The Ankulen Read online

  The Ankulen

  Kendra E. Ardnek

  Copyright © 2013 Kendra E. Ardnek

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 149211359X

  ISBN-13:978-1492113591

  For Anthony. Frog leg soup indeed!

  Table of contents

  Prologue: In Which I Tell My Life Story as Homework

  1: In Which Chris Shows Up and He and Tisha Confuse Me

  2: In Which I Acquire a Flashy Bracelet

  3: In Which I Discover that My Imagination is Gray

  4: In Which We Have Frog Leg Soup for Supper

  5: In Which I Help a Little Boy

  6: In Which I Agree to Help Mermaids

  7: In Which My Hand Gets Stuck at a Bad Time

  8: In Which I Go Home For Lunch

  9: In Which I Decide to Lone It

  10: In Which I Meet a Jilted Knight

  11: In Which I Encounter a Strange Castle

  12: In Which I Discover Disturbing Things About Chris and Tisha

  13: In Which I Dream

  14: In Which Derek and Megan Become My Traveling Companions

  15: In Which I Fix a Few Things

  16: In Which Questions are Asked and Answered

  17: In Which I Visit Queen Tailya and Ask the Old Woman for Advice

  18: In Which Megan Makes an Offer and Derek Doubts

  19: In Which I have a Building Project

  20: In Which We Party

  21: In Which I Catch Polystoikhedron and Derek Surprises Me

  22: In Which We Are Given Swords of Light

  23: In Which We Put Up a Good Fight, But I Still Get Eaten

  24: In Which I am Scarred For Life and New Friends Abound

  25: In Which I Get a Few Happily Ever Afters

  Epilogue: In Which My Life Does Not Return to Normal

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'd like to acknowledge all of my editors, Lily Jenness, Miss Jack Lewis Baillot, and Auntie Sylvia.

  Also, my mom for coming up with the name for the Polystoikhedron.

  Prologue

  In Which I Tell My Life Story as Homework

  I have no imagination. What makes me think that staringat this notebook will magically make it work? Or, better yet, why does my mom think it will work?

  I'm locked out of the house until this notebook shows signs of a story. Again. Mom seems to think that such drastic measures can force me to write. So far, they haven't.

  I'm sure it'd work … if I had an imagination. But it's easier to squeeze juice out of a rock than it is to squeeze a story out of my brain.

  So I'm stuck out here without any hope of rescue. Oh well, it's not as though I'm going to be out here all night, or even have to skip lunch. Mom's not that cruel. She'll have Tisha bring me some lunch, just as she always does. As soon as it starts getting dark, she'll send Tisha with an invitation to supper. Mom's terrified of these woods, though, and wouldn't dare come here herself.

  I feel like I'm rambling, but I guess that it's better than writing, “I don't know what to write, I don't know what to write, I don't know what to write,” over and over again like I did a few weeks ago.

  Mom was not impressed with that stunt.

  I'm not sure she would be any more impressed with rambling … but it's got to be better than the same six words over and over and over again.

  Perhaps I could write my life as a story. It wouldn't involve using my non-existent imagination, and it would be something that resembles a story. It certainly would be tons more fun than just staring at a deceptively innocent blue-lined notebook page, that's for sure.

  So …

  My name is Jenifer Marie Brown. People used to call me Jenny, but for the last three years or so, I've been asking people to call me Jen, since it sounds more grown up. It's become habit for most everyone by now – except for Mom and Dad. I guess it's impossible to train your Mom and Dad to do anything, so …

  At least Tisha has learned. Actually, she was the easiest person to convince – I only had to ask her once.

  I used to have an amazing imagination, or so says my mother. Not that I don't believe her – I do. It's just … I don't remember it, not really. Mom says I would spend all of my free time outside or in my bedroom, just making up stories. I remember those hours spent in my bedroom, but not the stories.

  I'm an only child. I don't know why, but after me, Mom couldn't have any more. She wanted more, however, and since she herself had been an orphan, adoption was the logical solution to her.

  When they told me that they had adopted a boy and a girl who were both around my age, I wasn't too keen on the idea. I was a loner, and used to being an only child. Even in Sunday School, I would cling to the edges of the room and refuse to interact.

  So the thought of two other children coming to live with us permanently … well, it scared me. I could handle grown-ups – but other kids? No.

  Then Chris arrived and I was scared of him for all of five minutes. I don't know why I accepted him so quickly, but I did. Mom thinks that it was because he had the same name as one of imaginary friends, down to the unique spelling – Christofer. However, while I won't say that it wasn't a factor – I'm sure that it was – I don't think it was the full reason why I liked him.

  Whatever the reason, I liked him, and almost immediately initiated him into my world of imaginative play. Together we would make up terrific stories. The living room became the courtroom of a mighty castle, the woods full of monsters for him to protect me from, the stream I'm sitting beside a raging river … life was perfect …

  Then Chris disappeared and my once-amazing imagination crumbled into dust.

  I don't know where Chris went, or how, or why, least of all why my imagination went with him. I do know, however, that every bit of good opinion I had of him was gone. I despised him, considered him a traitor. It seems unreasonable as I write these words, but … I didn't like him anymore.

  I can remember that we had an argument and that I stormed away, leaving him alone in the middle of the woods. I can remember that I didn't want to ever see him again.

  And I haven't.

  But I can't remember what the fight was about. It could have been something petty, it could have been something important. It was just after I got my first pair of glasses, so perhaps he had made a comment about them. I'm pretty sensitive about my glasses.

  Now that I think about it, I think I do remember where we had our fight – though it may just be my brain playing tricks on me, for it was by this very stream, and possibly, not far from where I'm sitting.

  But I'm not sure. Our fight could have taken place anywhere in the twenty acres of woods that are behind our house.

  The truly strange thing is that, not only did Chris disappear, but so did any paperwork about him, We have memories of him being with us – photographs even – but as far as the state is concerned, he never even existed.

  Tisha, the promised sister, arrived only a few days after Chris's disappearance. Mom and Dad had been sure that I would like her as much as I had Chris, for the other imaginary friend I would talk about had her name: Letitia.

  I didn't like her. I hated her.

  That was eight years ago. I was seven. Now I'm fifteen.

  I don't exactly hate Tisha anymore, but I don't like her, either. Nor do I hate Chris anymore. I'm just … uneasy whenever I think of him. Like now. What did he do that made me lose my imagination?

  I think it's jealousy that I feel towards Tisha, I hate to admit. Let's face it – she's this perfect beauty. Long, wavy blonde hair that falls to her feet, yet never tangles. Big blue eyes that are almost too big for her face. Alabaster skin no matter how much time she spends in the sun …

  Compare that to me. I have frizzy brown hair that only makes it h
alf-way down my back – if I stretch it to full length. Since it's so frizzy, sometimes it barely makes it past my shoulders. I have grayish-blue eyes that are nowhere near the size of hers and are beside that, hidden behind a thick pair of glasses. My skin can only be described as pasty with an overdose of freckles – and not even those cute, evenly placed freckles, either! The only thing I have over her is that I'm about four inches taller.

  Not only that, but she has a great singing voice – and can make up songs.

  Totally unfair. I can't tell one note from another, and can't make anything up.

  Ugh! I can hear her singing now. But – hey! Four whole notebook pages full of writing!

  I don't think mom will be unimpressed.

  Then again … I don't think she'll be impressed, either.

  Chapter 1

  In Which Chris Shows Up and He and Tisha Confuse me

  I just read over the words on the first four pages of this notebook and findit hard to believe that it was only this morning I wrote them. Those words are full of despair, of longing … and despair and longing are the furthest things from my mind.

  Yet it is to this morning that I must return. To the stream that cuts through the woods in our backyard.

  After writing those four pages, I was still dissatisfied. I know that they weren't what my mother wanted. More importantly, I knew they weren't what I wanted.

  I knew that writing down what had happened wasn't going to make my imagination come back. I wanted it back, but I didn't know how.

  Hey! If I had known, I would have done so years ago!

  So there I sat, staring at the menacing blue lines that I'm now filling with ease. The sound of Tisha singing was helping neither my concentration nor my mood.

  Deciding that my brain was possibly overheating from all that writing, I kicked off my flip-flops and slipped my feet into the stream, wiggling my toes around in the smooth pebbles that lined the bottom. I knew that an overheated brain had nothing to do with my lack of imagination, I really did, but I was sure that a good foot-soaking wouldn't hurt.

  I closed my eyes and shut my notebook. “Why?” I whispered. “Why did my imagination disappear?” A frustrated sigh escaped my lips. I opened my eyes and glared at the closed notebook and the photograph I had taped to the cover a few weeks before (a desperate ploy to get my imagination working again – in case you're wondering, no it hadn't worked). A picture of Chris and me playing in the living room.

  “Chris,” I mumbled. “I don't know why you disappeared, or how you managed to steal my imagination, but I wish you'd come back and return it.”

  To conclude my speech, I gave a dramatic sigh and fell backwards, allowing my eyes to close again. It was hopeless – I was hopeless. I was never going to make up stories again. Never transport myself to a world of my own creation. Why did I even try? Why did Mom insist I try?

  “Is there, by any chance, a girl named Jenny anywhere around here?”

  My eyes flew open as I shot upright. There, in the middle of the stream, standing just a foot or so away from my toes, was a boy. He looked to be about eight or so, and had wild brown hair peaking out from under his hat and a multitude of freckles.

  Since I had only just looked at the photograph, I recognized him instantly.

  “Chris?”

  It was impossible for it to be Chris, logic insisted. Chris was nearly a year older than me. He would be sixteen, not eight. Yet for the moment, my eyes won the argument. The boy in the middle of the stream looked like Chris. Uncannily like Chris.

  “At your service,” he replied with a doff of his hat and a bow.

  I blinked as I continued to stare at the boy in mute astonishment. His clothing reminded me of Robin Hood in both style and color – he even had a felt hat with a yellow feather. To complete the look, he had a bow and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back and a naked sword in his hand. It looked sharp.

  “Oh … I – I'm sorry,” I finally stammered out, realizing that staring was rude, even if it were a child. “I thought you were someone I knew when I was your age.” I glanced at the sword and bit my lip. “Does your mother know where you are?” There was no way I could ask all of the burning questions I had about him, but that one seemed like it could get the most answers without sounding like I was prying.

  “But my name is Chris,” said the boy, lowering his sword and wrinkling his nose in confusion. He cocked his head to the side before he added, “And I don't think I have a mother … not … not really.”

  “Everyone has a mother,” I replied, unamused.

  He shook his head and gave a careless shrug. “Not me. Jenny didn't give me one.”

  “Jenny?”

  He nodded as he stepped out of the stream, sheathing the sword. “Lady Jenifer. She made me up.”

  “She made you up.” I narrowed my eyes as an uneasy chill crept down my spine.

  He nodded again as a frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. “But then Tisha and I got her mad and she locked me in. I've been looking for a way to get her back ever since.”

  “Why did she get mad at you?” I asked, trying to sound friendly, trying to suppress the uncomfortable feeling welling up inside of me. Tisha? As in my sister Letitia?

  “I did something she didn't want me to do,” he answered, shrugging uncomfortably. He took a deep breath. “But do you know where I can find Jenny? I really need to find her.”

  “No,” I whispered. “I – I don't think I know where she is.” I bit my lip – for a nagging part of me screamed that I did know where she was.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I thought you might, since you knew who I was.”

  “I didn't know who you are, though,” I countered. “I called you Chris simply because you look like my adopted brother who disappeared eight years ago.” I held up the notebook and photograph as evidence.

  “That's Jenny!” the boy exclaimed, springing forward in excitement. “That girl! That's Jenny! Do you know where she is? I have to find her!”

  My mouth went dry. For several seconds, all I could do was stare at the boy. In an attempt to regather my thoughts, I scrambled to my feet, clutching the notebook to my chest. “That girl …” I managed to squeak out, “That girl … she's …”

  I could not force myself to admit the obvious. It was too bizarre. Too uncomfortable. Instead, I started backing away from the boy – away from Chris.

  “Is something wrong?” Chris asked, his excitement melting into worry. “Did something bad happen to Jenny? Oh! Please tell me nothing bad happen to Jenny!”

  “How?” I asked, barely comprehending his words. “How are you so young. You disappeared eight years ago! You were older than me!”

  “Eight years?” questioned Chris, his voice suddenly subdued. “Has it really been eight years?”

  Unable to speak, I could only nod.

  “Eight years,” he repeated once more. “I hadn't realized it had been so long. Oh! This is terrible! You must help me find Jenny. Please tell me where she is!” He stared up at me with frantic eyes.

  “Chris!”

  Startled (yet glad for the interruption), I whirled around at Tisha's exclamation. I had known that she was nearby – her voice was a constant reminder of that fact – but I had been so caught up in my confusion over Chris, I had failed to notice how close she was.

  For a moment, she stood there, one hand placed on a tree for support, her eyes fixed on Chris.

  “Christofer,” she said in an awed voice. “How … how did you get out? She locked you in!”

  Chris's attention left me as he took a few steps in Tisha's direction. Then he paused and again doffed his hat and bowed. “I don't how I escaped a few minutes ago, but I am in quest of Lady Jenifer – do you know where she is? Also, this fair maiden,” he indicated me, “has informed me that I have been trapped for eight years, so I'm afraid that I do not recognize you. I must ask your name.”

  Tisha took the few steps that separated them and took his hand. She f
ell to her knees so that she had to look up at him before she answered. “Chris.” Her whisper was so low I was surprised that I heard her clearly. “I am the Fair Maiden Letitia.”

  The look that spread across Chris's face was part surprise, part relief, part sorrow. “Tisha,” he said, in a matching whisper, “eight years is a long time.”

  “Yes they are,” she agreed, sinking down so that she was sitting on the ground. She did not let go of Chris's hand.

  “But they only served to make you all the more beautiful,” Chris continued.

  “But they have done nothing at all to you!” She let go of Chris's hand, allowing hers to fall into her lap with a plop. “You were just talking to Lady Jenifer. I think she would prefer it if you would call her Jen, though.”

  He immediately lost interest in the despondent Tisha and ran over to me. “You're Jenny? You're Lady Jenifer?”

  I looked down and glared at the ground. Things were taking a sudden, crazy turn that I didn't like. Sure I had asked for Chris to show back up and tell me what had happened to my imagination – but I hadn't expected him to actually obey the summons. He never had before.

  “Yes, yes,” Chris continued despite the fact that I was no longer looking at him. “You are Jenny – I see it now. You do look like her, and you did say that I had been your brother. Yes, you are Jenny.” His voice became excited. “Oh, Lady Jenifer, I'm really sorry for what I did, and I'm sure Fair Maiden Letitia is as well! Will you please, please come back? Everything's been horrid since you left – and only you can fix things!”

  My head shot up and I fixed my glare on him. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I would appreciate it if you would call me Jen, not Jenny. I'm not a kid anymore – unlike you.” I didn't know why I was lashing out at him. Part of it was the fact that everything was strange and confusing – but I knew that the confusion wasn't my whole problem. Something in me was hostile to those two, and I didn't know why.