Rellainia

By Michaela Turcotte

For most of Kelsey’s life, her mother has told her stories of Rellainia - a dimension and world existing alongside our own.  Mysteriously, every night her mother also disappears without explanation, but Kelsey doesn’t know why...until a trip to the barely used basement sends her spiraling through time and space to Rellainia.  Kelsey quickly realizes the stories she’s heard about the beautiful and fair Queen who ruled the land were not only about her mother - they were also anything but accurate.
Kelsey must now decide between assuming her rightful place as Princess, or sinking back into her old life and convincing herself that everything she’d learned was just a story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sands Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781988281360

Book preview

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Prologue

Have you ever come across something that is nothing like what it pretends to be, yet everyone just accepts it as fact? Like how nothing grape-flavored actually tastes like grapes, or when people use a brand name to describe an item as if that's what it's really called?

I think that's sort of how I feel about my life.

When I was a child, my mother would tuck me into bed and tell me a bedtime story. Never from a book — always from her own mind. Every night, it was something different. Together we formed a clear image of a place called Rellainia, and the beautiful, fair, and just Queen that ruled over it. Every night, I found myself eager to go to bed, curiosity burning about the people of Rellainia, and the day that they'd had. My mother would tell me all about it, her mind weaving incredible tales. After my story, she would kiss my head, switch off the lights, and disappear.

I mean, she would disappear. If I had a nightmare, I would crawl out of bed and run into my parents' room, where my dad would be found sleeping alone. This wasn't strange to me, just a part of life. It wasn't until I was about twelve that I really began to question our family's simple acceptance that my mom was just not around at night.

The first time I had the thought, I pushed it from my mind as paranoia. I told myself nothing strange was going on, nothing was different about our family.

The second time it happened, I decided to ask some of my friends from school about their mothers, and if they ever saw them at night. I don't think I've ever seen such a confused group of sixth graders in my life.

Finally, the third time it came to mind, I approached my father in the den, where he was grading assignments in his big armchair by the fire. Sitting down in the chair across from his, I curled up with a book, trying to make the middle-of-the-night visit seem as ordinary as possible. After I felt an appropriate amount of time had passed, I finally took a deep breath, and spoke.

Dad? I started, my voice cracking in its attempt at casualty. He looked up at me over the stack of stapled papers he was holding, his face warm and inviting.

Where's Mom? I asked. My father's face froze instantly, unblinking, the way it did when he was trying to determine just the right thing to say. The question hung in the air between us, waiting to be picked up. I saw his mouth open, then close, his face still unmoving. Finally, with shaky hands, he put his papers down on the table between us and crossed his legs. He was the picture of nerves with his eyes darting around the room, refusing to meet mine.

Well, he started, his jaw making little jumps, like he was trying to speak, but couldn't form words. He tried again.

Well honey, it's past midnight, he said, forcing himself to meet my eyes, as if that were all the explanation I'd need. I tilted my head, waiting for more, but nothing came.

I know, I said simply, hoping to prod him on, but he just sat there smiling, sweat forming along his hairline. That's what I'm talking about. Where does she go at night?

My father took a deep breath, then let it out, all without moving his face an inch. He stared at me that way, jaw hanging open, for what felt like an eternity.

Well, mom works, sweetie, he said.

His body slumped down and his face took on an easy smile, relief

seeming to wash over him that he was able to answer the question. My twelve-year-old brain scrambled and didn't want to question the man who'd been nothing to me but a superhero from the day I was born. I knew he was lying, but I didn't know that there was anything I could do about it.

Oh, I said simply. Okay.

I didn't ask him why, or where, she was working in the middle of the night, when she already had a steady job during the day. Mom was a judge, which was not exactly a low-income profession to be in, and Dad was a high school biology teacher. Try as I did, and believe me, I did, I could not figure out what kind of legal issues anyone could be having that would require a judge in the middle of the night. I mean, sometimes on TV people would need things like warrants, issued in the dead of night, but that was for high-profile, beat-the-clock, serial killer kinds of things. It was dramatized fiction, and even so, it usually just ended with a detective calling the judge or showing up at their house. It didn't make sense that anything could require her attention all night, every night.

I knew my father had lied to me, but I never asked again. Not that exact question, anyway. The night after the incident with Dad, I waited until about 8 o'clock, tucked myself into bed, and called mom up the stairs. As soon as I yelled for her, I heard footsteps pounding up the steps, and just moments later, my breathless mother flew into my room, terror plastered on her face. She stopped cold when she entered the room. I watched her head whip back and forth, searching my room, before she was able to from words through the panic.

What is it? She was still breathing heavily and I could see I'd scared her. I never called her up to my room, especially this late at night.

I'm sorry, Mom, I told her. I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to ask you something. I pushed myself up in bed, partly to bring myself more at eye-level with her, partly to gather my courage, and partly to prove to her that I was okay and there was nothing dangerous going on in my room.

She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. Kelsey... she started, her voice tired, but relieved. You nearly gave me a heart attack.

I felt guilt climb into my heart, but she settled it by moving across the room and lowering herself into the rickety old rocking chair I'd never had the heart to remove from my bedside. The chair was not in great shape when my grandmother passed it down to us, but my mom had been using it my entire life to tell me my bedtime stories, or just to talk. It showed no sign of weakness when she set her petite form in it, but whined loudly in protest when she began to softly rock. She stopped.

My mother's eyes, full of love, studied me, before I felt a soft hand brush the top of my head, patting down my bright orange and currently out-of-control hair. What is it, love? she asked.

It was now or never. Could you tell me a story? I asked. Her brow furrowed. Before she could respond, I added quickly, a story about...about Rellainia?

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. It had been three or four years since I'd asked for a bedtime story. She looked at me first with love, then confusion, before retreating into herself, and becoming unreadable. I knew Dad had told her about my questioning the previous night; I'd overheard them that morning before they knew I was awake.

Not tonight, she said simply, rising from the chair. I jumped from my bed, before really thinking about what I would do. I looked at her desperately, and she stroked my arm.

I'm sorry, honey, I just can't. I'm late, she told me, and she turned to leave, rushing for the door.

Wait! My voice emerged desperate and frail as I grabbed her arm, frantically trying to keep her put.

Late for what? I asked, the questions boiling up through my body. My mother just looked at me, fear in her eyes, mouth set in a tight line.

For work, honey, she said firmly, and then she shook her head, pulled her arm free, and stalked from the room. That was truly the last time I'd asked either of my parents about my mother's night job, and none of us ever spoke of Rellainia again.

1

Kelsey

I don't know when, or how, I'd made the decision to work for the summer, but I knew that in this moment, I was regretting it. From what I'd heard, customer service jobs were horrendous no matter where they were, but that didn't make it any easier being stuck in one.

An angry father was just one of many customers in the drug store today. It was ridiculous the things people could find to complain about. However, I was home now, off early at only one in the afternoon. Plus, with only two weeks left until I moved back to the city for my second year of college, this was officially my last day of work.

Kicking off my work shoes, I made my way quickly to my room to snatch up a pair of warm sweat pants and a big hoodie, before bounding to the bathroom for a shower. Feeling the water consume my tired body, I wanted nothing more than to get out, put on my comfy clothes, and curl up with a book. However, today was my dad's 38th birthday, and I had work to do.

I turned off the water, hopped into my sweats, and yanked a brush through my knotted red curls, scanning through my mental checklist of everything I had to do to get ready for tonight. I wasn't planning a big party or anything. It would be just me, Mom and Dad, but I had a big plan. I was going to turn our house into a time capsule of sorts. One big history of our family, complete with twinkling fairy lights, and Dad's favorite cake. Taking a quick look around the house, I decided the first thing I should do was get out our old boxes of family photos. I was hoping to have had them all dug out and sorted long before the big day, but I'd been so sick of working lately that every time I got home, I just wanted to relax.

Walking through the kitchen, and then the sitting room, I found myself poised in front of the basement door. I'd been dreading this moment for weeks. I yanked on the handle. It got stuck a bit and it took both hands and all of my strength to pry it open, but that wasn't surprising. No one had been down here for years. When I was around ten, Mom decided the house was getting too cluttered and moved a bunch of our junk down here. Since then, the door had remained sealed. Taking the first step was the scariest. The stairwell was narrow, dark, and dusty, and for all I knew, the stairs wouldn't even support my weight. They did — thank goodness — but I still took them slowly, spending what felt like fifteen minutes just getting to the bottom. As soon as I reached above me and yanked the chain to turn on the lights, I saw what my nose had already confirmed: our basement was essentially condemnable. The smell of dust and mold was so strong I had to pull my shirt up to cover the bottom half of my face. The space in which I was standing, at the bottom of the steps, was the only piece of floor clear of old furniture and boxes, and every surface in the room was covered in a three-inch-deep layer of dust.

There were cobwebs hanging from every corner, and even on some of the boxes, and it sent a shiver down my spine to think of what kind of insects or rodents may be nesting down here. It didn't take me long to decide that getting to work quickly and finding what I needed was in my best interest. Almost everything was packed up into unmarked boxes, aside from a few broken pieces of furniture, and one antique china cabinet that I was never allowed to touch when I came down here as a kid. Some kind of priceless family heirloom that my mom was afraid of me breaking.

I started by taking a few boxes out of the piles and setting them on the steps of the stairs so I would have room to move around, and then started going through them. I could pretty much tell whether or not a box was full of photos as soon as I opened it, so sorting through everything was actually going faster than I'd expected. Before I knew it, I had cleared a path all the way to the back wall and was now looking through the boxes that were further back in the piles. The heaviest boxes were surrounding the china cabinet, against the wall, so I figured there wasn't much chance of them containing photographs, and was ready to move on to the next step.

In search of any kind of reminder of my parents' relationship before I was born, and our lives together up until now, I started searching through the boxes that I'd cast aside as non-photograph boxes. I found a few old birthday cards, and some drawings I did when I was little, but not much else. I didn't go through very many boxes before realizing anything significant wouldn't be out in the open in this dusty, disgusting basement. My mom would have put it somewhere safe.

Like in the china cabinet.

A part of me was terrified of even going near it, probably leftover fear from being afraid to disobey Mom as a kid. However, at nineteen years old, I should be able to handle opening a cabinet without breaking the glass or something.

I kicked aside the empty boxes I'd already been through, and started dragging the heavy ones around the cabinet across the floor so I could get to it. It was a beautiful old cabinet, crafted of mahogany with beautiful silver swirls of thin metal surrounding the glass. I took a minute just staring at it, never having been this close before, and then carefully opened the first door.

2

Kelsey

I knew instantly something was wrong. I didn't have the cabinet open for five seconds before I tried to shove it closed again. But it was useless. A strong gust of wind was swirling around the basement, throwing photographs around the room in a spiral, and keeping the door open. I couldn't see through the wind, but I could feel the heat draining from my body and my heart racing. For a minute, it felt as though my body was being torn apart from every angle. I tried to wrap my arms around myself, but I couldn't fight the wind enough to bring them in. The longer it went on, the more I could feel myself choking out sobs as I thought about my parents, and the life they'd live without me.

In retrospect, it was all very dramatic, but suddenly I felt myself falling, and before I could think about it, I hit the ground with a thud. Everything stopped. I was no longer freezing, there was no wind, and I was sprawled out on the ground. I didn't realize until that moment that my eyes were clenched shut. I could feel I was on a carpet, which meant that there was no way this was my basement, and I was too afraid to move an inch. But slowly, I opened my eyes.

Upon first glance, it was obvious I was in a bedroom of sorts. It was a more extravagant bedroom than I had ever been in, but a bedroom nonetheless.

A queen-size, four-poster bed sat dead centre, draped with thick quilts in every color. The array of blankets and the equally colorful mound of throw pillows brought a splash of color to the grey walls. Large dressers and bookcases bordered the room, with more books than I had ever seen scattering every surface. The only person I'd ever seen with half this many books was my mom, and she had her own private library in our house.

Peeling myself off the ground, I felt the fear start to drain from my heart. The atmosphere of the room felt somehow familiar and safe and I slowly began to explore. I ran my hand over the beautiful pattern on the walls, and felt myself tense with a thick layer of confusion. I knew this place.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a bang, and in stormed a group of men, all dressed in heavy armor.

They didn't attack. If they had, I would probably be dead by now. They braced themselves, swords at the ready, pointed mostly at my throat, and made way for a large man pushing his way through. Standing at what couldn't have been more than a mere 5'4 or 5'5 the round, overweight man marched towards me, his thick, tangled, dirty black beard hanging far below his chin. He