The Book of Dreams.

  October 25, 2008

  I want to travel to different lands, meet new people, see animals I’ve only heard of. Plus I want to make a map of my travels. Most of all, I want to make a map of Aventurine, because there isn’t one. I want to help other girls who need to find their way, by making a map to help them on their travels, too.

  Zally Guevera

  I closed my eyes and pictured the places I had already seen in Aventurine. Then, dipping the peacock-feather quill back into the silvery ink, I drew a map of the meadow and the willow trees and the babbling stream and the forest and the fairy glade at the bottom of the page. The ink dried instantly, and I was pleased with my work. A moment later, I shook my head in amazement as ornaments surfaced in the margins, coloring in my little map until it looked like a page in one of those illuminated books from the Middle Ages that were painted by hand.

  A breeze blew in and ruffled the pages of the book again. It opened to a dream written in Abuelita’s handwriting. The magic of The Book of Dreams made the words easy for me to read. Abuelita’s entry was about wanting to help people, especially innocents, by giving them food and care, and sharing with them the magic of the cacao. I wondered what she meant by that. At the very bottom of the page she had written a recipe. Before I could read it, the wind blew the pages again. There was my mother’s handwriting—something about giving children the chance to go to school, and making sure that people had pets to show them love. The pages fluttered, and The Book of Dreams closed with a solid thump.