Another journal

You can find all the sections here.

Emily couldn’t bring herself to vomit, even though she wanted to. The queen’s head bounced once and rolled, the neck tracing lines of blood along the marble floor of the throne room.

“You’ll have to find your own way back.” The king said as the guard scooped up the queen’s limp body and caught the head by its hair. “While you’re there, pick up some of that film for the hare. I think I’ll support his further research.”

Sheathing her sword, Emily bowed stiffly and left, wandering down the hall of portraits back to her room. Of course she’d have to find her own way back, it hadn’t been something she’d thought to request as part of the deal and it was perfectly in character for the king to spite her that.

She was packing when the hare knocked softly on her open door and padded in. He handed her a fat envelope full of US currency.

“Thank you.” Emily riffled through it, eyebrows raised. “This should be plenty to set you guys up with cameras and film.”

“Do you know how you’re getting back?”

“No, I was hoping you might have an idea.”

The hare scratched his head. “I don’t, but someone at the institute might.”

“Well, after I drop off your things I’ll start asking around, maybe the panther knows.”

The panther didn’t know, and as Emily inquired with other residents of the institute she learned that nowadays it wasn’t the easiest thing to just pop into the mundane world where you wished, especially if your existence as Folk lay in the grey area Emily’s did. She’d felt at home as soon as they’d stepped through a gate to the curving halls of the monastery. They’d even installed her back in the room she’d stayed in before.

Emily decided to give herself a week to leisurely figure out how to get back. That way she could try and sift through all the information she’d picked up at the castle without the added stress of trying to manipulate forces she didn’t understand. She also knew that she’d need to process killing the queen, but was reluctant to even think about thinking about it. If, after a week, she hadn’t been able to figure out some way to get back on her own, Emily figured she’d have to make a deal with someone—anyone—who might have the ability to send her. She very much did not want to make any more deals.

She found some dryads in the spring garden and asked them if they knew of a grove with an oak tree near a jump point to the mundane world. They laughed, creakingly, and shook their heads. There were many magnificent oaks, how could they know of all of them? Besides, gates made during a solstice weren’t stable, they were transient things that were cobbled together only for holidays. When they saw her disappointment, the dryads were kind to Emily and tried to cheer her with stories about oak trees they’d known.

“Well, there was this one oak who learned about distillery from a human. They were horrified when they learned that whiskey was aged in oaken barrels.” The dryad shuddered. “But the oak liked the taste of the stuff. So it hollowed out a part of itself—not too much, but just enough—and aged spirits inside.” The dryad started giggling. “So, for five years they stumbled around, drunk, but they were determined to see it through! When they finally tapped themselves,”

“Like a stupid maple!” The a young birch squealed.

“Right, for midsummer. And we all tried some and it wasn’t too bad. But it took nearly half a century for the oak to dry out.” The pine slapped Emily’s knee lightly.

“Wait, so you drank from stuff the oak had kept inside them?” Emily wrinkled her nose. “That’s kind of gross.”

The dryad shook its head and the canopy above rustled. “It’s better than drinking from something stored in dead, what is this called?” It brushed Emily’s arm, “skin.”

“Good point.”

“Besides, people drink from cows, who keep fluids in their living skin.”

“That—that is true and also kind of gross, when you put it that way.”

The dryad shrugged. “Every living thing is disgusting when you think about it too much.”

Everyone was kind to her, treating Emily somewhere between a pet and a mascot and trying to think of how to help any way they could, like the weird dream web the spider down the hall made her.

“You’ll be able to remember your dreams, and the unconscious brain has so many ideas!” He waved several arms empathetically.

“But I don’t sleep any more.” Emily kicked her feet as she swung gently in a hammock chair the spider had made for his bipedal guests. “I’ve tried a couple of times and no luck.”

“That’s a pity. Well, it might help anyhow.”

After hanging the web above the bed, Emily took a picture of it. If there were emanations they were obscured by the runes in the walls. She made a face as she tossed the photo into the writing desk. It was stupid to waste film.

She hadn’t written her aunt since the brief note before seeing the king. She didn’t know what to say. On a whim, she photographed the letter slot and waited impatiently for it to develop, looking thoughtfully up at the web.

Most of the desk was obscured by a shining funnel leading to the letter slot. It had the same qualities that were in the photo of the djinn’s jar, reflecting hints of infinity. The slot itself showed a sliver of something, but was so narrow a glimpse she couldn’t make it out.

Emily sat cross-legged on the bed for a while, staring at the writing desk. With a determined nod she began taking everything out of it. The desk was still heavy when empty, the dark wood solid and unyielding. Holding it so the letter slot faced her, Emily slipped off the bed and moved to the middle of the floor. She firmed her mouth, planted her feet and threw the desk to the floor with all her might.

The pieces scattered in a splashing pattern, leaving a clear space in the middle. Solemnly, Emily took a picture. There, surrounded by bits of the destroyed desk, was a painfully clear view of her aunt’s front door.

Emily wrote a short note and slipped it and the two photos of the desk into an envelope and pinned it to the door of her room. She changed into the clothes she’d arrived in, they felt strange. Looking down at her arms and legs was like seeing out of someone else’s eyes. Strapping on her knife belt felt like a safety line.

With a deep breath, Emily stepped into the middle of the debris.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.