1
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Fight and Flight
“A slacker? How dare you say that!” Dara sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “You’re not being fair!”
Her mother stood simmering in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, and the two locked eyes.
“Stop being selfish, Dara! What’s the matter with you? You’ve been missing in action ever since your father died.”
“What do you mean, missing in action? I’ve done everything we agreed and more.”
“I don’t want to discuss it. I need to leave for work now, so just do as I say. You can by start cleaning the kitchen.”
“The kitchen? You wish! I’ll start by going to the park.”
Dara stormed down the hall in a fury, slammed the apartment door, and raced down the stairs to the courtyard. Missing in action? She did more than half the household chores already without complaint—even the worst, like washing dishes. And still her mom was accusing her of being a slacker.
Sometimes life just sucked.
She pushed hard against the outer door, burst into the courtyard, then collided with a wall of heat. The heat felt thick and hostile, as if determined to keep her a prisoner inside, but Dara was in no mood to let it win. She blotted her tears with an angry fist, squared her shoulders, and stomped out to the street.
The air around her was on fire. She stared at the milky sky and wondered whether it would ever turn blue again. Diesel fumes burned her throat and the asphalt felt sticky beneath her feet. But things would be better in the park, she thought. At least there would be trees, and trees were her friends.
This Tuesday morning Alberico Park was deserted save for a man in a baseball cap who lounged near the entrance. He barely looked up as she passed. Dara headed for the Union Oak, whose generous canopy overspread the park like a great green tent, offering shade and shelter to all. Planted in 1868 to honor the Civil War dead, it was the oldest living thing in Cambridge. Dara’s mood soon brightened. “Hello, Quercus alba,” she whispered.
Her father had taught her the Latin names of every tree and bush in the park—Gingko biloba, Buxus sempervirens, and more. For her thirteenth birthday he had given her a set of flashcards pairing their Latin names with his sketches, beautifully drawn with a Micron pen and his favorite Winsor & Newton colored pencils. Dara had memorized them all.
Until his death three months later, Sean Monahan had been the city’s chief arborist—the man who drafted tree planting schedules, watering charts, and preservation statutes and who designed green spaces around the city. He and his dedicated crew had cared for thousands of trees in the city’s streets and parks. Their job was to keep what he called the “Cambridge forest” healthy and strong.
But this summer’s relentless heat would have challenged even him. The Cambridge forest was under siege. The gingko leaves hung limp; the red maples stood bare. On nearby Allston Street, the lindens oozed black sap from their blistered trunks. The flowerbeds in the park were scorched. Their zinnias and daylilies and shasta daisies had wilted beneath a merciless sun and dead grass crackled beneath Dara’s feet. Even the Union Oak was in trouble—its leaves mostly brown now, though it was only July. She hated how they rattled in the wind.
Dara’s dark mood returned. Her city was caught in a losing battle with the heat and the things she loved were dying. Nothing was the way it had been; nothing was the way she wanted it. Perhaps nothing ever would be again, now that her father was gone.
“Don’t die, Union Oak,” she whispered. “I need you! Where else can I go when things get bad at home? I just wish I could help.”
She gave the trunk a pat, then jerked her hand back in surprise. An electric current pulsed beneath the bark and pulled at her fingers. Dara stared. Was the tree really sending her away? No, the Union Oak was her friend.
Dara patted the trunk again. This time the tingling spread from her palm to her wrist and then up her arm. Soon her feet could no longer feel the ground and she began spinning, faster and faster, as if caught in a tornado. Then an icy cold gripped her limbs and her world went dark.
The spinning stole her breath, the pressure bruised her arms, the cold froze her skin. When her feet touched ground again, her knees gave way and Dara crumpled onto a bed of moss, shaken and afraid. Was she dead? No, she could feel her heart pounding like a jackhammer. But something strange had happened.
She took a gulp of air. It tasted cool and fresh—not like Cambridge air at all—and she took another. Then she looked up. A great silver tree towered above her, its colossal trunk broader than even the Union Oak. Ropes of yellow flowers hung from its lower branches like streamers.
She had never seen a tree remotely like this. It was certainly not one among her father’s flashcards. So was she dreaming? Dara gave her arm a pinch. People said that if you felt a pinch, it wasn’t a dream. Her pinch hurt.
Dara braced herself against the silver trunk and tried to stand. Her legs trembled and her head still swam, but she saw no blood and felt no broken bones. Perhaps she was going to be OK after all. But where was she? Where had her park gone? How would she ever get back home?
She paused at the edge of a clearing lush with ferns and ringed by a dozen silver trees in a circle, standing stout and solemn, like pillars holding up the sky. From the canopy high above came birdsong and a faint whisper of wind.
Don’t be scared, Dara told herself. Thirteen was too old to be scared—at least she hoped that was true. To calm herself she stared up again at the trees. They seemed impossibly tall.
She ventured a hesitant step into the clearing when out of nowhere a bird swooped down with a loud squawk and grazed her hair. Dara jumped back in alarm, waved her arms, and shouted, “Get lost, bird!” The bird retreated to a branch, shook its feathers, and squawked again. Its voice was electric blue.
Ever since Dara could remember, the sounds she heard had colors. Loud sounds were the brightest, low ones the darkest. Once she had thought everyone saw orange when a fire engine passed by or pale violet when a soft wind blew. But she had since learned that her “synesthesia,” as her father called it, was rare.
Voices had color, too. When people told the truth, the colors were clear; when they lied, their words turned brown, as if muddied by the lies. Adults, she had discovered, lied a lot.
The bird continued its chatter. Its feathers were bright blue, like its voice, and its long, pointed bill yawned wide with each call. She thought the bill had teeth. Then with one final squawk, the bird launched itself and disappeared into the trees beyond the clearing. On impulse, Dara ran after it. Perhaps it knew the way home.
She followed the bird along a winding path that skirted moss-covered logs, tall ferns, and flowering bushes thick with bees. The smell of damp earth and flower scents hung in the air. A cat-like creature with spotted fur and a long, striped tail stared at her from the undergrowth, then vanished. A shower of sweet-smelling petals floated down from above like confetti, adorning Dara’s head with pink. She longed to stop for a while and take in the forest, but seeing the bird fly ahead, she feared losing it and so pressed on.
Then suddenly from up ahead came a sharp yellow wail, like a creature in pain. Dara broke into a run.
The trail widened into a muddy field, dotted with stumps and surrounded by a wall of brush. Hoof marks, paw prints, and the blunt boots of men had churned the earth into a quagmire, leaving it scarred and raw. Dara felt her skin go cold. Something terrible had happened here.
The wail came again from a cage on the far side of the field. She hurried toward it, ignoring the mud that sucked at her shoes, and stooped to peer inside. Two frightened eyes stared back at her. A creature the size of a small dog, with green fur and a short nose, limped closer, pressed its face against the bars, and whimpered. The top of one bloody ear was missing.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Dara murmured and pushed her fingertips between the bars to stroke its soft fur. “Hang on—I’ll rescue you!”
The cage was armed with a metal lock and thick wooden bars. But if she could pry just one bar one loose, Dara thought the captive might be small enough to squeeze through. She rummaged through the brush pile in search of a suitable branch, wrestled it free, and set to work.
“Hang on,” she said again as the little animal whimpered.
She had barely begun when a hoarse shout rang out behind her from across the clearing. Dara turned to see a large, bearded man charging across the field, arms outstretched. He tried to grab her as he neared but she ducked out of reach just in time. Carried by his momentum, he stumbled and fell in the slippery mud, then scrambled up again, cursing.
Dara fled behind the cage. But before the man could attack again, the blue bird dove and slashed at his face until he staggered backward. Seeing him retreat, it whistled in triumph and flew like a shot through a gap in the brush. Now her ally was gone. Could she face her attacker alone? Dara was afraid to try. Reluctantly she chose to abandon the little captive and ran after the bird.
Her flight led her down a rutted track that ended abruptly at a riverbank, where she skidded to a halt. Beyond a rough wooden dock stretched a river so broad and so wide that it seemed to swallow up the sky. Mist shrouded the far shore; flocks of scarlet birds skimmed the surface. Dara stared in awe until the blue bird tugged at her sock, urging her to wade in. Then it tugged again, harder.
Dara heard more shouts, splashed into the shallows, and followed the bird upstream.
Dense reeds along the riverbank hid them for a time. But soon their path was blocked by a tangle of trees lying like hurricane wreckage in the shallows, with branches jutting out at odd angles and roots reaching into the air. Τhe bird alighted on a branch and shook its head, as if perplexed, then darted into the tangle and called.
Dara pushed her way in and knelt in an open space beneath the tangle. Here the air smelled damp, like a cellar after rain. Shafts of sunlight sent reflections dancing along nearby branches that tickled her scalp. Loud frogs croaked from the nearby shore but then fell silent as men’s voices approached. Dara held her breath.
Without warning, a sharp spear point slashed through the branches, just missing her wrist. Dara swallowed a cry and shrank back as more thrusts followed. Finally the searching spear withdrew, the voices faded, and the frogs resumed their chant. The hunters were gone.
She prepared to edge out from the hiding place when she saw the bird peck at something hidden beneath the water. Her curiosity aroused, Dara reached down, careful to avoid the bird’s teeth, and felt a strap. The bird chirped encouragement as she fumbled with it, lost her grip, then reached for it again. On the third try she hoisted up a backpack, heavy and dripping.
A backpack? Here?
Dara pushed her way back out into the sunlight, clutching her find. With sand from the river bottom she cleaned away the slick green film that covered the pack until she could read the name “PETER LYNN” written in capitals on the outer flap. At once she was assailed by torrent of questions. Who was this Peter Lynn? Where was he now? What had happened to him? Had he drowned?
She would likely never know.
With a sigh of frustration, she hung the dripping pack on a branch, shaded her eyes, and gazed across the river, shimmering in the sun. Close ranks of trees stood on the far bank like sentries at attention, guarding a massive forest that proceeded without a break across ridges and hollows, uplands and valleys, until blocked by a line of rust-colored hills at the horizon. Ribbons of mist floated above the treetops, shifting and swirling like ghosts beneath a pale blue sky.
The beauty was overwhelming. City girl Dara had never visited a real wilderness, yet it somehow felt familiar, as if she belonged here. This was how the world was supposed to be— green and lush, wild and magnificent, not choked with stinking fumes and baked by toxic heat, but offering trees and sky without end.
How her father would have loved this place! Since his passing, Dara had often pretended to be his scout, investigating places he could no longer visit himself. This was the best yet! For a moment, rescuing the little green animal and finding her way home did not seem quite so important after all.
But by now the bird was growing impatient. Perhaps it feared the return of the hunters. At last it flew up to the backpack and whistled and shook its wings until Dara understood: They must leave and the backpack must come with them. She struggled into the cold, wet straps, hoisted its unfamiliar weight onto her back, and followed her guide again up the river.
A half hour later they neared a bush-covered bluff that rose like a green apparition above the reeds. Dara discovered an apron of sand at its feet. While the bird alighted half-way up the slope and scanned the river, she waded to shore, eager for a rest on her private beach. She shed the pack and drained the water from her shoes and was about to sit when something odd caught her eye.
A patch of brown mist about the size of a soccer ball hovered just above the water a few yards from shore. It swelled and shrank in a slow, even rhythm—in, out, in, out—as if it were breathing, then began to float in her direction. As it flowed through the reeds, they blackened and collapsed, before a dead frog floated to the surface.
The blue bird saw the mist, shrieked a warning, and shot to the top of the bluff. Dara tried to drive the mist away by pelting it with sand, but that had no effect. So she grabbed the pack and her shoes and scrambled up the slope after the bird, clutching at roots and bushes to keep her balance. At the summit she paused to look back and saw that the cloud of mist was gaining.
She jammed on her shoes and ran.
She would have been lost without the bird’s sharp blue cries, which guided her through the misty forest like a beacon. Dara slipped and stumbled in her panic, but fear drove her on. Then at last, a familiar grove of giant trees appeared ahead, shining in the sun. She rocketed toward the grove, lungs on fire, still clutching the backpack, but as she reached the trees her legs gave way and she shuddered to a stop.
Dara stood dizzy and panting as the mist drifted toward her like brown, poisonous smoke. The closer it came, the harder it was to breathe. Soon it was just yards away…
Dara sank back against the nearest silver trunk. At once a tingling feeling slowly spread through her body and she began to spin. She knew what was coming. She held the pack tight and clenched her eyes shut to steel herself against the cold and pain.
When she opened them again, she was back on Earth, lying at the foot of the ancient Union Oak. Dara had never been so happy to see her favorite tree. She was home!
2
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Mr. Paganini
Dara pulled herself onto a nearby bench and felt the sun warm her skin. For once she welcomed the heat. She rubbed her aching arms and nudged the backpack beneath the bench and wondered if the mist possibly could follow her here.
It was then that she saw an old man with thick white hair beneath a green umbrella, observing her nearby. Despite the heat, he wore a crisp linen suit and a shirt buttoned to the collar. “Hello!” he called in a deep voice and raised his umbrella in greeting.
Dara knew never speak to strangers in a public park. On a one-to-ten scale of dumb things kids could do, breaking this rule rated an eleven, maybe even a twelve. But the old man’s smile and the clear crimson of his voice somehow felt different. Dara was convinced he meant her no harm, and besides, she wanted to know why he was watching her.
She waved back.
“Hello,” the man repeated in a low rumble as he moved toward her, lowering his umbrella as he neared. “I couldn’t help noticing you just now. That place you visited—it’s a planet we call Beyond.”
“How do you know where I went?” Dara was instantly on guard.
“Deduction, my dear. You appeared out of nowhere near a portal that communicates with that planet and you rubbed your arms as if they hurt. What’s more, you’re shivering in this wretched heat. Travel to Beyond can be cold and painful, as I know all too well.”
“You mean you’ve been there, too?”
“Yes, many times.”
“What’s a ‘portal’?”
“A gateway to other worlds.”
His eyes were emerald green, just y like hers. They seemed to read her soul. But at last the man lowered his gaze and held out a card. Dara took it and read:
“You have no reason to trust me,” the old man said. “In fact, trusting strangers nowadays is generally most unwise. But still I hope you’ll make an exception just this once. My name is Paganini, Primo Paganini. And you would be?”
“Umm, Dara—Dara Monahan.”
“What a nice name —‘oak’ in old Irish, I believe.”
Dara shrugged. In truth, she didn’t like her name all that much. It was just one more thing that made her different, and she already felt different enough—a gangly girl with green eyes and long auburn hair, a girl who thought trees were more interesting than clothes, preferred being in a park to being online, and felt more comfortable with adults than with kids her own age.
“You were lucky to come back as you did,” Mr. Paganini said. “Beyond has become dangerous of late. Some travelers have not returned at all.”
“What happened to them?” Dara asked in a small voice. The guards and the spear and the dirty brown mist cloud all flashed through her mind as she spoke. “Dangerous” seemed an understatement.
“Most likely they—” Mr. Paganini broke off and nodded toward the park entrance. The man in the baseball cap was staring in their direction.
“If you permit, I would love to learn more about your visit to Beyond, Dara Monahan. But some things are better discussed in private. We can speak more freely at my Laundromat. Would you care to come there for lunch?”
The question caught her by surprise. Lunch at the Lost Sock Laundromat? Dara had no idea what to say.
Ignoring her silence, Mr. Paganini produced a red leather datebook and pursed his lips. “Vediamo,” he said. “Let’s see… Tomorrow is Independence Day, which is not good. But what about the day after? Shall we say 12:30? Just be sure to bring a grown-up with you. I will not lunch with you alone.”
A smile played around his weathered face as he awaited her reply. Dara studied the wrinkles that divided his cheeks and forehead into tiny squares, like some ancient map, and tried to ignore her shivering while she considered his offer.
“You look cold, my dear. Would you like my jacket?”
Dara nodded, took it gratefully, and pulled it close. “Thanks. I-I don’t know about lunch,” she stammered. Of course she wanted to say yes, yet she knew her mother would absolutely forbid it. Besides, who could she ask to go with her?
“I’m sure you can find someone,” Mr. Paganini said, seeming to read her thoughts. “If not your mother or father, then a teacher or a grown-up friend will do. Just remember, Tuesday, July fifth, at 12:30. My address is on the card you have, and you can return my jacket then. By the way,” he added, as if this made a difference, “my guests seem pleased with my cooking.”
With that Primo Paganini raised his umbrella and glided away. Dara thought she had never seen anyone move with so little effort. Suddenly she remembered the backpack beneath the bench, bent over to retrieve it, then glanced again at the park entrance. The man in the Red Sox cap was looking at her through binoculars. Definitely time to leave.
She slipped through a break in the hedge behind the Union Oak and took the long way home along Fairmont to River Street and then along Rockwell, glancing back from time to time to see if she was being followed But she saw no one. By the time she reached the Clarendon Court Apartments, she felt almost warm.
To Dara’s relief, her mother had since left for work, which spared her from having to answer awkward questions about the man’s jacket she was wearing or the damp backpack slung over her shoulder. Of course her mother would insist on knowing where they had come from. But what could she possibly say?
She closed the door to her bedroom anyway for privacy, toweled herself dry, changed into a fresh T-shirt and khaki shorts, and hung Mr. Paganini’s jacket in her closet. Then she sat and tried to make sense of the strangest day of her life. Her clock said wasn’t even noon yet! So had she truly been to a misty forest, followed a blue bird, and tried to rescue a little green animal with a bloody ear? Had she really fled from a guard and a killer mist and been invited to lunch by a man who looked a hundred years old?
It must have been a dream. Dara felt a deep pang of disappointment.
And yet the jacket hanging in her closet seemed real. So did the sodden backpack on the floor. Maybe closer inspection could help her decide. Dara knelt down beside the pack, patted it, and felt something solid in an outside pocket. She forced the zipper open, reached in, pulled out a cloth bundle, unwrapped it, and gasped.
Nestled in its folds was a crystal shaped like a cheerleader’s baton—pointed at one end, with a grip at the other. Low ridges spiraled along its slender length and kaleidoscopic patterns played beneath its surface, flashing sapphire and amethyst, topaz and ruby, like her mother’s wedding ring. The grip fit her fingers perfectly.
She had never seen an object so beautiful as this.
Dara raised the crystal and swung it back and forth in the sunlight, setting drops of fire dancing along the wall. It felt like having fireworks in her very own bedroom! She played with the colors over and over, creating figure eights and zig-zag patterns until her arms ached. But when she finally lowered the stone, she knew had to hide this, too, from her mother.
With a sigh Dara rewrapped the crystal in its cloth cocoon, stuffed them into an empty black plastic bag, and placed the bag in the bottom drawer of her dresser—home to her most precious things. There was a silver brooch from the Irish grandmother whose name she bore; a blouse with a lace collar she had sadly outgrown; and the green cotton sweater her father had worn on their last walk together by the Charles River, barely a week before his death.
It was a walk she would never forget.
“Muffin,” he had said solemnly on the riverbank as he took her by the shoulders, “if anything should happen to me, this sweater belongs to you. Don’t let anyone else have it—it’s for you alone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“I can’t tell you why right now, so just trust me. Wear it when you visit the Union Oak and you’ll understand.”
If not for the look he gave her—sad and fierce and loving all at once—she would have thought he was joking. Wear a man’s sweater that came to her knees? What was he thinking? But before she could ask, her father coughed, glanced around, and started back along the path beside the river, as if anxious to return. Dara followed him home in silence. Her questions would have to wait.
She had tried to ask them again after finishing her homework that evening, but her father had already gone out on a private errand. Monday was a school day, and he was out once more when she got home. On Tuesday his cough grew worse, and she decided to wait till it got better. Then on Wednesday he collapsed at home and was rushed to the ER. By the next morning the father she had loved more than anyone in the world was dead.
Since that terrible day, Dara had been unable to shake free of the questions she bitterly regretted not asking him on the riverbank. What made his sweater special? Why insist on giving it to her and no one else? Why wear it to visit the Union Oak? And what did he think might happen to him? Did he know he was about to die?
Dinner that evening was even more silent than usual. The less they talked, Dara reflected sadly, the better she and her mother got along. Once they had laughed together at silly television shows, surveyed the night sky hand in hand on cold winter evenings, and asked each other’s advice on clothes. But her father’s death had somehow driven them apart, leaving each to mourn alone. Now her mother’s moods had become so dark and their arguments so fierce that Dara felt forced to keep her distance.
She still loved her mother—perhaps more than ever—but she could no longer rely on her as before. So instead of telling her about the most amazing day ever, Dara played with her food, arranging a line of lettuce like a river and piling raw carrot slices to make a tangle of branches. Then her mother gave a deep sigh and Dara felt a pang. Their fight that morning now seemed as silly as those TV shows.
“Mom, you look tired. If you want, I can do the dishes tonight.”
“Why thank you, sweetie, that would be nice. And I’m sorry I yelled at you after breakfast. I don’t know—I’m just not myself these days.” Her mother gave her an awkward hug.
Their old house with its sunny kitchen had come with a dishwasher. The small, dingy apartment they had beem forced to move to after her father’s death had just an old sink. Dara filled it with soapy water and began her least favorite chore.
But while she washed the dishes, she could not stop thinking of Beyond. When she had first seen the river and the grand forest carpeting hills and hollows like a magic cloak, something had stirred inside. She knew this place. It was waiting for her return.
But she felt bitterly ashamed of abandoning the little green captive. It had begged her for help. She had promised to rescue it and instead had run away. I’m such a coward, she thought. That was so bad.
Yet perhaps she still could save it. If she managed to return to Beyond, the blue bird might lead her again to the muddy clearing and this time, and before anyone could stop her, she would break into the cage, scoop up the little animal, and carry it with her back to Earth.
Then what? Did the Clarendon Court apartments allow pets? Perhaps, perhaps not. Yet even if they did, her mother would never agree. Still if Dara pleaded with her, cradling the poor little thing in her arms, could she really say no? Dara could pretend it was a stray. Its parents were missing and it needed a home. Perhaps they really were dead.
She knew how it felt when a parent died.
But a major problem with her rescue scenario still remained unsolved: She had no idea how to get back to Beyond. How she had traveled there in the first place remained a mystery. The trip had happened by chance. Who knew how this sort of space travel worked? She didn’t.
But Mr. Paganini did.
Judging from his remarks in the park, he himself had traveled to Beyond many times. This was why he knew about portals and the pain and cold. Perhaps he knew about the dirty brown mist and the crystal in her backpack and the mysterious Peter Lynn as well. Perhaps he would help her return.
With the dishes done, Dara walked to her bedroom and found Mr. Paganini’s jacket still hanging in her closet. Its bulging pockets tempted her, but the results were disappointing. The first pocket held just six hazelnuts; the second a corkscrew and a linen handkerchief. The next three yielded a shopping list, a pocketknife, a tape measure, a coil of wire, a paper fan, and a letter with strange writing she could not decipher, despite several tries.
In the last pocket of all she found the red leather date book Dara remembered from the park. The entry for July 5th read, “12:30, pcD.” Other entries, written in a neat cursive hand, each contained three letters: “ccE,” “vcM,” “sdC.”
Was this a code?
Dara began to have second thoughts. Lunch at a Laundromat with a man she barely knew was quite possibly insane. Another grownup might protect her, but what would that person think when she told about visiting a distant planet and asked Mr. Paganini to help her go back? Dara might seem to be strung out on drugs or suffering from heatstroke—possibly both.
How humiliating that would be!
But humiliating or not, she had to try. This was too good a chance to waste. If she didn’t accept Mr. Paganini’s invitation, she might never see him again. And if she chose the right chaperone, her mother need never know about her visit to the Laundromat
She had to go.
But who could go with her? Her teachers were all away on summer vacation, and here at Clarendon Court there were only two adults besides her mother whose names she even knew. Neither seemed a plausible choice as chaperone.
Then Dara remembered Ellie. Though some people thought she was a bit strange, Dara considered her a friend. After years of living abroad, Ellie had returned to New England and now supplemented her retirement with “house sitting,” as she called it—caring for property and plants and pets while their owners were away. She and her sturdy short-haired dog, Clementine, passed through the neighborhood almost every day. Dara joined them when she could.
Sometimes she and Ellie shared bagels in Alberico Park; sometimes they watched the boats and ducks glide by on the Charles River. Sometimes Ellie told her stories about Cambridge when she was girl—a time when folk singers performed in coffee houses and students marched to save the sycamores on Memorial Drive and there was still no Internet.
Lunch at Mr. Paganini’s Laundromat was just the sort of crazy thing Ellie might enjoy. Besides, she could be trusted not to tell her mother. But Ellie’s cell phone number was unlisted and Dara had no clue how to find it. That meant they would have to meet up on the street by chance the way they always did.
That might be a problem. July fifth was only two days away and the clock was ticking. She had to find Ellie. Soon.
3
________________
A Very Close Call
Dara felt so stiff the next morning that at first she could barely crawl out of bed. Ignoring her pains, she pulled on a blue T-shirt and shorts, laced up her running shoes, scribbled a note to her mother, and left in search of Ellie. She took Mr. Paganini’s jacket just in case her mother checked her closet while she was gone.
The corner of Magazine and Chalk Streets offered the best vantage point: from there you could see all the way down to the river. Dara crouched in a sliver of shadow cast by a lamppost, folded Mr. Paganini’s jacket beneath her as a cushion, and began her vigil.
As the sun crept across the milky sky, the sliver of shadow moved around the lamppost like the hour hand of an old-fashioned clock. Dara moved with it. To pass the time, she scrolled through the songs on her father’s iPod—another of his possessions to which she had laid claim—with its gray screen and a scroll wheel that clicked as it advanced. Listening to his favorite musicians, like Pink Martini and Liam O’Flynn, brought him closer.
But why couldn’t he be here now? He had always helped her when she needed him. He surely would have gone with her to the Laundromat without question, where she would have felt safe. There would have been no need to look for Ellie at all.
Dara fought back tears. She missed him so much. Often that ache felt like something she could handle, but today her grief had ambushed her once again.
Bit by bit the heat grew; so did Dara’s impatience. After two hours there was still no sign of Ellie and she decided to head back home. Ellie and Clem might have found a ride to the beach. Perhaps they were housesitting at some ritzy place with a pool. In any case, it had been stupid of Dara to think they would be out for a walk on such a steamy holiday.
She bit back her disappointment. She had so wanted to have lunch at Mr. Paganini’s Laundromat. She really needed his help, and now there was no way.
As a nearby church bell struck ten, Dara rose and peered down Magazine Street one last time. Then she looked again. A tiny figure had appeared in the distance, pushing what looked like a garden cart. Slowly the figure and cart grew larger. Then she heard a familiar bark and gave a whoop of joy.
“Ellie! Clem!” she yelled and raced down the street.
“Whoa, girl!” Ellie exclaimed as they collided in a hug. “Happy Fourth!”
Today Ellie’s long gray hair was tied back with a patriotic red, white, and blue bandana. Her cart was crammed with the usual gardening supplies—a pump spray canister with a nozzle, three jugs of water, a half bag of fertilizer, plus a water dish and kibbles for Clementine. A small American flag decorated the rear.
Clementine licked Dara’s hand and wagged her tail. She was an Akita Inu, Ellie had explained—a Japanese breed famous for their strength and loyalty. Her cream and cinnamon coat was shaved close to keep her cool and her bushy tail curled up and over her back—an Akita trademark.
“Ellie, could I ask a favor?”
“Sure, honey, but first let’s find some shade.”
They headed back down Magazine Street to Alberico Park. Dara was thankful that the man in the baseball cap wasn’t there. Ellie settled herself on a bench in the shade near the Union Oak, filled Clementine’s water bowl, and fussed over some wilted zinnias while Dara waited. And waited.
But at last her moment came.
“I met an old man here yesterday. He seemed nice and invited me for lunch at his Laundromat tomorrow, but he said I have to bring a grown-up with me. Could you possibly come? You might like it and I don’t know who else to ask. Here’s his card.”
Ellie examined the card and frowned. “Dara, haven’t you heard about ‘stranger danger’? Talking to a man you don’t even know—what were you thinking? Besides, I’ve heard things about Primo Paganini and that Laundromat of his. There’s something fishy going on there—I don’t know what, exactly, but it seems suspicious. So I don’t trust him one bit and neither should you.”
“You mean you won’t come with me?”
“Not on your life. And don’t you even think about going alone!” Ellie gave her a stern look. “Promise me not to, Dara. If you do, I’ll tell your mother.”
Dara sat silent and fuming. She wasn’t going to promise Ellie anything if she took that tone. But would she really tell her mother? Ellie was supposed to be her friend.
“Here, try a bagel,” Ellie said. “It’s your favorite, honey wheat.”
Dara pushed it away. “I’m not hungry.”
“Please don’t be mad, honey—I’m just trying to keep you safe! But now we have to say good-bye. Clem and I are house sitting up on Avon Hill at a place with central AC and a pool! Can you believe it? Yoshi, Clem! Off we go!” Clementine barked and Ellie waved as they headed out of the park.
Dara balled her fists in frustration. She had been counting on Ellie, and she had let her down. But despite Ellie’s warning, Dara was still determined to go. After all, she hadn’t promised Ellie not to visit the Laundromat. Mr. Paganini might be angry with her if she came alone, and the thought terrified her. She needed to see if she could be brave.
Dara headed down Pleasant Street, tacking right and left to stay in the sparse shade, then turned onto Kelly Road before she crossed to Howard Street. By the time she reached Western Avenue, her ponytail hung heavy on her neck and her T-shirt was wet with perspiration. She envied Ellie and Clem their pool.
Number 147 was a two-story, yellow building with a large sign that read LOST SOCK LAUNDROMAT above a smaller one advertising Wash, Dry, Fold—Same Day Service. Through a steamy window she spied rows of washing machines and dryers, facing each another like partners in a line dance. A dozen customers sat glued to their smartphones, waiting for a laundry cycle to finish. But there was no sign of Mr. Paganini.
On the threshold Dara hesitated. It certainly looked like a real Laundromat. But what if Ellie was right? What if this place was a front for something criminal? What if Mr. Paganini was some kind of pervert with a taste for young girls her age?
Just be brave, she told herself. Show yourself you can do this. If it’s too awful, you can always leave.
A wave of cool air met her as she opened the door, heart pounding. Dara ventured up and down the aisles in search of Mr. Paganini but without success, until she discovered a door at the rear with a hand-written sign that read Staff Only. If he was anywhere, it should be here. She took a deep breath and knocked, but there was only silence. She took another breath and knocked again, harder.
“Who is it?” came a low, rumbling voice. Its crimson color flooded her senses.
“It’s Dara—the girl from the park.” More silence. “Please don’t send me away,” she whispered.
“Why did you come today?” Mr. Paganini did not sound pleased. “We agreed it would be tomorrow. And who did you bring with you?”
“No one, just your jacket. But I need to see you now!”
“Tomorrow!” came the muffled voice. “And don’t come alone!”
“Please, it’s important. Besides, don’t you want your jacket?”
Dara held her breath.
“Very well then. Since you’re already here, hand it in.”
The door opened a crack and Dara realized this was her chance. She jammed in one foot, pushed hard with her shoulder, and stumbled into a room that looked like a giant closet.
Clothes lay everywhere—stuffed into barrels, heaped on tables, piled into baskets, and scattered on the floor. More clothes hung from ceiling hooks and a clothesline strung across one end of the room. Their colors ranged from placid browns and grays to acid green, tangerine orange, and Day-Glo purple.
In the midst of this carnival of color stood Mr. Paganini, his wrinkled face framed by the same mane of white hair, his green eyes glaring from beneath the same bushy eyebrows that she remembered from yesterday. He was scowling.
“My jacket, Dara!”
“First let tell you what I found on Beyond.”
“My jacket!” Mr. Paganini took a step toward her and thrust out hishands.
Dara shrank back, suddenly aware that she was alone with a man who could easily overpower her, despite his age. Why had she thought she it would be so easy to leave? Would the customers in the Laundromat even hear her if she screamed? She was an idiot, for sure. But suddenly she had an inspiration.
“Then I guess you don’t care about the backpack I found on Beyond.”
“A backpack?” Mr. Paganini lowered his hands. “Did I hear you right? You found a backpack on Beyond?”
“Yes, lying in a river. I brought it home and in a pocket found a crystal that makes colors in the light.”
Mr. Paganini’s scowl dissolved into a slow smile that spread across his face until he was grinning. His eyebrows did a little dance. “Madonna! Are you sure?”
Perhaps she wasn’t going to be sent home after all.
“Of course I’m sure.” How could she be wrong about something like this? “Do you know what the crystal is?”
“It so happens that I do.” Mr. Paganini’s grin broadened. “It something called a lightstone—a weapon crafted by a man who is, or was, my oldest friend.”
“A weapon?” Dara felt surprised. The crystal seemed too beautiful for something like that. “You mean it’s yours?”
“It was mine. Now it belongs to you.”
“To me? How come?”
“You found it. Finders keepers, as you say. Or as we say in Italy, chi trova, tiene.”
“But a blue bird found it first.”
“It’s yours nonetheless. Hieronomos made it for human use.” Mr. Paganini took his jacket from her and began to search its pockets. “Ah, my datebook!” he exclaimed.
“I read some of it last night,” Dara confessed. “At least I tried to. What does ‘pcD’ mean?”
“Pranzo con Dara—Italian for ‘lunch with Dara.’ I use initials for all my appointments, in case the datebook should fall into the wrong hands.”
“Oh.” Dara wondered whose hands those might be.
“Now please tell me more about your trip. You met a blue bird, you said? What sort of bird was it?”
“It was about the size of a pigeon, with a long bill and teeth!”
“Then you met a fisher bird—the kind we call haliornithes. They patrol the banks of the Broadwater on Beyond and little escapes their notice.”
“Do all birds on Beyond have teeth?”
“Most of them do. Earth birds once had teeth as well, you know, but since then they evolved along different lines. Did you see anything else?”
“There was this weird cloud, like a ball of dirty mist, floating near the shore of the river. It chased me through the forest and nearly caught me.”
“Bon Diu! A Shadow!”
“What’s a Shadow?”
“Shadows are not a what, my dear. They are an emptiness, a void, a hungry hole in the fabric of the cosmos. Had this one had caught you, you might well have suffocated. It seems you had a very close call.”
Dara felt a chill.
“So a bird and a Shadow.” Mr. Paganini counted to two on his fingers. “Anything else?”
“I found a little green animal in a cage in a muddy field. It was hurt and I tried to free it, but a big guard chased me away.”
“Then you discovered one of Order’s holding pens—the places where they keep their captives before transporting them across the river.”
“Oh. What’s the Order?”
“A band of criminals bent on enslaving animals and laying waste to Beyond, led by a man called Eskros.” The corners of Mr. Paganini’s mouth turned down in distaste.
“But the animal I found was so little!” Dara said. “Why would anyone want to lock it in a cage? And if they did, why would they leave it there alone?”
“The Order often uses young animals as bait to trap their parents. Perhaps this one had already served its purpose, the hunters didn’t want the bother of feeding it, and so left it to die.”
“I promised to free it. I should have freed it! But then…” Dara recalled its pleading eyes and bloody ear and heard its cries and fought back tears.
“Dara,” Mr. Paganini said gently, “you did your best. You were lucky to escape yourself.”
“But it’s a baby! It needs rescuing. I have to go back! I promised,” she whispered.
“Sei matta?” Mr. Paganini tapped his temple with a finger. “Are you crazy? You barely survived one trip to Beyond. A second would be sure suicide.”
“Then who will save it?” Dara whispered again.
“Perhaps no one.” He sighed. “The threat to the animals is just one of many facing Beyond now. The entire planet is in crisis.”
Suddenly it dawned on her that Mr. Paganini was not going to help her after all. Her trip here been for nothing. Dara felt her anger swell.
“How can you be so sure?” she shot back. “Maybe I’d be fine. Besides, how do you know what it’s like there now if you haven’t been to Beyond in so long?”
“Hieronomos, the man who made your lightstone and lives there, sent me this warning.” Mr. Paganini pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and smoothed it on a pile of shirts. Dara recalled the strange writing from the night before.
“I tried to read that, too,” she said, “but I couldn’t. Is it in code?”
“No, it’s in Greek. Let me translate.
“Elthe! it says. Come! I have found his fortress at last, hidden and in plain sight, and learned its terrible secrets. What is more, I have rescued our song from the Shadows, though this has placed both Beyond and Earth in danger. I am alone once again and in failing health. Come quickly, my friend, as you promised. We must take counsel while I live. Should you find me gone, look for the raven who guards my memoirs. They will help you to defend the planet we both love. Farewell, Hieronomos.”
Below the strange letters, sprinkled with accents, was a wax seal with a seven-pointed star, enclosing three vertical strokes. A diagonal line ran from the first stroke to the third, left to right.
“His message is nothing but riddles,” Mr. Paganini said with irritation and drummed his fingers on a clothes barrel. “How can a fortress be both hidden and in plain sight? What ‘terrible secrets’ did he discover there? Why would rescuing a planet’s song energy put both Beyond and Earth in danger? Why does he say he is ‘alone once again’? Save for his cat, Balam, Hieronomos lived by himself. And what raven could possibly guard his memoirs? Hieronomos had many animal friends, but ravens are not native to Beyond.”
Now Dara felt even more confused. There was one question she needed to ask above all: “So did you go?”
Mr. Paganini winced. “No, to my great regret. Instead I sent a messenger instead—a boy a little older than yourself named Peter Lynn. He took the lightstone with him to guard against the Shadows before they both disappeared.”
“Peter Lynn? His name was written on the backpack! What happened to him?”
“I wish I knew.” Mr. Paganini shook his head and sighed. “When I told you that Beyond was dangerous, I was thinking of Peter. As for his whereabouts, anything is possible. He could be lost or a prisoner. And he could be dead.” The old man sank into silence, then roused himself as if he had reached a decision.
Mr. Paganini fixed Dara with his deep green eyes. “So where is your lightstone now?”
His questioncaught her by surprise. “Umm. . . someplace safe.”
“I doubt it will remain safe for long without my help. Eskros wants your crystal.”
“But he doesn’t even know I have it.”
“If not, he soon will. Eskros maintains an extensive spy network here om Earth and on Beyond. His agents may well have been tracking you since you tried to free that little animal. And once Eskros learns who and where you are, he will want to seize the lightstone—and silence you.”
“Silence me? How?” Dara felt a chill run down her spine.
“By kidnapping you—killing you, if necessary.”
“But I haven’t done anything to him!”
“Of course not. But visitors from Earth make Eskros nervous. He is determined to keep knowledge of Beyond from spreading, and you are now among the few who know that planet exists.”
Dara’s stomach lurched.
“Of course I will do my best to keep you safe,” Mr. Paganini continued, “but you must take care as well. You cannot afford to fall into his hands. Eskros is a cruel captor and I pity his prisoners, for I was once one myself. His dungeons left me with these souvenirs.”
Mr. Paganini unbuttoned his collar and bared his wrists. A mass of scar tissue circled his neck; more scars disfigured his wrists. Dara suddenly understood why he wore long-sleeved shirts and buttoned his collar in mid-summer.
“Bring your lightstone here first thing tomorrow,” he continued in a firm tone. “My Laundromat is well protected. Your hiding place, wherever it may be, is certainly not.”
“But I can’t,” Dara mumbled, squirming. “I don’t trust you. I mean, I want to trust you, but how can I when you haven’t told me anything about yourself? For all I know, you could be working for Eskros!”
Dara was afraid she had offended him, but instead Mr. Paganini smiled. “Well, well. I’m beginning to like you, Dara Monahan—and not just because we share the same color eyes. Of course you can’t trust me without knowing more about me. So then, what would you like to know?”