The Willow Trail

By Anne Theresa Halsall

As Ethan travels between dimensions during his dreams, it doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s not just dreaming. He is journeying to a mysterious Island in another world.
Ethan convinces his anxious friend, Molly, to join him. As they explore the Island, Quimzie, the Guardian of the Willow Trail, leads them to discover worlds inside trees, under deep water, and high up in mountainous caves full of secrets and sorrow.
Watch as Molly and Ethan experiment with creating their own reality, with the help of faeries, mermaids, dolphins, dragons, and one stubborn, but not unteachable, librarian.
Will the friends be brave enough to fulfill their quest?
A story of love versus fear, The Willow Trail keeps the reader wondering what’s around their own next corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Aug 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781982269722

Book preview

The Willow

TRAIL

ANNE THERESA HALSALL

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Copyright © 2021 Anne Theresa Halsall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

844-682-1282

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use

of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical

problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The

intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you

in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any

of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right,

the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Map by Debbie Plante

Illustrations by Ashlyn Setterfield

Author photo by Andrew Joseph Sutherland

Cover photo by Author

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6971-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6973-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6972-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021911097

Balboa Press rev. date: 08/19/2021

For Barney,

Who never stopped believing in me,

and told me so.

I love you.

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Contents

Prologue

PART 1   THROUGH THE DOORWAY

Chapter 1     Quimzie

Chapter 2     Little Man

Chapter 3     More Surprises

Chapter 4     The Old Book

Chapter 5     Parallels?

Chapter 6     Connections

Chapter 7     Molly

Chapter 8     Doubt

Chapter 9     Dream Research

Chapter 10   Into the Darkness

Chapter 11   I Did It!

Chapter 12   Desmond

Chapter 13   Gotcha

Chapter 14   Molly Makes a Decision

Chapter 15   Genes and Other Mysterious Things

Chapter 16   The Black Cloud

Chapter 17   A Big Night

Chapter 18   How Many Are There?

Chapter 19   We Did It!

Chapter 20   Explanations — A Few, Anyway

Chapter 21   The Harvest

Chapter 22   Inside the Tree

Chapter 23   Play the Game

Chapter 24   Fairy or Faery?

Chapter 25   DNA and Other Interesting Subjects

Chapter 26   The Way of the Faery

Chapter 27   Ancestors

Chapter 28   Snow

Chapter 29   The Queen Arrives

Chapter 30   Fearless

Chapter 31   Let Me In

Chapter 32   Dreaming Babies

Chapter 33   I’m Ready?

PART 2   THE WORLD BELOW

Chapter 34   Dolphins

Chapter 35   Desmond’s Big Project

Chapter 36   The Eyes, Again

Chapter 37   More Research

Chapter 38   Tree Woman

Chapter 39   Convincing Molly

Chapter 40   Buttons

Chapter 41   Invisible?

Chapter 42   A Plan

Chapter 43   It’s My World Too

Chapter 44   The Dolphin Calls

Chapter 45   Arriving Together

Chapter 46   Minerva

Chapter 47   Blame It on the Whatifitis

Chapter 48   The Lady of Shalott Becomes Inspired

Chapter 49   Just the Facts, Please

Chapter 50   Too Much Trying — Again

Chapter 51   The Ride of a Lifetime

Chapter 52   The Magic of Breath

Chapter 53   Molly’s Motivation

Chapter 54   It’s the Fear

Chapter 55   Molly’s Den

Chapter 56   All Things Are Possible

Chapter 57   We Asked for It

Chapter 58   The Crystal Caves

Chapter 59   Don’t Stop Now

Chapter 60   Dolphin’s Den

Chapter 61   The Chakras

Chapter 62   Platypus — Who, Me?

Chapter 63   Just a Dream?

Chapter 64   The Voice

Chapter 65   Sapphires and Plans

PART 3   THE GATEWAY

Chapter 66   Nightmare

Chapter 67   Dragon Research

Chapter 68   ‘I Am Half Sick of Shadows’

Chapter 69   We Want More

Chapter 70   Cliff Time

Chapter 71   Willow’s Wish

Chapter 72   The Left Ear

Chapter 73   Desmond’s Net

Chapter 74   The Black Pool

Chapter 75   Tears

Chapter 76   It’s Not Real

Chapter 77   Cave Number Four

Chapter 78   Roth

Chapter 79   Anguish and Answers

Chapter 80   Moira’s Story

Chapter 81   Roth’s Story

Chapter 82   Dragon Tales

Chapter 83   To Love a Dragon

Chapter 84   Roth’s Kingdom

Chapter 85   The Family

Chapter 86   Everyone’s Here

Chapter 87   TGM

Chapter 88   It Wasn’t Even Hot

Chapter 89   The Lady of Shalott Learns to Swim

Chapter 90   Let’s Go Home

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Prologue

We have many homes. Many places we can be at one with others—others we consider to be like and unlike ourselves.

It is possible to travel between these places. I know, because I have done it.

The timelessness of Love does conquer all.

I wonder what will happen next for you, dear Reader . . .

Blessings,

Aine

Part One

Through the Doorway

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The crow sat on the top branch of a twisted arch of branches that led into the Willow Trail. It preened its silky black feathers, scratched one shoulder, then the other, and waited.

Would he come today?

An owl soared down the path, calling, Hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo. Yes, the boy was coming today. He was coming now.

The crow smiled. It had been waiting for this. Oh yes, they had all been waiting. The adventure could finally begin.

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1

Quimzie

T wo orange lights glowed like lanterns in the distance. The boy could feel their unrelenting pull. He hurried toward them. Two lights that spoke curiously of danger—and protection.

He stumbled and sank into mud.

Never mind. Keep going. Don’t stop now.

The boy looked around. There was no one in sight.

The fresh red shoots of a willow leaned gently toward the boy. He grabbed them and, pulling himself up and out of the muck, continued running toward the lights.

The lights were almost close enough to touch. The moment the boy saw the black circles inside the orange rings, he knew they were eyes. The eyes of a great horned owl.

He woke.

The boy lay with his blanket over his head, his breath coming in short gasps.

After a few minutes, his breathing slowed, and he peeked out to scan his bedroom for the eyes.

Nothing.

He pulled the comforter back over his head and slept.

The penetrating orange eyes flicked back, once again urging the boy to follow. And so he did.

The owl slowed, hovered for a moment, then flew ahead through an archway of tangled gray branches.

The boy glanced up. A shiny black crow was watching him from the top of the arch. The leaves beneath the boy’s feet began to move, a shuffling dance of red and gold.

The owl was almost out of sight, and so the boy took one last look at the crow and raced after the owl, deep into the woods.

Magic the Crow settled back to its post. All was well.

2

Little Man

T he owl was swift. At times the boy needed to run. The path twisted and wound, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide.

They took a sudden turn onto a path that led down a small hill to the sunny shoreline of a lake. Hundreds of cinnamon-colored cattails swayed in a warm south wind.

The owl landed gracefully on a weathered tree stump, and the boy plopped down on the sand. The weather was hot. He was grateful for his baggy shorts. Beads of sweat ran through his unruly brown hair and dripped off his freckled nose. He lay on his stomach watching the water, mesmerized by the way the cattails dipped and danced. He was just beginning to relax when a voice came from among the rushes.

Welcome to the Willow Trail, Ethan! We’ve been expecting you. I’ll bet you never thought you could pull it off twice in one night, eh?

Ethan jumped up and peered into the rushes. Perched comfortably on the tip of a sturdy, overly large cattail, and cleverly concealed by fawn-colored clothing, was the smallest man Ethan had ever seen. He was about two feet tall, and so looked quite unusual sitting on his perch. A beat-up straw hat sat jauntily on his head, and a fat red ladybug rested on the brim. The lines on the wizened man’s face were deep—so deep that his cornflower-blue eyes almost disappeared as he grinned through crooked yellow teeth.

Anything is possible on this Island, he chuckled. So watch for . . . whatever you wish to see!

The wind picked up, and the white wisps of the little fellow’s beard blew around his head like a halo. The cattail flipped back, dipped into the lake, and rebounded with a cool splash, but with no wrinkly little man. And the wind, well, it stopped as fast as it had begun.

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An ominous-looking cloud covered the sun at the exact moment a voice like a rusty gate squeaked, Oh, don’t listen to him. Little Man thinks he knows everything. You can’t see something just because you want to. Everyone knows that. How can you see something that isn’t real?

The raspy voice came from a sleek muskrat bobbing in the water. He gazed dolefully at Ethan, who stood with his mouth hanging open. And that owl, Quimzie—he thinks he knows it all too.

The muskrat sank mournfully into the murky olive-green depths, the sun climbed out of the cloud, and the water glittered silver once again.

Well, spoke a cheery voice, "I think you can see something just because you want to. Don’t pay any attention to grumpy Muskrat. He’s been in his hut for too long."

A tiny shockingly red creature fluttered in circles around Ethan’s head. As fast as he turned to see it, it disappeared, only to pop up at the edge of his vision again.

It laughed, and this time as Ethan spun toward the voice, he saw the creature plainly. Or rather, he saw her. For this was most definitely a her—a very flamboyant one. Her curvy little body, which was only as big as Ethan’s baby finger, shimmered in a snug-fitting red gown. Her ketchup-red hair was wound high in a towering mound of curls. Tiny feet were encased in red satin slippers with dangerously pointed toes.

As she continued flying in circles around him, Ethan became dizzy trying to focus on her. Stop! he cried. Just stop, will you?

The creature landed on the tip of Ethan’s nose. Relax, she giggled. You’re here. Now things will finally happen. It’s been quite boring on this Island lately.

Ethan peered down his nose at her. What’s going to happen? he asked suspiciously.

If you don’t know, the creature said coyly, I’m not going to be the one to tell you.

She leaped from his nose and flew off, laughing and glancing back as he stumbled after her.

Ethan chased the rapidly disappearing red spot for a while, then gave up. He was bent over, gasping and rubbing the fast-forming cramp in his side, when he heard a flutter. It was Quimzie, waiting patiently on a weathered stump beside him.

The owl stared at him and Ethan stared back, shocked at how close the bird was. The owl’s face, a reddish-brown disc with a dark rim, was marked with bold black stripes. Two ear tufts resembling small horns sat atop his head. His beak was dark gray and looked razor-sharp.

The owl blinked and then rose from the stump, once more leading the way.

Ethan was tired. Tired and confused and overwhelmed. It was difficult to even try to comprehend the odd things fast-happening around him. But for some reason he knew he was supposed to keep following Quimzie. So he did.

He was just beginning to wonder how much farther he could run when the owl veered into the branches of a juniper tree.

The boy tiptoed closer to the tree and peered in. Tucked among the gnarled branches was what looked like a birdhouse built of twigs and berries. Ethan peeked in the window and gasped. This was no bird house—not unless birds built homes with exquisitely decorated rooms, staircases, and lace curtains.

Who are you? What do you want? shrieked a voice from inside. Ethan sprang back.

He peeked in the window again. Four tiny beings sat at a table constructed of woven red willow branches. Ethan’s mouth watered as he caught a whiff of savory soup and saw baskets heaped high with loaves of crusty golden bread.

The beings looked identical. Each had white skin and very yellow hair, and each wore a necklace of interlocking red stones around its long neck. Gnarled fingers and knobbly toes looked out of place with their willowy appearance.

Ethan saw fear in their eyes.

He moved from the window to the tiny round door, which was wide open, allowing the sunlight to stream in. But when the little beings saw Ethan’s giant freckled face, they grew even more nervous.

One of the creatures touched the red beads around its neck. Quimzie must have allowed it to pass through the Doorway. We must be safe. As the being said these words, the red beads around its neck changed to bright yellow.

But the others continued to scowl. Ethan was just about to assure the creatures he had no intention of bothering them, when the images started to fade, and he knew he was dreaming and beginning to wake.

He tried desperately to hang on to the dream, but the harder he tried, the faster it disappeared, and all of a sudden he was back in bed.

His heart was pounding—his head spinning as though he had stepped off an out-of-control merry-go-round. Cautiously he opened one eye, then the other, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was home, back where he belonged.

His eyes sought the comfort and steadiness of the maps on his bedroom walls and ceiling—the maps he had spent hours copying and placing around the room.

How could it have been a dream? he whispered. I remember every single moment, every color and smell . . . what’s going on?

3

More Surprises

T he very next night, Ethan returned to the Willow Trail. Once again he was aware of the most unusual feeling of knowing he was dreaming. This time, however, he was determined to make the dream last longer.

He waved to the crow watching from the branches above and, dashing through the Doorway onto the Willow Trail, came to an abrupt stop. How peculiar . . . the leaves are green, not red and gold like last night. He hesitated, but except for the green leaves, the path was familiar, so he decided to carry on.

When Quimzie appeared, the boy followed him without hesitation. They wound and twisted through the Trail until they arrived at a sunny beach. The owl settled onto a branch of a gnarled oak tree and began preening his chestnut-brown feathers.

Ethan flopped down on the sand. It seemed like the same beach as before, but there was no sign of the giant cattail or Little Man. The wind was lazy and cool, very different from the first night’s dream. The boy’s deep brown eyes feasted on the sprinkles of sunlight dancing on the lake. A flock of coots, their white beaks creating a sharp contrast to their black bodies, moved across the lake like a majestic fleet of ships. Waves gently splashed over one end of a large log, on which a bright turquoise duck sat enjoying the sun.

Ethan watched it for a bit, but as the warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves flowed around him, he began to feel drowsy. I wish you could talk, he mumbled to Quimzie. Then I could ask you how it’s possible to be sleepy in a dream.

But the owl was silent, and as Ethan’s eyelids drooped, the wind played with his hair, lulling him into yet another dream, of a faraway place of sea monsters and caves, of princesses and diamonds. He slept.

Get off my back.

The hoarse voice brought Ethan back to the world of the Willow Trail with a jolt. He sat up just as the log rolled over and dumped the duck into the water.

The unfortunate bird swam away. Don’t be so grumpy, it quacked loudly.

The big log bobbed contentedly up and down, and as Ethan peered closer, he noticed a hole at one end of it—a hole that was growing larger. The log shuddered and rolled over.

Grumph, that’s better, it said. Sometimes I don’t want anyone sittin’ on me. Sometimes I deserve a little respect. The hole closed and all was silent.

The boy gasped and turned to Quimzie, just as the owl rose up and zoomed off.

And Ethan woke, back in bed again.

4

The Old Book

A few hours later, a tired but determined Ethan headed for

 the library. As he began the familiar steep climb up the

 steps of the building, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

The library was the pride of the town. Its castle-like turrets and walls of gray stone towered above the surrounding structures. Impressive stained glass windows, etched with figures of famous authors, decorated the front of the historic landmark.

Whenever Ethan went there, which was often, he felt like he was walking into a world full of secrets just waiting to be revealed.

I can do this, he told himself. I know I can. Somewhere in the thousands of books in this library, I’m going to find the answer to the biggest secret of all.

He walked through the big double doors and stopped. A life-size color poster of an owl stared him in the face—a great horned owl with enormous orange eyes.

Ethan shivered and hurried over to the librarian’s desk, glancing over his shoulder at the orange eyes that seemed to follow his every step.

Good morning, Mrs. Crackleberry.

The librarian sighed and peered over the top of her gray metal-framed glasses. Yes, Ethan, what can we do for you today? She wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. Erasing the crayon marks from the children’s books was a job that had been put off for far too long.

I’m looking for a book about traveling, said Ethan.

Mrs. Crackleberry smiled at this easy request, but that smile quickly faded as the boy confidently said, Time traveling, that is.

The librarian stared at Ethan for a moment, taking in his freshly laundered red plaid shirt and usual baggy shorts, and the brown curls that never seemed to lie in an orderly fashion on his head. She sighed again, wondering why she was surprised at his request. After all, the boy lived and breathed maps, and was always asking her for ones of places she’d never heard of.

Deciding not to waste valuable time with more questions, she stood up and beckoned Ethan to follow her.

To Ethan’s surprise, it didn’t take long for Mrs. Crackleberry to find what he was looking for.

He helped her carry a long aluminum ladder over to the far corner of the library and place it carefully against the wooden shelves. The librarian began to climb and, when she was almost at the top, stretched her arm as far as she could and pulled a large dusty book from the shelf.

She then sneezed her way back down the ladder and placed the book into Ethan’s eager hands. Here you go, boy. She sneezed again. A book about the possibilities of traveling to other worlds.

Mrs. Crackleberry clearly remembered the last person to use this book. He was a jovial, elderly Englishman who had visited the library often. He always wore a brown tweed sweater with holes, and grubby gray pants. The librarian also remembered the old man’s reaction when she’d handed him this same book—a nonfiction book about parallel universes.

Fantastic, he had cried in a loud, booming voice. And even when she’d tried to shush him, to remind him they were in a library and must respect the needs of the patrons, he had carried on in the same tone and at great length, rubbing his bristly white head, all the while insisting it was preposterous to think there weren’t other worlds out there. Preposterous to think we are the only beings, indeed the only world, in a vast sea of universes.

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And now this tousle-haired, freckle-faced youth was searching for the same book. How odd, thought the librarian, that the intelligence shining from Ethan’s eyes reminded her so much of the old Englishman who had passed away many, many years ago.

Mrs. Crackleberry looked down her long, sharp nose at Ethan. What are you up to now, boy?

Why, Mrs. Crackleberry, grinned Ethan, I don’t know what you mean. I’m just doing a bit of research, that’s all.

The librarian’s eyes narrowed, and without another word, she headed back to her desk.

Ethan settled into a cubicle and gently opened the old book, Worlds Beyond Worlds by J. Quirk. For the next two hours he didn’t notice a thing that was happening around him—nothing other than the book.

He finally turned the cubicle light off, walked in a daze over to Mrs. Crackleberry’s desk, gently placed the book down, and left.

The librarian watched him hurry out the door. He looks different, she murmured. And not just because his curls were standing on end more than ever. He looked . . . older? Or perhaps wiser?

She shrugged her thin, stooped shoulders, sneezed again, and decided the idea of parallel worlds was just too confusing. Ignoring the dusty old book on the corner of her desk, she closed her mind and returned to erasing crayon marks.

5

Parallels?

E than ran down the narrow road, heading for his favorite retreat. His mind was brewing and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron.

He ducked onto a path and then veered off to the right, pushing his way through the tangled brush. He burst out into a small clearing and stopped to catch his breath. He needed privacy. He needed to think.

Wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, he climbed up on Rock.

Rock—the name Ethan had given to this huge moss-covered boulder—was the place he escaped to when things didn’t make sense. It was strange, but the longer he lay on Rock’s bright green moss and lichen, the more comfortable he felt, as though he were lying on a soft mattress. And on Rock, he always got remarkable answers to his problems.

He lay for a bit, feeling calmer as his breath slowed. He stared up into the pointed firs, thinking it was odd he had never noticed the hazy outline around them before.

Then he began wondering about the giant owl poster at the library. It hadn’t been there the day before.

A crow cawed relentlessly. Another sign. Ethan frowned and shook his head. It was just a crow.

He took a deep breath and whispered, Focus.

Okay, he thought, so the old book had a lot to say. First, that time is a mystery and doesn’t fit in with our other scientific findings. Because of this, many think there is no such thing as time—that everything is happening at once.

Second, there may be more than one universe. A multiverse—many universes that exist all at once, yet are separate from each other. A theory, mind you—an idea scoffed at by many scientists. And even some who do believe the theory think those other universes are unreachable.

Ethan thought of the words on the last page of the dusty old book. Whenever we dare to think beyond our everyday world, we should expect things to seem bizarre.

He chuckled. Tiny beings who live in trees, and talking muskrats and ducks were definitely bizarre. And logs that speak and roll of their own accord—it couldn’t get more peculiar than that. He scratched his head. And what about the little fellow on the giant cattail with his odd welcome? That was weird too.

He lay in the quiet, staring up at the trees. The crow cawed again. The glow around the tips of the firs shimmered.

Ethan sat up. So there’s a theory, he murmured to himself. A theory that other worlds exist—parallel universes—and that we can travel between them. What if . . . what if that’s exactly what I’m doing in my dreams? What if I’m traveling to a different reality than the one I’m in now? His heart began to race.

And if the no-time theory is correct, then what I’m doing wouldn’t be called time travel, because it’s happening all at once.

He needed to tell Molly about this.

Maybe.

Molly had been his best friend since they were three years old, creating worlds of castles and moats in the sandbox in her sprawling backyard.

Oh, Rock, groaned Ethan. I can just imagine what Molly will say. He thought of his friend, how it seemed she was born anxious, just as it seemed he was born very sure of himself.

Once, when all he’d done was tell her she needed to stand up for herself and not let others at school push her around, Molly had gotten really mad at him. She hadn’t spoken to him for a couple of days after that. Another time, she had freaked out when all he’d done was come up behind her and say, Boo, and not very loudly either. She seemed afraid of everything that moved.

Molly also didn’t believe in dreams. A long time ago, Ethan had told her that he remembered his dreams.