Aster Wood and the Lost Maps of Almara (Book 1) (3 page)

It was a map.

But it was a map of no place I had ever seen. It looked vaguely like a squashed combination of North America and Australia, but there were no words to clue me in about what location it showed, only lines. I knew my geography pretty well; all those hours after school and lunches on my own in the library had resulted in brainiac grades in all my subjects. But this was an outline I had never studied before.
 

In several places on the map, golden rings were painted within the black borders. The paint the mapmaker used was some sort of metallic, because the rings had a strange flicker to them. They reminded me of sun reflecting on water. I looked around the room, trying to figure out if maybe something shiny was reflecting a sunbeam onto the wall. But then I realized it was still raining outside.
 

“Ouch!”
 

As I backed away from the wall, my hand struck the corner of a sharp piece of wood. I cradled it to my chest and spun around, looking for the offending piece of junk I had knocked into. It was the big wooden box that had fallen on my first day up here, still in the place it had landed when the old shelf had given way. I bent over, grabbed the sides of the box and heaved it upright.

I slapped my hands together and a cloud of dust filled the stale air. Poking out from between two slats of wood in the back of the box was a small corner of parchment. I hadn’t seen this before; after the box fell I hadn’t bothered to investigate it further.
 

I knelt down and gently tugged on the paper. It took a little bit of back and forth, but after a minute it gave way and I was holding an old, crumpled envelope. There was no writing, but on the backside it had a deep red wax seal, like the kinds I’d seen illustrated in history books about the middle ages. Pressed into the wax was a design, and I gulped as I recognized the now familiar oval and diamond shape, the same one that was carved into the wood beneath my feet. The seal on this envelope had never been broken. Could that be right? If so, then that meant that nobody but the person who wrote this letter had ever seen what was inside of it. Nobody.
 

I looked around the attic. I was a little nervous about being the first person to open it; it didn’t belong to me, after all. But curiosity got the better of me, and I carefully slid my thumb under the seal. It gave way with a surprising little pop. I opened the flap of the envelope, and read the writing on its underside:

Dare free what lies within

And see where we have been

Huh
, I thought. The writing was mysterious enough, but the ink had a strange flickery glow about it. Just like the golden rings on the wall behind me, the words on the page shimmered brightly, though this part of the attic was quite dark. What did it mean? Was some ill fate awaiting me if I opened what was inside?
 

I decided that I would simply
have
to open it. It was just an old letter, anyhow, I told myself. My heart did not hear my brain’s logic, and it pounded in my chest with excitement. I slipped the parchment from the envelope and unfolded it, taking care not to tear the ancient document. I opened it along each crease, spreading it out on the floor in front of me.

It was blank.

I stared, feeling a little cheated. What was the point of going to all the trouble of saving a blank piece of paper for what looked like hundreds of years? I smoothed the parchment and knelt closely over it, looking for clues to its secret. Old and discolored, its edges ripped, it matched the paper that made the envelope. I pressed my nose close to every inch of the page, looking for any marking or indentation. Nothing. I sat back on my heels and blew out a long sigh of frustration.
 

Then I saw it. Writing was appearing on the page, as if from an invisible hand. I watched, my jaw dropping open, as the same gold ink traced the outline of the first oval.
 

I grabbed the paper off the floor and raced across the room, holding it up in the hazy, overcast daylight coming through the high window.
 

My chest slowly unclenched beneath my shirt as my shock turned to wonder. The second oval and the diamond were completed now, and the invisible pen drew the tiny stars on the top and bottom of the symbol. I stared, unblinking, at the paper, as the next set of lines appeared, letters in ornate script.

GO

The writing stopped.
 

“Go,”
I began, “What on earth does…”

But I was cut short.
 

A light as bright as the sun burst from the page, and I put one hand up to shield my eyes. Around me the contents of the attic moved inward. And then with a deafening BOOM they exploded away from me.
 

All was brightness. All was light. I spun in space. Where had the floor gone? My insides were stretched and then squashed and then stretched again. I closed my eyes to keep from getting sick.

And then, blackness. Under my cheek I felt cool, wet earth.

I was lying, face down, on grass.

My chest felt tight.

I opened my eyes.
 

My left cheek was pressed into damp ground. Little bits of silver and white twinkled in front of my face in the dim moonlight; water droplets hung off each strand of grass. I put my hands next to my shoulders and pushed myself upright, the parchment still clutched in my fist. Sitting back, I gaped at my surroundings, wiping the water vigorously from my cheek with the back of my sleeve.
 

Where
was
I?

In front of me swayed an ocean of deep green grass. The blades moved back and forth with the frigid breeze that blew against my back. I was surrounded on three sides by hills that rolled away into the distance. Behind me a dark grove of trees stretched out. And above, the night sky was brighter with stars than I had ever seen, even in books.
 

Panic filled my stomach and spread through my body, clenching every muscle it touched, until even my throat began to close up in protest.

Ninety seconds ago I had been in the dusty attic. Now… My breathing started coming in short, panting breaths and saliva filled my mouth. I didn’t want to vomit, but the panic was rising, pushing itself against my tightened throat. I turned over and rested on my hands and knees just in case I blew.

This was
not
good. Not not not good. I closed my eyes and shook my head back and forth, but when I opened them again the dark earth was still right there between my outstretched fingers.
 

It had been early afternoon in the attic.

The grass swirled as my stomach bucked. Everything around me seemed to be swimming. I immediately wanted to be bored again, back in the guest bedroom watching the house slowly crumble around me. Was I hallucinating? Maybe I had fallen down and hit my head or something and this was some sort of dream.
 

I turned around once more to scan the area. Was there some clue out there? Something I had missed? But the land was completely solitary, empty.
 

And
alive
.

I didn’t know grass still grew like this. I had seen grass, of course, but only the short, coarse kind that grew in the park in the center of the city. This grass was wild and tall, humming with vibrance.

I stood up and ran over to the trees, immediately winded by the effort.

“Hello?” I wailed out into the forest. No answer.
 

I ran back into the grass, searching in the darkness, willing my eyes to find…
anything
.
 

There was nothing out there.
 

My skin broke out in a cold sweat and I began to shake. I fell back down to my knees and then slumped to the ground, pressing my cheek to the cool dirt, trying not to pass out. I waited for my breathing to slow.
 

Wake up, wake up, wake up
.
 

It was cold. Much colder than back on the farm. My body was wet with the sweat of panic, and my clothes clung to my body. I shivered.

What is going on?

While my body lay there in shock my brain operated behind the scenes. I couldn’t stay here, no matter where here was. Out in this wind I would freeze. And who knew what lived in those trees? I had to get moving and try to figure this out.
 

I must have hit my head.

But I couldn’t remember falling.
 

I needed to decide what to do next, but I didn’t know
what
to do. I was used to doing what the grown-ups told me. There were no grown-ups here. There wasn’t
anyone
here.
 

Grandma hadn’t been into the attic, so she didn’t see. Had I disappeared?

Half-formed plans and panicked thoughts fought for attention in my mind. Minutes, or maybe hours, passed as I faded in and out of conscious thought. Eventually, I heaved my shaking body back up to sitting. My hand slowly unclenched around the parchment.

Parchment that was now covered with writing.
 

I thrust it up in front of my face. It was the same, ripped sheet I had held back in the attic, but now every inch of the thing was covered in lines and notations.
 

How is this happening?

It was a map. I ran my finger along the dark ink, just visible in the moonlight. Large letters blazed across the center:
Aerit Range
. Landmarks dotted the page. A grove of trees, an open plain, and what looked like foothills leading to a mountain range. In the center of the paper was a small, square outline of what was unmistakably a house. And in the center of that square a golden ring was painted in the now familiar glittering golden ink.
 

Then the pain struck me. Searing like a dagger through my heart, my nerves radiated misery out from my chest into my arms and legs. My throat was closing, and I slumped over again, writhing in misery. Air. Air was the elixir I needed. Cool, beautiful air needed to fill my lungs, but I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t breathe.

I shouldn’t have run, even just over to the trees. I know better than to run.
 

Then I remembered what to do. I rolled onto my back, tilted my head slightly backwards, and repeated the mantra of my mother in my brain.
 

Breathe slow. Breathe calm. Breathe slow. Breathe calm. Breathe slow. Breathe calm.

But I was too late. Panic and exhaustion took over.
 

As I stared up at the bright, starry sky, the world around me went black.
 

I yelled out in my sleep, startling myself awake. I saw the white underside of the sheets of my bed. I was so warm, burrowed deep, and I closed my eyes again, peeking my face out for some cool air. I tucked my head back into the pillow, pulling the blankets up and settling in again. It had just been a dream.
 

“Mom?” I called quietly. I felt a cool washcloth pat against my forehead. Comforted by her presence, I rolled over, bringing the blankets higher to cover my ears and head, only leaving enough space for my nose and eyes to stick out from my cocoon. I breathed deeply, relishing the delicious feeling of being so snug and safe. The nightmare was over.

A snuffling noise circled around my head, and a warm breath blew against my face. A hot, wet something moved over my nose and forehead. This didn’t make sense. Was she using a different washcloth? I opened my eyes and an inch from my face was the open mouth and lolling tongue of a gigantic dog.
 

We didn’t have a dog.
 

A warm hand patted mine, and my head whipped around. An ancient, gray man was sitting on the other side of the bed. My eyes darted all across the room as I backed myself up against the headboard, away from the man and the dog. He stood up and peered down at me.

“It’s alright, boy,” he said. “I expect you just got a hit on the head is all.” He walked around the bottom of the bed, the dog following at his heels.

I hadn’t hit my head, but I may as well have considering the fact that this dream, or hallucination or whatever was happening to me, seemed to be continuing. I stared around the room, still so surprised that I was unable to speak. Large stones stacked precariously upon one another, making up the walls of the tiny space. Mounted to the walls were paintings; horses and flying creatures I did not recognize were represented in excruciating detail on the canvases.
 

Across from the bed, a fire crackled in the grate, and over it hung a large, black cooking pot. The smells of a savory meal and burning wood drifted by my nose. On the other side of the room stood a long, wooden table piled high with leather bound books and several bowls. A couple of chairs were scattered about the place, with the largest positioned in front of the fire. Through the window beyond, tree branches swayed in bright daylight.
 

I brought my knees up against my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and looked at the man.
 

I met his gaze, steely blue eyes, and asked, “Where am I?”

“What I’d like to know,” he said, “is
who
are you?”

He was very, very old, but had a hardy, stout look about him. His hair was long and gray, tumbling past his shoulders, framing his face. His silver beard mirrored the hair on his head and grew so long that it almost rested in his lap where he sat. Two hands with knobby fingers and silver rings now scratched the dog under his chin. He wore gray woolen pants, suspenders and a long sleeved shirt, all stained brown by earth.
 

 
“I came here…um…by some sort of magic, I think.” I couldn’t think of a better explanation, and I hoped he wouldn’t think I was crazy. “Where are we?”
 

The old man cracked a smile, his eyes twinkling.

“So you’re a traveler! I thought I heard your entry last night.” He poked the fire with a long, metal rod that had stood propped up next to the grate. He turned back and looked at me expectantly. “Where you headed?” The dog walked around the edge of the bed and, turning twice, settled himself into a heap, resting his head on his paws.