2015 Young Explorer's Adventure Guide Read online

  “I made it,” said Miguel in a soft faraway voice.

  “Of course you did, papa,” said Alonso.

  …………………………

  Miguel was not heavy. Weightlessness seemed to have added itself to his quality. Alonso carried him down and he sat at the base of the mahogany rocket cradling the curved old man as if he was a child. It was still dark in the pre-dawn light and a shadow coursed over them. An archaeopteryx imperator spiraled into the clearing and lighted upon a branch draping its plumage almost to the ground. Another followed and then another until the clearing around the rocket was filled with a wild chorus of ancient aviators.

  The birds sang and mourned and when the sun rose over the mountains they broke and caressed the air with graceful wings honed to perfection by time and desire.

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  Continue reading for a sneak preview of The Seventh Crow by Sherry D. Ramsey, available in the summer of 2015.

  THE SEVENTH CROW

  -CHAPTER ONE-

  Rosinda trudged home with her head down, her backpack weighted with the homework Mr. Andrews had assigned for the night. Skeletal leaves crunched under her feet along the side of the road.

  A low croak made her look up, and she saw the crows. They stood scattered in a loose line in the grassy swath beside the road, their glossy black feathers reflecting the late afternoon sun, each just a wingspan away from the next. Every one had its bright black eyes fixed on her. Rosinda stopped.

  The words of Aunt Odder's crow-counting rhyme popped into her head. This was one of the many things she had struggled to relearn over the past year. She counted the crows under her breath, chanting the rhyme.

  "One crow, sorrow; two crows, joy; three crows, a letter; four crows, a boy," Rosinda said, her eyes resting briefly on each crow as she counted down the line. "Five crows, silver; six crows, gold—" She trailed off, looking around for a seventh crow. The rhyme always seemed to run out after six. Maybe crows didn't like big groups.

  Just like me. She turned back to the road.

  From a tree just ahead, a black shape dropped like a falling branch. A seventh crow. This one, bigger than the others, swooped on silent feathers to the ground just in front of Rosinda.

  "Seven crows, a secret that has never been told," it said in a gravelly voice.

  Rosinda froze, the weight of her backpack forgotten. Had that just happened?

  Someone's playing a trick. It wouldn't be the first time. She forced her eyes from the crow, looking to both sides and glancing over her shoulder. Someone could have followed her from school, one of the boys, with one of those gadgets you could talk into and play your voice back in all sorts of weird ways. They must have heard her saying the crow rhyme. A chance to tease her. Yes, they must be hiding in the long grass, or behind a tree—

  "There's no one else here, if that's what you're thinking," said the crow, hopping closer. "Just you and me. And them," it said, cocking its head toward the other six crows, "but they don't really count, since they won't be joining the conversation." The crow made a sound almost like a chuckle.

  Then it's the accident. Rosinda's throat tightened. The head injury had taken away practically all her memories except for the past year, and now she was losing her mind.

  The crow seemed to read her expression. It shook its head, black feathers ruffling. "There's nothing wrong with you. This is real, and it's important."

  Rosinda swallowed. "What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was a raspy croak, almost like the crow's. The world seemed very tiny, shrunk down to this autumn-splashed stretch of road, herself, and the seventh crow. She hoped she wouldn't faint.

  "I have some things to tell you, Rosinda," the crow said.

  Rosinda's hands flew up to cover her mouth. The crow knew her name?

  "Please try not to be alarmed," the crow said kindly. It cocked its head to the side, studying her. "Do you want to keep walking or sit in the grass over there?"

  Rosinda's legs felt wobbly. "I'll sit," she whispered. Almost as if they knew what she'd said, the other six crows hopped off a little distance. Rosinda walked to a nearby tree, sliding her backpack off and hugging it to her chest. She sat on the carpet of multicolored leaves with her back against the rough bark. The crow followed and stood just beyond her feet, regarding her with bright eyes.

  "I'm afraid this is not the best news," the crow said. "Your Aunt Oddeline has been kidnapped."

  "What?" Rosinda's heart thudded in her chest. Her Aunt Odder was the only family she had here, with her parents in a hospital in Switzerland for the past year. The year since the accident. "How do you know this?"

  "I know because of who I am and where I come from," the crow said. "I think she's safe for now, but you're going to have to trust me. My name is Traveller."

  "Who would kidnap Aunt Odder?" Rosinda asked, jumping to her feet. The backpack rolled unheeded in the leaves. "I have to call the police!"

  The crow lifted a wing. "That won't do any good. The guards of this land—your police—will have no way to find her."

  Rosinda's breath caught in her throat as if she'd been running. "Who kidnapped her?"

  The crow shook its head again. "I don't know. I have suspicions, but—no."

  "Can you help me find her? There must be something I can do!"

  "I don't suppose you know where Prince Sovann is?"

  Rosinda shook her head impatiently. "I don't even know who that is."

  The crow made a sound like a sigh. "Then you'll have to come with me, Rosinda. You'll have to come home to Ysterad."

  For a brief moment something shimmered at the back of Rosinda's brain, the stir of a thought, or a memory, triggered by the name. She struggled to catch it, bring it to the front of her mind, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving her feeling tired and slightly sick. The autumn air pricked her skin, suddenly cold. The hard, hot feeling in her stomach was anger.

  "I have to go home," she said.

  "Yes," the crow agreed, "we'll need to gather some things."

  "No, I mean I'm going home. Alone. Home to my house. Mine and Aunt Odder's. I don't believe any of this. I'm dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe I have a brain tumor. Maybe this is something else left over from the accident. I don't know and I don't care." Rosinda's breath came hard and fast. She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. "Don't follow me," she said, and hurried back to the road. Rosinda felt the crow's gaze on her back but she wouldn't look at him.

  She strode along the gravelled shoulder, her thoughts in a jumble. There was no sound behind her, no soft flapping of wings overhead. Maybe the crow had taken her seriously and stayed behind. Rosinda had a flash of misgiving. What if she got home and Aunt Odder wasn't there?

  She pushed the thought aside and kept walking, the riot of red, gold, and orange leaves now garish and too bright. No cars passed. She and Aunt Odder lived in a small house on an out-of-the-way road, and it took her half an hour to walk home from school. Rosinda didn't mind. She was a loner by nature. She hadn't made many friends in the year since she and Aunt Odder had come to Cape Breton. Maybe other kids were wary around her because of her memory loss, the way sometimes she couldn't think of the right word for something, but she didn't think that was all of it. She just didn't fit in.

  Rosinda rounded the last corner, and the house came into view, a narrow, two-story cottage at the top of a curving gravel driveway. It looked completely normal, and Rosinda let out a breath she'd barely realized she was holding. Everything must be fine. A wisp of grey smoke curled out of the chimney, Aunt Odder's beat-up little hatchback sat in the driveway. The kitchen window framed the silhouette of Fila
ra, Aunt Odder's cat. Rosinda hurried up the driveway.

  "Aunt Odder!" she called when she opened the kitchen door. The radio played softly on the counter. Filara jumped down from the windowsill and bounded across the kitchen floor to Rosinda on silent feet, curling around her legs. Rosinda reached down and stroked the animal's silky head absently as she listened for Aunt Odder's welcoming voice.

  It didn't come. The house was silent, as if it also held its breath.

  Rosinda slung her backpack onto the kitchen table. "Aunt Odder! Where are you?" she called again. The kettle was still plugged in, the teapot standing beside it with the top open, waiting for hot water. She glanced inside. Two teabags lay on the bottom. Rosinda touched the side of the kettle and felt a bare hint of warmth. It must have boiled a while ago and then shut off.

  It wasn't like Aunt Odder to boil water and not make tea.

  Rosinda went to the tiny sitting room, her throat and chest tight. The computer hummed quietly on the corner desk near the window. The television was off. Rosinda ran up the stairs two at a time. It took only a glance to see that the two bedrooms and the bathroom were empty.

  The house was empty. Aunt Odder wasn't here.

  Hot tears blurred Rosinda's vision, but she blinked them back. Before she could decide what to do next, a terrible racket erupted downstairs. Rosinda glanced around, grabbed a heavy, wooden-handled umbrella from beside Aunt Odder's door, and raced back down the stairs. Could this day get any worse?

  She plunged through the kitchen door and skidded to a stop. Filara stood in the middle of the table, her patchwork of calico fur standing straight out. She hissed and spat in obvious fury.

  The crow perched on the corner of the counter near the radio, wings spread wide as it screeched at the cat.

  Whether it was the sudden reappearance of the crow, or the noise of the creatures, or her growing concern for Aunt Odder, Rosinda felt her worry turn to anger.

  "Stop it!" Rosinda shouted, striding into the kitchen. She banged the umbrella down on the table and scooped Filara up. The cat struggled for a moment, then went quiet in her arms.

  The crow immediately folded its wings, ruffling its ebony feathers for a moment until they fell elegantly into place. It made a sound that reminded Rosinda of a man clearing his throat. "Ahem. I apologize, Rosinda," it said in a quiet voice. "The cat startled me when—"

  "When you broke into my house?" Rosinda snapped. She didn't want to imagine how the crow had done that.

  "Well, yes," the crow admitted. "But you've seen by now I was correct. Your aunt is not here."

  "That doesn't mean she's been kidnapped," Rosinda started, but her voice trailed away. What did it mean, after all? Aunt Odder was always here when Rosinda came home from school. If she'd been out in the garden, Rosinda would have seen her. And she hadn't finished making her tea.

  Rosinda had to accept that the talking crow was not a hallucination. She felt her anger and her energy drain away. Keeping the cat on her lap, she lowered herself into Aunt Odder's creaky wooden rocker.

  "What did you say your name was?" Rosinda asked quietly. Her hands trembled slightly as she stroked Filara's fur for reassurance.

  "Traveller," the crow answered. "Do you think we can talk now?"

  Rosinda nodded. "I think," she said slowly, "you'd better tell me everything."

  Visit DreamingRobotPress.com to find out when The Seventh Crow is released, and learn what Traveller tells Rosinda!

  Keep reading for Chapter One of Coyote’s Daughter, available now!

  COYOTE'S DAUGHTER

  -CHAPTER ONE-

  Mom and Dad broke the news to me over eggs and bacon.

  "The date is set with the movers," Dad announced while pouring his juice. "We leave at the end of next month."

  I put down my fork, no longer hungry.

  My dad looked at me. Really slowly. He does that, as if he’s seeing through me, into my head. I don’t like it; it feels like I’m one of the skeletons in the Anthropology Department where he works. But I guess it’s nice to have parents who pay attention.

  Not sure why he spent so much time staring; I’m not terribly exciting to look at. Rain-straight brown hair brushes my shoulders, and I chew on the ends when I’m nervous. Brown eyes my mom calls hazel. I’m too tall. I don’t like being taller than all the other kids in my class. The boys don’t like it either. I’m not fat, but I’m not skinny. I’m never going to be one of those golden-haired cheerleaders everyone loves.

  "Maggie, you’ve known for months about the move, why are you acting surprised?"

  Yeah. I knew. But it didn’t seem real until then. I wished they’d yell out "April Fool’s!" and the move would turn out to be some sort of crazy joke. I didn’t want to move to New Mexico, to the desert, land of the coyote and roadrunner cartoons; empty, barren and ugly.

  Why would we want to move there? I wouldn’t, but Mom and Dad couldn’t wait. Mom found a dream job working with rockets at a lab. For Dad, getting close to different tribes of Native Americans couldn’t be beat.

  After school I went to the beach. Biting cold water kept me from swimming, so I just sat on the sand and watched the waves, throwing sticks for Jack until someone yelled at me about not having him on a leash. He’s a border collie mixed up with something else pretty big, and sometimes that makes people nervous. The ocean is beautiful, big and open, and always helps me get my head in order. I thought about the move, leaving all of my friends and starting over.

  The timing couldn’t be worse: the summer between grades six and seven. By now everyone’s groups of friends and enemies would be set. I knew already I wouldn’t fit in, and wondered if they even had a swim team in the desert.

  * * *

  "So, have you met anyone in the neighborhood yet?"

  Mom’s head was buried in a box, her voice muffled and funny. She straightened up and handed yet another stack of dishes to Dad.

  I stopped texting Jenna, my best friend from home. My real home. "The old lady next door says there’s a brother and sister, twins, that live down the street." I pointed out the window, through the little courtyard that we had instead of a patio. "They’re at their father’s right now. She doesn’t know when they’ll be back."

  I slid off of the chair and scratched Jack’s ears. Jack’s a good dog, and always stays nearby when I need him. I loved him, but didn’t much care for the idea of a summer with just him for company.

  After lunch my folks sent Jack and me out. "You’re driving me crazy," Mom said. "Just stay out of traffic, and be nice to our new neighbors."

  I stood on the sidewalk and looked around; no one riding bikes in the street, nothing. But then I saw something that looked interesting

  Mom and Dad had already started to tackle another pile of boxes when I ran back inside. "Can I go hiking on the trail?"

  "What?"

  "At the end of our street there’s a little hill, and then a path on either side of a ditch. Can I go on that?"

  My father figured it out first. "The acequia? Sure. It may not look like it now, but a hundred years ago when people farmed all of this area, that ditch brought water to the fields from the river, the Rio Grande. It’s a common walking path now." He glanced at Mom, made sure they agreed. "Go north, to your right, and the furthest you can go is the river. All right, Miss Maggie? And try to keep Jack out of the water; I don’t know how clean it is." With that final piece of advice they returned to battle with the boxes.

  Great. Jack loves playing in water, but I don’t want him to drag me in behind him. Duly warned, I went searching through the boxes in my room for our hiking stuff. All of the boxes were labeled, so it didn’t take too long. I had my purple-and-black backpack and Jack wore his hiking harness with the little saddlebags. Mom thinks I’m a packrat, but I like to be prepared for anything.

  In my backpack I always carry an extra bottle of water, sunscreen, a long-sleeved shirt with pockets in the front, a couple granola bars, my journal, a flashlight, a magnifying glass, a co
mpass, and five pens, because you never know when you’ll run out of ink, and odd stuff I hadn’t cleaned out from last semester. Jack’s saddlebags are always packed with a neat collapsible dish, and flat water bags. I know it’s a lot of stuff, but we’ve needed funny bits and pieces of things even out walking the beach at home. And I don’t like going anywhere without Jack having water that’s safe to drink.

  I read an awful article online last year about how sick animals can get when they don’t have access to clean water. I bought the collapsible bowl and water bags with my next allowance. I’ve been looking at a set of hiking boots for Jack too, to protect his paws from sharp rocks and the broken glass left by stupid people, but I’m not sure if he’d put up with them. He’s pretty good about his harness, so you never know.

  We scrambled up a little hill to get to the trail, and headed north. The trees looked old, with gnarled limbs as big as my waist stretched over the water and gray and craggy trunks. Sometimes I’d see one that looked like it had been split by lighting when young and had since grown up in two or three parts.

  Tall grasses and purple wildflowers overgrew the steep banks of the ditch. I tried to pick one, but sharp spines on the stem pricked my thumb and changed my mind. Cattails rose from the water, and after a while we saw ducks swimming along. A path ran on each side of the ditch, but I couldn’t see how to get to the other bank without crossing through the water.

  The trees spread over us to form a green tunnel with flashes of bright blue, so much more vivid than the hazy sky over San Diego, peeking between the branches. Occasionally we saw someone on the other side of the ditch, but they passed on by with a little wave, jogging or walking, sometimes pushing one of those off-road strollers.