Kerka's Book (19 page)

This book is inspired by my many years as a dancer. So I must thank my earliest dance teachers from when I was nine to sixteen years old, Maxine Asbury and Patsy Swayze of the Greater Houston Civic Ballet Company. I want to also give a nod to my current teacher, Minna of Finland, who is bringing out my “inner” kickboxer and martial artist—a must for perfecting a Kalistonian Zephyr. I give thanks to the children in my life, young and old, who believe in animal spirits and who will howl at a full moon with me. Thanks to Diana Gallagher for her help in realizing my story, including Kerka, the spirikin, and Ardee. The mountain climb was worth it! Thanks to my design and production team in Austin—Mario Champion, Mo Serrao Cole, Lurleen Ladd, Maria Meinert, Anne Woods, Roanna Gillespie, Evan
Bozarth, Dustin Bozarth, Kim Cristiano, Andrea Burden, Cameron Jordan, and Jan Wieringa. It is a blast to work with such talented and dedicated people who believe in this dream and put their souls into the work. And thanks and much love to my son Shane Madden for cowriting and producing the amazing Kalis dance song, “121.”

The Aventurine dream continues, thanks to Mallory, Chelsea, and the tireless marketing and sales staff at Random House.

A Memorial Note from the Author

Andrea Burden, the illustrator of
Kerka's Book
and
Birdie's Book
, passed away in December 2009. She left behind two daughters, Bella and Indira. Andrea was a consummate mother, daughter, friend, and guide, and was a true fairy godmother to many. She was an artist who brought forth the feminine in everything she did. When I conceived of Kerka's story, I never imagined that its central theme involving the loss of a mother would hit so close to home. Andrea will be loved forever through her art and her daughters and these books.

Jan Bozarth
was raised in an international family in Texas in the sixties, the daughter of a Cuban mother and a Welsh father. She danced in a ballet company at eleven, started a dream journal at thirteen, joined a surf club at sixteen, studied flower essences at eighteen, and went on to study music, art, and poetry in college. As a girl, she dreamed of a life that would weave these different interests together. Her dream came true when she grew up and had a big family and a music and writing career. Jan is now a grandmother and writes stories and songs for young people. She often works with her own grown-up children, who are musicians and artists in Austin, Texas. (Sometimes Jan is even the fairy godmother who encourages them to believe in their dreams!) Jan credits her own mother, Dora, with handing down her wisdom: Dream big and never give up.

Coming soon!

Turn the page for a preview.

(Dear Reader, please note that the following excerpt may change for the actual printing of
Zally's Book.)

Excerpt copyright © 2010 by FGA Media Inc. Published by Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

From between a couple of willows, I saw a lady coming toward me who was cooler than any fairy-tale princess. She was a real fairy. Not the tiny you-can-hit-it-with-a-flyswatter type of fairy, but a tall, elegant lady with delicate, iridescent blue wings that opened and closed like a butterfly's. Flowers twined through her crown, which seemed to be made of dewdrops that had frozen into diamonds. Her hair was longer than mine, flowing to her knees, and she wore a beautiful, fluttery gown of the palest lilac. The scent of lilacs hung about her as well. A cascade of miniature silver bells on her earrings made a faint tinkly sound when she moved her head. She stopped a few feet away from me and, in a solemn voice, said, “Welcome, Zally.”

How did she know my name? That's when I
knew it: I was dreaming. Still, I wanted to be polite. So I gave a small curtsy and said, “Thank you … Your Majesty?”

She smiled. “You may call me Queen Patchouli. Come with me, Zally.” She waved a dainty hand toward the trees. “We should get started right away. Do you have any questions?”

Questions? Of course I had questions! About a million, in fact. But instead of asking any of them, I blurted, “Why—I'm just asleep, right? What do I need to know about my dreams?”

She tilted her head and looked at me. “You may be sleeping in your own world, but you are awake here. And this is no ordinary dream. This is Aventurine. You could spend days or even weeks here while you're asleep in your own world. But you don't need to worry about how long you stay in Aventurine. You'll wake up in your own bed, and only one night will have passed.”

My mouth fell open. “Did you say Aventurine? It—it's real?” I followed Queen Patchouli down to the rocky stream, and we began to walk along it. The grass tickled my bare feet. “No, Aventurine can't be real. I would know. It's not on any map.”

“Not yet,” she agreed. “But wouldn't you like it to be?”

I would love to see such an amazing place mapped out. I had often wanted to draw Aventurine and hadn't been able to. It would be wonderful to see everything, draw maps of the landscape, have adventures. I thought of another question.

“Are you the queen of all Aventurine?”

As we walked beside the babbling stream, she explained that she was only the queen of the Willowood tribe of fairies, and that there were many more fairy queens throughout the land, each with her own queendom.

“How many fairy godmothers are there?” I asked.

“How many people are in a family?” she asked me in return.

That was a strange response. “How much of the family do you mean? Just my parents and brothers and me? Six. With Abuelita, seven.”

The fairy queen said, “That is just
your
family. But how many people are in any family?”

I found the question frustrating. “That depends. Some families are very small. Or should I include cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents … great-grandparents, even? There are lots of ways to count family members, so there's no easy answer.”

She nodded. “That's how many fairy godmothers there are.”

I tried a different question. “Do I know any other fairy godmothers?”

“You know your mother and grandmother, don't you? You will learn to recognize others.”

“How old does a girl have to be to become one?” I asked.

“Most potential fairy godmothers begin their serious training between twelve and fourteen.”

Not exactly what I had asked. “How long does fairy-godmother training take?”

“How long does it take someone to become a brilliant musician?” Queen Patchouli countered.

“You know that's not a fair question. Everyone's different.” I frowned. “Some people have no interest in becoming musicians, so they don't even try. Some enjoy music but never get really good at it. Others have natural talent and develop quickly. Then there are people who have to work hard for ages until they get to the same point.”

“Exactly,” said Queen Patchouli.

We walked and talked for what felt like hours. Eventually we passed through a dense grove of trees, then out into a glade. There, flower-bedecked fairies flitted about doing their work—whatever it is that fairies do. At the center of the glade stood a small desk and chair. On the desk was a large leather-bound
book the size of an unabridged dictionary. I wondered if it might be an atlas, and hurried forward to take a look.

“This is
The Book of Dreams
, Zally,” Queen Patchouli said. “I need you to write your dream in it.”

“But I don't usually remember my dreams,” I said.

The fairy queen smiled. “You are dreaming right now. And I guarantee that you will remember this dream when you awaken. But that is not the sort of dream that is entered in
The Book of Dreams
. The book is for your hopes and desires, what you would like to do or become. You could just write a hope for today, but far-ranging dreams are often more satisfying for the book. When you are done, we will talk about your quest.”

“There's not much to discuss, since I've never been on a quest.”

The queen motioned for me to sit at the desk. “Well,” she said, “you are about to go on a quest. All the girls from your world who might someday become fairy godmothers come to Aventurine for training, which usually takes the form of a quest. The family talisman of their lineage is often important to their success, and the girls' adventures help them learn how to use the gifts they were born with. Do not be afraid to use the cacao pod, Zally. It will not be harmed.”

“Okay.” I didn't know what I would use the cacao pod for, but I knew by now that Queen Patchouli wouldn't just tell me what to do. I laid my bag on the table by the book and sat down. “So Mamá and Abuelita sort of went to school here?”

“Yes,” the queen said, “as the other women of the Inocentes line did before them. But not every girl who
could
become a fairy godmother
does
become one. Some girls choose a different path. And some …”

“They flunk out?” I asked.

She nodded.

I swallowed hard. “I'm a good student. I get straight A's. Don't worry, I won't fail.”

“Aventurine does not have the sort of classroom you're used to,” she warned. The fairy queen seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “In a sense, the entire land of Aventurine is an academy for teaching fairy godmothers. You are already in the ‘classroom.'”

I chuckled. “I guess I should have realized that from the way you made me answer my own questions. Are you my teacher?”

She shook her head. “Many girls who come to Aventurine start here with the Willowood Fairies. But it is when you leave us that your most important learning begins. Everyone and everything you encounter will teach you: the terrain, the creatures,
your companions, your adventures. You will choose whom to listen to and how to learn, and in many ways you will be your own teacher. It is like that in the waking world as well—you just have to see it.”

I gave her an uncertain look. “Okay, what's my first assignment? Or homework? Or whatever you call it?”

“First you will write something that you very much desire in
The Book of Dreams
. You'll find that writing in Fairen, our language, comes naturally to you—you are speaking it already.”

She waved a hand in the air. A snow-white peacock appeared, strutting toward us. The bird fanned out its sparkling tail feathers proudly, nearly blinding me as they caught the sunlight. Through squinted eyes I watched the peacock bow its head to the queen.

Queen Patchouli bowed her head in return. “We need one of your feathers, my beautiful friend,” she said.

Turning its back toward us, the peacock shook itself, sending out a shower of light, and released a glittering white feather from its tail. The plume drifted gently to the ground. Murmuring her thanks to the bird, the fairy queen picked up the quill and placed it gently on top of
The Book of Dreams
. She
lifted the lid off a small shell bowl that sat near the book. Inside was a silver liquid.

“Your pen,” she said, touching the feather. “Your ink.” She pointed to the liquid. “Your paper,” she said as the pages riffled on their own and the book opened to a blank one.

“What did Mamá and Abuelita write? Can I read their dreams?” I asked.

The fairy queen answered, “They wrote what their hearts told them to write, and you will read it … eventually.”

With that big book open, full of the dreams of fairy godmothers who came before me, and with the blank page facing me, I felt kind of intimidated. I've written stories and journals, but nothing that was part of a
real
book, a book that would be kept and read by others, a book that, by the looks of it, could be a thousand years old or more.

But one of the reasons I'm a good student is that I've discovered a secret: sometimes when an assignment seems big, scary, or super-important, I just have to start writing—writing anything—and let my mind get buried in the subject. Once I get going, things get clearer, and I wonder why I was worried about it in the first place. So that's what I did in
The Book of Dreams
.