

Table Of Contents

DUSK

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

DAWN

DUSK

Merel's Sleep perched on the edge of the wooden dresser. His gaze drifted around the room in which he had spent every night for the last eight and a half years. The familiar view he used to enjoy — the feathery clouds floating across the striped sky-blue wallpaper; the pink slippers with the rabbit ears, waiting under the bed, eager to be of service; on the shelf, the tin music box ready to play its brassy rendition of 'You Are My Sunshine' slightly off-key — everything in its place and yet — everything out of whack.

His eyes stopped on the delicate shape of the violin lying next to him on the solid sugar maple. How he longed to hear its soothing song.

He jiggled his legs, hoping his feet would not fall asleep again.

Over on the bed, nothing had changed. The girl banged her fist against the crimson-colored headboard with a force that almost made the little painted crown drop off. She knelt on her pillow, with a grim expression, arms lifted like a prize fighter, ready to repeat it over and over again.

With a whiff of linden-scented night air, a dream collector appeared through the half-open window.

"Good evening," he said, and with a quick glance in the direction of the bed where more punches were thrown, he added, "or another bad one?"

Merel's Sleep eyed the tiny man in the iridescent overalls who hovered in front of him, wings abuzz.

"Nothing here for you to do so far — or me," he muttered and picked some lint off of the sleeve of his black suit jacket.

"I hope for your sake she will come to her senses soon." The dream collector waved his chubby fingers. "Anyway, I'll make sure a colleague drops in later." He vanished like a bursting soap bubble.

"Whatever." Merel's Sleep frowned. In his experience, it would take at least another two hours before she would be exhausted enough to even consider sleeping.

He watched her clutch Roger by the neck and hurl him out of the bed against the opposite wall, where the little plush sheep bounced off and tore down the large poster with the nice colorful illustrations of the Backyard Birds of North America.

"There he goes again." Merel's Sleep groaned. He grabbed his violin and jumped down onto the Flokati rug covering most of the bedroom floor. The tender strands of whitish wool stroked his naked feet.

He trudged over to the poster and lifted the edge of it. "Aren't you getting tired of this, Roger?"

"She doesn't mean it, friend," came the muffled reply.

Merel's Sleep stooped down to look under the creased sheet of paper. "If only I had your patience."

"She is going through a very tough time right now, you know," Roger said, crawling towards him.

Merel's Sleep scratched his left big toe. "Tell me about it." He couldn't even remember when all the fuss had started, but it had peaked on one rainy evening in mid-March when the woman refused to read to her.

"Come on, Mom, Sleeping Beauty, please," she had whined.

"Oh, Merel," the woman said, "you have to be a big girl now. You know that Blue always gets worse at night. He needs me. You will have to read it yourself."

The fairy tale book went flying through the room the moment the door closed behind the woman. And since then: perpetual terror.

Merel's Sleep winced. Over on the bed, she screeched like an emergency siren. His ears were so sore.

"I can't get into the bed by myself," said Roger, peeking out from under the paper. "There's nothing here for me to climb on. I'll have to wait until she picks me up, friend." He nestled into the rug's fur, beaming as if he had been favored with a special treat.

Merel's Sleep let go of the poster edge and shook his head. What a little imbecile, always calm and accepting — no matter how badly she knocked him about. But what could one expect from somebody who wore a satin bow around his neck?

He opened his wings and flew up.

"It's 10:42," Hulda, the vintage alarm clock, informed him as he landed next to her on the night table. The last thing he needed now was her serene smile. Not to mention the ruckus she produced when she drummed mercilessly on her brass bells in the morning. Although right now, even that would be more tolerable than the display of the savage.

He stared at her. Face: fire engine red. Pajamas: crumpled. Hair: soaked with sweat. She had just gotten hold of her tissue box, dragged out the contents and began to rip them into snippets while shrieking like a cornered rat.

"Tick, tock, just remember how adorable she looks when she wakes up in the morning, the sweet baby," Hulda said, "with her rose petal cheeks and her charming smile. Tick, tock, like a little angel."

"She reminds me more of the opposite lately," Merel's Sleep snapped back. "I'm so fed up. Every evening the same song and dance with this pampered imp. My nerves are over-tight strings, ready to pop."

Although he hollered, he couldn't compete with the clamour already filling the bedroom.

"I can barely hold the violin straight. My fingers are a jittery mess. Any randomly picked alley cat is an ear pleaser compared to my performance!"

"Tick, don't wind yourself up like this," said Hulda, forgetting to show the next second. "That's unhealthy. Tick, something could break."

"A break? Yes, I need a break. No, even better — I quit!"

Merel's Sleep glanced at the violin in his shaking hand, then at the raging girl, and with a jolt, he threw his instrument down into the wilderness of the woollen fringes.

"The snot nose can find somebody else to play for her," he bellowed and disappeared.

ONE

"Nobody's coming," Merel mumbled and rubbed her eyes. "I might as well stop." She threw her comforter over the foot board and swung her legs out of bed.

Why is there an empty spot on the wall? She sighed and got up. My poor birds.

With one hand, she lifted the poster from the ground and placed it on her desk. With the other, she picked up the little plush sheep that sat on the rug.

"Sorry sweetie." Merel gave its curly head a kiss and put it on her pillow.

She glanced at the alarm clock on the night-stand: 11:25.

"Ouch!" Something poked her big toe. Merel knelt in front of the bed and roamed her fingers through the Flokati rug.

Out of the dense wooly hair emerged a tiny object: a violin. Merel gawked at the peculiar treasure lying in her palm. Light reflections danced over the polished silver surface, and despite its size, it was full of intricate detail.

For sure, it didn't belong to any of her dolls or toys. It looked genuine, valuable. Maybe it is an earring or a brooch. She could not remember having seen it on her mother, though. It must be new, she concluded, and let it slip into the front pocket of her pajama top. She would give it back right away; her mom would surely be pleased about it. Who knows, maybe she will come and cuddle with me.

Merel peeked out of her room into the dark hallway. A seam of brightness gleamed under her parents' bedroom door, a shiny spike pricking the nightly quietude of the apartment.

Merel went over and turned the doorknob: in the blazing rays of the ceiling lamp lay her mother, sleeping, and fully dressed.

Again? Is this going to be the new fashion around here? We are not even taking our clothes off any more when we go to bed? Her father's side was empty. The sight did not surprise her; she was now used to him coming home late.

It's all your fault, you little vampire. Merel frowned at Blue's crib in front of the king-size bed and at the piles of medication boxes on the sideboard next to the gadget that made whiffs of fog for him to inhale. The air around it smelled bitter, like being at the dentist.

You're sucking the fun out of everybody's life. Her brother slept too. She listened to his rattling breath.

Squeak. Merel glanced down—she had stepped on Blue's beloved rubber giraffe.

"Oh, shut up," she whispered and kicked the toy under the bed. Why don't I just wait for Dad?

Entering the living room, Merel switched on the floor lamp in the corner. The leather couch sighed under her as she slumped down and pulled the knitted patchwork blanket up to her chin. She was always waiting for something these days, and most of the time in vain.

She stared at the dark TV screen and her dad's matte-black hi-fi tower below. Somebody had forgotten to switch off the receiver. The green light on it glared at her like the eye of a reptile lying in wait. Merel turned her head.

She could listen to some music in the meantime. Her father's classical CDs were piled up on the end table. His favorite one lay on top. The cover photo showed a mountain of a man with his eyes closed and his arms wide open, in the shadow behind him rows of violin players in black suits. Nobody had ever explained to her why the big man had a handkerchief in his left hand.

Her mother liked opera too but preferred different music when by herself. The two of them used to listen to her CDs when she picked Merel up after school in their old black Volvo. One song they both loved. The singer's name was Ella.

"Summertime," her mother would start, "and the living is easy," Merel would trill from the back seat. They would giggle because they knew what was coming. "Your daddy's not rich," her mother would sing, glancing into the rear mirror pulling a mock-sad face, "but my mom is good looking," Merel would reply, and then they would finish together, "so hush little baby, don't you cry."

Afterwards, Merel usually laughed so hard that she had tears in her eyes. Yet for a long time now, there had been no singing or laughter, only her brother's rattling breath.

Merel reached into the coffee table's storage shelf and pulled out a couple of DVDs. Of course, most of these movies she wasn't allowed to watch. Though, once in a while, she had sneaked out of her bedroom and seen something scary. Like the winged man dressed in black. He fought this ugly guy, who had given Merel more than one bad night.

Lately, the unpleasant dreams outnumbered the nice. Once, her parents had claws instead of fingers and she did not dare to hug them; another time, they were transparent and when she touched them, they shattered into a whirl of splinters.

The aquarium at the end of the sofa gurgled. Merel slid over and pressed her nose against the cold glass. Two dozen tiny fish lingered motionless in their pale-blue water world. Grandpa Jonathan had explained to her that light-emitting diodes simulate the moon for them at night time.

"Do you think they know it's fake?" Merel had asked him. "Can they remember the real moon?"

"Hard to tell, Merry," Granjo had mumbled and patted her hand, "but I hope they are happy with the substitute."

She had inherited his fish tank about ten months ago. Neon tetras shared the fifteen gallons with zebra danios and a few black mollies.

One of them stood close behind the glass pane: a speck of charcoal giving her a non-stop stare. It seems to have no eyelids. How does it sleep?

Merel heard a humming sound coming from the window — a winged creature.

"What's this dragonfly doing in here?" she whispered and armed herself with one of the travel magazines from the stack on the coffee table. She dashed to the window, waving the rolled-up paper in the direction of the intruder.

The insect uttered a surprised bleep.

"You can see me?" it croaked and darted to the ceiling.

Merel felt as if somebody had removed the bones from her legs. She flopped into the overstuffed chair behind her, without losing sight of the creature, which slowly came down and landed on the windowsill, only an arm's length away from her.

Merel gazed at it. It was a little man, having the size and shape of a peanut shell, stuffed into overalls that shimmered like the scales of a rainbow trout.

He pulled a silvery backpack from his shoulders, dropped it on the ledge and sat down on it.

Scratching his forehead, he sighed.

"You can see me," he said in his squeaky voice. "What a mess."

TWO

Merel went around the corner onto Fernwood Lane. There it was: a grayish three-story building. Over the entrance door dangled an antique sign with the words The Black Owl engraved into its weather-worn metal. Even with her limited travel experience, Merel knew that most hotels had nice names like The White Swan or Golden Goose. Who would feel comfy in a Black Owl?

She had found the address in an old, mangled telephone directory on the bottom of the hall closet. Her father used to look things up for her on the internet. However, she had only seen him twice since that peculiar evening, and both times he had been in a rush. Not that she would have dared to ask him anyway.

Merel crossed the street. According to Hulda, she had been walking for over forty-five minutes. Merel adjusted the cloth strap over her shoulder. Through the woven cotton of her sling bag, she could feel its contents: the strong frame of her old alarm clock and, next to it, Roger's soft body. It was, at least, some comfort to have them with her.

Pretty weird to be out so late. Almost all the windows were dark, but Merel did not mind because she tried not to be noticed. So far, she had only seen two people hurrying away from her in the distance. A couple of cars had driven by, but none of them slowed down.

Merel stepped onto the sidewalk and came to a halt in front of the hotel's entrance: a solid wooden door with an old-fashioned brass doorknocker in the middle, an owl, of course. The amber glow of the streetlight reflected in the metal bird's eyes and its needle-sharp beak.

A chilled drop of sweat ran down the back of Merel's neck. It had been a warm mid-July day — not that she had been able to enjoy it. But now, she shivered in her thin clothes. Why didn't I bring a jacket?

Merel wore jeans and her favorite tee. Aunt Jenny had given it to her on her last birthday. 'I would trade my brother for a cupcake' was written on the front in fancy lettering, embroidered with pink and lime-green sequins. The adults had thought it such a funny joke.

Merel lifted her hand and pushed against the knob. The door opened in slow-motion.

She looked into the lobby. Two floor lamps, one standing on each side of a small sitting area, were the only source of light. Nobody lounged on the loveseat or the three bulky chairs, and although Merel couldn't tell what lurked in the corners, she had the impression that the space was deserted.

Merel slipped in and closed the heavy door. She dropped the street map, which she had sneaked out of her dad's bookshelf, on a narrow side table beside the entrance. From here on in, she would not need it anymore.

Merel moved towards the massive curved counter at the back of the room; the felt soles of her slippers made no sound on the thick carpet. In her hurry to leave, she had not thought about shoes. Merel frowned at her dusty footwear, but the two plush rabbit faces smiled back at her, undaunted.

She stopped at the dark wooden panelling rising in front of her like a fortress. She could hardly see over the greenish counter-top.

"Hello," Merel said. It came out as a hoarse whisper. Nobody answered. Her mouth was dry.

"Hello," a little bit louder. Nothing.

Merel chewed on her lower lip. If she could just get a hold of the tiny oddball who had persuaded her to come here. She recalled the strange exchange from three nights ago.

"Where is the violin?' the little man had asked while staring at her. His features reminded Merel of a grumpy tree frog. The speckled golden-brown eyes seemed to pop out of his head, and the wide, narrow-lipped mouth didn't smile.

Collecting all her courage, she answered, "None of your beeswax!"

"You're in big trouble," the little man said. "Show me the violin."

"How do you know I found one?" It was still in the pocket of her pajama top. She could feel its weight against her heart.

"I'm the only help you got, girl, so you better hurry up."

Merel's glance slid over the polished surface of the countertop. By a potted plant with tongue-like leaves crouched a spotty brass bell.

Reaching up, the underside of her wrist touched the marbled stone. She flinched: it was freezing cold. Merel lifted her hand and let it drop on the bell button. RING RING.

Behind the curtain to the left of the reception desk, feet shuffled. An elbow pushed the fabric away, and a man appeared. He wore a blue concierge uniform jacket, obviously closed in a hurry, because the buttons were fastened up wrong, and a white shirt peeped out from underneath.

The man was tall and skinny and, as far as Merel could see in the low light, his face looked gaunt.

"Yes," he mumbled, "what can I do for you?"

"I need a room for the night," answered Merel with the best confident voice she could muster. "Number eight, if possible."

"Sure," the man said, apparently not taken aback by the fact that a child was checking into his hotel after midnight and had special requests on top of it.

Merel gained courage. Although this guy was weird, so far things went as planned.

"Do I have to sign in?" Merel had seen her parents doing it on their last vacation, when there still had been only the three of them.

"Not necessary," mumbled the man. He spun around to a shelf behind him and snatched something out of it.

"What do I owe you?" Merel reached into the pocket of her jeans and touched the twenty-dollar bill that she had taken from her piggy bank. It was all the money she possessed, except for a handful of quarters which she had left on her desk. She prayed the rate would be that low.

The man banged a key on the green stone. "Don't bother," he said, bending over the counter, and for the first time he stared Merel straight in the face. "You will pay later."

Merel jumped backwards. His eyes! Sunken into their sockets. Overcast with shadows. There is no white in them!

"The elevator over there will take you to where you need to be." He took his gloomy gaze off Merel and pointed to the other side of the lobby.

"Have a good rest." The man's spindly body shook as if he was suppressing laughter. He vanished behind the curtain.

Merel picked up the key. As her fingertips touched the stone surface, its coldness sent another shiver through her spine.

On the key chain hung a little wooden owl with an eight carved in its belly. Merel sighed. I hope I don't have to meet this person again, she thought, as she walked over to the elevator and opened the metal door.

The blinding white ceiling light of the narrow cabin reflected in its polished steel walls. Noise crept out of the speaker in the corner, a high-pitched male singing voice growing louder like an approaching swarm of wasps.

Merel gasped.

No way am I taking this elevator. Room eight is surely on the first floor. There must be stairs. She looked around.

Yes. Just a little bit farther on the left, a large staircase spiralled upwards.

Merel let the elevator door shut: it closed with a shriek. Like an eerie echo, laughter rang out from behind the curtain at the reception desk, shrill as the scream of a hunting hawk.

Merel sprinted up the stairs. She coughed, darting down a long, gloomy corridor, counting the rooms: four, five, six, seven — there: eight! She pushed the key into the lock, turned it around, opened the door, and dashed inside. She slammed the thick wood and bolted it. With her back against the door, eyes closed, she drew a deep, deep breath.

Phew. Safe!

The inside of her lids was strangely orange. Merel blinked — somebody had left the light on.

They stared at her.

THREE

Owls! Merel exhaled. Two large ink drawings hung on each wall. Life-sized birds, crosshatched in black and white, with sharp beaks, thick feather coats, and shiny pinhead pupils that seemed to follow Merel's every move.

I think they are going overboard with the owl theme here. Are hotels not supposed to be pleasant and inviting?

The oddly shaped room had five walls instead of four. Probably so that they could hang up more owls.

A thick yellow curtain covered the only window. Two dark-red lounge chairs with frayed armrests and an end table huddled together in one corner, while a huge bed with carved head and foot boards hogged the middle of the room. Many unhappy letter writers had scratched the surface of the desk, and the battered dresser looked as if all its drawers were stuck. Over the gathering of mismatched furniture towered a dark-brown wardrobe.

Merel opened it: a couple of metal hangers dangled on the wooden bar. Would something happen if I go inside? She didn't like the idea.

"Pull yourself together. They're waiting for you," she whispered to herself. But, of course, she did not even know who they were.

Merel grabbed the wooden door and stepped inside the wardrobe. The door closed, and something touched her nose; her heart almost stopped. She lifted her hand: the stupid hangers! She pushed them away and got a hold of the bar. It's like standing in the subway. Could the train leave soon, please? Nothing happened. That's not it! Merel kicked the door open with the side of her right foot and jumped out.

He could have given me some better instructions.

"Go to the Black Owl and rent room eight," the little frog face had told her. "We will pick you up from there." However, she had not listened very well then.

Merel flicked a light switch next to the entrance door and peeked into the bathroom. It had a strange underwater feel to it, clad in blue tiles of different shades. A silverfish sprinted across the glazed aquamarine floor and vanished under the bottom of the pedestal sink.

The bathtub had claw feet. But at least, there aren't any owls in here.

Merel spotted her face in the mirror: white as the washbasin, and she had rings around her eyes. No owls except myself. No wonder Miss Gallagher had been concerned. Even her parents might have managed to notice it, if they didn't have to rush to the hospital with the little pest again this morning.

"Girl, you look pale," Miss Gallagher had said at the end of recess. "Such dark shadows under your eyes. Are you sick?" She had put her pretty hand on Merel's forehead. "No temperature, though. How do you feel? Shall I call your mother?"

"I'm okay," Merel answered, and a faint voice in her head whispered, this is how you look after three nights and days of being awake. "It's just a little hectic at home right now," she added for her teacher to hear.

Miss Gallagher had smiled at her and stroked Merel's hair. "I know it must be difficult for your family. But I'm sure he will get better soon. Don't worry, everything will be all right."

Miss Gallagher was really sweet, but nothing was just going to be all right. As Merel had understood it, everything was in fact terribly wrong, and she had to make it right — all by herself.

She switched the light off, returned to the main room and began a more thorough search, monitored by the silent wall owls.

After crawling under the bed, where she picked up a collection of dust balls on her jeans and shirt, checking behind the radiator, inspecting all the drawers of the dresser and the desk, and even lifting every unsettling bird picture, Merel felt exhausted.

She sat down on the bed, opened her sling bag, which was still strapped around her, and had a look at Hulda: 2:47! So late and still no clue about where this stupid gate might be. But it MUST exist. The little guy had been adamant about it.

Merel stretched out on the bed's thin comforter. Its cover had a faded pattern of twirling fern leaves. The texture gave her goosebumps. Could something happen now, please? She stared at the ceiling. The eight-armed chandelier crouched above her like a glass spider. I'm not closing my eyes. No way.

How she longed for a nap.

At first, she had not believed a word the strange nightly visitor had told her. Later, she even thought the whole encounter was another one of her bad dreams; although she had not been able to fall asleep after meeting him. The next day, she went to bed at sunset and stayed there petrified, the comforter pulled over her head, listening to the blood throbbing through her body until her mom knocked on the door and told her to get up and dressed.

The third endless time between dusk and dawn she had spent filling the blank spots in all her ancient coloring books, like a robot, till her favorite crayons were used up and her eyes burned. Hoping beyond hope her forehead would thud down on one of the smudged drawings of the silly creatures she had once loved so much. But it did not happen, and the morning sun had found her coloring Rainbow Dash's tail with granite gray.

"Hoo, hoo, try the key," somebody whispered.

Merel jolted up. Where's this voice coming from?

"Hoo, hoo, try the key."

The night table! The wooden owlet attached to the room key had spoken! And there, next to the key that had opened the door to room number eight, Merel noticed a silvery key that had not been there before. Or had she just not paid attention? It was tiny and shimmering, with a long cylindrical shaft and a small tooth at the end. Where could it fit?

"Do you know where the gate is?" Merel asked the wooden bird, but the owl had closed its eyes and clammed up.

With the key in her hand, Merel looked around. She had to find this door! She had to go through if she ever wanted to sleep again.

Merel blinked. Something happened to her vision. The air was like a smeared glass pane. Streaks of red and yellow, white and indigo flew by in a hurry. She gazed at the two light-gray chairs and the gray curtain: Something is sucking the colors out of the room! Merel's teeth pinched her tongue.

But what is it? Where do they go?

She turned her head. Radiance surrounded the foot board, beating like a living heart, growing bigger and bigger by absorbing the colors.

Her lips let out a clipped scream. Could the carved rectangle be the gate?

Merel crawled over to the end of the bed, close to the pulsating glow. She glanced at the key she held and back at the light. Her fingers tingled.

The brightness flowed towards her and wrapped itself around her body like a shimmering armor, but she kept her eyes fixed on the wooden board. To the right appeared a gleaming lock. Merel tried to steady her trembling hand.

The moment the key touched the lock, it jumped into the hole and turned around by itself.

Merel grabbed her bag and hugged Hulda and Roger.

The inside of the foot board disappeared. A squeaky voice exclaimed, "About time you showed up!" and then two brawny arms reached out of the wooden frame and pulled her through.

FOUR

"Here she is, Morph," said the giant with a pleased smile.

Merel was used to tall people; her dad was tall, much taller than her friends' fathers. However, this guy topped them all, from the button on his cap to the bucket-like boots in the purple grass. The color of the giant's friendly eyes blended in with the wide sky behind him: light-blue with a hue of lavender and the softness of pastel chalk.

Warm air flowed through Merel's hair, and through the casual rows of slender trees that grew all around; their bark a glossy gray, unsteady as water streaming over pebbles on the bottom of a shallow brook.

Sprinkled in-between the oblong leaves were silver-white blossoms, shaped like dandelion seed heads, dainty as snowflakes.

A sassy breeze flung the silky tulle into the air — and Merel watched tiny ballet skirts spin around; jauntily, gracefully, in a merry dance.

She threw up both arms, stretching herself to catch one of them, and felt something at her waist: fingers. The big guy held her as if she weighed no more than a newborn kitten.

"Welcome, little moppet," he said, "I'm Lollipo." The multicolored freckles on his cheeks rearranged themselves and spelled his name. Merel burst into giggles.

"What a cute thing she is. Don't you agree, Morph?" the giant asked glancing towards his left shoulder. On it sat a teeny winged man in shiny overalls.

Merel recognized his face. She had met him in her living room three days ago. He had not bothered to introduce himself then. So his name was Morph.

"Enough with the niceties now," he said and slapped away one of the dancing parachutes that tried to land in his lap.

He gave Merel a sharp look. "Where were you?" he asked.

"I... I..."

"What took you so long?" His tiny fingers pounded his tiny knees.

"I... I'm sorry, but it was difficult," whispered Merel. She didn't intend to tell him that she had wasted three days making up her mind about what to do; all by herself, with nobody available to ask for advice. No easy task for someone who even needed time to decide between an apple fritter and a walnut crunch in her dad's favorite coffee shop. Not that he had taken her there lately.

"I told Estella that it's urgent." Morph's frog eyes bulged.

"And who on earth is Estella?" asked Merel, a bit flabbergasted.

"The woman in the hotel, who brought you to room eight and showed you the gate. Remember?" he answered in a mocking tone.

Merel wrinkled her forehead. "There was no woman in the hotel."

Morph's eyelids fluttered like the heartbeat of a frightened bird. "But... who... where...how?" Now he stammered.

"I only met this thin guy at the reception desk," Merel said, "and let me tell you, he had really weird eyes, like murky puddles."

Morph flew up as if poked by a hot pin.

Merel felt the giant's fingers gripping her. His freckles turned red.

"Oh, Morph," he whispered, "that was him."

Riding on Lollipo's shoulders was by far the most fun thing she had done in a long, long time. He had tickled her too, in all the super-ticklish spots, like behind her right knee, which only her father knew.

They strolled across orchards full of trees shimmering like hummingbird wings and passed through a string of villages with pretty wooden houses painted in all colors of the rainbow, flags and bunting waving from rooftops and balconies.

Lollipo skipped and jumped, and Merel bounced and bobbed and couldn't stop giggling. Her legs twined around Lollipo's fleshy neck, she had to grab onto his shirt collar when he leaped high. But she felt as if she could touch the sky.

A couple of times, the bunny slippers dropped off her feet, and Morph retrieved them, sour-faced, but she and Lollipo just laughed at him.

When Lollipo took off his huge cap with the yellow polka-dots, Merel discovered that his bushy hair was cotton candy. It tasted great. And in his left shirt pocket, he carried a secret supply of yogurt gums, the ones with peach and mango flavors that Merel used to play-fight with her mother for.

"I'm awfully sorry to spoil your fun," Morph squeaked, "but can we hurry up a bit?"

"Have some mercy on her, Morph," said Lollipo and stopped, "she deserves a break. She has to gather some energy for what's before her."

Merel sat straight; the joy was gone. What's before her? What is before me? She took a deep breath. I'm not here to be entertained. Even if I never have any fun again, at least, I want to nap once in a while.

She knew what lay behind her: the worst three days of her life. School had resembled a monkey house. She had slouched at the desk, resting her heavy head in her hands, unable to answer the easiest questions.

At home, Blue's screaming was ear-splitting, even her mother's sighs as loud as a slamming door. It had been like watching TV with Greatma Alice, who always cranked up the volume to the max because she refused to get a hearing aid.

And now my fate is in the hands of a grumpy elf and a giant with edible hair. Merel sighed. The sooner I start, the sooner it will be over.

"What do I have to do?" she asked.

Morph landed right on the button of Lollipo's cap. He shook his tiny index finger at her. "You will have to find your personal sleep, return the violin to him, and beg him to play for you again."

"Okay," said Merel. "Where do I go to speak with him?"

"He lives with the others in Lullabye Grove," said Lollipo and craned his neck to see her face.

"And how do I find this place?"

"You will have to ask your way through," answered Morph.

"Which direction is it?"

"I don't know," said Morph and shrugged his tiny round shoulders. "I've never been there."

"And he might not be home, anyway," whispered Lollipo's huge lips close to her knee.

"So how can I find him then?" Merel rolled her eyes. "Wherever he is." This was like eating soup with a fork.

"You will have to ask," Morph repeated.

Merel felt tears coming to her eyes. I should have stayed home.

"So, Morph, let me see if I understand this," she said and swallowed. "First you scare me, then you make me go to that freaky hotel, then you bring me here — and I don't even know where I am — and now you have no plan?" Her hollering almost blew Morph off Lollipo's cap.

"Well, it's the best plan we have, Merel," said Lollipo and offered her another yogurt gum.

"No thanks!" Merel shook her head. "Put me down, you big twerp."

Lollipo placed her on the ground. The corners of his gentle mouth curved downwards and twitched. All happy colors had vanished from his freckles.

Morph swooshed around his head in a tizzy. Morph! Had he not told her that he was her only help?

"You two are absolutely useless," Merel cried out, hands on her hips. "You, my only help? Your help is no help!"

I can find this Lullabye Cove or Grove by myself. She would track down her sleep and make him play for her again. Merel pulled her sling bag tight and felt Hulda ticking. Or was it her heart?

"I can do it without you!" She turned around and stomped away.

"Oh, Merel, don't leave like that," Lollipo sighed behind her.

The path led uphill now. Stubby meadows hemmed both sides of the narrow trail, reminding Merel of the bristles her father grew on his chin on the weekend. She disliked his day-off-look, but right now, she longed to cuddle with him, hedgehog or not.

She bent down and brushed her hand over the tips of the grass. The dry blades prodded against her palm as if they minded the touch. Merel drew back her arm. What a strange place this is.

Although, she preferred these crabby weeds to rambling through the stupid orchards. Soon after leaving Lollipo and Morph, the enchanting scenery had changed to a lumpy brown as if someone had slung a giant shovel of mud over the happy gardens. Merel had hurried through the dreary countryside, only to enter even more ghastly plantations with trees like shadows cast on asphalt, their foliage and bloom resembling roosts of scruffy crows.

Merel had felt as forlorn as on the day when she found her mother in the school parking lot, slumped over the Volvo's steering wheel, mascara running down her cheeks.

To make things worse, she had not encountered a single person while walking by herself. Not even one possibility to ask somebody.

Merel looked around: behind her hazy plains, in front of her a rocky knoll. The afternoon sun stood low. Would she have to spend the night out here?

She heard a sequence of growls coming from under the letters on her belly. No wonder, except for Lollipo's candy, I haven't eaten anything since supper. And it had only been a simple ham and cheese sandwich, jumbled up by her mother in between giving Blue a bath, his special massage, and medication. Merel had nibbled at the core, repulsed by the wilted edges of the meat.

"Oh, if I could just have a plate of Mom's curry chicken stew." She had to do without a lot these days. Nobody cared if she got a proper meal, not to mention a decent birthday party. Blue had just come home a week before she turned eight, and her secret hope for a sleep-over with her friends Hannah and Greer had been as illusory as expecting a living unicorn for a present.

The track got steeper, and pearls of sweat popped up on Merel's nose. She gazed towards the top of the hill.

On a plateau, a little above her, she saw a group of small people flinging objects to the ground, like children tossing marbles. It was one of her favorite games. She never shied away from playing for keeps. Her wins were stored under her bed in one of Granjo's cigar boxes. Merel loved the turquoise cat eyes best and the strawberry-red solids with the milky swirls.

She smiled. Maybe I can join them and have some fun. And, of course, ask for the way.

One of the children spotted her. Merel waved.

"Princess Pea, there she comes!" one of them shouted, and they all chortled.

Merel stopped.

A plump guy with frizzy copper hair lifted his arm and hurled something at her: a tiny gray-green ball. It was not heavy, but there came another one and another one, they all were throwing them now.

A shower of light-weight bullets bounced off her body. Peas, these were peas. They pelted her with dried peas.

"Hey, that's nasty. Stop it!" Merel held up her arms in defense.

"Na na, na NA na! Princess Pea is mad at us," yelled one of the group.

"I guess Humpty Dumpty is up for a great fall," bawled another.

"Why are you so mean?" Merel hollered.

The little people snickered. Out of their pockets, they pulled pointy green hats and put them on. They picked up jars from the ground and emptied the content downhill while they chanted with mocking voices: "And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put her together again." Cackling loudly, they ran up the hill and vanished over the top.

What was that? Merel wondered, frozen to the spot.

Something moved towards her, a green wave. She gasped — peas, an avalanche of peas. Already the bunny faces on her feet were drowned by the gush of legumes.

It was a bit like being in one of the ball pits she had loved to go to when she was four or five, only with much smaller balls, and definitely less fun. With the murmur of faraway thunder, the wobbly mass flowed down, pushing against her shins, and a sly undertow licked at her naked ankles.

I need something to hold onto. Merel searched for a tree to climb or a bluff to hide under, but this green slide offered no branches or rocks to cling to, only shifting ground; bubbly, pebbly pea soup, flooding downward with a mighty rustling. She had to get up the hill, out of this jostling landscape, right now.

Merel put a foot forward and spread out her arms, but hardly kept her balance. Her weight could not grind the unruly scree. The ground kept moving. She felt small bumps rumbling under the soles of her slippers. Every touch an unwanted tickle, an unexpected nudge from someone you dislike.

She staggered, a scream stuck in her throat. She slipped and fell on her back; her sling bag slapped her on the mouth. Dry pellets spurted all around her.

Green, everything was green. Green like the gruel that clogged Blue's airways.

"Get up! Get up!" Merel yelled at herself, and a pea jumped on her tongue. She spat it out and pressed her lips together.

Her hands and feet paddled in the squally sea of peas. She tried to lift herself up, at least to turn around and crawl on all fours, but instead, the globules slipped inside her shirt collar and up the legs of her jeans, slithering over her skin.

The seething current encircled Merel. Like an army of green ants, it took her captive and carried her on its backs, sweeping downhill with a triumphant roar.

Her head spinning from swirling in the walloping whirl, Merel saw glimpses of orange and pink. Peas flew up everywhere like missiles into the setting sun. And then it got dark.

FIVE

Merel's limbs tingled and her head felt dizzy. Did I bang it somewhere? Or has my brain been exchanged for a bee hive? Yet the hoarse humming she heard did not come from inside her. Sounds like my brother. Merel sighed. I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing. Have they even noticed that I'm gone?

The rattling grew louder, and her body vibrated as if she rested on the back of a sleeping animal.

Where am I now? I don't want to open my eyes. She grabbed her bag with both hands. Roger's fur gave way to her squeeze. Merel counted Hulda's beats until the rhythm of her heart slowed down.

She squinted into the darkness, and it gained shape. A long, narrow plank was fastened parallel to the thing her body lay on.

She cranked her neck to spot what hid behind her head: a wall. And the side to her left seemed boarded up too.

Is this a chest? How did I get in here?

She turned her head to the right and something touched her cheek. Merel winced: an itchy wool blanket. But at least, this side was open. She pushed herself up and sat straight in the strange berth; her feet could hardly reach the floor.

She tried to make sense of her surroundings: a narrow cabin with a door on the one side and a large window with rounded corners on the other.

I know what this is. A sleeper coach. I'm on a train — and I'm not alone!

Opposite to her, in the lower bunk, lay a man wearing a suit and dress shoes.

Grown-ups sleeping in their clothes, I've seen enough of that lately. But at least, somebody I can ask. There must be a lamp here somewhere.

Merel stepped over to the door and found a switch. A small bulb on the ceiling purred, reluctantly dispensing a Halloween pumpkin glow. Merel sighed and turned back towards the man.

He was elderly, his facial skin as furrowed as the trunk of the big ash that grew in Grandma Josie's backyard. Yet his contours were fuzzy like in a faded black-and-white photograph.

Merel flinched backwards. The old man had opened his eyes. He did not move, though, or notice her.

"Excuse me, sir." Merel pulled his left cuff. The man's lips pursed, but he remained silent.

Merel pushed against his elbow; it wobbled like jelly. Doesn't he have bones?

"Please wake up, sir."

The man shivered and started singing, "Sleep, baby, sleep . . ." His voice faded in and out, barely audible, "your father tends the sheep, your mother shakes the dreamland tree, and from it . . ."

"Wake up!" shouted Merel.

The old man trembled, and then he rose in a sluggish way as if he had forgotten how to use his body and had to think hard about every move before performing it.

". . . do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby, care is heavy, therefore sleep you, you are care, and care must keep you . . ."

What an odd person. Is he hypnotized or something? Merel squirmed as she felt the hairs on her arms stand up. I have never seen anybody like him before. Maybe he is a sleepwalker.

The fabric and color of his suit resembled a thick layer of dust. The collars of the long jacket and the shirt underneath stood upright. He also wore a vest. It had a little pocket with a chain coming out of it that snaked up to one of the vest's buttons.

"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock . . ."

An old-fashioned outfit, not at all comparable to how her father looked in a suit: sharp. Her mother also used to dress up — in her crisp white blouses and her beautiful pearl necklace. Of course, she had still worked part-time in the agency then, before the little creep arrived. These days, she was hardly able to change her dirty jeans and T-shirt, and she always reeked of Blue's slime.

Merel wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Mr. Slow Motion continued to rise.

"How long will that take?" Merel groaned and sat down in her berth. The man showed no reaction; he just mumbled his monotonous song.

"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all." The cobwebby threads on his head moved as if stirred by a breeze, and somehow his whole body seemed covered by gauze or mildew.

A memory formed in Merel's mind, unbidden: Her grandparents' cottage garden. Hot afternoons in late August. Harvesting the hedges at the back fence. Granjo hacking new trails for her into the brambles while she loaded sweet fruit into her bucket and mouth, purple stains spreading all over her hands. Then, from one week to the other, the lovely blackberries had been overgrown with a whitish rot. "Darn pests," Granjo had said. "Sorry, Merry, I guess the season is over." It had been the last time she talked to him, only a couple of days before he —

"Hush-a-bye baby," the old man whispered. He finally sat in an upright position on the opposite bunk bed.

The sight of his face made Merel feel sad. Was he mourning?

She tried to catch his faded eyes but couldn't. It's like they are transparent. Yes, that's it! I can see the stripes of the wallpaper behind him — through his head!

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird . . ."

"Mister!" Merel's fingernails dug into her palms. "Please, I need some answers! Do you know if this train is going to Lullabye Grove?"

For a moment, his misty gaze fell upon Merel. "I thought so once, but I'm no longer sure," he said, "and if that mockingbird won't sing . . ."

"Stop singing!" Merel hollered at the top of her lungs.

"Pardon me," said the old man. "I try to sing myself to sleep." He sighed. "But it doesn't work."

"How did you get here?"

"That's a long story. When I was a young man, full of hopes and aspirations, I had a wife and a child then, you know. I tried to work my way up, make a living, get ahead . . ." The old man's voice drifted off, and his head sank into the suit.

"Stay with me," Merel shouted. Just my luck. Will the first person who has some knowledge vanish in front of my eyes? How shall I ever sleep again?

The old man's head reappeared like the head of a turtle from inside its shell.

"I worked and worked day and night," he whispered. "And then one evening, very late, I found something curious sitting on my desk. From then on . . ." His voice trailed off again, but his pale fingers reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out — a little silver violin.

Merel stared at it. It's like mine!

"It's pretty, isn't it?" said the old man with a faint smile. "You may take it. I have no use for it anymore." He bent forward and laid it on the bed, next to Merel's thigh. "And, by the way, my name is Gavin." He kept his arm stretched out in front of her.

"Thank you," Merel said slowly. "Nice to meet you, Gavin. I'm Merel." She took the old man's pale hand into hers, not daring to press or shake it. Through his knuckles, she could see the creases in her own palm.

Merel shuddered. Now she had two violins but still no helpful information whatsoever. When I find my sleep, maybe he can do something for Gavin too. She zipped her sling bag open and put the violin on Roger's furry back, knowing her own one was safely stored in a tissue under his belly. She closed the bag.

"Thank you," she said again, looking at the old man when a thought punched her in the stomach. What if I never find my sleep? Will I end up like Gavin?

The door opened with a harsh clatter. Brightness entered, as blinding as the beam of a searchlight.

"Tickets, please." A skinny man in a blue uniform appeared. A metal hole punch gleamed in his left hand.

"Has somebody here recently boarded the train?" The conductor glanced at Gavin and smirked. "I've seen you before."

He turned to Merel, "And what about you?"

Merel broke out in a sweat. "I . . . have no ticket . . . I . . ."

"Do you think you can be here without paying?" The conductor looked her straight in the face.

Merel cringed: It was him! The receptionist with the shadow eyes! And now she could see why they were so dark. Not only were there circles around them as if drawn with charcoal, but countless tiny veins crouched next to each other all over his eyeballs like red maggots. He must have rubbed them an awful lot.

"Oh," the conductor said, a tinge of joy in his voice, "it's you!" He held his puncher in her face; it almost touched her nose. The metal smelled of muddy soil.

Merel stared at the long hairs on the back of the conductor's hand: pitch black and dense. He pushed the lever down. The tiny bladed cylinder smacked as if licking its lips.

Merel gasped. Does he want to pierce my nostril?

"What a nice surprise," hissed the conductor.

"I . . . I could buy a t-ticket."

"Don't bother with such formalities." His right hand flashed forward, stringy fingers seizing her wrist. "You will come with me."

"Leave me alone!" Merel wriggled her arm. "Gavin, help me!"

Quivering like sheer curtains in a sudden draft, Gavin tried to lift himself up, but a quick push from the conductor's elbow shoved the old man's feeble frame back to the bed.

"He can't help you — nobody can." Without another word, the conductor dragged Merel through the door and down the brightly lit corridor.

She stumbled behind him, her sling bag swinging. Hulda's pointy legs poked into her belly.

Merel fell and slid on her knees, but the conductor hauled her up with a quick jerk as if she was nothing but a sack of rags.

Thoughts tumbled through her head. How did this terrible guy get here? I see the weird white shirt coming out under his jacket. Where is he taking me?

"Let me go! You are hurting my arm!" Merel yelped, but he didn't look back; he just pulled harder.

"Help! Help me! Somebody help me, pleeeeeeease!" Merel grasped a railing by the window, but another brief yank made her sweaty fingers slip off.

"Forget it," the conductor snarled. "You are not getting away from me twice, girl!"

As they came to the end of the car, Merel could see the doors. A shiver went through the train. For a moment, the conductor seemed irritated and slowed down.

Merel grabbed the handle of the outside door. I have to get out of here! She bent forward, and with all her might, she bit into the hairy hand holding her wrist.

"Aaaoooouuuwww!" The conductor let go of her.

Merel spun towards the door. Whatever is out there is better than staying here.

She clawed her fingers behind the stiff latch and pulled. It sprang open. A gust of frigid air hit her face and zinged through her hair. She glimpsed over to the conductor. He crouched, ready to pounce.

Merel jumped on the small outside stair and stepped off the train into the night.

SIX

"Ouch!" — "Hey!" — "Sorry." — "Huh?" — "Ooh!" — "Who's that?"

"Let me light the candle." A flame appeared in the dark and illuminated the surprised face of a young woman.

"Are you an angel?" asked the girl in a white nightgown who cowered next to the woman. Her similar features displayed even greater astonishment. Both wore ruffled sleeping caps over carefully plaited hair.

"Don't talk rubbish, Anni," said somebody behind Merel's back. "Look, she has no wings."

The speaker was a boy, maybe ten or eleven years old. A sleep crease meandered on his left cheek, and all around his head, curls thrust out as if they had a mind of their own.

"But she fell from the sky, Pippo, into our bed," said the girl to the boy, twirling her honey-colored braid in her fingers. "Maybe she's a bird then?"

She dropped her hair, reached out and touched one of the sequins on Merel's shirt, which shimmered like gold leaf in the candle light.

"A fate I wouldn't wish her," said the boy and snorted.

"Hello," said the woman, who had rediscovered her voice, "my name is Seppa, and these are my children." She placed the candle holder on the wooden nightstand and extended her arm.

"I'm Merel."

The woman's hand was warm and soft.

"Anni, Pippo! Where are your manners?"

The admonished girl blushed and smiled, but the boy yawned like a young lion.

"This is my little one." The woman beamed and produced a baby from under a blanket. "His name is Pim. Do you want to hold him?" She handed the infant over to a startled Merel.

"And you two, wherever she came from, she looks tired and surely needs a good rest," the woman said. "Let's talk in the morning. Lie down now. Good night."

She blew out the candle.

For a while there was shuffling of limbs, sighing and yawning, until they lay tightly packed all over like a litter of puppies. Barely noticing the heel against her knee or the elbow nudging her shoulder blade, Merel curled up in the dark with the warm bundle in her arms, all surprise and awe. Never before in her whole life did she hold a baby.

Blue had to stay in the hospital for many weeks after he was born. Merel had only visited him once. Her tiny, wrinkled brother lay in a glass box with cables and tubes going back and forth. Busy people in white coats worked on machines with blinking lights. When Blue finally came home, he was like a raw egg. Not somebody to cuddle with.

Baby Pim burped. Merel pushed her bag to the side to make more room for him. Pim rubbed his head against her collarbone. He smelled sweet — like apple pie. Her lips touched his velvet hair. One of his fists bumped against her chin. She took his arm and laid it on her chest, her fingers wrapped around his chubby wrist.

Pim was so sturdy, and Blue so thin. He never seemed to gain any weight. Sometimes her mother put him on the baby scale twice a day. Though, of course, it was not his fault that he was sick.

Maybe he would improve with the new therapy. Her parents had told her so. He could get much better — in a year or two.

Pim burped again.

How weird. How amazing. How did I get here? Merel remembered how she had fallen backward into the night. The train had passed her with a deep sighing sound, and briefly, she saw Gavin standing in one of the gleaming white windows, waving to her.

Merel listened to the breathing surrounding her: so peaceful, so steady. Almost as enjoyable as being asleep herself. Tenderly holding Pim, she snuggled deeper into the bed. Ouch. There was something prickly in the pillow — it seemed to be stuffed with straw.

The morning sun spun gold across the countryside. Merel perched next to Pippo on a bale of hay at the rear of the horse cart and enjoyed the view. The day looked promising. Could it be that Lullabye Grove was nearer than she thought and her weird journey would soon come to a satisfying end?

The side of the cart brushed past a hedge of blossoming bushes and the dew raining down on her face from the leaves and white umbels smelled fresh and sweet like a new beginning. Merel smiled.

Even though she had been the only one to spend a sleepless night, she was as bright-eyed and jaunty as the others who crawled out from under the sheets when a rooster crowed at dawn.

"Get up, chickies," Pippo had shouted and tickled Anni. And Anni tickled Seppa. Seppa tickled Merel and Merel tickled Pim. The ensuing pillow fight left them breathless and flushed, with pieces of straw stuck in their hair.

"Go and wash yourselves," Seppa ordered, smiling from ear to ear, and shooed them out of the house.

Pippo and Anni ran through the open backdoor towards the pump, Merel behind them carrying Pim, and they all still laughed as they stood at the stone trough, bathed in the early sunlight, splashing each other with ice-cold well water.

Merel was confident that a day beginning with such happy noise could only bring good things.

"Trod on, Gravy" shouted Pippo's father, who sat at the front of the cart, holding the reins. "We want to be there before the king has his after-lunch nap."

The mare neighed as if he had told her a good joke and picked up pace. She had already drawn them past farms and cottages, through patches of oak forest and fields of waving grain.

Pippo had been in charge of putting on the harness, and before they said goodbye, Anni showed Merel how to decorate Gravy's braids with fragrant Sweet Peas that grew at the fence of Seppa's radish bed.

They had hugged at the garden gate as if she was a sister and not a stranger who had appeared in their bedroom like a ghost. Pim clung to her neck and whined when she handed him back to his mother, who gave her a kiss on the forehead and called her brave child.

Merel waved to them, all the way down the unpaved track across the field until a row of elm trees hid them from her eyes.

Seppa had also prepared a packed lunch. Merel patted the lid of the large wicker basket sitting between her and Pippo. Stacked under the woven willow twigs were palm-sized meat pies, butter scones, small bottles of well water flavored with blackberry and sage, red-cheeked apples and tiny yellow cheeses that looked like golden coins.

Merel could hardly wait to sample every item in the basket, although her stomach was full and breakfast had been scrumptious. Even now, she still tasted a faint sweetness in her mouth.

When they had come back inside from their morning wash and a visit to the rabbit hutches, the house smelled of wood stove and freshly-baked rye bread. Anni and Pippo took off to get dressed, leaving Merel to follow her nose to the kitchen, where she found Seppa cracking eggs into a skillet.

"Tuck Pim in there," she said and pointed to a highchair at the end of a massive rectangular dining table in the room's center. She wiped her fingers on her striped pinafore and handed Merel a drying towel. "And please make him a bib." Reaching toward a knife block, Seppa pulled out the biggest blade and started cutting strips off a slab of bacon.

Merel carried her load to the wooden highchair and gently pushed the little boy against the acorn-collecting squirrels carved into the chair's backrest. While she pulled the tray over Pim's head, she thought of the cardboard box that had established itself over the last two months as a familiar obstacle next to the hall stand. An assembly kit for a banana-yellow plastic high chair. Almost every day, she bumped her toes or elbow against it when she came back from school.

Pim giggled. He caught a streak of her hair in his tiny fist and started sucking on it. Merel wrestled it out of his fingers and gave him a wooden spoon from the table to play with while she tied the ends of the drying towel together behind his neck.

"Thank you, Merel," Seppa said. She stood at the sink, a copper kettle in her hand. "Do you like rose hip tea?"

Merel nodded and sat down on the bench next to Pim.

Seppa pushed the handle of the pump and water gushed out of its spout. She filled the kettle and put it on one of the six hot plates of the bulky stove that crouched against the wall like a friendly black beetle. Its armored body had doors of various sizes on the front and sides. Tiny curved feet carried the metal construction without a sign of exhaustion. The sink was equally baffling: a round wooden tub with an enamel basin.

Merel had never seen a place like this. None of the families she knew had such a kitchen. They all looked the same: uniform fronts of white, beige or wood with lots of stainless steel. Here, however, every cupboard and buffet, each cabinet and shelf had a different size and shape, and the color of their paint hadn't mattered to anybody as long as it was a shade of green. Basil and celery, mint and lime, as if they were not tattered pieces of furniture but plants growing side by side in a kitchen garden.

On the white-washed stone walls hung pans and pots, colanders and pie forms, whisks and ladles, skimmers and spatulas, and many other tools and instruments Merel had no idea what to call, let alone what their purpose might be.

She heard the floor-boards creak under Seppa's worn lace-up boots as she moved back and forth between a bubbling pot on the stove and her work table, where she peeled and sliced a pile of cold potatoes. Behind her, strings with drying apple rings crisscrossed the room like party garlands.

Through the small panes of the kitchen window, the morning scattered a million freckles of sunlight all over the sea shell collection on the ledge, the glass jars with nuts and grains, the stoneware jars with who knew what, Pim's sweet face, his busy mother, the walls, the floor. Some of them even reached the plants on the ceiling.

Merel looked up into the bundles of herbs and dried wildflowers above her head, hanging from the timber beams like an upside-down summer meadow.

Could I not just stay here? Maybe, if Seppa adopts me.

The boiling water steamed out of the kettle's snout. Pfeeeeeeee!

Pim, who had fallen asleep in his high chair, woke up with a gurgle and started banging his wooden spoon on the tray in front of him. Only moments later, Anni and Pippo burst through the door, both trying to out-whistle the kettle and each other.

Seppa shook her head and took the piper off the burner. "Pippo, please put a couple of logs on the fire. Anni, please get the blurridge ready."

Merel watched Seppa making tea while her son and daughter performed their chores around the beetle stove. Then, Anni came over to the table with a serving bowl and started spooning its content onto wooden dishes. She handed one to Pippo, who had just sat down next to Merel.

"Would you like some blurridge, Merel?" Anni held out a plate towards her. The blob on it was a light shade of periwinkle blue.

"Ahm, thank you," Merel said and took it.

Anni and Pippo dug into their food.

Merel stared at the mush on her spoon. Her brain recommended caution, while her stomach demanded to give it a try. Come on, you have eaten giant's hair.

She allowed the tip of her tongue to touch the stuff. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Is this safe or will it make me sick? This is not the real world. Although, I wish it were. Everybody is so nice and happy.

Next to her, Pim poked his thumbs into the bowl of blurridge on his tray and chortled. And healthy.

"Merel, is something wrong?" Seppa wrinkled her forehead. Pippo and Anni stared at Merel, their jaws still chewing.

"No, everything's fine. It tastes great," Merel said and stuffed the spoon in her mouth: porridge — porridge and blueberries. It was real food! And it did taste great, sweet and milky, with tender nubs of apple and a touch of cinnamon. She cleaned her plate in no time.

"A hearty appetite." Seppa laughed, careful not to spill the contents of the teapot she held. "I like to see that." She poured pinkish liquid into glazed mugs and handed them out. "Do you have room for more?"

Merel nodded.

Seppa took away the empty serving bowl and returned with a chopping board. On it lay a huge loaf of bread with crust like tree bark. After cutting off generous slices, Seppa covered them with thick layers of butter and shiny dark-brown honey that smelled of pine cones. "Merel, do you think you could feed Pim?" Seppa came over and cleaned her younger son's smeared fingers with his bib. "He's just making a mess."

Merel grabbed Pim's spoon. She lifted a dollop of blurridge up to his mouth and prayed this would be easier than feeding Blue — her mom always had such a hard time getting him to eat anything.

Pim stuck out his tongue and welcomed his food with a giggle. This is easy. The next spoonful vanished in Pim's smiling mouth. His little hands drummed on the tray in delight. And fun!

Merel bit into the piece of bread with honey Seppa had put on her plate — how sweet — and continued to fill Pim's mouth while she listened to Anni and Pippo discussing what to name the newborn Lop-eared rabbit kits.

Seppa continued to work at the stove, greasing pans and filling them with the eggs and potatoes she had prepared earlier. Soon, the smell of sizzling bacon filled the room.

Merel had just delivered the last drop of blurridge into a smiling Pim when the kitchen door opened, and a bearded man in working overalls strode in.

He threw his cap on a peg by the apple garlands, smacked a kiss on Seppa's cheek and slumped down on the chair at the head of the table.

"Good morning, family," he said.

"Good morning, Dad," Anni and Pippo replied.

"This is my husband, Benno." Seppa pointed at the man with the egg turner she held in her hand. "He was on night shift."

Benno looked over at Merel and said, "And who do we have here?"

"My name is Merel, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." She gave him her sweetest smile.

"Welcome." He took a sip of the strong-smelling black coffee Seppa had placed in front of him.

"How come a little lady like you is traveling alone?" His ivy-green eyes examined her over his cup.

Does he think I'm an overnight guest or something? Merel hoped none of the others was going to mention her strange arrival at the house.

She shoved her feet deep under the table. Nobody traveled in bunny slippers; she didn't want Benno to notice them.

"Because I have — a problem with my sleep," Merel answered and chewed on her bread. And that's not a lie.

"Then you should talk to his majesty," said Seppa. She took the large iron pan off the stove and placed it on a wooden board. "Our king, Marmott II, is an excellent sleeper. He uses only the finest feathers for his pillows. This is why he has such a royal rest."

"Yup, he sure has," hooted Pippo. "He never gets out of his pajamas."

"Don't talk like this about our King in my house." Benno gave Pippo a stern look.

At least he is distracted from me now, Merel thought.

"But Father —"

"Stop it, Pippo! Pay respect to our benevolent ruler!" Benno took the plate with eggs, hash browns and bacon Seppa held out to him. "That smells lovely, my sweetheart." He started buttering a piece of bread.

Pippo leaned over to Merel. "Benevolent, I could laugh my butt off," he said under his breath.

Merel suppressed a smile and turned to Anni.

"It must be great to have an older brother."

"Well, not really," Anni answered with a mischievous side-glance at Pippo. "It's sure nice, though," she added and ruffled Pim's thin blond hair, "to have a younger brother."

Pippo threw a bread crust at her. They laughed.

Merel's throat felt narrow.

"By the way," she mumbled, "has anyone of you ever heard of a place called Lullabye Grove?"

"Is that where you're going?" said Benno and gave her a quizzical look. "What's your business there?"

Merel coughed.

"Sorry, sir," she said after a while, "a crumb went the wrong way. I'm hoping to meet somebody there."

"Well," said Benno, "I don't know of a village with that name around here. But if you want to see the King, I could take you to the palace with Gravy and the cart. I have a day off and can go to bed later."

He lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. "The first reception is at eleven," he said while chewing.

"His Majesty is no early riser," whispered Pippo, and Anni chuckled.

Pippo's elbow prodding into her side brought Merel back to the present. "Hey, where are you?"

"Oh, sorry, what did you say?"

"I said — the King is a selfish creep," Pippo mumbled, glancing over his shoulder towards Benno, who whistled a cheerful tune.

Pippo pointed at a gaggle of geese on a meadow nearby. "Look over there. That's a great example."

The birds were somehow different than other geese Merel had seen before.

"In case you are wondering what's wrong with them," whispered Pippo, "they're naked. That's how fowl look around here."

Merel gazed at them.

"My father works in one of the pillow factories, but at least he's not in the plucking section," Pippo said. "Only the finest feathers are good enough for his majesty," he added in a sweetish tone, obviously mimicking his mother.

"For sure," he continued in his own voice, "he keeps the best stuff for himself. The rest gets exported. The brand name is Golden Slumbers. Just in case you want to know what not to buy."

"They have knitted sweaters on," said Merel, still looking at the geese.

"Yes, we try to clothe them, particularly in winter. The women use the leftover wool and yarn they have. But there are so many needy birds, we can't keep up with it."

"But how do they fly?" asked Merel, unable to take her eyes off the uncommonly dressed-up fowl.

"Well, they can't. What do you think?" Pippo snorted. "I pity any bird that is stupid enough to cross over the border into this wretched country."

He lowered his voice again. "As far as I'm concerned, King Marmott doesn't need to wake up ever again."

SEVEN

Merel's bunny slippers reverently touched the plushy red carpet as she and Pippo ascended the giant staircase, enclosed by a large amount of other visitors who had come to see the King. The master of ceremonies had given them all a lengthy instruction on how to address his majesty appropriately.

Creep or not, Merel thought, if Marmott II is such an expert in sleeping, he must know where I can find Lullabye Grove.

"There he is," said Pippo, as everybody entered the enormous bed chamber through a double door that reached up to the high ceiling, "King Marmott II in all his glory."

In a massive four poster bed at the other side of the lofty room sat, tucked into a mountain of cushions, a gigantic groundhog, eyes shut, and snoring like a singing saw. Merel had once seen a man on television playing a saw like a violin. It had sounded similar to King Marmott, only Marmott was much louder!

Merel and Pippo came to a halt in front of the royal bed when the master of ceremonies commanded: "Stand still!"

Everybody froze. In fact, Merel wondered if the people around her even breathed. She glanced at the furry King. His huge pear-shaped body heaved with each snore it discharged. A tiny crown crouched lopsided on his flat head, trying hard not to slip off. His partly-open mouth exposed two narrow front teeth. The whiskers poking out all around his snout and even above his eyes quivered in the inhaling and exhaling of the royal respiration: in — out — in — out — in — out.

"Will he wake up soon?" Merel said toward Pippo.

Pippo raised a finger to his lips. "Shh, you are not to speak or move while the King is sleeping."

Marmott II ejected a salvo of grunts in support of the notion.

"How would he be able to hear us talk?" Merel shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Her feet tingled as if they intended to fall asleep. "Do you think we will have to wait much longer?"

"Who knows," Pippo answered under his breath, "one time he slept for two weeks straight." He made a grimace. "But the visitors were allowed to leave after three days."

Yikes. Merel's shoulders slumped. No wonder Benno had refused to come in. "I've seen that before," he had said, surprising Merel, who thought him anxious to salute his monarch. "I know a cook in one of the palace kitchens. I will wait there for you."

"And have an ale or two," Pippo had whispered in her ear.

Don't the others mind standing around here? There were all kinds of differently clothed people, some in ordinary pants and shirts and others in elegant suits and brocaded dresses. Some of the ladies wore hats adorned with peacock feathers. Their faces displayed calm surrender. Several had their eyes closed.

Maybe they are napping. Oh, I wish, I could do that too.

Merel yawned. If she could only jump into King Marmott's pillows and sleep for one hundred years.

He had the nicest bed she had ever seen. The carved foot board ducked low in order to let everybody admire his majesty's outstanding sleeping skills, but the other sides were covered with luxurious curtains of a shimmering material.

It looked much like — bird's feathers, woven into each other to make a thick, fluffy fabric. And now, Merel noticed that the magnificent multicolored tapestry covering all the high walls was also made of feathers.

The King let out a rowdy cough and licked his lips. The people opened their eyes and stared at him; however, King Marmott just pushed himself deeper into his royal nest and continued to snore. A collective sigh went through the room, and the crowd sank back into respectful agony.

Merel yawned again. She glanced over at Pippo, who stood still like the others but secretly pulled funny faces in the direction of the sleeping King. Merel bit her lip trying not to laugh. What a silly situation. Something had to happen soon. She unzipped her sling bag and checked Hulda. 11:55! Almost a whole hour had passed already.

I can't afford to lose more time. Merel cranked the knobs on Hulda's back. When everything was set, she let Hulda slip back into the bag and zipped it shut.

"The King might be up for a big surprise soon," Merel whispered to Pippo and smiled.

Hulda sprang into action at twelve o'clock on the dot. Brrriiiiiiiiiiinnng!

Like an earthquake was rocking the bed chamber, King Marmott jolted out of his royal dreams with a shrill whining.

His startled visitors stumbled over each other with puzzled faces. Hats tumbled to the ground like leaves in fall. Hands grabbed sleeves and sashes. Lace ripped. Buttons popped off velvet vests. Hair got entangled in bracelets and belts. Elbows poked bellies. Knees met noses. A canon of complaints, insults and apologies echoed through the room, competing with the piercing whistle sounds of the King's displeasure.

And all the while, Hulda continued to beat her metal bells with great vigor.

Merel glanced around, grinning at the noisy tumult, when she spotted a thin man in an old-fashioned blue military uniform with golden trimming. He stood on the other side of the confused crowd, his hand pointing in her direction.

"There she is," he screamed. "The disturber of the royal harmony."

All eyes turned to Merel. Now she felt unable to move. Maybe this was not such a great idea.

Pippo jumped forward and tore down one of the feather curtains. "Here, put this on!" He threw it over her shoulders. "Weave your arms through it and wave them up and down."

Merel stared at the man in the uniform, who came closer and closer, fortunately hindered by the other people, who were still too perplexed to move out of his way. White fabric flashed from under the man's blue jacket. The conductor! How did he get here? Is he following me?

All the while, Hulda gave the concert of her life, accompanied by the whiny squealing of the king.

"Come on, hurry," shouted Pippo.

Merel followed his command. Although the feather quills scrubbed over her naked arms like nail brushes, she kept her eyes fixed on the man wrestling through the melee.

"Get me the girl," he yelled as he reached the spot where she had stood just seconds ago, but too late: Merel floated next to the faceted drops of the crystal chandelier. The feather fabric — she had wings!

Then Hulda finished her solo, and the King stopped wailing.

Merel glanced down at the crowd. The people watched the royal bed. A page took a handkerchief from a golden tray and held it to his ruler's nose. The King sneezed: a garish trumpet sound, louder than a brass band in full swing. He gave his audience a dazed glance while another servant began to comb the fur on his head.

It must take awfully long to groom the whole body. Marmott II is just too fat to be cute. Merel chortled. He should be named Whistle-Pig II. He looks dumb. I'm sure he has no knowledge of anything.

The King lifted his eyes, peered at her in disbelief and started squealing again. Everybody in the room focused their attention on Merel, whispering to each other and gesturing towards her.

It must be odd for them to see a person in the air, Merel thought. They are not even used to flying birds.

"What are you all waiting for?" barked the man in the blue uniform. Out of the sheath dangling from his leather belt, he drew — a sword!

"Get me a ladder!"

The hairs on Merel's arms rose against the feathers covering them. The man jumped up and down below her; the golden tassels on his shoulders jittered like angry millipedes. Despite his spindly body, he leaped higher and higher, brandishing his weapon in the air.

The metal blade hissed and slapped the slipper off Merel's left foot. She flinched and pressed her legs against the plaster of the ceiling.

A hairy hand snatched the plushy shoe out of the air.

Will he devour my bunny?

He threw it to the ground and trampled on it while he tried to reach a corner of her sling bag. He frothed, his face flaming red and his eyes even redder. They looked seriously bloodshot now.

"Get out of here," Pippo hollered and disappeared in the crowd.

Merel darted towards the door. Nobody had shut it yet.

"Close it!" the man in the blue uniform barked towards the guards, but Merel had already flown through into the broad corridor.

"Thank you, Pippo," she shouted, "thank you so much!"

She could not spot his blond mop anymore among the increasing amount of people pursuing her. They flowed out of the doors at the left side of the corridor, perturbed by the whining of their ruler, the piercing screams, and the general commotion.

Ladies in silk and satin, men in uniforms, pages clad in velvet, chambermaids and valets, guards with halberds poking holes into the air, and even a couple of cooks throwing wooden spoons in her direction: all running, bouncing and leaping, trying to catch a piece of her.

"Get me the girl," the man's voice howled, "get her alive!" The crowd roared, and a couple of the noble women fainted. Merel winced. How much longer would the arched ceiling allow her to fly unharmed, high over hair and feathered hats? I need a way out of here. Sooner or later, these furious people will find means to pull me down.

Light flooded into the hallway through the huge windows to her right, but all of them were shut. Should I try to break the glass with my feet? She didn't like the thought. Ahead of her, another closed window marked what seemed to be the end of the hallway.

What now? She couldn't return to the bed chamber, or vanish through any of the side doors; clusters of people blocked them. But there, the corridor curved around to the left, and at the end of a much shorter one, she spotted a small bay window — small and OPEN!

"Awwwouuh, close that window!" the conductor's voice howled behind her as she crouched through the narrow casement and spread her wings.

Merel gave herself a forceful push off the windowsill and ascended into the blue.

EIGHT

She soared, higher and higher, as if the longing of the naked birds in King Marmott's empire carried her. The golden sun made her cheeks glow. The gentle wind caressed her feathery arms. Overwhelmed by glee and relief, Merel laughed out loud. How hilarious her escape had been. The funny cries of the people leaning out of the window, trying to nab her ankles. Her second slipper got lost, though.

But who cares, Merel thought, birds don't need shoes.

No wonder she had felt so good this morning. Now she had wings, and everything would be child's play. She could travel long distances easily, no more dreary walking for her. Like an eagle, she could swoop down and get whatever she wanted — or fly home.

Merel frowned. No, she couldn't do that, she had to find Lullabye Grove. How could I forget?

Flying was exhilarating though. Merel surprised herself by remembering such a long and complicated word. What an amazing experience to drift through this endless sapphire blue, being so high and free, with the beautiful sky above her and below her.

Below?

Open sea spread out under her. Merel turned her head and looked behind: on white cliffs in the far distance stood a palace.

Dear me, why did I not notice this? I should have flown in a different direction and stayed over land . . .

Could she make it back to the coast? She shifted her feather-covered arms. Some down slipped out of the weave and whisked past her temple. Merel's body stiffened. Better not change course now.

Nearby, a lonely cloud reeled through the sky, dragging a waft icy as the snow queen's kiss. Merel shivered. The sun seemed to have lost interest in her. Its light still dazzled, but no tender beams warmed her anymore. She moaned. My arms are numb. And her shoulders ached from holding them stretched out for so long.

Pfff. A sharp blast made the back of her shirt puff out. Her jeans fluttered around her legs. Cold air clutched her with force, causing goose pimples to spring up all over her unprotected skin.

A whirl of fluff broke loose near her right wrist, hit her face and tickled her eyes. She blinked.

Why did I decide to visit the dumb groundhog in the first place? The moment Pippo showed me the poor naked birds, I should have hopped off the cart and left. I wouldn't be up here now hanging on to a flimsy bed curtain. Merel bit her lip. I have to land somewhere.

Yet there was not the smallest island in sight. She couldn't even detect the horizon; sky and sea seemed merged into callous blue crystal.

A second batch of downy feathers freed themselves and twirled towards her head. Some crept into her nostrils. Merel snorted. Ah-achoo, ah-achoo! Her body shook. Feathers in her mouth, yuk — what a rancid taste.

Gusts pursued her now like schoolyard bullies, pushed her back and forth between them, hooted and bawled, tugged at her hair and feather gear, pummelled her with spitballs of chill. Oh, how she wished she could give them a good kick against the shin.

Another squall mauled her wings. Feathers everywhere. Pesky fluff. Pokey quills. They teased. They tickled. Pricked and pestered.

"Stop it," Merel hollered into the whirlwind. "Leave me alone!" She spat out more down.

The gale's laughter rang in her ears while invisible fingers kept picking and pulling, picking and pulling. Merel flapped her sparsely covered arms: she was plucked, a bare goose herself.

She looked down. The ocean rushed towards her.

The liquid blue was warmer than expected, but it didn't make up for the shock.

Merel had tried to be prepared for the impact, had taken a last desperate breath. She thought of the elegant acrobatic divers she had seen on TV and how they streamlined themselves like human darts and smoothly glided into the pool.

But it was beyond her control. Hugging her head and sling bag, she dropped with a massive splash and plunged fast. The ocean bubbled and fizzed as if she was a tablet thrown into a glass of water.

I've fallen from the sky, and I'm still alive. Not bad for someone who didn't have the courage to jump from the three-meter springboard.

The temperature of the water seemed to be sinking with her. How far down would she go into the deep? She needed to take a breath.

Her lips pressed against each other; luckily she had not swallowed a drop so far, but her body craved air. She realized her eyes were shut too.

Dare I have a look? Liquid touched her eyeballs, tingled, and itched. Keep them open, she scolded herself. Find out where you are! It's only salt water.

She jerked her head.

Paddled. Somersaulted.

Weightless.

Clueless about up and down. Vastness all around her: she floated in the centre of a chilly midnight-coloured vault.

Help! screamed her brain. Breathe! screamed her lungs. Mom! Dad! screamed her heart. Now I will drown, and they'll be sorry.

Something touched her feet. Merel shuddered. Had she reached the ground? It pushed against her soles. Her knees buckled. A silvery plate ascended from below her; she collapsed onto it, lay on it like on a tray.

I found the ocean elevator, Merel thought, being raised towards a spot of light she hoped was the sun. She forced herself to keep her eyes open against the thrust of water. The pressure fixed her to the mysterious vehicle, squeezed her flesh, and crushed her insides. She felt like these were her last thoughts. The ink blue brightened to azure. Soon the flying saucer would reach the surface and blast off into space with her on top.

Water gurgled. Light glistened. Merel popped into the open like a dunked rubber duck out of the tub. She gasped, wheezed oxygen into her lungs and coughed it out. Only breathing mattered to her. Sucking air in, spewing it out. Again and again.

Like Blue when he has one of his fits. It's awful — terrifying. Merel gulped in another helping of warm, salty sea air, and another, and another.

Calm down now, you're out of danger. But it took some time until she regained a normal rhythm and breathed without panting. Out of danger.

Merel had to laugh when she remembered the thing she crouched on. It hovered a couple of centimetres under the waterline, holding her above the ocean ripples. In the rays of the high standing sun, its silver grey shone bone white.

Merel let her palms roam over the surface. It was wet, of course, but not at all flat and cool as she imagined the steely hull of a submarine or a star-ship would be. This whatever was uneven, with bulges here and dents there, rough and wrinkled like an elephant's hide.

Merel winced and rubbed her hands over her jeans to get rid of the slobbery sensation; she had unmistakably felt a thin coating of slime.

She turned around — and looked into a huge, lidless eye.

"Who are you?" she shrieked.

"Mola mola," a booming voice moaned.

"What's that?" Merel gaped toward the jet-black pupil the size of a doorknob.

"Mola mola is our scientific name. Mola means millstone. Why is it repeated? Nobody knows. What a joke." A sigh echoed through the creature. "We are also called moonfish, or ocean sunfish by some other people. They haven't bothered to make up their minds."

Merel took another deep breath and examined the morose owner of many names. A giant Frisbee with one large fin sticking out on the left side and an equally shaped one on the right, as if he had wings. He possessed no tail though, only a stubby, half-round end dented like pie crust.

The moonfish was not much more than a swimming head, a swimming head that was holding her out of the water.

Merel wondered what he might be feeding on. She hadn't seen his mouth so far — or his teeth. The big eye gave her a sullen glance as she crawled past it towards the fish's front.

The mouth was shaped like the letter O. It didn't look vicious, rather stiff and sour. But it could swallow a beach ball.

"I like all your names," Merel said.

"Really?" uttered the fish's pout without moving. "I find them so mundane. Not nearly as impressive as Beluga, Stingray or Great White Shark. They are grandiose."

Merel shrugged her shoulders and felt the strap — she still had her bag. She checked the zipper. Everything closed. Nothing lost.

"Anyway, thank you very much for saving my life."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You rescued me from drowning when you came up to the surface."

"That was purely accidental." The moonfish sighed again.

Merel looked up at the sky. The sun burned down on her face and on the tranquil sea.

"I'm so thirsty," Merel said and licked some water off her fingertip. Yuck. Of course, it was salty. "I can't drink this."

"The ocean water is very salty," the moonfish said, "and do you know what causes it?"

"I've no idea."

"The tears of the mola molas."

Merel raised her eyebrows. "They must cry an awful lot then," she said.

"Indeed, they do," answered the fish.

"But what is so sad that they have to make the seawater undrinkable?"

"Everything!" the moonfish replied in a voice as deep as if it had travelled up from the bottom of the ocean. "And now excuse me, I cannot float around here forever. Good day to you." He shifted his body to a straight position, letting Merel slip into the water.

"You're going to leave me? I'll drown!" Merel sculled with her arms and legs. "Can't you take me with you? Please!"

The giant fish eye stared at her. "Then kiss me," said the moonfish.

"What?"

"If you want to come with me, you'll have to kiss me."

Great. Merel looked at the enormous pinkish lips and thought of the slimy skin. I'd rather kiss a frog. She glimpsed at the ocean around her. She could swim, of course, she had passed the Little Splash exam at the Crystal Pool two years ago.

But where should she swim to? There was no land in sight, nowhere, not even flotsam.

And the water might get rougher, too. What else could she do?

With a couple of crawls, Merel was in front of the big mouth — and kissed the moonfish.

"Hold on to my fin. Breathe," the moonfish said, "and trust me."

And it worked. She did panic a little, at first. But then, coolness engulfed her, liquid seemed to float into her head, and she calmed down.

The moonfish swam fast by moving his top and bottom fins like a bird flying sideways. Merel clung to the small fin sticking out on the fish's large side. They dived through layers of different shades of blue. Now she enjoyed the indigo dome that had terrified her before. It was beautiful underwater, serene — like being asleep.

From time to time, a large shadow appeared in the distance, but Merel felt no fear, knowing she was not alone.

Liquid silver gushed towards them: a school of shimmering mackerel. The gleaming stream parted and passed by on both sides of Merel and the moonfish. Hundreds of tiny eyes viewed them with undisguised amusement.

Finally, the moonfish stopped at a little meadow of wafting sea grass. Three huge moonfish rested together in the pale-green plants. Their faces showed the same expression: intense misery.

"I'm Glum," her rescuer introduced himself, "and these are my brothers: Soso, Nay, and Yabut."

"I'm Merel and happy to meet you all."

"Why would you be?" asked Nay.

"Yes, why would anybody be happy to know us?" moaned Glum. "We are so insignificant."

Glum by name, glum by nature, Merel thought and said: "You're not insignificant. You're incredibly big,"

"But the gray whales are much bigger, and they are majestic. We are just clumsy," wailed the one called Yabut.

"Well, then you can be funny and cheer people up."

"But the clown fish are much more amusing and have such colorful costumes," blubbered Nay. "It is so depressing."

"And the sharks, they are fierce and powerful; everyone fears them," said Soso and sniveled. "Nobody is afraid of us. Most people do not even know we exist."

Now they all sobbed.

Merel stared at the crying moonfish, and despite the water's cool temperature, her cheeks felt suddenly very hot.

"You whiny crybabies," she hollered. "Stop complaining, you selfish fish. There are people on this planet with real problems, you know, like a sick child. Or they're naked, or hungry, or have lost something important." She stomped her foot on the sandy sea bottom. "And you just mope around here and have a pity party over nothing. GROW UP!"

The moonfish stared at Merel with wide open eyes and O-shaped mouths. I hope they are not going to swallow me.

"Look," she continued with a softer voice, "whoever has told you that you're ugly was wrong. I think you're very — unique. You remind me of pearls — huge white pearls, or the shiny shields of knights, or, or — silvery CDs with wonderful music." I'm stretching it, Merel thought, but the moonfish swallowed up her compliments. They appeared pleased.

"And you are not useless at all. Glum has saved my life, and he has showed me the bottom of the sea, which is amazing. Why don't you go and do something nice for other people? It might make you happier."

The moonfish looked at each other.

"Maybe, she is right," said Glum to his brothers. "Come on, let's sing her a song."

They formed a half-circle and began to hum, wistfully. Their bony lips trembled, and then, the moonfish began to sing.

"Summertime . . ."

Merel winced. This was her song. The one she used to sing with her mom in the car. The one that said living is easy when it was clearly not. The one with the jumping fish and the high cotton. With the rich daddy and the good-looking mom. And the little baby that's not supposed to cry.

Merel fought hard to hold back her tears. Hadn't she just told the moonfish to stop feeling sorry for themselves?

The quartet raised their voices higher and sang the next verse, about one morning soon, when she would rise up singing, and would spread her wings and take to the sky. How strange — she had just done that very thing, and ended up on the bottom of the sea. Yet the lyrics said till that morning nothing could harm her because daddy and mammy would be standing by.

Merel decided to let her tears flow. She couldn't help it. But they blended into the gentle current, and the moonfish didn't notice them.

When the song ended and the four brothers ceased to hum, Merel clapped and clapped and clapped. "Awesome, unbelievable. Absolutely beautiful!"

"Thank you," said Glum, "but it's nothing compared to the singing of the blue whales. They are —," he stopped and glanced at Merel. "You're right," he said, and his huge eye smiled at her, "it was really pretty good. You're a very nice girl, you know."

NINE

She surfed the water standing on a moonfish. Merel threw back her head and beamed at the sun.

Glum was her float. With one hand she held on to his side fin, with the other she waved to the audience of whitecaps that cheered and clapped along the way of her parade. If only her parents could see her like this.

Would she ever be able to return to them? The moonfish had never heard of a place called Lullabye Grove. Of course not, they lived in the ocean. She had tried not to let them see her disappointment.

After a while, land came in sight: a flat shoreline. Glum swam as close to the beach as possible.

"Hope you find the place you are looking for soon," he said.

"Thank you, Glum."

"No, thank you, Merel," he replied.

Merel hopped off into the water; it almost reached the sequins on her T-shirt. She bent sideways and hugged Glum's dorsal fin.

"You're gonna rise up singing," he whispered.

Merel squeezed his fin again, wishing she did not have to let go of it.

Now I'm all alone again.

She started trudging towards the strand. The shallow ocean was slightly cooler than bathwater and the ground soft; no sharp clams or sea urchins lay in wait for unsuspecting toes.

He has brought me to a safe haven. Merel turned around and waved. Glum waved back from afar with one of his silvery wings and disappeared into the deep.

Soon, Merel reached the dry land, in soggy pants and T-shirt, without shoes. The smooth sand dusted her feet and ankles with a whitish layer, like a coat of sugar.

She glanced around. Behind her, the peaceful ocean radiated a bright turquoise. In front of her spread boundless shore.

No landmarks disturbed the sight, no huts or deck chairs or other signs of human presence. No palm trees offered shade. No seagulls bickered. No crabs basked in the sun. No shells waited to be collected.

There was nothing but sandy waves with the light-yellow glow of vanilla custard.

Somehow it resembled the beach on the cover of the travel magazine her mother had recently bought. "Not much chance to get there," she had said, "but sure is nice to look at."

Merel dropped down onto the sand.

She took her friends out of the soaked sling bag. Ocean water dripped from Roger's fur. Merel wrung him and kissed his damp head.

Hulda wasn't watertight either. Merel unscrewed a wing bolt and opened the door in her back. Liquid flowed out from the cavity under the moving wheels and spirals of the mechanism that made Hulda tick. It seemed neither waking up kings nor falling from the sky could cause it to spring out of balance.

Hulda's hands showed 2:17. Was this the right time? Did it even matter?

Merel shook the clock to get the last drops out and locked the door again. "Hope you won't rust", she whispered with her mouth close to the big red bells, and then she kissed them.

Oh, how she wished she could wake up in her bed and listen to Hulda greeting the morning sun.

Merel put Hulda down next to Roger and spread out her bag in the sand so they all could dry together.

There were also the two violins. They looked special. Merel wondered if they were made out of pure silver. I should leave the tissue around mine; otherwise they might get confused in the end.

She stretched out on the cozy sand and dug her heels deep into its sun-warmed softness. A mild breeze blew over from the water. Clouds travelled through the light-blue sky. Slowly, her clothes dried.

"Yes, no problem sir, we can deliver."

Startled, Merel sat up. A pretty blonde woman in a white blouse and an elegant beach-coloured business suit walked toward her while talking into a smart-phone.

"Yes, twelve million units for next Wednesday. No problem, I'll get my team on it right away. Thank you."

She put her phone away and looked at Merel. "You can't sit here! It is private property," she said in a sharp voice. "You're ruining the product."

"The what?"

"Well, girl, let me tell you, this is one of our top ten dream beaches." The woman got down on one knee beside Merel, took some sand in her hand and let it run through her fingers.

"Highest quality, best performance, deep and delicious sleep. Exquisite dreams."

Merel stared at her, stunned.

Could this be true? Was this an angel sent to her rescue?

"You mean this could make me sleep?"

"Without a doubt, child." The woman smiled. "It's Sandman's Original."

She reached into the side pocket of her jacket and pulled out a tiny pouch, closed with a golden cord through the top, with Sandman's Original stitched in ornate letters onto its silver cloth.

"Superb stuff," the woman said. "We export it all over the world."

Merel grabbed her sling bag and opened it. She shoved her fingers deep into the warm sand and lifted a big handful of the promising crystals.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking some with me."

"Without paying for it?" The woman stood. "You can't do that! It's extremely expensive."

Merel sighed. "Could I buy it then? How much?"

The woman examined the heap of sand on Merel's palm. "For this amount? Probably twenty."

Everything was good. She had twenty.

Merel got up, trying not to spill any of the precious load, and pulled the bill out of her jeans with her free hand.

"Here."

"What's that paper for?"

"It's twenty dollars — for your product." Merel had a lump in her throat.

"That's the wrong currency. Don't you have any silver coins?"

Merel slumped down on her knees; the sand flew to the ground. Tears came to her eyes. She sobbed.

The woman bent down to Merel and touched her cheek. "Now, now," she whispered, "don't cry. You know what, it's not company policy, but —," she glanced to the left and to the right, "I might be able to let you have this small sample."

She opened her slim hand and let the pouch drop onto Merel's palm. Then she closed Merel's fingers around it.

"But don't tell anybody about it."

Merel flung her arms around the woman's neck. What a wonderful, kind and lovely person.

The woman returned her embrace and started stroking Merel's hair.

"See," she said, "everything is all right."

TEN

The water smelled rotten, but it soothed the pain. Superb stuff — what a joke. It had been like a desert storm savaging her eyes. She had rubbed and rubbed, but it only increased the burning.

Stumbling through a blurred countryside in search of relief, Merel had found it hard not to think of the conductor and his bright-red eyes.

She scooped up more liquid in her cupped hands and splashed it all over her face. Not that it was refreshing, lukewarm and sticky like a forgotten glass of lemonade on a mid-summer afternoon, with sludge floating in it.

Yet, after a while, the aching stopped and her vision cleared. On her knees, bending over the edge of the pond, Merel saw her own dull reflection staring at her with shadowy eyes.

She changed position and put her feet into the murky water. Aah.

She had thrown the stupid little pouch down and stomped on it until it became one with the dusty road. Of course, her skin got scratched, and the coarse grains on the trail needled her soles with every step she took afterward. It had felt like ages until she found this half dried-up pool, not more than a puddle actually, but she was thankful for it.

Merel sighed. How full of hope she had been. At the end of the beach, where it changed to pale green meadows, she did pass a large billboard with the picture of a sleeping girl on it. With closed eyes, she lay snuggled up in a big pile of white feathers.

The headline above said: Golden slumbers kiss your eyes; smiles await you when you rise.

In the bottom right corner sat the company logo, Sandman's Original, in golden, curly letters with the slogan Sleep, deliciously deep.

Chestnut brown locks framed the girl's rosy face. Just like mine, Merel thought.

The woman had stroked her hair. Time stood still. Merel lost herself in the hug. Her cheek touched the woman's cheek — until the phone rang.

The woman's body stiffened, she got up and answered the call. "Yes sir, yes, I am at the site, yes, in ten minutes, okay." She covered the phone with her hand and whispered, "You really have to leave the beach, now."

She got back on her phone and started walking away.

Merel cowered in the sand, dumbstruck, then she felt the little bag in her hand, and a smile came to her face.

She had grabbed her shoulder bag, packed Roger, Hulda, and the violins, closed the zipper and swung the bag around herself. Off the beach she was supposed to go, so she would just walk toward inland until she found a nice, cozy place where she could use Sandman's Original and finally go to sleep.

Will I ever be able to sleep again? Merel touched the bottom of her left foot. It felt much better now. If only she could drink something, but she didn't trust the leftover liquid in the pond.

One dusty road led to another in this part of — whatever country it was. Merel wished she had shoes on or, at least, still her slippers, but King Marmott owned them now. The thought of the mighty groundhog wearing her pink bunnies made Merel laugh out loud, but the grit on the ground brought her back quickly.

She had hobbled through endless fields with rows and rows of low plants bearing white, fluffy balls. At first, she thought it was cotton candy. However, it didn't melt in her mouth and wasn't sweet at all, only dry and tasteless. She had spat it out at once.

How happy she had been on Lollipo's shoulders. Why could it not simply have gone on forever? Lullabye Grove, the place probably did not even exist, and she had met nobody so far who had any helpful knowledge about it.

Merel glanced down a narrow track opening up to the left. A dark spot approached her out of the shimmering heat.

She stopped and waited for the vision to sharpen: an old lady in a black calf-length dress with puffy sleeves and a high collar looking as if it was trying to strangle her. On her gray hair sat a crow-colored pillbox hat with a gauze veil. Her upper body hunched forward while she moved with the speed of a garden snail, clutching a black leather tote to her chest.

"Excuse me, madam," Merel said when the woman had reached her, "I need directions. Do you know the way to Lullabye Grove?"

The woman peeked through the embroidered briers in her veil and stretched out a wrinkly hand. "It's a deal," she said.

"What?"

"Your brother. I take him." The old woman opened her handbag and produced — a giant cupcake with a thick swirl of pink frosting.

What? Oh, my stupid shirt. Merel glanced down at the lettering on her front.

"It's a joke, you know," she said. "I don't really want to trade him."

The woman's pointy nose curled up. "Why are you running around announcing it then?"

She held the cupcake right in Merel's face and whispered, "It's a nice one, freshly baked." She squinted. "I know you want it."

Merel gazed at the rainbow sprinkles strewn on the icing like confetti. Of course she wanted it. Her last meal had been the breakfast with Pippo and his family. And because she had to flee King Marmott's palace airborne, she never got to taste anything in Seppa's lunch basket.

The cupcake smelled beguiling — sweet vanilla with a hint of zesty lemon. Saliva streamed into Merel's mouth. Just one bite. She lifted her hand.

Behind the veil, a smile of victory spread across the creased lips of the woman.

Merel froze. "Get away from me!"

The sneer vanished. "We have a deal," the old woman hissed and poked her bony finger into Merel's chest. "You must stand by your offer."

"No!" Merel punched against the woman's belly, making her stumble backwards. The cupcake toppled and landed in the dirt. Merel kicked it into the bushes at the side of the road and took off running.

"Rotten brat," she heard the old woman screaming behind her. "False advertising. This is false advertising."

Even thinking hurts. Merel's mind felt parched like the clay path under her soles. No relieving airflow had turned up since she had left the beach. She touched the top of her head. I'm sure my hair will melt soon. Oh, if only I had something to cover it. "Put your hat on!" How often had she heard her mother saying this?

I need shade.

Over to the right, a large weeping willow spread out like a frilly umbrella. Merel doubted the tree had been there a second ago, but her brain refused to ruminate about it.

When she came closer, she spotted two old-fashioned wing-back chairs sheltered by the curtain-like foliage. Merel hurried over and slumped into the rust-red velvet.

"Please, do sit down," said the pink rabbit cowering in the chair opposite to her. He wore golden-rimmed spectacles. "Did you book a full hour?"

"I don't know," replied Merel. She felt drowsy, and her feet hurt as if she had walked through nettles. "I guess so."

"Good." The rabbit made a note on the pad he balanced on his furry knees.

"Then, let's start." He cleared his throat. "Why do you hate your parents?"

"What?" Merel's fingertips clawed into the armrests. "But, I do not hate them."

"Do you want to talk about it?" the rabbit asked, his chin resting on his tiny paw.

"It's just . . ." Merel sighed. She relaxed her hands and leaned back in the chair. "They have so little time for me now."

"I hear you," said the rabbit, eyeing her through the shiny circles of his glasses.

"But, they barely have a second for themselves these days either, with Blue needing so much attention."

"I hear you," said the rabbit again.

"Thinking of the accident still makes Mom miserable, and Dad has to work twice as much now because Granjo is missing in the office."

"I hear you," repeated the rabbit for the third time.

"And why wouldn't you?" Merel bent forward to face him. "I speak loud enough, don't I?" She raised her voice, "Do you have a hearing problem?"

"Very interesting case," mumbled the rabbit. He jiggled his miniature fountain pen, causing blue dots to sprinkle down on his pink feet and the cover of the seat cushion, and continued to scribble into his notepad.

After a while, he looked up. "Tell me," he said and tugged his left ear, "did your parents ever hit you with a wooden spoon?"

"What?" Merel jumped up. "No, they never did! They love me!" She straightened out the strap of her bag with a jolt. "I'm not staying here."

The rabbit's eyes widened. He glanced at his wrist watch.

Merel turned around to leave.

"You can't go without paying," the rabbit hollered. "That was five minutes. I have to charge you twenty dollars."

Merel ran again.

ELEVEN

Everybody screams at me lately, Merel thought. Her parents had done it too. They never used to, before.

She had hollered herself, cried and whined, more than once, since the days when the happy sounds at home had given way to impatient shouts, muffled sobs, and rattling breath.

Merel stopped and listened. A faint warbling floated through the air, definitely music, flutes or clarinets; woodwind instruments as her dad would call them.

Merel noticed a white one-story building in the dry meadow to the left. She didn't wonder anymore about things popping up out of nowhere without warning.

It had a simple gable roof sitting on it like a modest hat. She drew nearer — the whistling came from inside.

Merel opened one wing of the white double door and stepped into a large room with an aisle in the middle and rows of long wood benches on both sides. The tall window in the opposite wall was pieced together out of fragments of cornflower-blue, scarlet, purple, and yellow glass. Through it, the glistening sun sent multicolored rays onto a large table.

On it performed a choir of smallish birds, singing their little cotton socks off. Merel loved this saying; Granjo had often used it when they had listened to the robins' dawn song together or watched the hummingbirds whiz around the feeders on the porch.

Merel sat down in the last row.

Although hemmed by the colorful shine, the birds' plumage was greyish and brown, with beige bellies and some white in the wings — mockingbirds.

Divided into four groups, they caroled side by side, conducted by a bigger bird with a twig in its beak.

I know this song, thought Merel, I learned it in kindergarten. I remember the words. Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, brother John, brother John, morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing, ding dang dong, ding dang dong . . .

The birds' trilling swelled higher and higher, filling the room up to the gable beams . . . morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing, ding dang dong, ding dang dong, ding dang dong . . .

Bells chimed in Merel's head. Her interlaced fingers clenched together; she felt her knuckles crackle. Mockingbirds — mocking birds!

She got up, stepped forward into the aisle and, hands on her hips, yelled at the singers.

"You feathered twits! I'm already awake, thank you very much. What I need is TO SLEEP!"

Immediate silence. Dozens of beady birds' eyes glared at Merel in sullen consternation.

She made a move towards the exit.

The mockingbirds rushed up with a buzz.

Merel darted through the door with the swarm in hot pursuit, shrill battle cries repeating her words.

Need sleep! Wings hit her body. Need sleep! Feet tackled her hair. Need sleep! Need sleep! Claws scratched her scalp. Need sleep! Bills pecked her cheeks. Need sleep! Need sleep!

She covered her head with one arm, lashed out with the other, punched and smacked against the feathered tempest, and ran and ran and ran — and then, silence.

Her attackers were gone.

Merel wheezed and wiped her hands over her face. She looked at her palms: no blood. With her fingers, she tried to comb down the mess of her hair. A few feathers fell to the ground.

"Excuse me," said a high voice behind her, "are you stressed out?"

Merel jolted around. On a fence pole nearby perched — a mockingbird.

"I just wondered if you need any assistance?"

Grrr. Merel felt heat rising in her body again. I will give you some of your own medicine, you little creep.

"Well, thanks for asking. I have one question for you, sir," she said and leaned over to him, while hiding her right arm behind her back, ready to give him a slap upside the head he would never forget in his life.

"Would you know, by any chance, where a person could find a place called Lullabye Grove?"

Her hand tensed up.

"Of course, I do," he chirped. "It is right next to Sleeping Dogs."

His name was Kern.

"You're the first sensible person, ah, creature, I have met in a long time," Merel said to Kern, who rested on her right shoulder while she walked down another barren country road.

"I am very pleased to be able to help you," tweeted Kern.

"Do you think it's much farther?"

"Not at all, it is right over there under the willow tree."

Merel had seen signs like this before once or twice when she had traveled with her parents. They showed you the area you were in and the places you wanted to go.

Kern had informed her he knew precisely such a sign, not far away from where they had met, on which she would be able to locate her desired destination, as he had worded it.

Kern flew up on the narrow wooden roof protecting the sign while Merel studied the map.

YOU ARE HERE it said next to a small, red x in the bottom left corner. A curly brownish pattern covered most of the map, but in the middle, it displayed a thin ring of green and in its center: a drawing looking like a cluster of little villages.

Merel tried to decipher the names. "Snoozy Nook, Knightsmare, Cockadoodledoo, Sleeping Dogs —" There it was.

"Lullabye Grove!" She leaped into the air.

Kern laughed. "I told you."

Merel's eyes examined the map again. "If I head north-east through this brown patch, then across just a little bit of green, I'll be there in no time."

She beckoned to Kern. "Let's go!"

"Where to?"

"Lullabye Grove, of course."

Kern darted up. "But, you cannot walk there!"

Merel felt her face flushing. I hate it here. I want to be home — in the real world — with normal people. Everything here is changing and shifting. If she didn't get to Lullabye Grove soon, she might never be able to return to normal, or to her family.

Standing there, hands on her hips again, Merel screamed back at Kern from the bottom of her soul, "And why not?"

The bird, fluttering in front of her face, squeaked: "Because it is surrounded by the Great Yawns!"

She stared at him speechless; her head started spinning.

"They will swallow you up!" His little voice cracked. "And even if you make it through alive, there are still the twirling ferns!"

The Raven looked like a speckled starling. Its black coating peeled off in more than a couple of places, revealing rusty patches, and the remaining paint refused to shine, although the bald man rubbed it vigorously with a cloth.

Kern flew up and landed on the plane's wings, next to where the man worked away.

"Hi, Jack," he greeted. "This young lady over there has an appointment in Lullabye Grove."

"That so?" the man replied and continued wiping. "And what do I have to do with it?"

"We were hoping you could give her a lift."

Jack turned around and squinted at Merel. "Lullabye Grove, eh?"

He was, in fact, not bald, but wore a beige leather cap, fastened under his chin with a strap.

Merel stepped forward.

"Yes sir, it's really urgent, and it would be awfully nice of you to bring me there." She reached into the pocket of her jeans. "I can offer you twenty dollars for it."

The man looked at her bill with a puzzled face.

"You know, Kern," he said and turned back towards the cockpit, "I wasn't intending to take the Raven out today. This baby needs a checkup and a thorough polishing. The darn bats are taking a toll on it. And get off the varnish before you scratch it with your feet!" He hurled his cloth at Kern.

Merel stood there, the banknote still in her hand. Her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth and the bag with Roger and Hulda seemed to weigh a ton.

Why did we even come here to this stupid hangar in the middle of nowhere?

Didn't Kern say, when she had started crying and couldn't stop anymore, that his friend would be able to help her? That he would fly her to Lullabye Grove?

I might as well give up now. Merel's eyes burned again; she could hardly keep them open. I will never get there. I will never get him back. I wish I was dead. At least I wouldn't be awake anymore then.

She blinked and saw Kern, who had dodged the cloth, hopping from the wing of the airplane to the propeller.

"Have a heart," he hollered at the man. "This little stranger needs your help! If you don't take her there, she plans on walking, and we all know what will happen then."

TWELVE

Jack pulled the belt around her and fastened the buckle. "Now you're nice and safe," he said.

Merel beamed at him. She sat in the passenger seat of the Raven. Jack had agreed to fly her over to Lullabye Grove.

Oh, bliss! Merel closed her eyes. My head is so light it could take off by itself.

Jack had given her a thermos tumbler with cold coffee and a package of stale ginger snaps he found rummaging in the cupboards of his repair shop.

"I didn't expect guests," he apologized. Merel devoured it all in a flash. It tasted better than any food she had ever eaten.

He had also provided her with a pair of new shoes.

"I take cargo once in a while, and sometimes things get left in the plane," he said. "Mostly stuff I don't need." Jack smiled. "But these guys might come in handy now."

Waving two light-blue suede boots, he knelt down in front of Merel. After he had brushed the dirt off her soles with his hands, he pulled a cloth out of his leather jacket. Merel giggled as the fabric wiped away the dust between her toes.

One by one, Jack put the shoes on her feet and tied the laces, taking his time to make a neat double bow on each.

"What do you think?" he said, his face close to hers.

"Beautiful! I love them! They fit perfectly. Thank you!" Merel bent forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, it's nothing," Jack had said and blushed. "Let's go and fuel the Raven."

Merel felt the plane vibrating. The engine roared, and the propeller started spinning.

She stuck her head out of the side window. "Thank you again," she shouted towards Kern, who sat on an oil barrel by the hangar gate. "Oh, and if you ever come near the kingdom of Marmott II, don't fly in there. It's not a nice place."

Kern's wingtips waved to her. "Bon voyage, Merel."

"Welcome to the Great Yawns," Jack said. "Look down."

Merel watched bare land flying by below: no trees, or shrubs, not even rocks, just emptiness for miles and miles.

But what was that? Her chin dropped. A cluster of huge, bottomless holes had popped up out of nowhere, gaping at the sky with wide open throats.

She gasped. As fast as they had appeared, they vanished — only for the ground to open up, a few moments later, in another couple of spots.

"They're unpredictable." Jack snorted. "Darn jumping craters."

Merel pushed her shoulders against the back of the leather seat. Her fingers clasped one of Roger's legs through the fabric of her sling bag.

"How long do we have to fly over them?"

"For another twenty-five minutes, at least." Jack checked the circular displays on the panel in front of him. They reminded Merel of Hulda, whose ticking she felt on her stomach.

She listened to the humming of the propeller blades and tried to think of nothing.

Lullabye Grove. Sounds like a place you want to cuddle up in and sleep one hundred years.

"They make you feel uncomfortable, don't they?"

Merel swallowed. "They sure do."

Jack reached over and took her small hand in his big hand. "Don't worry, little girl, everything's gonna be all right," he said.

Jack's strong fingers held her. The warmth of his skin spread through her body and loosened her muscles. Lullabye Grove, very soon they would land there, and she would find her sleep. She would give him the violin, beg him, and he would agree to play for her again. And then she would sleep.

Merel leaned back and gazed into the blue. Feathery clouds drifted past the plane, delicate wisps dancing through the sky. Soft and downy, cotton candy, white delight.

But, this one was — black!

Merel sat straight. Another sooty puff hit the windshield. The propeller coughed out smoke.

Jack let go of her hand and grabbed the steering wheel.

Merel dug her nails deep into the chapped sides of the leather seat.

"Darn," Jack shouted. "There's bat poop in the engine."

THIRTEEN

"Sleep, Merel, sleep, your father tends the sheep." She had started singing to herself a while ago. "Your mother shakes the dreamland tree and from it fall sweet dreams for thee, sleep, Merel, sleep."

Merel sure hoped nobody would shake the trees that grew around here. She had seen two or three of them, spreading high over the fern jungle. Huge dark-green, almost leafless structures.

The bats slept in them, hanging head-down from the branches.

They had nothing in common with the little bats Merel once found hiding behind the shutters of her grandparents' cottage. Furry, palm-sized creatures. Almost cute.

These here appeared to be close to her own size, as far as she had been able to tell from the distance, and there was nothing cute about them.

But even scarier than the bats were the weird whitish bundles. She had almost fallen over a couple of them lying hidden in the ferns. Merel had sensed something under the strange woven fabric, something alive.

Leafy fingers stroked her bare ankles. She shuddered. My lovely blue boots. The ferns had entangled themselves in the shoe laces and made it impossible to go farther. She had abandoned them.

But she was used to unshod feet by now, and at least the nasty plants provided a soft walking ground.

They had not smashed into a great yawn. Jack had managed to bring the plane down in the thick hedges at the outskirts of the wasteland.

"We're losing height fast," Jack had said as the plane's nose went downwards. "The engine might conk out on us."

He opened the buckle of her safety belt. "Quick, get into the back. Hide yourself in one of the boxes!"

Merel scurried through the narrow opening between the front seats and scrambled over a folded down bench into the crammed loading space.

The engine growled.

"Hurry, girl, hurry!"

Merel tore the tape off one of the huge cartons, pulled out a couple of squashy white packages and climbed in. The contents filled in around her.

Like airbags. Do planes have airbags?

Granjo's Buick did not have one because it was from 1953.

It did not have seat belts either.

Moans spluttered out of Merel. The plastic packaging film in front of her mouth muffled their sounds, but it did not protect her ears from the propeller's coughing or the pilot's heavy breathing.

She ducked into the puffy parcels. Their wrappers stuck to her sweaty skin like burst bubble gum bubbles.

Merel held her breath, but soon she had to wiggle her face up into the open — like her fish coming to the surface for oxygen when the water got cloudy because she had put too much food in the tank or the pump malfunctioned. She gulped air and crouched deep into the box again, her fists clenching the fabric of her bag, pressing Roger and Hulda against her belly.

The Raven came down, squeaking and rattling. The world shook as if it had dropped on a garden trampoline. Something broke.

After a while, the quaking ceased, and one by one, the sounds died down. The engine's panting. The groaning of the airplane's joints. The creaking in the wings. The sighing of twigs.

Even Hulda did not utter a single beat into the increasing silence.

Merel cowered in her nest, head between knees, and waited for Jack to call her. Waited, until the stillness became like one of the ugly creatures she suspected lay under her bed at night, one that had her dreading it might reach up and touch her.

Merel boxed away the packages on top of her head and crawled out of the box, over the slanted seating bench and down the metal floor towards the front. The ground swayed like in a bouncy house.

Smoke fogged up the windshield, seeped into the cockpit through the cracked side window. Jack's head leaned against the panel. A thin scarlet stream trickled down his temple.

Merel pulled his sleeve. "Jack. Jack!"

He did not move. His eye stared at one of the round instruments.

She pushed him. "Jack, wake up, please." The hot fumes crept into her eyes and caused her throat to burn.

She staggered back to the loading space and grabbed one of the soft packages. A sigh escaped from the plastic case as she opened the wrapping. Golden Slumbers it said on the label.

Merel lifted Jack's head with both hands and placed it on the pillow.

"Have a good rest," she whispered.

She had left Jack in the cockpit, climbed down the dusty shrub the plane was stuck in, and gone towards the green. Walked and walked, tears running down her face.

"Sleep, Merel, sleep." She would just sing herself to sleep now. She was so tired. Then, she would sleep and perhaps dream, a really nice dream, not like this nightmare she had here.

But wait. Merel sat up.

What if this was a dream? What if the mockingbirds had been right, and she just needed to wake up?

Merel grabbed her left arm and with the nails of her thumb and her middle finger she pinched herself, very hard — for one second, two seconds, three. Ouch!

She was awake. No doubt about it.

Merel slipped back into the fern cushions and gazed into the almost clear night sky. Only a couple of small clouds covered the moon. She could see stars.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky, twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

Merel couldn't recognize her own brittle voice.

"When the blazing sun is gone, when he nothing shines upon, then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night, twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

The ferns weaved over her feet and arms.

"Then the traveler in the dark thanks you for your tiny spark; he could not see which way to go, if you did not twinkle so, twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

They are wonderful, the twinkling stars. Sparkling like diamonds, above the world so high. High?

Merel squinted. This one over there is not high; it is low. Awfully low, and also much bigger and brighter than the other ones.

And it had curtains!

That wasn't a star at all — that was a window!

Merel kicked and pushed against the fern cocoon that covered most of her body. Her fingers pierced the webbing and ripped it apart. She stumbled to her feet.

Lullabye Grove, she had made it — after all. That must be a house at the outskirts of the town. Merel ran as fast as she could with her bag dangling around her, all the way slapping back the attacking ferns.

She came to an opening.

In the middle, on the dry earth stood a wooden trailer — a shabby circus wagon, camouflaged in the color of the night. Merel approached the small illuminated window she had thought to be a star. She stretched herself, but its thick yellow curtain blocked the view. She tiptoed to the narrow side of the wagon and found herself in front of three small steps leading up to a door.

Like a strobe, the full moon threw its light on the frayed advertising poster nailed to the door's weathered panels.

Its old-fashioned letters curled and twisted into a message:

"The Miracle Cure," Merel read, "Dr. Lunetta's Sleeping Pills."

Merel waited on a sofa-like bench, surrounded by a multitude of cushions, almost as abundant as in King Marmott's bed.

Sleeping pills. Aunt Jenny took them. "They make you rather comatose — but hey, better than nothing," Merel had overheard her saying to her mom.

"Dad looked like he slept," Aunt Jenny said in the same conversation, when both cried together, not aware of Merel standing outside the half-open kitchen door.

"Why did he have to drive this scrap heap?" her mom asked and moaned.

"Collector's car. Ludicrous. Nothing but a hazard," Aunt Jenny answered, sobbing.

"He didn't care for his safety, or for us."

"To die in a fender bender."

Merel had knocked on the trailer, and a man had opened before her knuckles could touch the door a second time, invited her in, and asked her to sit down. She mustn't worry that it was so late.

Lullabye Grove? Still an hour to the village, by foot. She'd better wait for daylight to continue her walk. And get a good rest first. Of course he would sell her some sleeping pills; they were only twenty dollars.

Merel leaned into the big lavish pillow on her right. Her sling bag rested in her lap.

She watched the man, who stood by a small wooden counter and poured water out of a stoneware jug into a drinking glass.

Merel assumed he was Dr. Lunetta, yet he did not wear a white coat but an ankle-long robe of night-blue satin wrapped around his skinny body.

It was late, though; maybe he was already in his pajamas.

He stepped over and handed her the glass.

Merel stared at the shades in front of his eyes and wondered why he didn't dim the light inside the trailer. It was so bright. He wouldn't need those huge sunglasses then. With their dark-blue tint, they covered half of his thin face. And why was he wearing gloves?

The man opened a small jar in front of her. "Here," he said, "take these." In his black leather-covered palm lay four tiny white pearls.

"Thank you," Merel said. She hated taking pills. They were so hard to swallow.

The man dropped them into her cupped hand.

Merel threw them all on her tongue at once and lifted the glass to her lips. Coolness filled her mouth, refreshing, relieving. The little pills slipped down with ease. Doctor Lunetta took the glass from her.

Merel leaned back and closed her eyes. Now she would sleep — sleep, deliciously deep.

"Deep sleep," Merel whispered over and over, stretching the words, blending them, relishing their soothing sound. Balm spread through her body. All pain was forgotten. The cushions enclosed her, pure softness and comfort. They hugged her, held her — lifted her with light and delicate touches. Merel felt like a cloud among clouds, flying once more. Only the finest feathers . . .

Violins started playing. The smooth bows stroked her skin. The lovely music flowed into her veins.

A sweet voice joined the strings. "Nessun dorma, nessun dorma . . ."

The male opera singers with the high voices are called tenors, Merel remembered; her father had told her that.

The voice sang ever so beautifully — and then everything became dark.

FOURTEEN

The music blared. The black disc spun round and round in a never-ending loop on the vintage record player that stood on a side table by the door. It looked a lot like the one Greatma Alice used to play her barbershop quartets. This was a classical piece though, Merel knew, the same she had enjoyed in the trailer.

How different she felt about it now: the violin strings screeched, and the tenor's voice squealed like chalk on a blackboard. Yet the man she had assumed to be Dr. Lunetta didn't get tired of it.

"Nessun dorma, nessun dorma," he sang, his voice hoarse from accompanying his obviously most-favorite aria.

Merel wished she could stick her fingers in her ears, but clamps grabbed onto her wrists and ankles, ice-cold metal fixing her to an old-fashioned hospital bed.

"It's Italian, you know," the man said, his face close to her head. Merel tried to avoid looking into his red eyes. "It means none shall sleep." He chuckled and fastened another sticky little piece of plastic above her left brow, the cuff of his white lab coat brushing against her nose. She watched him untangle the blue and yellow cables, coming off the suction cups he had attached all over her head. They connected her to the strange machine that stood next to the bed. In regular intervals, Rem punched its buttons, switched its levers, turned its dials, causing tiny lights to flash and hidden speakers to moan and bleep.

"Do you know what my name stands for?" he had asked her when he introduced himself with a triumphant smirk on his face shortly after the effect of the sleeping drug had waned.

"Rapid Eye Movement!" He had laughed his shrill hawk laugh.

He's completely mad. How could I not have noticed that it was him?

The thought had tormented her for hours and hours. How many, she didn't know because there was no clock in this bright hall-like room. And as far as Merel could tell, Hulda's hands didn't move either.

Rem had dumped the contents of her sling bag on the table next to her bed. Roger — he had thrown him on a shelf on the other side of the room, over which the strange pictures hung. Hulda — he had just tossed her to the far side of the table.

Then, with an expression of sheer delight, he had presented Merel the little violin.

"Here, look what I have found. Your violin." He had walked over to the other side of the big room, with her violin buried in his hairy hand, all the while singing: "None shall sleep, none shall sleep, even you, princess, in your cold bedroom."

Of course, I can't really blame myself, Merel thought. He had been wearing the blue shades, and what else could I have done — lie in the ferns and turn into a bat?

Maybe it would have been better, though. She could have hung herself in one of the trees with the others, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Here, in this room, it didn't matter if she closed her eyes or not; the rays of the fluorescent ceiling lights pierced through her eyelids as if they were transparent.

"Vanish, o night! Set, stars. Set, stars. At dawn, I will win. I will win. I will win!" sang Rem, as he left the room.

If he could only once turn the music or the light off when he went out, but he never did. I wonder where he goes. Maybe he is taking the sleeping pills himself to get a rest.

At least her eyes didn't burn any more. Rem had given her eye drops, which fogged up her vision. If I could only rub my eyes.

Not that she wanted to see anything in this awful room. Not the stupid machine or the fluorescent ceiling, not the picture frames with the strange big black butterflies, nor the one with the little silver violins, now that her own violin was gone forever.

Rem had come over with a glass of colorless liquid. Yet it had not been water.

"Do you know what this is," he asked her.

She shook her head.

"Nitric acid." He laughed. "You can feel honoured. You are the first person whose violin I will destroy." Rem dropped her violin into the glass.

"Beautiful," he exclaimed with glee, "and many others will follow. None shall sleep, none shall sleep."

Merel watched him dancing through the room with an ecstatic expression on his face, the glass in his hand. After a while, he showed it to her. The clear liquid's stench pricked the inside of her nostrils. The violin had dissolved.

I can only blame myself, Merel thought. I have been worse than the moonfish. Mom and Dad are as sad as I am. It's hard for everybody. Now, I will have to stay here forever in this horrible place with this horrible man. Oh, is there any help?

Tears came again.

Motionless, Merel lay on the bed, listening to her sobs and the shrill aria that kept repeating itself. Yet in the brief moments the singer took to catch a breath or during the quieter parts when the bows detached from the strings, she thought she heard sounds: scraping, shuffling, the steps of tiny feet, little groans and gasps.

I must be delirious, probably a side-effect of the awful sleeping pills.

Her mind felt as clouded as her vision. And yet, a memory tried to form, a thought fighting its way through the fog: It is missing.

"Missing?" What is missing?" Merel whispered. It made no sense.

She turned her head. Something soft touched her cheek: the tissue Rem had used to dry off the superfluous eye drops running down her temples.

The tissue! Her violin had been wrapped in a tissue! But there had been nothing around the violin Rem took out of her bag. It must have been Gavin's violin he had destroyed, not her own.

Merel felt a sudden jolt of joy. But where is mine?

The music stopped with a squeal. Now Merel heard sounds clearly, a great commotion, like the humming of many wings. It came from the other side of the room.

Merel blinked and squinted.

Squinted and blinked.

A black, buzzing cloud was approaching. The butterflies she had seen in the frames flew over her and descended. Merel turned her head and blinked again: on the table right next to the bed landed a group of small men in black suits with tailcoats, holding silvery objects in their hands.

One of them went over to Hulda, but she couldn't make out what he did because the light suddenly became darker as if something huge covered it.

Merel looked up at a blur of yellow polka dots.

A familiar voice shouted, "Here she is, Morph."

The metal clamps opened, the cables detached, and two strong arms picked her up.

FIFTEEN

Mmm. Merel rubbed her cheek on the pillow. What a sleep she had had — deep and delicious, but dreadfully crazy dreams too.

She stretched and something woolly touched her chin.

"Good Morning, Roger," Merel whispered and opened her eyes.

Light gleamed through her bedroom curtains.

She reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the cheerfully ticking Hulda; 6:23 her hands declared. Above the clock-face, on one of Hulda's metal bells, Merel noticed a patch of strange white fluff. It was sticky but smelled nice. She licked it off her fingers and smiled: sweet. The surprising taste made her realize how thirsty she was.

Merel put Hulda back on the night table, pulled back the comforter and sat up. She looked down at herself: jeans and T-shirt — she had slept in her clothes.

"Well, I guess it's a family trademark now," she mumbled and got on her feet.

Where are the bunnies? Merel peeked under the bed, but her slippers weren't there, or in any other spot they used to hide.

Barefoot, she left her room and went down the quiet hallway to the kitchen. In the early light falling through the Venetian blinds, Merel rinsed her hands at the sink, careful not to make too much noise. She poured herself a glass of tap water and let the cold liquid slowly run down her throat.

She glanced over at the kitchen table, spotting a surprising addition to the familiar furniture: the high-chair for Blue was assembled. On the tray sat his sippy cup with the grinning frog face.

A clean table cloth covered the table, and though it wasn't ironed, somebody had made an effort to smooth out the wrinkles. On it, three breakfast plates were joined by cups, forks, knives and teaspoons in a neat arrangement, and in the middle stood a vase with twelve tall bright-red roses. Yet, whoever had prepared this had forgotten the napkins.

Merel put her empty glass on the counter and opened the junk drawer. Under a pile of cooking magazines, she found the leftover paper napkins with the confetti design from her birthday party the year before. She took out four, folded them neatly, placed one next to all three plates and the last on Blue's high-chair tray.

Stepping back, Merel smiled: an inviting set up for a happy family breakfast. She glanced at the kitchen clock — still early.

Slowly, Merel went back into the hallway. The door of her parents' bedroom stood ajar. Merel peeked inside.

The openings in the wooden blinds permitted stripes of gold to enter, giving the whole room a cheerful pattern of warm morning light.

Her mom and dad lay curled up together under their big duvet, quietly breathing, and there was no puffing coming from the crib either, which meant her brother had had a good night.

Merel looked at Blue's tiny blond head and was reminded of the lovely smell and warmth of a little body close to hers. I must have dreamt of a baby. Maybe one day soon, she could have a cuddle with Blue.

"Oh," Merel whispered, noticing her brother's favorite comfort toy was still missing from the crib.

She tiptoed into the room and knelt by the foot board. Her cheek touching the carpet, she crawled under the king-size bed, stretching out her arms into the dark until she felt the long soft neck. Gingerly she made her way backward while her parents breathed calmly above her.

Still on the ground near the bed, Merel examined Blue's little animal. A cluster of dust balls had attached itself to its rubbery skin.

She wiped it clean with the hem of her T-shirt. Then she crawled toward the crib, reached through the wooden bars and placed Blue's giraffe right next to his tiny fist.

"I'm very sorry," she whispered.

Her brother burped and opened his sky-colored eyes. Merel froze. He didn't scream though, just stared at her chest. Merel looked down at her shirt.

"Don't worry," she whispered and lightly touched his sweaty hair. "I won't trade you for anything."

Blue chortled and grabbed the giraffe. His eyes closed, and soon he was asleep again.

Quietly, Merel left the room.

She stood in the hallway, wondering what to do. Her glance fell on the calendar over the shoe rack: Sunday. If Blue didn't get a fit, her parents wouldn't think of rising for another couple of hours at least.

Merel yawned. Why don't I just go back to bed?

DAWN

Merel's Sleep sat on the top of the headboard. He had never felt better. The smooth sound of his instrument blended with the beat of the peaceful breathing coming from the little sleeper below him.

Her calm face rested in the palm of her hand. Hulda had been right, her cheek was as delicate as a petal; her eyelid as a shell in the sand, and her little ear almost had the same curves as his violin.

Like rays, her locks spread out around her pretty head. He sighed.

A batch of white fur peeked out from under the comforter: Roger, snuggling up to her chin — with a huge smile on his face.

The little hero.

Merel's Sleep remembered watching him in the strange room, where everything had seemed so dark although its ceiling light shone like a thousand suns.

Roger had toiled and built himself a ramp with the small boxes that lay on the shelf and had climbed up to the picture frame they all were fixed on. With his teeth, the little sheep had freed the bottom row, pulling out the needles that attached their jacket sleeves and pant legs to the back.

With their help, the rest of them had been able to get loose also. They had ripped their violins of the wall.

Merel's Sleep had gazed at the others with a mix of delight and grief, knowing his was gone forever, when he heard Roger shouting: "Friend, friend! I have hidden Merel's violin in Hulda's belly."

What a friend to have.

Merel's Sleep let his bow dance over the strings.

She had changed into her pajamas when she came back into the bedroom. Her jeans hung neatly folded over the chair, but she had taken off her T-shirt and stuffed it into the wastebasket under her desk.

The bedroom door opened, and the woman's blond head appeared. She had already been in twice this morning at exactly 9:45 and 10:18, as Hulda had informed him.

"Come on," the woman whispered. Merel's Sleep watched her and the man entering the room on tiptoes.

Close to the bed, the man glanced at Hulda and whispered, "Can you believe it — eleven am and she's still sleeping." The man put his arm around the woman, and they smiled at each other.

Merel's face glowed.

"Don't you think," the woman whispered and caressed a streak of hair curling up on the pillow, "that she looks like she's listening to some beautiful music?"

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Silke Stein is a graphic designer and the author of Trina Bell's Humming Summer.

Silke currently lives at the Canadian West Coast, where she enjoys the Pacific Ocean and combs its shores for sea glass.

Keep up-to-date with Silke's news on her website: www.silkestein.jimdo.com

If you liked Sleep, Merel, Sleep, please give it a rating or post a review at Goodreads or your favorite online retailer.

Thank you very much!
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses/companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2018 by Silke Stein

All rights reserved.

Published by Caper Books

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

