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  OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY

  FAST FORWARD: A DANGEROUS SECRET

  Ian Bone

  CHIG AND THE SECOND SPREAD

  Gwenyth Swain

  THE GYPSY GAME

  Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  WITH LOVE FROM SPAIN, MELANIE MARTIN

  Carol Weston

  BLUBBER

  Judy Blume

  BOYS AGAINST GIRLS

  Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  MOLLY MCGINTY HAS A REALLY GOOD DAY

  Gary Paulsen

  TO TWO WONDERFUL EDITORS WHOSE DEDICATION,

  INTEGRITY AND ARTISTRY MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE

  TO KAREN WOJTYLA

  AND IN MEMORIAM

  TO JEAN KARL

  THIS STORY REALLY began many years ago when, as a freshman in college, I heard a professor say that it might be possible that we are all constantly surrounded by entities and events of which we are completely unaware because of the limitations of our sense organs. Of course I knew that there are limits to our ability to see, hear, smell, taste and touch. For example—our human noses can't begin to experience a dog's complicated world of aromas. But it had never before occurred to me to wonder what other unheard, unsmelled, untasted, untouched and unseen entities might exist all around us.

  I don't remember anything else the professor had to say that day. At that point I must have gone into a trance, enchanted by the possibilities. A trance that has recurred now and then over the years, during which I often asked myself, “What might be out there, all around me? What would it look like if I could see it? In what way might it interact with me?” As I imagined answers to those questions, I also began to consider ways I might write about the fascinating images the professor's suggestion brought to mind. Here are some of those images—as creatures of The Unseen.

  IT ALL BEGAN on a cold day in early autumn when a girl named Alexandra Hobson was playing a dangerous game in a forbidden forest. The game, about an enchanted creature, half human and half animal, had been inspired by the fact that Alexandra, or Xandra, as she preferred to be called, believed herself to be enchanted in some deeply secret and very private way. In a way that ordinary human beings could never understand or appreciate. Particularly not the humans who happened to be members of her own family and who, in spite of what most people thought, were all hopelessly ordinary.

  As for the forbidden forest? The forest was real enough, acres and acres of undeveloped timberland that started right behind the Hobsons' property and stretched out toward the mountains. And the forbidden part was real too. Forbidden by people who insisted that a forest wasn't a safe place for a twelve-year-old girl to spend so much time, at least not all by herself.

  And so it happened that on that particular cloudy afternoon nobody knew where Xandra was or what she was doing. Not that any of her siblings would have cared to know, except so that they could tell and cause trouble. In the Hobson household causing trouble for Xandra had always been a favorite pastime.

  She hadn't meant to go very far that day, but she'd gotten caught up in the game about being an enchanted woodland creature, and one thing and one forest pathway led to another. She'd skirted the edge of the marsh, crossed Cascade Creek by jumping from one rock to another, and kept going on, deeper into the forest.

  This time the game concerned a unicorn, a magical creature that could be seen only by royal princesses or enchanted people. She was closing in on the unicorn, imagining fleeting glimpses of its slender legs and glowing golden horn, when she suddenly arrived at a place she had never been before. She had come out of dense forest into a small circular clearing carpeted with a thick layer of vines and ferns and surrounded by tall overhanging trees. She was turning in a circle, admiring the peaceful beauty of the small meadowlike area, when she was startled by a sudden sound.

  She'd heard what? Gunfire? Yes. Definitely gunfire. Two shots in rapid succession. Frozen by surprise, Xandra was standing motionless when she became aware of a snapping, crackling sound in the branches over her head. She jumped back, throwing up her arms to protect her face, and when she took them down, there it was, only a few feet away.

  Lying on a mound in the center of the vine-covered clearing, very close to Xandra's feet, was a large white bird. As she stared in shocked surprise, it fluttered weakly and then lay still. At first she was too horrified and angry to be frightened or even to remember why she ought to be, completely blocking out all the times she'd been warned about what might happen to her if she went into the woods alone, particularly during hunting season.

  It was a big bird, its body larger than a pigeon's, but completely, purely white. Its wings, fanned out on the gray earth, gleamed like sunlit snow—except where an ugly smear of red ran along the edge of the right wing and trickled down onto the grass. Muttering, “How could they? How could anyone shoot something so beautiful?” Xandra dropped to her knees, but as she stretched out her arms the bird began to move. Lifting a sleek, tear-shaped head, it opened its long golden beak and gave a mournful cry. “Oh,” Xandra gasped, “you're alive.”

  The wounded bird raised its head on its long curved neck and looked at her. Looked long and carefully, turning slowly to examine her with one glittering, jewel-like eye and then the other. Then it crooned again and began to try to pull its long slender legs under its body. It was still struggling to get to its feet when Xandra became aware of a series of terrifying sounds: shouting voices, crashing underbrush, and then trampling feet and the barking of a dog.

  They were coming. The hunters were coming to get their prey. To crush it into a bag full of dead game, or to hang it from someone's belt by its long delicate legs. Scooping the white bird up into her arms, Xandra turned and ran.

  At first she ran directly toward home, but then, remembering something she'd read about how to escape bloodhounds, she headed for the creek. She stopped only for a moment at the rocky bank, then jumped out into the water and began to wade, working her way upstream.

  The streambed was paved with slippery, moss-covered rocks, and the cold water quickly saturated her shoes. The depth of the water varied as she moved forward. Sometimes it was only a few inches deep, but now and again it flowed well above her knees, soaking the hem of her skirt. The howling of the hound grew louder and as she slipped and stumbled forward, she wondered frantically if it was really true that a hunting hound would lose the scent if its prey ran through flowing water. Or was she freezing her legs and ruining her new shoes for nothing?

  The dog's howls grew louder and closer, and now Xandra could hear the voices of the hunters—hoarse, threatening voices, calling to each other and to the hound. Shaking, almost choking with fear, she stumbled on, slipping and sliding, now and then falling to her knees. With the motionless bird still cradled in both of her arms, she had to struggle clumsily to get back onto her feet. She was cold and soggy, her knees were skinned and bruised and her plaid skirt was wet almost to her waist before she became aware that the sounds of pursuit had begun to fade. The howls and shouts were growing dimmer and farther away. But even after she was fairly sure she had succeeded in throwing the hounds off the trail, she stumbled on. And all the while the bird continued to lie warm and dry in her cradling arms. Still alive? she began to wonder. Or had the p
oor thing died of its wounds, or perhaps of sheer fright?

  The howls and shouts were long gone before Xandra dared to slow her pace, leave the streambed and scramble up the shallow bank. In her arms, the bird lay absolutely still. Putting it gently down on a patch of grass, she was looking for a solemn and secret place to leave its poor dead body when it raised its head, and once again she heard the soft, sobbing call.

  It was much later when a damp and bedraggled Xandra Hobson, still carrying the wounded but now definitely living bird, pushed open the heavy back gate of 75 Heritage Avenue, closed it firmly behind her and realized that, for once, she was glad to be there.

  Extremely glad, in spite of the fact that there had been times when she'd imagined, even pretended, that she lived somewhere else. Times in fact when she'd actually denied living at the expensive end of Heritage Avenue in the house that one of her smart-mouthed siblings had nicknamed the Hobson Habitat. She wasn't sure why she avoided being identified as a Hobson, except that she knew from past experience that once people knew who she was, she would have to listen to them rave about all her gorgeous and talented brothers and sisters. (Or siblings, as Xandra preferred to call them. There was something warm and cozy sounding about “brothers and sisters” that had very little to do with the way Xandra felt about her fellow Hobsons.)

  But on that particular afternoon, with the hunters and their ferocious dog somewhere close behind her, the solid stone walls of the Hobson Habitat were a welcome sight. After a quick glance around to make sure she was not going to be seen, either by a sibling or by Otto, the Hobsons' gardener, Xandra made her way across the lawn and around several carefully landscaped flower beds on her way to the basement door.

  The huge basement of the Hobson Habitat was as hopelessly dusty and cluttered as the rest of the house was sleek and shiny. Over the years it had become the dumping place for all sorts of furniture and equipment that no one used anymore but might want again at some future time. Starting just inside the door and spreading out in every direction were dozens of boxes and trunks and barrels and filing cabinets. And in between everything else there were objects too big for containers. All sorts of Hobson artifacts, such as teetering stacks of skateboards, skis, scooters, golf carts, hockey sticks, tennis rackets and the scattered remains of an elaborate model railroad. And here and there among the toys and sports equipment, many different kinds of housecleaning equipment, such as rug shampooers, floor waxers and vacuum cleaners. None of which—none of the sports stuff and certainly none of the cleaning gadgets—interested Xandra in the slightest.

  But farther on, way back behind the furnace, if you knew how to find it, there was an entirely different scene. Getting there wasn't easy. The furnace itself was an enormous black box, out of which great fat heat vents snaked off toward every part of the house. It was necessary to wind your way between boxes and barrels and stacks of stuff and then duck under a couple of sagging heat vents before you came to a place that no one in the family ever visited—no one except Xandra. A place that had been, for a long time, a very private and secret hideout for her special friends who happened to be animals. And where now, as always, she immediately felt better. Safer, calmer and more at home.

  It was in that small space behind the furnace that Xandra had fed and cared for a variety of infant or ailing creatures, but only until they were strong enough to make it on their own or could be adopted by families who, unlike the Hobson parents, weren't allergic to or afraid of pets of any kind.

  Against one wall were the cages and boxes where various animals had lived and where, by the light of two narrow windows high up on the wall, Xandra had fed and cared for them. Creatures that had lived behind the furnace at least temporarily included any number of baby birds, two litters of abandoned kittens, an orphaned baby skunk, a slightly chewed-up garden snake she'd rescued from a neighbor's bulldog and a half-grown barn owl whose larger siblings had pushed it out of the nest. Ratchet, the noisy barn owl baby, had been one of Xandra's favorites. Having had so much personal experience with pushy siblings, she couldn't help feeling a special sympathy for the evicted owl.

  So now, safe at last in the dark, smelly privacy of her secret hideout, she settled the white bird into a large carton padded with straw and equipped with a bowl of water. Although it shrank away from the touch of her hand, it seemed quite calm when she reached in to put the water bowl in place, only turning its head from side to side to watch what she was doing.

  It seemed much stronger now, its head held high on its long slender neck. The blood she had seen on its right wing seemed to have disappeared. By the time she was ready to leave, the bird was sitting up with its snowy wings tucked in and its long legs folded neatly beneath its body. On her way out, preparing to duck under the first furnace vent, Xandra looked back and caught her breath in surprise. Even in the dimly lit basement, the bird's feathers glistened so brightly that it seemed to be surrounded by a mysterious halo of light. “Goodbye, you beautiful thing,” she whispered. “I'll be back as soon as I find out what you are and what you like to eat.”

  Inside the house she stopped long enough to take off her soggy shoes before she made her way quietly up the back stairs and down the hall to her own room. A room where two whole walls were covered by bookshelves, and where, among dozens of books about birds and animals, she quickly located an illustrated volume on local birds. It didn't take long to find out what she needed to know. The bird was probably an egret or something very similar, and it would need to eat things like frogs and insects and small fish. She knew where she could find such things, of course, at a place where Cascade Creek flowed out into a series of quiet, shallow ponds, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. There wasn't time to get to the ponds and back before dinner. But in the meantime …

  In the meantime, it suddenly occurred to her, there was the aquarium. The enormous aquarium, practically an indoor lake, full of all kinds of exotic and expensive tropical fish, which belonged to Quincy, the oldest, biggest and possibly most hateful of the siblings. Only a moment later, standing in the doorway of the fish collector's room, Xandra was peering across what closely resembled a full-fledged scientific laboratory and plotting her raid on the aquarium. She worked her way around science fair displays decorated with blue ribbons, and desks and tables covered with microscopes and racks of test tubes—plus, and this was particularly annoying, Quincy's very own television.

  Not that having a television in your own room was unusual on Heritage Avenue, where most kids did. Most kids, but not the ones at the Hobson Habitat, where there was a strict rule against it until you were eighteen years old. Giving the shiny new TV a resentful glance, Xandra moved carefully and quickly across the room, knowing that the eighteen-year-old owner of the TV—not to mention his own car—might arrive home at any time. But then, peering into the watery depths of the aquarium, with the fishnet already in her hand, she changed her mind.

  Why did she change her mind about kidnapping a fat and juicy zebra fish or perhaps the beautiful, brightly colored angelfish? At first she wasn't too sure. It was definitely not that she was terrified about what the aquarium-owning sibling would do to her if he learned who had taken his precious fish. That was a risk she was willing to take. After all, she didn't plan to confess and he would have no proof. But there were other reasons. The main one seemed to be that the fish were beautiful creatures too, and after all, they really couldn't help being owned by someone as mean as a Hobson teenager. And also, there was the probability that a spicy tropical fish might not be good for the digestive system of a purely white, nontropical bird—particularly one that was already in a weakened condition. And besides, Xandra suddenly realized, there might be an easier solution. A brine shrimp solution.

  Cluttering up a family refrigerator with jars of smelly brine shrimp to feed his fancy fish had been one of the aquarium owner's more annoying habits. But at that particular moment, a habit that suddenly met with Xandra's approval. Checking her watch, Xandra decided there was j
ust about time to change into dry clothing, make a quick and stealthy stop at a particular refrigerator, visit the basement and arrive at the dinner table only a little bit later than usual.

  Again, the beautiful bird considered her calmly as she put the cup into its box. It was almost as if it knew she was trying to help. It really did know, she decided as it turned its head on its long graceful neck to look down at the brine shrimp with apparent interest and then up again at Xandra. She was even more certain that the bird knew far too much to be an ordinary marsh-dwelling member of the heron family. As she prepared to leave the basement, Xandra stopped long enough to tell it so.

  “I know you're not just an ordinary egret,” she told the bird. “I know that you're an enchanted creature. And I'm pretty sure that you were there in my forest for some important reason.”

  The bird listened, turning its tear-shaped head and nodding as if agreeing with what she had to say. She felt sure it was agreeing. And later that night, sitting on the window seat in her room, she stared down into the dark garden and told herself she would soon find out what that reason could be. Why the enchanted bird had been in her forest and just how she was to be rewarded for rescuing it.

  But the next morning when she made a quick stop in the basement on her way to catch the bus, the carton held only the grassy nest, the water bowl and an empty cup. The bird was gone. All that remained was one long, softly quivering white feather. But from that moment, from that breath-catching, heart-racing moment when she first saw the beautiful feather, Xandra guessed the truth. The feather was a magical gift, given to her as a promise that she would be rewarded for rescuing an enchanted creature. And she must find a way to keep it with her wherever she went.

  XANDRA HAD NO intention of telling anyone about the mysterious bird and its magical feather. Especially not Belinda. In fact she had never before had the slightest inclination to tell the girl named Belinda anything at all. And afterward she found it difficult to remember just how it had happened.