Stephen Lawhead - The Realms Thereunder

She was so hungry. Instead of going out of the flat front door, she went into the kitchen.

The place was spotlessly clean. Still shouldering the child, she opened the refrigerator and recoiled. It was stocked with food, but everything was rotten or overgrown with mold. A head of lettuce had partially turned to sludge. Milk had separated in its plastic container that showed only a whitish-blue fuzz through its transparent lid. She swung the door closed. There must be something in the cupboards. She opened the one nearest to her-empty. The next was full of drinking glasses. Finally, in the third cupboard, she found some tinned food. She grabbed some baked beans down and put them on the counter. She put the baby on the centre of the kitchen table. Amused, bewildered, it gazed beatifically up at the ceiling.

She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a can opener. Working frantically, she managed to get the lid off of the tin.

It was empty. Or at least, not completely empty, for there were dried streaks of bean juice clinging to the sides of the tin, as if it had once contained beans, but a long time ago.

She reached for a can of pineapple slices and opened that. It was empty as well, except for the sickly sweet smell of old fruit.

This was too weird. She picked up the baby, turned to leave, and immediately halted. There was a small girl in the doorway.

“Mum? Is breakfast ready?”

“S-Sophia?” she stammered.

“Mum, I’m hungry,” the girl-she must be about seven years old-said primly.

“No time, come on, we’re leaving.”

“Where?”

Grabbing Sophia’s hand, she dragged the girl down the hallway and out of the door of the flat.

“Mummy,” the little girl said as they started down the stairs.

“I don’t want to go outside. It’s cold and snowy.”

“It’ll be fine,” Freya said, not at all convinced of this herself.

She felt the girl’s hand pull away from hers as they reached the bottom of the steps. “I have to put my wellies on.”

Freya tried the door handle, but it was locked. She pulled it harder and frantically looked around for the key. “Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered under her breath.

“It’s on the windowsill,” Sophia said, pointing.

Snatching up the key, she thrust it into the lock. It turned and in another moment, she had the door open. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and she was barefoot, but she couldn’t stay any longer. She pulled the key out of the keyhole.

The baby started crying. “Come on,” Freya called over her shoulder.

“I need my coat.”

“No time!” she snapped.

“Freya, darling?” came a voice from above her. “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” she whispered, holding out her hand to Sophia.

“I don’t want to go!”

The baby howled.

“Freya, where are you going? Come up and have some breakfast.”

There was a rush of wind that slammed the door shut. Frantically, she flung it open again. Then with her foot outstretched to prevent the door from closing, she reached in and grabbed Sophia’s arm. She heaved herself through the doorway and into the snow-filled front yard.

Only there wasn’t any snow. And, suddenly, there wasn’t a Sophia anymore. She stumbled and fell. She found herself lying on . . . grass. In the whole garden, there wasn’t a flake of snow to be seen.

Freya looked down at herself and let out a long, strange cry of surprise and relief-she was dressed in the same pink blouse and jeans that she had been wearing when she first visited the Old Observatory.

Her head was clear now.

It hadn’t been years after all, it had been . . . what? Days? She started laughing-it was all a dream, or an illusion. There were no children-she was now just clutching a dirty tea towel against her shoulder. There was no important work she was doing, translating that strange gobbledegook. All of it, since she met that weird little group-the militant Gerrard Cross, the odd Leigh Sinton, the rotund Brent Wood. She paused. She had an aunt who used to live in a town called Brent Wood. And the Reverend Peter Borough?

Peterborough? And Felix. Felixstowe-that was a harbor town on the west coast. She’d caught a ferry there once. Those were names of towns, not people. But why? Were they illusions too? And her tutor . . . what did it mean?

Daniel. It had something to do with Daniel’s disappearance.

Freya heard her name being called from inside. Stowe’s legs could be seen at the top of the stairs. Scrambling to her feet, she flew to the door and pulled it closed. She still had the key, which she used to lock it.

Stowe’s shape appeared dark in the frosted glass and he gave it a bang with his fist. Then, swift as a thought, he turned and dashed back up the stairs.

Freya needed no further prompting. She spun around and, as fast as her weak and malnourished body could move, she pushed open the front gate and ran out into the street.

Feeling uncomfortable in the fine Elfin clothes that the merchant Lokkich gave him, Daniel nonetheless tried to look natural. His sword was at his side, and a leather pouch, which seemed heavier than the weight it contained, bounced against his thigh.

He had become lost in his thoughts and had fallen behind Awin Kaayn, the musician he had met on the road. That was a stroke of luck. The merchant’s plan had been a good one, but Daniel was able to refine it. To enter the feast hall as the minstrel’s assistant was his idea and would remove much risk and attention from the operation.

By chance-or providence, or fate, for everything so far had gone unbelievably smoothly-Daniel had actually been introduced to Agrid Fiall. Returning to K?yle and Pettyl’s stall, he had encountered a small crowd of people clustered around it. He slipped in around them and edged to the back of the booth.

K?yle was standing in the middle of the room, his powerful body at ease, and all the more threatening for his casual strength-he was taller than anyone else there. Before him was an elf, who was dressed in an outfit that was splendid, even by elfish standards. Thin black robes enfolded him, trimmed with grey and white lace-the one serving as an accent for the other. Pearls of varying sizes and brilliance were set into the black cloth, creating swirling patterns, as if depicting the sky on a hailstorm night. His face wore a thick, bushy beard that was jet-black and streaked with bright white hairs, which seemed to be a piece of the costume as well.

On either side of him stood what were obviously Elfin soldiers. They wore silver helmets and chest plates that were etched with woodland scenes. Everything else was covered with thick embossed leather. Short swords hung at their sides and long, thin spears rose over their heads. Behind these three were nobles and what appeared to be merchants of a higher class than those who owned stalls.

The eyes of all of these men turned towards Daniel as he entered, immediately pegging him as someone who didn’t belong. “Who is this young- man ?” the black figure asked.

“He is an unfortunate boy who fell into our world and came into my care. I have already made arrangements for him to return to his own world.”

“It has been some time since I have seen a human. You used to see more of them about-when we used to steal them. Are you sure it is not a changeling? It’s so hard to tell with those animals.

My name is Agrid Fiall, young human. What is yours?”

“Daniel Tully, your lordship.”

Fiall laughed. “ Daniel Tully, your lordship,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “I’d forgotten how they sound when they speak.

Marvelous, simply marvelous. One might almost believe that they were able to think as we do. There was that bard who managed it once, but I never saw him and believe reports of him to be exaggerated. Will you sell him to me?”