Animalia

By Shauna C Murphy

Thirteen-year-old Sunday Gråe wants to follow in her late father's footsteps and become Animalia - the way of working with animals' unique abilities that is taught only at the prestigious and secretive Svalbard School. Sunday's dreams come true when she is admitted, but the school is more dangerous than she thought. The

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coco Studios
• Release date: Nov 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988045816

Book preview

1.png

SHAUNA C. MURPHY

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of the text of this book was created using AI or AI tools. 

ANIMALIA. Copyright © 2020 by Shauna C Murphy. All rights reserved. 

Discussion Guide, Author Q&A, and About The Author copyright © Coco Interactive 

All rights reserved. 

Published in the United States by Coco Studios. 

COCO BOOKS and the HEART colophon are trademarks of Coco Studios. 

Middle Grade / Fantasy / Mystery 

Fiction / Fantasy / General 

Young Adult / Fantasy / Mystery 

In a school in Norway, students from around the world are taught the secrets of the Victorian-era world including animals’ special abilities; involving a young girl, a dragon, and a mystery.

ISBN: 979-8-9880458-1-6 

Illustration by Steve McDonald 

Author photo by Jennifer Alyse

Interior Formatting by Katia Zuppel 

First Edition 

CONTENT RATINGS

Rated by readers on a scale of 0 – 10. 

Language: 0 (None). Expressions are generally considered not offensive. 

Violence: 3. Some violence including fighting, punching, and avoiding capture. 

Drugs: 4. Prescription drugs and general pharmaceuticals are part of the larger plot of the story. 

Psychological Suspense: 6. Protagonist has nightmares, including confusion and grief. 

General Threat: 4. Protagonist faces threats and risk. 

Sexual Content: 0 (None). 

~Mercy is greater than judgment.~ 

one

HOW TO TRAP A MONSTER 

Night falls and the arctic moon rises.

I sit in the tavern cellar, at the card table. With one hand I tap the old wood table, with the other I fan my playing cards; jack, queen, king… My cards have a wink in their eyes, they tell me; we can win.

A dull candle flickers on the table between my opponent and I. It casts an orange glow over his long face, making him a tall jackrabbit: Viktor, the so-called smartest boy in town. We’ll see about that.

Viktor counts cards, pulling from the deck. I should’ve known Viktor would play like a machinist, all math-minded. I frown out the cellar window – it’s early autumn but everything is frosty cold.

His friends surround me on either side of the small basement. They shift, nervous, of course – we’ll all audition for Svalbard School tomorrow – no one wants to talk about it.

My pet newt, Grom, runs down my arm – a lime-green swipe – and curls on the table by my hand. He licks my thumb with a scratchy pink tongue. My little Grom. I crack a smile at him.

The prize coins are set aside for the winner: Twenty whole kroner in the pot. Blazes. That’ll feed Ma and I for two whole weeks. Winner takes them all.

And I’ll win. For Ma.

I’ve won this game before – Carnivore Kingdom – a strategy game from our Nordic isle – a cross between deckbuilding and poker.

Focus. Focus.

Two hours of gameplay are sprawled in a maze of flat cards on the table between us. It’s the last moves of the game. Time to close.

Step one: Assess my enemy.

Viktor is math-minded. My age, thirteen. Impulsive. Norwegian born-and-raised. An offense player. His parents run the machinist welding shop at the edge of town. He’s wealthy. Deep purple rings circle his eyes – he stayed up late last night preparing his Svalbard School audition for tomorrow. He’s tired.

He smirks at me knowingly, like his hand is so clever.

I smirk back. My hand is clever, too.

Step two: Enter my enemy’s mind.

He doesn’t need the money. He plays for pride. Pride makes you assume the worst in your opponent. Pride makes you anticipate attacks and not traps.

He bites his thin lower lip, thinking… Wood creaks beneath his heel as he bobs his leg – he’s excited. So he does have a good hand.

Darn it.

I lock my gaze on him. Draw.

His bluish eyes dance over mine and he chuckles with a wry smile. He winks at me.

Go ahead, Viktor, flirt – it won’t work on me.

He pulls a card and taps its side – counting again. He relies on probability. He wins his games because he counts cards to calculate his next move. But I don’t study cards. I study him. And I use something far more reliable – observation.

Probability gives chance, but observation is certain. I can test observations to find patterns. And where there’s a destructive pattern, I can anticipate it. I can break it.

First, create space for the destructive pattern, allow him to use it. I set down a few low-value throwaway cards and Viktor’s eyebrow flicks at me with this condescension, like I’m an obvious fool.

Step three: Anticipate attack.

Viktor lays down two Aces. Clever. He clicks his tongue and cocks his head to the side, like he’s already won.

I tilt my head too, mirroring him.

His mistake: Thinking I play the game like everyone else.

I have my own rules, and I’ve predicted his Aces.

I lay down my Jack, Queen and King.

Viktor sets his jaw – his cheeks blush scarlet. I sense his heart quicken as though it’s in my own chest: Panic.

Good.

Panic mixed with pride makes for poor decisions.

I carefully fold my hands under my chin.

That’s right. Underestimate me. Miscalculate me.

The boys beside me whisper. They pass around a canteen of whiskey, like the game is getting good. Viktor’s gaze darts around the crowded room. His pride can’t handle it. He draws from his pile, weakening his hand. He lays down a Jack – cancelling mine – a counter attack.

Just like I thought you would, Viktor.

Step four: Block counter.

I forfeit my hand. I sacrifice my Queen.

Viktor bleeds into a wicked smile, like he’s outsmarted me. He suppresses a laugh.

There’s the pride I’m counting on.

He lays down his hand, preparing his next move – to take the game.

Step five: Reveal trap.

Instead of drawing, I turn over my trap card: Ace of Hearts.

The boys chatter beside me. I fold my hands over my chest. It’s the best card in the game.

Under the rules of the game, unless he has a similar-value card – I win.

But he doesn’t have a similar card, he’s used up all his options.

I made sure of it.

His narrow jaw tenses. Wavy brown hair falls over his face and he leans onto the table, gripping the side. His steely eyes flick across the cards face-up on the table; counting again.

His behavior has patterns – he blinks repeatedly, like he’s trying to wake himself – his lips move, muttering numbers, subtracting their values from the deck. He’s calculating his probability for a certain card, if he draws. But he already knows his odds. Next to zero.

Next to zero, I say, calm.

His jaw snaps shut and his face turns sour, like he tastes spoiled milk. Yeah…

The onlookers clink glasses and a few of them laugh.

Viktor forces a fake laugh, like he’s unbothered, and stretches his arms high, smiling and shaking his head at the vaulted cellar ceiling, as though it played a joke on him. The room chatters, distracted – they pass around salted potato wedges. Viktor rests his hands behind his head, but his fingers flutter at the nape of his neck –

What in the –

In a flash he slips a card from behind his neck collar and swaps it for the one in his hand.

No one watches the game close enough – no one notices him cheat.

But I do.

My cheeks go hot.

Cheater!

I clench my jaw. He doesn’t even need the money.

Viktor lays down his new card – King of Crystals.

I close my eyes. No.

Oh… I guess, the game is a draw, the moderator says, chewing a potato wedge. You each have ten seconds of wild play – whoever has the highest hand wins, the boy glances at his clunky machinist watch, which gives a subtle tick… tick... tick… starting… Now!

I hold my breath: Focus.

Viktor’s arm surges forward.

…tick

His advantage: My weakened hand.

My advantage: His pride.

…tick

Use his pride against him.

…tick

Viktor pulls repeatedly from the deck, an attack position. But each time he pulls, by the rules of the game, I can activate a defense card I have turned face-down.

…tick

I flip each of my cards in response to his frantic attempt for an attack card. His ten seconds are up – I can respond.

I sacrifice each of my new defense cards – all ten of them. Each time I sacrifice, my overall points go up by one.

TIME! the moderator shouts.

I lay my cards down and fold my arms over my chest. I have twenty-one points. And he has twenty.

I win.

She takes the game, the moderator says. And all twenty kroner.

The cellar is silent. Viktor sulks at the leftover cards in his hands.

I run my fingers along my braided hair and twist it over my shoulder. Laughter bubbles in my chest but I keep a straight face. I slide the coins into my little purse. Grom sleeps on the card table. I scoop his green lizard-body into my dress pocket.

She’s a bit of a freak, isn’t she? a boy mutters behind me.

Something ain’t quite right wit’her, says another.

I turn to leave. They think I can’t hear. I’ve heard everything they’ve said behind my back, all night. I fasten my purse to my side. Ever since Pa died, they’ve been afraid of me.

Fear makes people assume the worst.

I slip into my overcoat and duck out to the frosty night street.

In the snowfall, Sjosburg is a dream, my gingerbread village between forest and mountains. Fresh autumn snow speckles my coat and melts into the gray wool. God it smells wonderful, like peppermint. The shops glow with little icicles in the lamplight. I kick the powdery snow with my boots as I walk.

Alone at last. Thank God. And twenty whole kroner. Ha!

Grom crawls out of my pocket, onto my hand. We won, I tell him. I nod my head in a big, obvious way. Yes, we did.

He nods his little newt head back, imitating me.

"Good boy! That’s right. We won."

Grom licks my hand – it tickles so much – I laugh so hard my sides hurt. He crawls over my coat and hides back into the warm pocket.

I turn the corner, the boys’ voices fade away, but Viktor stumbles around the bend, chasing after me and calling my name; Sunday, wait a minute! Sunn-daay!

No…

I roll my eyes. Some people can’t take a blasted hint.

That was some good play, he slows to a walk beside me. You even got me scratching my head there at the end.

I stop mid-step and turn to him. He has an intelligent, steady gaze. Freckles dot his eyelids. His lips are purple from the cold and his teeth a slight yellow from cigar smoke. I tilt my head, slowly, and slide my hand around his neck, down the collar of his shirt, and pull his extra card into the space between our faces. Did you know, I drop my jaw with fake surprise, that Viktor is a cheater?

His eyes dim. He tucks his chin to his chest and brown wavy hair falls over his eyelids. He can’t help it – a wide, wicked smile sets dimples into his cheeks.

He would be handsome, but he’s a cheat. And horrible.

You caught that move, huh?

Idiot.

I turn to walk away. I care about Ma. Not him.

He slides in front of me, blocking my way. You know, you might even be as smart as me.

"I’m smarter than you. I won."

Ouch, he flicks a bushy eyebrow.

He steps closer to me. His breath mixes with mine in a white cloud. He’s taller than me and I have to tilt my head way back to see him. His blue eyes have a golden-brown ring around the edges. He chews his lip and his cheeks go red and splotchy, suddenly. He takes a step back, awkwardly, and corrects his balance. So… you auditioning tomorrow?

… I haven’t decided.

That’s a load o’ crock.

Well, someone has to take care of Ma.

But you worked so hard on it. You have to try…

I avoid his eyes.

It’s a game. Everything with him is a game. You’re still a cheater, I mutter, and I turn down the street, leaving him behind in the fog.

Yeah? he yells after me, I’m the only one in this town who even talks to you!

My chest hollows. As horrible as he is, he’s right. When Ma overdosed and nearly burned our shop down, Viktor came. He helped. None of the ‘nice-girls’ came.

I turn the corner to the edge of town, by the forest. I stare into the dark, mangled tree-line, half-expecting someone to be there, but the twisted branches blur – all haunted – and I have to look away. Ma says monsters exist – but they aren’t animals, they’re just people who disregard others.

Years ago, everyone in town hunted the monster that killed Pa. They got so angry they slaughtered a boar – some random pig that had nothing to do with it. They raised it up in these trees and burned it alive.

…They should’ve burned me.

After all, it’s my fault he’s gone. The real monster is me. 

TWO

RUMORS OF SVALBARD 

Seven years – seven years since we last saw Pa. I watch Ma carefully from the side. She hums that same music-box melody she always sings and wraps candles with her long, beautiful fingers. No, she’s not thinking of Pa, thank God. She hasn’t noticed the date this morning, the anniversary of his death, sort-of…

Did you change your mind? she hums. About the Svalbard audition today. She wraps candles and places them in the ‘for sale’ display at the window. She never looks at me when she asks important things. It’s her tell. She forces peace in the home like she’d fall on a knife for it. I don’t mind, actually. When she’s like this, it’s kinda nice.

I don’t think I’ll audition... I trim candle wicks, slowly, and wrap the ends with paper. Wouldn’t be accepted. Why try and be disappointed, right?

Ma tilts her head an interesting way, like she sees something vague in the distance. She digs into her dress pocket and pulls out a few coins. Why don’t you fetch us some breakfast rolls from the bakery then. Just in case you change your mind.

She holds out three bronze kroner.

…Really?

Her eyes smile in half-moons. She nods and long curtains of brown hair fall over her knobby shoulders. Can’t be hungry on your big day.

My chest squeezes. Thanks Mama.

She kisses my head and slides the coins onto my hand. She yawns, dazed, medicated probably. I swear her whole life is dream-walking. You go on, I’ll open shop. Take Grom with you. I can’t watch him at the same time.

On the fireplace mantle, Grom’s green newt-hands push out from the fabric nest and he smiles at me. My stars I could hold him forever. He scampers along the mantle and twirls. Good boy. I taught him that trick, to dance. Ever since I found him in that cracked newt egg two summers ago, I’ve trained him for the stupid Animalia audition... What a waste of time.

I scuff the wood floor with my toes.

A big giant stupid waste.

Grom leaps into the air – a lime-green swipe – and catches a gnat with his little pink tongue.

He’s gotten quicker lately, hasn’t he? Ma pulls open the shop curtains.

Quicker, sure, but cunning is more like it. Last week he spilled a jar of honey on purpose to attract more gnats so he could catch them. Crafty little lizard. He swallows his gnat and gives me sly side-eyes. I swear I can guess his thoughts.

I scoop him into my arms, step into my snow boots, and slip outside.

Oil-lamps glow like floating orbs in the fog. The clock on the church steeple moves its iron hands to 6:45 a.m. Aurora lights flow in the sky like yellow and blue ribbons, they cast everything in this hazy, underwater glow. Now that it’s autumn, it’s always a little dark out, even at high noon. Winter is constant darkness; summer is constant light… it’s just the way of the Arctic Circle. The artisan dress shops across the street are gingerbread houses with deep sloped roofs, and beyond, nothing but glaciers and mountains.

I kick snow off the bricks, clearing a path. I gather my dress in a hand, hiking down the steps, but the twins shriek at me – Caw! Caaaw!

I roll my eyes. Not again.

I turn to the roof. Two crows, who I call the twins, scratch at our rooftop shingles. Ma patches our roof every autumn, and the twins love to pick at the wood plates she installs. They do it on purpose – to bother me.

I grit my teeth. I’ve told them to stop coming here. Uh!

Ma calls my name from inside, sweeping the floor. Sunday – will you take care of them?

Of course. It’s my job to scare away the crows. Ugh. Nothing Ma does will make them leave. I fix my hands on my hips. You know I’m really not in the mood this morning, I scold. "Do you see me coming to your nest and ruining things?" One of the crows tilts his head at me mockingly, and the other cackles.

I set my jaw. If you don’t leave now, I’ll set the apothecary’s dog on you.

The twins screech and chortle. They hop on the patched shingles, scratching them with their talons. They meet my gaze with a challenging stare; their beady eyes widen and they twist their necks at me with a stiff, insane gaze.

Taunting me.

You think this is a joke, don’t you?

The twins snicker. They bob their heads and pounce on a shingle, prying it loose.

Fine. I gather a few pebbles from the steps. I fling them at the twins –one, two– and they strike the tiles right by their talons.

Caw! Caaaw!!

The twins flap wildly, taking off into the air until they’re nothing but smears in the dark sky.

Finally...

An arctic wind tunnels through the street and cotton-ball snow sticks to the gray sleeves of my coat. A Svalbard poster flaps in the breeze on a nearby lamppost. I step down from the brick steps into the foggy street. I brush my fingers along the cold dry paper.

Of course they’re auditions, not applications, since no one knows how one person is picked over the other or why. But everyone knows that whoever goes to Svalbard becomes these things of myth – like Thomas Edison with his new lightbulb. Or Da Vinci, one of the best Artisans of all time. Pa told me, years ago, that Animalia teaches you the secrets of human and animal behavior – how to speak with authority and understand your place in the dominance hierarchy. He said Cleopatra was Animalia, she ruled an empire by understanding the secrets of human behavior.

Pa said he had so much fun at Svalbard, everyone in Animalia became family to him.

I slide my hand away from the paper and my chest sinks. If only I stood a chance.

If I could learn to be Animalia… It would be like… like I could learn about Pa, too.

A machinist hot-air blimp rumbles overhead, gliding over the northern mountains, carrying professors to Svalbard, no doubt. Wind whistles between the glaciers and – a faint whispering. Strange… I glance over my shoulder, toward the sound, but the cobblestone road is empty.

…Odd.

The little hairs on my arms prickle – no – someone is watching me. Definitely. Somewhere close. I tilt my head, listening with every nerve in my back: A winter owl cries on the church steeple, a rat scampers across the alley. I turn, slowly, into the fog, toward a patch of shadowed forest down the way. A gray, shapeless mass absorbs all my attention there, in the tree-line. The morning breeze swirls the pine boughs.

Someone is there…

The slanted edge of a skirt steps out from the tree-line, followed by her elegant sloped neck. A white waterfall of hair spills over her delicate shoulders, a snow tiger trails behind her and touches its nose to her hand: She’s from Svalbard. Animalia.

The woman walks between snow-covered shops, closer. I glance over my shoulder – but we’re alone in the street. Holy heaven – she’s an angel, a moving piece of art, with soft cheeks and a pale blue dress swept back with a lace bustle. She passes and glances at Grom – and me – and smiles gently.

She slips into the fog and I stare at the place where her head used to be.

To be Animalia, like her… She must be in town for the auditions.

Don’t dream. People like her are one in a million.

I breathe deep until my heart calms. You’ll never be like her. I hold Grom close and step through the narrow brick-maze paths to the town bakery. I duck into the warm little shop and the scent of crushed cinnamon surrounds me. My gut hollows. My stars, if only Ma had been a baker.

I press my hand to the pastry glass and pour over the breads for sale.

The bakery boy slides apple-fritters on a tray. So what – you’re not getting ready for the auditions, like everyone else? He wipes his hands on his apron. You scared or something?

I – uh – hadn’t decided yet…. Did you audition?

Last year everyone in my class did. None of us made it. But it’s better that way. Svalbard is a cursed place, mind you. Sure we hear more about it, since we’re the closest town to their compound or whatnot. But no one who goes there comes back the same. It changes you, changes the way your mind works. He says it with thirst in his mouth, like he hates and loves the very thought of Svalbard. I heard he auditioned for Artisan with his bakery cakes, and they dismissed him before he could even show them all. Poor fellow.

I point to the honey loaf, it’s an apothecary-infused bread with warming herbs; clove and nutmeg to ward off the winter colds Ma gets. The baker-boy bags up the bread, That’ll be four kroner.

I thought it was three. Inside my dress pocket, I rub Ma’s three bronze kroner.

Blazes, Ma. We can’t even afford one loaf.

Is the sign wrong? the boy turns his head around the glass case.

No it isn’t wrong. We’re just too poor to buy bread. I only forgot my coinpurse at home. I turn to leave and stop at the front door. And, by the way, my father went to Svalbard. He was Animalia. So it can’t be that bad, can it?

Yeah and look what happened to him, the boy scowls, leaning far over the glass, he went and got himself killed by some animal.

My chest squeezes and I flick my head away. I rush out to the snowy street and force myself to suck in air, deep – he might as well’ve kicked me in the gut. I take the long way back through the alleyways, to avoid people.

I rub my chest. Breathe. Just breathe.

I swipe a tear from my chin with my mitten. Don’t think of Pa. Don’t.

Dawn breaks through the blue glaciers in the nearby mountains; a tiny crack of gold lights the sky. I keep my head down and turn the corner – their brown shoes come into view before their faces and I bump into two girls. Oh, sorry, I mutter.

The girls are a few years older than me, and styled with nicer dresses. One girl is tall with thick flowing hair and the other is lanky with narrow features. Oh look, the lanky one nudges the tall girl, she’s holding that newt again. What did I tell you about the newt?

They laugh.

Not again. I can’t do this again.

"Don’t you think it’s a bit dirty to have a newt, Sunday?" the tall girl talks down to me, like I should take beauty tips from her.

Let me pass. I rub my nose.

Oh, she’s crying, the lanky girl says with fake-care.

You probably heard I’m having a party tonight, for the auditions, and didn’t invite you, the tall girl rakes her hand through her hair. You know, I’d invite you, but you’d only bring everyone down, she flourishes her hands around my head. We can’t have all this sadness around us.

No, we can’t, the shorter girl laughs. It’d be a waste of space, wouldn’t it?

We wish we could help you. The tall girl half-smiles. But you’ve always been this way, haven’t you?

I stare hard at their leather shoes on the frosty cobblestone. Tears burn in my eyes. I keep my head down, stiff, and I hate myself for saying nothing; I hate myself, hate myself, hate myself.

Ah, there you are, a woman’s voice lulls, calm.

Chills tickle my neck.

The girls’ eyes widen at the woman, somewhere behind me.

A purr rumbles beside me and a tall white tiger brushes its head along my dress. Something light settles on my shoulder, wraps around me like a shawl – a woman’s delicate gloved hand. What in the – a glossy curtain of white-and-brown hair spills over my shoulder, followed by the scent of lavender and arctic mint. I turn to her: It’s the Animalia woman from the street earlier, the angel. Her icy gaze shifts from me to the two girls, Tell me, what were you girls saying?

N-nothing, the lanky girl splutters.

The woman’s presence is jarring, like a glacier – her fixed, cat-like gaze narrows on the girls, silence stings my ears, she tilts her head – Then move AWAY.

Her voice rumbles in my chest – one thousand voices in one – and it’s strange – like her mouth moves to a different shape than her actual words.

The girls stumble away down the road,