Birdie's Book Read online

  I opened the latches and felt a rumble as the entire bag began to shake. I stepped back. The suitcase turned inside out, rose up like a stretched accordion, and slowly became a ten-foot-tall wooden wardrobe. An old woman’s face was carved at the top, wreathed with flowers.

  “I was only staying at Mo’s for three days,” I joked. “I certainly didn’t pack all that!”

  I inched toward the large wardrobe. The sides were covered in the same stickers as my old suitcase. The fairy queen pulled open the wardrobe doors. It was packed with clothes, and mirrors hung on the inside of each door. Kerka came up beside me to look in as well.

  “Go on,” the fairy queen urged. “Dress for adventure.” She looked from Kerka to me. “And don’t worry, the clothes are all fairy-made, so they will fit both of you.”

  Kerka and I riffled through colorful dresses, silk saris, suede ponchos, satin kimonos, velvet jackets, and gypsy skirts hanging on the racks. My favorites were a cloak trimmed in golden beads like berries, a cotton sarong embroidered with fall leaves, and a skirt of peacock feathers. There was every fabric I’d ever seen hanging there, plus some that were unfamiliar and felt like water or cobwebs.

  We opened a huge bottom drawer to find more: knobby-knit sweaters, patched jeans, woolly tights, and patterned leggings. On a top shelf was more footwear than it seemed possible to hold, everything from galoshes and glittered shoes to cowboy boots and tap shoes. The queen showed us one more drawer, which telescoped out to display masks, fairy wings, necklaces, tiaras, bangles and bracelets, paper fans, scarves of every shape and size, and hats with ribbons and feathers in every color of the rainbow.

  “So, dress for adventure, right?” I said to the fairy queen.

  “Adventure, danger, whatever you want to call it,” said the queen. “You’ll do wonderfully, but don’t take too long!” With that, she swept out of our dressing-room bower.

  “Come on, Kerka, let’s do wonderfully!” I said.

  We dug into the clothes like pirates dive into a treasure chest. I picked a pair of boots much like Mo’s but with glittery green laces.

  “What do you think?” I asked, lacing them up.

  “Definitely, yes!” said Kerka. “Fun but practical.”

  “Well?” Kerka asked. I turned and saw that her eyes and nose were covered by a sequined bird mask.

  “Absolutely not!” I declared. “Too much of a disguise.”

  I chose a spring green tunic stitched with daisies that reminded me of Belle, and a long lacy white skirt. “How about this?” I asked, twirling so the lace of the skirt floated up.

  Kerka frowned.

  “No on the skirt, huh?” I said. I hung it back up and pulled on sky-blue velvet cargo pants instead. They had deep pockets into which I put my half of the Singing Stone. Then I tied an eggplant-purple kerchief on my head like a headband. When I saw the carved-wood wardrobe lady wink, I knew I looked good. But what I liked about the outfit was how the daisies on the shirt reminded me of Belle, how the color of the scarf reminded me of Mo’s house, and how the color of the pants reminded me of my old blue door back in Califa.

  I checked myself out in the mirror. The purple scarf brought out the gold highlights in my hair. Redbird, looks like your hair’s on fire! I said to myself, remembering what my dad used to tell me when my hair shone in the sunlight. I smiled; even my braces didn’t bother me in this outfit. Finally, I threw a bright green velvet cloak over my shoulders.

  Kerka came up beside me to look in the mirror. She had on nut-brown leggings and a tunic similar to the one I’d chosen except in a golden-brown color. Over the tunic, she had on a long medieval-looking brocade vest in night-sky blue, with a snow leopard embroidered on it in silver thread that wrapped from the front to the back. Her over-the-knee boots were dark blue suede with more stars.

  “You look great!” I said. “Like a girl knight or something.”

  “Why, thank you,” she answered, putting her nose in the air and holding her Kalis stick like it was a sword.

  We heard a tiny bell ring.

  “Are you ready?” Queen Patchouli called.

  “We are!” Kerka and I replied together.

  Kerka put on her backpack. Then we shut the wardrobe doors carefully. As soon as we did, the whole thing folded itself back up, one side at a time, bam ka-bam, until all that sat on the floor was my vintage suitcase. With a clip, clip, it snapped itself shut. Laughing at the wonderful magic show, Kerka and I walked out through the wispy willow branches.

  The queen wasn’t there, but underfoot was a fresh path of yellow and orange flower petals that released their scent as we stepped on them. We walked over the petals through feathery willow trees toward the sound of voices and music. Finally, we pushed aside the branches of one last tree and stepped into a giant clearing that was a perfect circle. The sun was setting, spreading deep golden light across the whole amazing scene.

  The place was filled with fairies. None of them was small, as I had imagined fairies would be. They were the size of humans—like Queen Patchouli. They all had gauzy wings and gorgeous outfits. Every one of them wore flowers, either tucked behind their ears, or woven into crowns, or as buttons up and down their clothes.

  The fairies were busy, setting tables that were placed in concentric circles. The tables were piled with food and flowers. It was like being at a wedding for a movie star who was crazy about fairies.

  Suddenly I felt eyes on me, and I noticed that many of the fairies were staring at me as they went past, carrying trays of food, or piles of silken napkins, or baskets of silverware.

  Then Queen P. was beside us. “There you are!” she said. “Just in time. Come along.” As she walked through the fairy crowd, her people parted before her like waves.

  I saw that Kerka had her own fan club of fairies watching her and whispering as we passed.

  The queen led us to a small table in the center of the fairy ring that was on a raised circle of earth covered in growing grass. She went up the grassy steps to the round table, motioning for us to follow. There were only three chairs at the table, two woven of willow branches, for Kerka and myself, and a bigger willow chair festooned with roses that was clearly for the queen.

  As we sat, Queen Patchouli rang a small glass bell. A delicate but piercing sound filled the air. The fairies went silent and all quickly found a seat at one of the tables around the circle.

  “Now, this is Birdie Cramer Bright,” Queen Patchouli announced. “And Kerka Laine. This is the beginning of Birdie’s fairy godmother training and a little of Kerka’s, but her own quest is for another time.”

  “Are you all fairy godmothers?” I blurted out, my curiosity having got the best of me.

  “Heavens, no!” said the queen. “Fairy godmothers are human. We fairies have never been human and never can be.” Did I imagine it, or did a ripple of regret pass through the fairies? “We personally know all of the fairy godmothers, of course,” Queen P. went on. “And all of the fairy-godmothers-in-the-making.”

  “So I’m going to be a fairy godmother?” I asked. “And Kerka?”

  “Maybe you will be a fairy godmother, maybe not,” said Queen P. “We’ll see how you handle your first and most important quest. There are things you have to learn to become a fairy godmother. Things about yourself, other people, the way the world can be changed.”

  I must have rolled my eyes, because the queen stopped and looked at me sternly. “I know that this sounds like lessons to you, but consider that anything you do, anything at all, makes you learn and discover. Do not underestimate the power of experience, Birdie Cramer Bright.”

  The queen’s intensity was a little scary. I took a deep breath and nodded. It was so strange that I couldn’t quite believe it was happening to me. I hoped I was up for whatever was next.

  “May I ask a question?” I asked.

  “You just did,” said Queen P. “But yes, ask a question.”

  “If I become a fairy godmother, what will I do? Do I have to, like,
find someone like Cinderella and help her?”

  The fairies all broke out in laughter. I could feel my cheeks getting red. Queen P. finally had to ring her bell again to get the fairies to stop. Then she said, “Birdie is not completely wrong. Fairy godmothers do help people.” She turned to me. “But the people you will help won’t always know what you are doing. You will have a magic in your world that can make a difference, not just to people but also to the world itself. And in your case, your family—those of the Arbor Lineage—has magic that helps the green world the most.”

  “Oh,” I said. I didn’t really know what to say. I hoped that Mo would be able to help me understand exactly what I was supposed to do back home, assuming I succeeded in this quest. I looked at Kerka; she shrugged at me (which seemed to be her answer to everything).

  The queen put a hand on each of our heads for a moment and smiled down at us. Then she took her hands away and waved them at the fairies. “Now let us eat, fairies of Willowood and fairy-godmothers-to-be—the night is just beginning.”

  The sun had set when we finished eating the amazing meal. (I wished that I hadn’t had all that fruit on the way there!) I had never eaten so much in my life and was feeling a little sleepy. Kerka and I talked to the fairy queen about our families … well, mostly I talked, for once.

  When the last of the glass plates was cleared, the queen rang the little bell again, and silence fell. From beneath the blossoms of a lone magnolia tree to one side of the fairy ring, a fairy all dressed in spring green approached, holding something bulky—it was The Book of Dreams! Rose and lilac petals fell like snow as she headed toward us and handed the book to Queen Patchouli. The book was as yellowed and tattered and mysterious as it had been when it appeared on my mom’s old bed.

  “Let us begin, shall we?” said Patchouli, laying both hands on the book. “Everyone close your eyes, except Birdie. You too, Kerka.” Patchouli lifted her hands from the front cover, and the book opened by itself, flipping page after page until it stopped. “Here we are. Emma’s dream,” she said as she slid the book over to me.

  My mother? I thought in amazement.

  “She wrote this many years ago,” said the fairy queen, as if she’d heard my question. “It will begin your understanding of why you are here and what you must do.”

  Queen P. rang the glass bell, and as the sound rang out, a shimmering lavender mist gathered over Kerka and the fairies. I smelled lilacs.

  I looked down to see my mother’s own handwriting on the page of the book, but it was curlier, more artistic, as if she had been experimenting with calligraphy and enjoying the shape of every letter.

  “Read, Birdie,” Queen Patchouli said.

  And I did.

  My heart ached for the girl who was now my mother. I actually understood what she’d been feeling. “What did she decide?” I asked in a whisper. “What did she do?”

  The queen shook her head sadly at me and then rang the glass bell. The shimmering mist melted away. The fairies opened their eyes, nodding to each other as if they knew something now.

  I looked at Kerka. She was blinking dreamily.

  “I saw a page from The Book of Dreams in my head,” Kerka said. “A girl named Emma wrote it.”

  “That’s my mother,” I said.

  “Each girl who comes to Aventurine has the opportunity to make a difference here … and in what you call the real world,” said Queen Patchouli as she gently closed the book. “Now, Birdie, you have come on your own quest.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked.

  “You must find the other half of the Singing Stone, Birdie,” said the fairy queen.

  “Okay, I guess I can do that. Do you know where the other half of the stone is?” I asked. “The flowers said that a flying shadow took it. And what does it have to do with my mother?”

  “Fairies cannot follow shadows,” said Patchouli. “All we know is that the stone piece is somewhere in Aventurine. Your mother’s dream shows part of why this quest falls to you—it is your quest to find the other half of the stone and reclaim it for your family.”

  “And if I find it, what will happen?” I asked.

  All the fairies whispered excitedly as Queen Patchouli answered, “Harmony will be restored to a part of Aventurine that has been suffering, and harmony will be restored to your family.”

  “And if I don’t find it?” I asked.

  All the fairies went quiet. Then Queen Patchouli said, “Then you will not have fulfilled your destiny or your family’s, and it will mean terrible things for a special part of Aventurine. Terrible things for your grandmother’s garden, as well. And the bonds of your family will slowly wither away.”

  “What?” I cried.

  The fairy queen nodded, her eyes grave. “What has begun will be finished.” She shook the glass bell once more.

  My eyes closed heavily. Images rushed before me: the rotted spot on the Glimmer Tree, the notes dancing around on Mo’s sheet music and floors and walls, my mother’s journal entry.

  “How did the stone break?” I asked, my eyes still closed, hoping for a glimpse of the stone’s past. I knew exactly where in Aventurine it had been broken, from the Agminiums’ story, but I didn’t know if someone had thrown it, or dropped it, or … ?

  “How does not matter,” said the queen. “What matters is that you are the only hope for the healing of the Singing Stone, the gardens, the Glimmer Tree, and your family.”

  “I’m the only hope?” I asked, pulling my velvet cloak tight.

  “It is time now for you to sleep and dream,” said the fairy queen. “The dreaming may help you. Or it may not. You do have some power to choose your dream as you add it to the Book.”

  My eyes shot open. Had I been sleeping? I sat up, pushing back light cotton sheets. I was wearing a spring green nightgown embroidered with daisies. This wasn’t mine! I looked at the bed: It was carved with leaves and flowers and the same old woman’s face that had been on the wardrobe. She smiled at me and nodded from out of the bed frame.

  Clearly, I was still in Aventurine but maybe sleeping or dreaming? The fairies must have put me to bed and made bedroom walls from white curtains that hung from nothing that I could see. Above, the sky was dark as midnight, and the moon had a ring around it.

  I was alone.

  But something bright was flitting around my head. A firefly. It reminded me of the firefly in Dora’s journal entry.

  “Hello,” I said. “Is this a dream now?”

  The firefly stopped circling and hovered in front of my face. I gently cupped it in my hands. Its wings glistened with silvery flecks, and its little light was a phosphorescent gold.

  “How am I supposed to find the other half of the stone?” I whispered. “Why am I the only hope for the Arbor Lineage to heal the green world?”

  I looked around my little bedroom. A small table and chair were at the foot of the bed. On the table lay The Book of Dreams, the silver lettering on its cover shimmering in the moonlight.

  Suddenly I felt a tingling in the center of my palm, where the firefly was. Then the golden glow from the firefly grew brighter and brighter, until it had thrown a halo around me. I got up from the carved bed and sat at the table, bathed in the firefly’s light.

  Now I saw that beside the book there was a peacock feather with a pointed tip—a fancy quill pen. Next to the peacock quill was a shell with a silver lid. I took off the lid and saw that the shell was filled with silver ink.

  The Book of Dreams opened all by itself to a blank page.

  The fairies had given me a pen and ink, a blank page, and privacy. It was my turn to write. I picked up the feather.

  I wondered if Emma had sat in this very spot when she had written in the book. And perhaps Dora and Mo had, too. How far back did my family go? Had all my ancestresses sat here and written their dreams? I tried to flip through the book to check, but the pages wouldn’t budge.

  I sighed, and dipped the tip of the feather into the shell. I b
rought the tip out, and the silver ink shimmered in the moonlight. I wrote the date. It was going to be hard to write something, knowing that someday my own daughter—or granddaughter!—might read it.

  I heard the breeze whoosh-whooshing through the gauze curtains. I heard whir-whirring in the willows and the firefly buzz-buzzing in front of me. My mind wandered into memory.

  I remembered the tree house that Mom and I built when I was little. We hammered planks onto the thick oak tree branches to make a sturdy floor that wouldn’t fly off when the Santa Ana winds blew.

  “Sorry, tree,” we said every time we hit a nail.

  “Is it okay, tree?” we’d ask, for permission.

  My mom said that as long as we didn’t nail too deep and we only put in the few nails that were needed, the tree would be okay. I was so happy to be in a world of our own, just me and Mom and the big oak tree. I dreaded having to come down out of that tree house to go to school, to go to bed, to go back to regular life. I wanted to stay in that tree with my mom forever.

  I found myself writing, images rising unbidden to my mind. And I described them. I didn’t mind that I had to dip the pen into the ink a lot. It left beautiful thick lines and slender curves, so my writing looked ancient and important. I put the pen down at the edge of the book, feeling a little strange. I closed my eyes to think. Where were these images coming from? Was I really dreaming, or was this some fairy magic?

  I thought of how it felt as if Mom was deserting me when she first went back to work. Somehow her job had felt wrong to me, like she wasn’t being herself. I wouldn’t have minded her being away if she had been a gardener or a landscape architect. I had a vague recollection of my parents arguing about my mom’s job, but I can’t remember who was unhappy. Maybe they both were.

  I opened my eyes. The firefly was hovering again. I picked up the feather pen and wrote.

  Finally, I signed my name and set down the feather pen. I didn’t want to see any more. And I thought I understood now what the dream was saying—I hoped I understood. I looked around for the fairies or the fairy queen. The firefly whirred around the book.