Journey to Fjunur

By Fulvia Bonaiuti

When Sara heard the words 'who killed the Normans', she thought of a trick of her imagination, but when she saw Algowagh waiting for her at the end of a corridor, she realised that it was something more than just imagination. Algowagh—whose name was barely pronounceable for Sara—told her about Parallel Dimensions, Betwixt Doors, Big Empty and a frightful Spatial-Temporal Abyss erasing the History of the Worlds. Nothing of what Algowagh said was clear to her, except that she was a key element in the mission to rescue the System—the whole of all existing worlds.

That is how Sara got involved in a journey through three different worlds and towards the city of Fjunur—the heart of the System—to find out what exactly did happen to the Books of Worlds, where the History of the System is kept, and how to stop the Spatial-Temporal Abyss from destroying the entire System.

Sara and Algowagh won’t be alone in the journey. Faewal, a warrior princess from Algowagh’s same dimension, and Huydai, a rebel hunter from a primitive world, will join them, and together they will face all sort of challenges leading them to an unpredictable truth. And to an expected ending, that might be just the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulvia Bonaiuti
• Release date: May 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311598394

Fulvia Bonaiuti

Fulvia Bonaiuti is as happy as she had never been in her whole life. After struggling to be recognised as a tropical agronomist, fighting to fit in a tight UN job description and an even tighter one at the EU, she had a break from working and became a mother of two. Moving to Africa made her realise that she got it all wrong, and she finally decided to listen to the—luckily—tenacious little voice inside and unashamedly started to called herself a writer. She embarked on the titanic translation of what she used to call her few-pages story and just before moving back to Europe, she completed it.She is currently eager to write the follow-up, as well as the entire saga. She just hopes it won’t take as long as for the first book.Every morning she swears she will be a better blogger, a more talented instagramer, or simply a more active social media user. Though, deep inside herself, she would only be let alone with her faithful, olive green Remington typewriter . . .

Book preview

Copyright 2014 Fulvia Bonaiuti

ISBN 9781311598394

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Contents

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

15

Nimgirith, Nimgirith, where are you?

473

The green line

Don’t panic

It was almost noon

No more signs

It was four o’clock

15

Somebody knocked at the door

The grass was an intense green

It took longer than expected

Silence reigned

1807

A gentle breeze

The light of the fires

Silence fell upon the village

Why

Sildariel

The day dawned

All gazes

Tension filled the air

They came back

The night passed

The frozen stone

The village was thrilled

The strange puppet

The banquet

The labyrinth

He had reached the middle

1

Strange

She had no time

The fog had disappeared

A dark strain

The medallion

No

Thank you

Faewal

473

The music

About the author

Acknowledgement

to Sveva and Filippo

Nimgirith, Nimgirith, where are you?

Nimgirith, Nimgirith, where are you?

The little girl’s long red ponytail swayed as she ran through the corridor in search of her friend. She had emerald green eyes that sparkled with a smart and impish light. She was four and she dressed like a boy, but clearly she was not one. She was the princess, and her name was Faewal.

While approaching the biggest door along the corridor, the little girl slowed down and looked at it. The door was impressive, made of a glass-like material, shiny white and without handles. No handle was needed because the door itself decided when it should open. Of course, the door was very reasonable and immediately understood when one had purpose to enter, so nobody was ever left outside or inside against his wish. It is also true that nobody ever even thought about entering the Throne Room without a very good reason, and this is why nobody was ever left out or in.

Faewal almost stopped in front of the door. She could not help doing it, even though she knew she was not allowed to enter the Throne Room. In fact, she was not interested in the Throne Room at all—there was nothing appealing to a little girl there, and she knew this—she just wanted to see the door. And the door knew that. Its stiff and bright surface started to move slowly as if liquefying but still remaining vertical, and after few seconds, something seemed to jut out of it. A big bulbous nose stuck out, followed by a pair of full lips, and then two eyelids opened, disclosing two lively eyes.

Good morning little Princess, said the door, its flashy lips moving slowly.

Good day to you, Door, Faewal responded. She passed the door but suddenly stopped and walked back. Have you seen Nimgirith, by any chance? asked the princess with that impish light in her eyes.

The face of the door was already disappearing, melting with the surface, when the eyelids re-emerged and opened again. Are you playing hide-and-seek with her? inquired the door with an openly stern look.

The little girl thought for a second, then looked down, away from the door’s gaze. Yes, she confessed.

So I won’t tell you. The Door tried to maintain its stern look, but a tiny smile appeared at the corner of its mouth. And you should have not asked me.

Faewal knew that the Door was right, thus she kept looking down for a few seconds, but she was also conscious of being the princess and knew that she should always maintain her presence, even if she had made a mistake. So she met the door’s gaze again.

You’re right, she admitted. But I’ll find her anyway, you know? Have a good day, Door.

The Door smiled slightly, then closed its eyes and started to melt again. In a few seconds, its surface was once more the shiny white, glass-like material, and Faewal resumed her running to the end of the corridor.

Nimgirith, I will find you, she called loudly. And without any help!

Shh! You will wake up mum—

The little girl turned her head and stopped immediately. Her eyes meet the deep blue ones of her eldest brother, Lethkhjar.

He was a tall boy with coal black pageboy hair and snow-white skin. His clothes were immaculate, as if he never played like children are supposed to, and his bearing showed that he was used to dealing with adults. He clearly behaved like the next in line to the throne. Nobody would have said that he was only seven.

Sorry, Faewal whispered, I forgot. . .

She gazed at her brother who looked serious and reproaching, her first instinct being to ask him about Nimgirith, but she remembered the lesson from the Door and remained silent. Lethkhjar averted his eyes from the sister and, as silently as he had appeared, he went back to the room he had just exited. Faewal started walking away gently, but her silence lasted only for a few seconds. She was so excited about the game she was playing that nobody could stop her from running in search of her friend. Not even the awareness that her mother was sick in bed.

It is not that she did not care for her mother; of course she loved her! But like all little children, she was easily distracted, especially after days of not having seen her mother. She had been told she could not even enter the room her mother was in, because the queen was too tired and sick even to see her own beloved children.

But the true reason why Faewal and her brothers could not enter that room was not that the queen was too tired and sick. In fact, the queen was not in that room. Quite simply, the queen had disappeared.

One day—three weeks earlier—one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting was unable to find her in the castle, nor in the enormous gardens surrounding it. As the lady was looking for the queen in order to raise a relatively minor issue to her attention, she decided not to bother her mistress, thinking she might simply want to be left alone for a while. Indeed the queen was used to having long walks in the gardens, and sometimes even in the nearby forest, so it did not seem unusual for her to be absent for some hours. Nor was it unusual that nobody thought to look for her until very late in the evening, when it was clear that something very odd had happened.

At that point, all the men living in the castle were ordered to the forest to search for the queen; they looked high and low, not only that night, but for three days without break, but unfortunately without success.

Now, it happened that the queen disappeared at a time when the people of the kingdom were at war. These people were called Men, and they had been fighting against the Elves for a very long time. To say a very long time is not actually correct, as it implies that one can tell since when they had been fighting, but in this case, neither Men nor Elves could tell the exact start of the war. Not even an approximate date, to be honest. So, it would be more correct to say that the war between Men and Elves had been going on forever. The reason for the war was another big issue. Nobody could remember exactly why Men and Elves were fighting—something that happens quite often during long-drawn wars. There were rumours that it was about control over the crystalline and cold waters of the Biggle Deeple Lake which was enclosed by the Bluntle Mantle Mountains, and this might well have been true, as the Biggle Deeple Lake was the biggest source of water, while Men and Elves were the only two peoples of record living in Dimension Fifteen, one of the thousands of universes that made up the System.

Anyway, only a handful of the Men thought that the queen was simply lost and unable to find her way back, and an even fewer number of them were of the belief that the Elves had nothing to do with her disappearance. Despite all formal requests to them, the Elves not only denied any responsibility, but also declared themselves outraged at such insinuation. As a result of this exchange of accusations, the feeble attempt Sapiens Universalis was conducting to find a solution to the never-ending conflict was suppressed.

And the queen was never found.

The queen’s three children had not yet been informed of the truth and still believed that their mother was lying in her bed, prey to a rare and very long illness. Of the three, only Lethkhjar had begun having doubts about the truth of the story everybody at court was telling them, but he respected his father too much to doubt his word.

Of course, Faewal missed her mother, but she was also at an age when play is the most important thing in the world, and everybody at court was more than happy to find a new game for her all the time. She felt sad only in the evenings, just before going to bed, when she missed the fabulous stories her mother was accustomed to telling to help her children fall asleep.

The little one, Pothwegh, was barely one year old and could not really sense that his mum was missing, especially as he was surrounded by an army of nannies looking after him around the clock.

But let’s go back to Faewal, who was still running through the long corridor and soon came to its end. If the corridor was large, bright, clear and smooth as glass, its end was exactly the opposite. Just before it, the floor opened onto a round and regular hole—a rather odd dark brown one—which was, in fact, the access to a narrow and very steep spiral staircase. The first step, as well as all those that followed, was rough and clearly made of an old, ancient and brown wood.

The little girl went down the staircase at breakneck speed—as she always did—and found herself in a dank and dusty environment, so different from the upper level she had been in just a few seconds ago. She slowed down a little, only giving herself a moment for her eyes to adjust to the different light, and then moved straight to a small, ajar door. A narrow ray of light shone from behind it, indicating that somebody was inside the room. Faewal approached the doorway and pushed the wooden door abruptly.

I have found you, Nimgirith! she shouted.

A man was standing behind a massive table placed in the middle of the room.

The table was covered with tubes, flasks and phials containing dozens of coloured liquids, gasses and strange objects. Books were spread all over, and one could barely see that there actually was a table underneath them. In fact, one could guess that the table was made of wood only from its legs and could also hypothesise that the wood was very, very old. The table was so enormous that it occupied almost the entire room. What remained of the space around the table was equipped with a seemingly very comfortable, bulky and greenish leather armchair. The walls were covered by bookshelves and there were no windows, the only break in the bookshelves being the doorway.

The room was the Alchemistry Laboratory and it was the kingdom of Sapiens Universalis. But the man standing behind the giant table was not Sapiens Universalis.

Uncle Algowagh! the little princess seemed disappointed.

The slam of the door had distracted the man from his job, and the moment he looked in the direction of Faewal, his expression seemed to suggest that the abrupt interruption was not welcomed. He was a small, plump man with brown hair—at least what remained after extensive baldness—and large, white whiskers. His light brown eyes were small and partially hidden behind round, golden framed glasses. Good morning Faewal, he said.

The little girl was still disappointed at not having found her friend. I was playing hide-and-seek with Nimgirith— she started. What are you doing in here? She carefully avoided asking him whether he had seen her friend; she still remembered the stern look from the door.

Oh, nice, responded the man approvingly.

Faewal stared at him.

I’m, he started clearing his throat, I’m using the Alchemistry Laboratory with the permission of Sapiens Universalis.

The princess was still waiting there, suggesting that more explanation was due, or at least that is what Algowagh thought.

It must be kept a secret. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial pitch. I’m preparing a new game.

The little girl seemed thrilled. A new game? she asked excited. For us, the kids?

Of course it is for you! replied the man. Who else is so good at playing my games?

Oh, please, please, uncle Algowagh, tell me more, she begged.

The man changed the expression on his face. You know I can’t, my dear, he said firmly. It would not do for you to have an advantage over your friends by knowing about the game before them.

She knew it, of course. And she felt exactly like she had a few minutes ago, when she had been reproached by the Door. But Algowagh was not as strict as the Door.

The only thing I can tell you is that this game is the best one I have ever created. You will literally love it, and it will last for days. The man bent over her and touched the tip of her nose with his finger. Don’t worry, I have almost finished, and you will play it very, very soon.

Faewal kept silent, curious about what uncle Algowagh just said. In fact Algowagh—Uncle Algowagh as all children used to calling him—was absolutely the best in creating magical games; they lasted for days on end and were so absorbing that children would not stop talking about them, even weeks after they had ended. Faewal knew it was worth waiting a while.

Well, did you find her? the man asked suddenly.

Faewal looked at him puzzled. "Find who?" she asked.

Nimgirith! he exclaimed.

The little girl seemed to have forgotten the reason why she was running through the palace. She hit her forehead with the open hand. You’re right! Nimgirith, she repeated. No, I didn’t.

Have you tried in the garden, perhaps? You know the big tree with the white leaves?

The mischievous light in Faewal’s eyes sparkled again. Mmh . . . the white leaves tree, of course! she shouted. Thank you Uncle Algowagh! and she ran out of the laboratory, confident that she would find her friend exactly where Algowagh had suggested.

The man stared at the doorway, watching Faewal disappear, and then he tightened his fist, clutching something in it. I’ve just finished, he mumbled and exited the laboratory.

The green line

The green line divided the classroom walls at approximately two thirds the way up from the floor. The approximate height of the average student in their last year in high school. The lower half was darker, somehow more resistant to the students’ presence, but not dark enough to stop it looking, at that precise moment, like it was melting into the upper half. At that same precise moment, two voices were swaying in the air, producing a sort of lullaby that, together with the proximity to noon, made most of the students struggle not to fall asleep.

A brunette teacher in a very old-fashioned pair of glasses was asking routine questions, with very little interest and a very strong sense of duty, to a pimple-faced teenager who had very little sense of duty though he pretended to be very much interested.

From her desk in the third row, Sara was captivated by the hypnotic effect of a fly trapped in a big drop of ink on the notebook she was supposed to be taking notes in. The fly was trying to escape the elastic bubble, just barely managing to drag its wings out, leaving a slimy trail on the white page. Sara could not keep her eyes off the insect, at least while she did manage to keep them open.

She did not really worry about being caught sleeping in school. She knew nobody was looking at her, and even if somebody did, it was absolutely by mistake, as nobody ever looked at her. Intentionally, that is.

Transparent, that is how she felt, and the moment she realised that her presence—or better, her absence— would not have made any difference to anyone else, she was not really surprised. It was as if she had always known it, and she did not find it that disappointing after all. She had always been the kind of person who did not like to stand out; she always avoided putting herself in the position of being thanked or rewarded for something she had done, and she never asked for any acknowledgment of any kind. When that occasionally happened, she felt so embarrassed, that all she wanted was to hide away as quickly as possible. As quickly as a superhero can run. A superhero with a very big mask.

That is probably why Sara always wore trousers, large and of dark colours, and long sleeved shirts, even in summer, with track shoes, preferably as boys’ as she could find. If she could, she would have worn gloves to cover the little bit of skin visible on her hands. And of course, a big mask to conceal her face. And she would have flown towards the sun after saving the world . . .

No, she did not want to save the world. She did not see any good reason for that. No real reasons, such as a giant meteorite about to smash into the Earth’s surface, or aliens of any shape about to invade the planet, or microscopic bacteria evolving into the most destructive species threatening the human survival—this kind of real reasons.

Nevertheless, the idea of a big mask covering her face was still appealing . . .

The bell rang. Some students were ready with all their books packed up and they were out of the classroom even before the bell had stopped ringing. Others were literally woken by the jarring sound of the bell and started packing their things with the same disinterest they showed in the teachers’ questions. The teacher herself seemed relieved at being spared the tedium of asking the next routine question, while the pimple-faced teenager suddenly realised that he had lost his last chance to get the grade he needed to dive back into the safe grade zone.

Sara picked the fly by its ink-covered wings and set it free on the desk before slamming her notebook shut and putting it back into her bag. At least, she had saved an insect from being crushed between giant paper walls.

Superheroes are superheroes, even in the smallest of things.

The bicycle was waiting for Sara outside the school, as usual. Faithful, rusty and not in the position Sara left it in the morning, when she locked it up with an overly long red plastic-wrapped chain to the pole of the no parking sign.

"No parking means no parking, a traffic inspector had once told her. This is a footpath, don’t you see?"

Of course she saw it, even before that idiotic, fat, blue-uniformed man brought it to her attention, but that pole was the only one left to lock her bike to, and she did not want to test people’s honesty by simply leaving it leaning against the wall. And that pole was always the only one left, as she was always late, following the closer you live to the school, the later you wake up rule.

But Sara did not care. Not about the bicycle, not about the fat blue man, and not about being late. Nobody would have noticed her anyway and if they did, it would have been by mistake only, and they would quickly forget.

Sara cycled fast—she liked the wind on her face, especially when it was cold and sunny outside, as it was on that winter day. She liked winter. Her bicycle slid through people on the sidewalk, fast and silent despite the rust that had eaten away at it for years, nimble and light like a butterfly, and just as transparent as Sara was.

I’m home, she shouted, slamming the door of the apartment on the first of the two-storey building where she lived.

Come. Lunch is ready, her mother replied automatically from the kitchen.

Lunch was quick, microwaved and speechless, at least from Sara’s side. Her younger brother grabbed the attention by reporting on every single minute of his school morning. Sara did not really like him; maybe it was because he was so sociable and had countless friends, or maybe because he was so smart and everybody loved him instantly, or simply because she could not forgive him for spoiling all the photographs of her fifteenth birthday party by appearing in all of them on purpose. Anyway, his extensive lunch time reports were very convenient for her, as they left very little time for her mother to ask anything about what Sara had done at school. Not that she had something to hide, but it was kind of depressing to need to report on something that hardly changed from one day to another.

Sara was a good and diligent student. She always got good grades. She never went to school with that feeling of apprehension of not knowing something, or the fear that the teacher would call upon her to say something. She never risked this. She was always on the safe side. In fact, she did not behave this way because she believed in it or was convinced it was an ideal way to behave; she just behaved as she had been told to do a long time ago, and she never questioned whether it was wrong or right.

It was just another way to hide after all—students with bad grades attracted far more attention than those always doing the right things. Nobody expected anything different from the good ones and, as they always had good grades, they became transparent. That’s how she became so and also why she was not particularly shocked to find herself to be so. Unsurprisingly, homework was the magic word she always used to justify hiding in her room. Just as she did that day too, after the quick and microwaved lunch.

Sara’s room was cosy, like a place that can only be cosy because of all the time one spends in it. She found it cosy, at least, full of things with a special meaning that only she knew about. She collected objects from places she visited, whether it was on holiday, or just a trip with schoolmates or family. Her collection ranged from plant seeds, samples of sand, shells and dried leaves to bottle tops, coloured napkins, restaurant menus and anything that may have caught her attention while exploring the world outside her room.

Conversely, the furniture was completely anonymous, clearly coming from a very commercial shop in one of the anonymous and sterile shopping malls that had sprouted at the edge of the city Sara had lived in since she was born. The only pieces of furniture she truly liked and insisted so much on having were two big mirrors, one secured to the wall and the second on a self-standing wooden frame facing the first. She obtained them by swearing she absolutely needed to see every part of her body in order to improve her style, which also happened to be her mum’s secret wish.

In reality, she was fascinated by the endless reflections one can produce by changing the position of two mirrors facing each other; she literally spent hours moving the wooden framed mirror, counting how many reflections she was able to produce in the other one.

But that is not what she did that day, after the quick and microwaved lunch.

That day they all had to go out. All except Sara, so she sat at her desk with some books open, pretending to study, and after her mother popped in to say goodbye, and she had heard the reassuring sound of the apartment door closing, Sara ran to her bed and jumped on it with the precise intention of having a good and undisturbed nap.

Who killed the Normans?

Sara opened her eyes in an instant. She was still drowsy from the afternoon nap, but she was sure those words had not been in her dream.

Who’s there? she called out. Her eyes quickly ran to the door of the room; it was ajar, exactly as her mother had left it when she had said her goodbye . . . how long ago? She looked at the alarm clock on the night table. She had slept for nearly forty minutes. Who’s there? she repeated lowering the volume of her voice, starting to doubt her own perceptions.

The only sound she could hear was the noise of cars in the next street.

And the tick of the alarm clock.

And the accelerated beat of her heart.

Have you ever had the feeling of being half-asleep—or perhaps half-awake—and your body and mind being separated, though you know they are still attached, and then being abruptly awoken by something around you? That’s exactly how Sara felt when she heard those words.

If this has ever happened to you, you will understand the state Sara was in and also why she could not liquidate what happened as being just a dream.

A male voice had spoken those words, and he had not spoken them very loudly so he should have been very near to her. But obviously nobody else was in the room, and nobody had moved the door by entering or exiting, the window was clearly closed, so there was no way someone could have said those words there and disappeared.

No one technically human, at least.

But apart from the purely physical aspect of the story, what could have been the reason for waking somebody up by asking such nonsense and, on top of that, disappearing without waiting for the answer? Provided that such an answer could exist.

The noise of the key in the main door lock.

We are back, her mother squeaked from the entrance.

Sara jumped out of the bed like a spring, covering the traces of her nap, and ran to the chair at her desk. She picked a marker from the case and sat with her head on one hand.

Is everything ok in here? her mother popped in after a while. Her mother always popped in, spending not more than few seconds needed to ask the ritual is everything ok question, expecting nothing more than a yes as answer.

Yes, Sara replied without bothering to turn her head. Everything is fine.

By the time she said fine, her mother was already gone.

How could she not feel transparent?

Don’t panic

Don’t panic were the only words running through her head as Sara walked towards the figure at the end of the corridor.

When she heard knocking at the classroom door the following day, Sara was still very confused about what had really happened less than twenty-four hours before in her room.

The maths teacher did not hide his irritation about being interrupted during his fundamental explanation of something of which, unfortunately, he was the only who had a deep understanding. Come in, he called.

Dwain, the school-keeper, perennially on the edge of a never arriving retirement, entered the room, clad in his faded ultramarine overalls, and looking bored as usual, but secretly happy to bother the pretentious maths teacher nobody in the school liked. He coughed intentionally, ensuring he caught everybody’s attention. Sara Colombo, he pronounced slowly. Your uncle is waiting for you outside here.

Her name being spoken awoke Sara from the fogginess she was in. She looked at the school-keeper and then back to the teacher, waiting