by B. C. Harris
LOST
WORLDS
Keeper of the Emerald
Book 1
B.C. Harris
All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is a work of fiction.
© 2015 by Brian Harris
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be
reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying and
recording or by any information
storage or retrieval system,
without permission in
writing from the publisher.
CGS Communications Inc.
LOST
WORLDS
- 1 -
A MYSTERIOUS NEW WORLD
It’s a typical boring school evening when my mother comes into my room to say goodnight. As she bends over to kiss me and tell me that it’s time to turn out my light, I’m unusually drawn towards the necklace she always wore. It feels like it’s calling out to me.
My mother’s necklace is an intricate gold chain with an exquisite large emerald on it. She has always been so protective of it that I have never touched it. Never in all of my fourteen years! Suddenly I find myself asking a question that has been sitting in my mind for as long as I can remember. “Mom, can I hold your necklace?”
Why do I suddenly ask her tonight? Who knows? I don’t.
My mother, a tall, slender woman in her early forties, with short black hair, and a pale white face that comes alive when she applies makeup, looks at me as though I have asked her if I can stop going to school. I think she might have a stroke.
Although she doesn’t say anything, she begins to unclasp the necklace. Is she going to let me hold it? I think that maybe I’m the one who is going to have a stroke.
After what seems like an exaggerated amount of time, my mother places the necklace on my worn white night table. She still hasn’t said anything. This is beginning to get a little creepy. To increase the eeriness of what is happening, my mother suddenly turns and quietly tiptoes from my room as though she’s departing forever, not even bothering to say her normal “Sweet dreams, Emily.” And sometimes she calls me a drama queen!
I look back at the emerald. I can’t believe it. My mother actually left my room, leaving her prized necklace on my night table. Something really strange is happening.
There it is beside a haphazard stack of books, colored pencils of various sizes, a sprawling spider plant that has been in need of a new pot for many months, a digital alarm clock that plays my favorite music, my cell phone and a small blue teddy bear named Patches who usually found his way under my covers before I fell asleep.
Patches is a gift that I received as a baby. Compared to the other discarded childhood toys and stuffed animals that fill my closet, Patches still maintains a prominent place in my often cluttered bedroom. I’m not really sure when I first named him Patches, but as he has dabs of white on his paws I always figured that’s where his name came from. Nothing original, but it works.
After years of sleeping with Patches, he has become somewhat worn and faded, but I still love him the same. Although I don’t remember who gave me Patches, I like to believe he was from my father. I’m sure it must have been a present from him.
My father disappeared, simply vanished, when I was four. Even though I was only a child, I clearly remember waking up one morning and finding he was gone. It was the summer time. I distinctly recall waking up that morning, hearing my mother softly sobbing in her bedroom. I remember trying to decide whether I should go into her room, or not. After all, no child enjoys seeing one of her parents crying. Isn’t part of our job trying to make them happy? I certainly feel this has been a major role for me since my father disappeared.
Anyways, getting back to that morning. For the longest time I stood at the door of my mother’s bedroom, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I managed to find enough courage to knock. The muffled sobbing stopped. Not knowing what to do next, I found myself opening the bedroom door. After all, I was only four. What should a four year old do when her upset mother has shut herself in her bedroom?
The moment I entered the bedroom, my father’s absence was overwhelming, even though it was quite normal for him to have already left for work before I woke up. My dad was a geologist or something like that. His job had something to do with studying rocks. He worked long hours and traveled a lot so it was not unusual for me to be alone with my mother.
I vividly remember asking my mother where my father was. As a four year old, I instinctively knew that whatever had distressed my mother was somehow related to my father.
I can still clearly visualize my teary mother sitting on the edge of her unmade bed. My presence that morning seemed to fill her with panic. She fumbled a box of tissues as she dabbed at her eyes as though she could prevent me from seeing any sign of her tears. I asked where my daddy was. There was no answer. She didn’t even shrug. While I think that there might have been a glimmer of fear in her eyes; she gave no indication as to what had happened.
In the same manner that she avoided my questions that terrible morning, she has resisted talking about my father ever since. It’s as though my father never existed, yet somehow I have always sensed that my mother still loves him. Where did he go? What happened to him?
Soon after my father’s disappearance, we moved; the first of many moves. We have lived in our current house for three years which I think is the most we have stayed in one house since my father vanished.
It’s bad enough growing up without a father but I grew up not even having a picture of him. In fact, there isn’t a picture of my father in our entire house and I don’t have any relatives who could help to provide a picture. I don’t know what he looks like anymore. I have some friends at school who have parents who are divorced or separated. I hear them sometimes talking about missing their mothers or fathers. I can definitely relate to what they are saying although my longing for my father is somehow different.
My parents did not divorce. In fact, to my knowledge my mother has never been on a date with some other man since my father vanished. My father disappeared and no one has ever attempted to explain to me what might have happened to him. In many ways I have grown up with resentment towards my mother for her refusal to tell me what happened to my father. While she might have hoped that over time my interest in what occurred would subside, she was wrong. My desire to know the truth has simply buried itself deep into my soul. I’m totally convinced that someday I will discover the truth of what really happened.
The whole thing is crazy. I don’t know if my father is alive or whether he is dead, although it’s a lot easier for me to believe he’s alive, a belief that has never been rejected by my mother, although she has never actually supported it either. Of course, I’ve always dreamed that someday I will see him again. Someday I will feel his arms around me. I’m certain of this. He can’t possibly be dead.
In many ways for me, my mother’s constant refusal to ever let me touch her emerald necklace is as absurd as her refusal to talk about my father.
I turn out the light on my night table and settle into my bed as I look at my mother’s necklace. I’m afraid to actually touch it because I have been prevented from doing so for my entire life. I can’t remember her taking it off before. Why tonight? Why has my mother done something tonight that she has refused to do in the past?
As I continue to gaze at the emerald, I start to think about my day at school. As usual, M
ichael and a few other boys from one of my classes followed my best friend Jasmin and me everywhere we went at lunch. Although it was annoying to have them following us, I long ago realized that Jasmin attracted boys, unlike me.
I’m a little too tall and awkward, with fair skin that lacks color, although I do have long brownish-blonde hair which I think is my best feature. I like to say that I have dirty blonde hair. Sounds sort of sexy to me; who am I kidding? I’m so far away from being attractive that sometimes it hurts. On the other hand, Jasmin is just the right height, with gorgeous long black silky hair, huge brown eyes, and a complexion that gives her a tanned look three-hundred and sixty-five days of the year, not to mention her baby soft skin.
At one point Jasmin and I stopped walking outside the school at lunch, at which time Michael and two other guys parked themselves directly in front of us.
Michael is our class clown although it’s pretty obvious, at least to me, that his antics are largely motivated by his attempts to get Jasmin’s attention. Unfortunately, the positive response he often gets in class, at least from our classmates, is different than the kind of response he got from Jasmin at lunch today.
Michael is a little pudgy, with curly brown hair always in need of combing or a haircut. He has mischievous eyes that I think are a greenish color although I’m not completely sure. And he has a big smile that generally looks goofy. Sometimes he brags about his parents being spies, or being connected to working with spies, but no one ever takes him serious about this. Most of all, Michael is obsessed with comic books and somehow manages to divert any kind of class discussion into talking about a superhero, or a weird plot from one of his comics.
“Michael, get lost. You’re such a jerk.”
Those were Jasmin’s words today at lunch. I know she could say much worse.
Michael reacted by pretending that Jasmin’s comments had broken his heart. As he bent over clutching his chest, one of his friends pushed him.
Unexpectedly, Michael fell into Jasmin knocking her accidently to the ground.
To make the situation more dramatic than it needed to be, one of Jasmin’s legs started to bleed a little from the fall.
Michael looked incredibly embarrassed, but instead of apologizing for what happened, he stood there dumbfounded.
Jasmin’s fall probably hurt me more than it hurt her. When someone else gets hurt, I take it personally. My mother often tells me that I’m too sensitive. I need to toughen up a little, she would say. Well, that’s who I am. Big heart, thin skin.
I could see that Jasmin was trying hard not to erupt and make a scene. I had witnessed her temper before. It could be frightening. She has one of those quiet personalities on the outside with a volcano of passion bubbling inside. Open the door to her inner self and there is no telling what might happen next. There were even a few times when she had unleashed her fury on me for no reason at all. Whenever this happened, I shut up and took the brunt of her anger.
Although I glanced at Michael and his friends, as if to say “go away”, the truth is that I’m not a very assertive person. Perhaps it has something to do with me being shy. After all, everyone always tells me that I’m shy. Shy? What does that really mean? What a horrible thing to say to anyone. Whenever someone describes me as being shy, that’s exactly how I continue to act.
Returning my thoughts back to Michael, it often puzzled me why he tried to get Jasmin’s attention by being a pest instead of being a friend to her, but then I remember that my mother once told me that boys sometimes liked to tease girls they wanted to impress. How weird it that?
As Jasmin glared at the cowering boys, I prayed that she wouldn’t explode. In spite of the fact that Jasmin is beautiful and often presented a sort of helpless image, she has studied karate for years. Match her martial arts skills with her temper, and who knows what might happen if someone pushed her too far?
Finally, Jasmin picked herself up, ignoring Michael and the other boys. I could see that she was fighting to maintain control. From past experience, I knew at times like this it was best for me to keep my mouth shut.
As we turned towards the school, Michael and his friends remained frozen. For the first time in history, Michael was speechless.
On the way into the school, I caught a glimpse of Drew, the hottest guy I know, leaning aloof against a wall of the school.
Drew looked like a move star with a rebellious “who cares?” sort of personality. He has black hair like Jasmin with a dark complexion. His blue eyes are haunting and deep set, unlike my blue eyes that are softer in color. He has thick, but not too thick, eyebrows, and long eye lashes that every girl would die for. My mother, after seeing him once, said he had lips and a pout like Elvis, whatever that means. I think for most girls in my school, they just want to be kissing him. Who cares whether he looks like Elvis?
One of the great mysteries in the universe is that I think Drew actually likes me. Sometimes I catch him staring at me. Whenever our eyes meet, he smiles and I blush. He seems to go out of his way to be friendly to me. How is it possible that the most sought after boy in the school might actually like plain old me?
My mother once told me that some guys are attracted to girls who are indifferent to them, especially if everyone else is drooling over them. That could certainly describe me because I did everything I could to avoid Drew. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him; it was that I was terrified that he might actually say something to me.
Entering the school to wash Jasmin’s knee, we found that Miss Kragg was on hallway supervision. Miss Kragg was the kind of teacher who would never let us use a washroom even if Jasmin’s leg was about to fall off, which it wasn’t.
“Never mind,” Jasmin said as we both began to exit from the school as abruptly as we had entered it. “I’ll be okay.”
I quickly agree with her, not having any desire to encounter Miss Kragg for any reason at all.
Miss Kragg, a forties-something woman, hated kids. For that matter, she probably hated everyone. Her contempt for the world started with her shoelaces that were pulled as tightly as possible on her polished black shoes in an intersecting pattern of perfection. Her long skirts touched the tops of her high shoes, or perhaps they were military boots. She always wore white blouses that were buttoned high under her chin. Behind wireframe glasses that were a faded remnant of a fashion craze from some other era, her face – providing the only skin on her body that was ever to feel sunlight – was pulled as tightly as her shoelaces. Even before she opened her mouth, everything about her told the world that she didn’t want to be bothered.
I often wondered how adults like her became teachers. Didn’t anyone ever ask people who wanted to be teachers if they liked kids? That’s sure something I would do if I was choosing teachers for my school.
Returning my thoughts back to the present, I glance at the luminescent red numbers on the clock on my cluttered night table. It is now exactly 11:51 p.m. on a Monday evening. Sometimes I thought a great deal before falling asleep; tonight is one of those times.
I look at the emerald still sitting on my night table. I reach for it as though it is a forbidden danger.
As my fingers touch it, a faint green light starts to glow inside the gem. I guess it is light being reflected from the hallway.
I slowly place the necklace around my neck and fasten the clasp.
It feels good to be wearing it.
I snuggle into my pillow, my eyes flickering as sleep approaches.
I notice a narrow ribbon of green light coming from the emerald as though it’s a tiny flashlight. The narrow beam splits into dozens of other rays. It’s as though the emerald is a prism radiating colors around my room. I feel like I’m immersed in a laser light show. What’s happening? I rub my eyes. Yes, I’m still awake.
Something is moving within the glowing green gem. I hear a voice. I know that it isn’t my mother.
“Who’s there?” I whisper nervously, pushing myself deeper under my blankets. Part of me tries to listen
again to the voice, while another part of me wants to scream for my mother. It’s at times like this that I wish my father was here. I have always imagined that he would rescue me if I was ever in danger.
“Welcome,” a gentle soothing voice drifts through my bedroom.
“Who’s there?” I ask again, although I really don’t want to hear an answer.
“Over here,” the kind voice repeats again, this time sounding like a chorus of voices instead of one.
I squint in the darkness. I can’t see anyone. What’s happening? I must be dreaming. A strange scene begins to unfold before me. I blink. I know that I can’t possibly be seeing what I think I’m now looking at.
There are long rows of glowing blue bushes. Blue bushes? I close my eyes, but when I look again they’re still there. I see some branches move, but the more I look, the more I realize they aren’t branches. They are more like, well, they are more like the arms of an anemone, but this isn’t the ocean.
“Welcome Emily,” a kind soothing voice appears out of nowhere.
“Who are you? Where are you? How do you know my name?” I frantically ask as I scan the endless array of swaying bushes in every hue of blue that has ever existed.
The waving branches of a blue bush in front of me deepen in intensity. It’s as though they’re mirroring my anxiety.
I stare blankly, somewhat disorientated, at the bushes. Is it possible that they are speaking to me?
I’m about to ask for a further explanation, but the bushes unexpectedly turn an icy blue. Their arms stop their gentle waving. It’s almost as though they have turned into statues.
Night falls suddenly in the bizarre world I have somehow entered.
I step towards the nearest bush, one anxious step at a time, as I attempt to adjust to the darkness. It seems to take forever to reach it. I’m not sure whether I should touch it or not. At last, my mind surrenders. My fingers creep through the still air.