Over the Edge & Underland

Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom, Chapter 3

Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom is a serialised, young adult, fantasy novel about an overconfident bookworm who finds himself in a parallel world where words are weapons, ideologies form fortresses, and intelligence without integrity may just cost you everything. If you’re new here, you can start from the beginning or check out the index.

RECAP: Keon’s schoolyard fight lands him in hot water with the school, his Mum and his absent Dad. He finds solace in a welcome distraction; researching the golden pendant that belonged to the girl in the library.

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Keon’s eyes were getting heavy. He didn’t know why he was still awake. It was late; he was tired, and his mind was slipping in and out of that weird state of consciousness when your dreams intermix with the real world. The sound of his mum washing the dishes became the sound of a helicopter coming to land on the sands of a dusty, war-torn valley, when reality suddenly jerked him back.

His grip tightened around his phone. He stared again at the picture of the eternity symbol, as though looking at it long enough would somehow yield her secrets.

You can stare at it all you want, Keon...

The buzz of his phone startled him. His fingers fiddled to unlock it. It was a text. A chill ran through his body as he viewed the sender. Another tap opened the message.

I love you, son.

Dad

His eyes moistened, his lips curled, and his breathing grew shallow. Before he knew it, he was typing a reply.

Why aren’t you here then?

He stopped; thumb hovering over send—then swiped ‘home.’ As the tears began to roll, he put the phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and turned off the screen. He was going to sleep. He refused to be awake anymore.

The phone was still in his hand as his eyelids slowly sank to meet their lower siblings. He could hear his breathing deepening to roaring snorts. Feel the air thickening. The tick of his alarm clock grew louder as the space between tocks drew longer.

As his eyelids finally met, the phone slipped from his grasp. His eyes snapped open and his arm shot out to grab it, leaning his entire body over the edge of the bed. He stopped. It didn’t hit the ground. Instead, it hung there in mid-air, rotating slowly on its axis.

He looked from side to side in bewilderment. Gravity had stopped working. The entire room seemed to have rotated ninety degrees. Or he had. He wasn’t quite sure, but as he stared at the phone, he noticed a flickering orange glow dancing beneath the bed. He swore he could smell freshly baked bread wafting out amongst the fragrance of blooming flowers and dew speckled trees. Suddenly, a soft breeze blew a handful of crispy brown leaves across the floor.

“Muuum?!”

He waited.

Nothing.

Even the air was still as stone.

Grabbing the phone, Keon turned it over. There was no signal, and it didn’t respond to his taps or swipes. He put it back on the bed and shook his head as if that was enough to wake him up. Gulping, he pulled himself inch by inch over the edge towards the underside of the bed. The world spun around him as the centre of gravity shifted. His legs suddenly dropped, dangling from the underside of the bed down towards the ceiling. He chanced a glance, eyebrows curling at the oddity of seeing his bedroom light sticking up out of what should have been the ceiling but was now the ground. As he hoisted himself up onto the bottom of the bed, a sudden rush of light almost blinded him. Once his eyes adjusted, he found himself staring through sunlit green leaves into the glow of an early afternoon on a distant horizon.

“What the hell?” he whispered as he crawled towards it.

There was a crunch as the texture of wooden slats gave way to dry leaves. The smell of fresh bread grew stronger the closer he drew to the clearing in the bush. He took one final look back at his upside-down bedroom then moved towards the light.

Parting the leaves and twigs, he gasped; breathing in a nourishing torrent of warm, fresh air; like gaseous silk, rolling through his nostrils and down into his chest. Pushing the bushes aside, he clawed his way through—and fell headlong through a canopy of trees.

Tumbling head over heels, Keon rolled through multiple leaves and branches before landing on a soft, grassy incline. Rolling to a stop at the bottom, he took a moment to examine his surroundings.

He was before a breath-taking glade, encircled by a wall of tall trees. Rolling emerald hills stretched beyond a vast forest, the tops of towering dragon blood trees peeking over their rims, brushing against the edges of the heavens. Waterfalls tumbled through the interlocking beams of their tight branches; flowing down gargantuan trunks. Looking up, he saw piercing tendrils of golden light stretching across a crystalline sapphire sky. At least, he thought it was sky. There was something odd about it. It reminded him of a flight the family took overseas three years ago; he was staring out the window, looking down thirty-two thousand feet at the Atlantic. You could just about make out individual waves as they foamed and glinted in the sunlight. It was just like that, only this time he was looking up. The sky wasn’t a sky at all; it was an ocean.

“That’s mad…” he gasped.

As he picked himself up, he felt an odd weight around his body. His PJs were gone. In their place was a long, hooded shawl covering a padded dark-red jacket. He couldn’t be sure, but he was almost certain it was a gambeson. He could tell from the diamond patterning of the padding. But why on earth would he be wearing a gambeson? How was he wearing a gambeson?

The jacket was short-sleeved, revealing brown leather bracers on his forearms. He was clad in baggy beige trousers that were tied with multiple straps below the knees, down to brown boots. Several strips of patterned cloth hung randomly from beneath the shawl, some embroiled with shapes that looked distinctly Celtic, others woven with red, black, green and yellows. There was something like a box attached to his back, secured to a harness fastened around his waist.

Was he dreaming? There was no other explanation. But he hadn’t fallen asleep—right? You rarely recall the start of your dreams; and if this was a dream, he knew exactly how it started. There was only one way to know for sure. He walked back up the incline until he found the tree he’d fallen through.

“This can’t be right,” he murmured.

He did a full circuit round the tree. It stood a good few feet away from every other tree and bush around it. Looking up, he could see straight through the canopy into the sky. There was no sign of where he’d fallen through. No sign of his bedroom. Wherever he was, he was stuck—at least until he woke up. If he woke up. He wasn’t so sure he was dreaming anymore. The haze and fog that normally surrounded a dream was absent. He felt more awake than he ever had before.

Looking back towards the glade, he swallowed and slowly made his way down the incline towards the clearing. As he stepped out from amongst the trees, he heard the distant trickle of running water and made off in its direction. Not only was he thirsty, he wanted to get a better look at what he was wearing.

After a few minutes of trudging through the woods, climbing over gigantic roots and marvelling at the unfamiliar flora around him, he found himself by the banks of a small stream. Pushing through the bulrushes and loosestrife, he scooped up a handful of crystal-clear water and sipped. It was almost sweet to taste, like fresh water from a mountain spring. Plunging both hands in, he scooped and scooped, gulping it down ravenously before splashing some on his face. It was like a nice hot shower, a tall glass of cold coke and a tub of ice-cream rolled into one, which—as he thought about it—sounded incredibly nasty and sticky.

He shook the water out of his curls. Feeling the hood of his shawl, he pulled it over his head, turning to admire his reflection in the water. He didn’t know who his tailor was, but he looked like an absolute legend. Yup, definitely a gambeson.

As he studied the shawl, he noticed an unusual insignia woven onto the back. The unique embroidery shimmered and danced in the sunlight. Straining to get a better look, he could just about make out the shape of a dove surrounded by a shield. In fact, what looked like a dove was actually a lamp flanked by two wings, wreathed in an olive branch.

He froze.

Beyond his reflection, up in the trees, several shadowy figures were descending through the branches down towards him.

As he spun round, he lost his balance, falling flat on his backside. The figures were coal black from head to toe, save for silvery, moist eyes robbed of their pupils. Their armour was chiselled, razor-sharp onyx shrouded with cloaks of rippling black flame. Armed with shields, swords and tar-like whips, one of them leapt from the treetops down towards him. Rolling onto his front, Keon scrambled to his feet, almost slipping in the process as the dark soldier landed where his head was but a split second before. The rest followed suit, leaping from the trees and bolting after him.

He bobbed, weaved and skidded through the forest, trying to shake them off, to no avail. He yelped, suddenly feeling something cold and wet wrap around his ankle. It tightened then yanked his foot back, snapping him still and dragging him to the ground. He desperately clawed at the dirt, trying to pull himself forward, but another whip wrapped its way around his wrist. It seemed to pulsate and suck like a leach as it tightened around his arm. A sharp crack of the whips spun him over onto his back where he saw two dark warriors brandishing the whips. A third broke through the ranks, slowly withdrawing a blackened sword. As it neared, it brought the sword swinging down.

A thunderous battle cry broke through the air and a volley of arrows impaled the dark warriors. Their bodies disintegrated into clouds of black ash. As Keon watched, six hooded figures leapt from the underbrush like a stampede of galloping horses.

“Phalanx!” one of them shouted.

Mid-leap, two of them whipped out books, the third a scroll. The duo flipped rapidly through the pages, tore out one each and began folded them into various abstract shapes like high speed origami. The third followed suit, tearing off a sheet of unrolled scroll. With a flick of the wrists, the paper contraptions ballooned in size into long, first century Roman shields.

As they landed, the trio slammed their shields onto the ground, interlocking them like scales to form a barrier. The three remaining hooded warriors leapt over the barrier brandishing paper spears and shields of their own. As they pinned down an adversary each, they brought their shields down overhead to form another barrier. The first trio cleared that barrier, throwing paper javelins at the next line of dark warriors.

“Break!”

They scattered, striking freely at the remaining assailants. Keon could barely follow their movements. Though they fought separately, they were remarkably coordinated. They aided one another, it seemed, by instinct as one body, like a head and four limbs, working in perfect unison.

One of the creatures suddenly broke away, slipping through the commotion. Its pale, dead eyes locked onto Keon, still on his backside. He heard the metallic scrape of a dagger being drawn from its sheath as it bore down upon him. He tried to scurry back, flinging the wriggling whips off his arm and ankle.

Suddenly, a paper spear burst through its chest. Its arms went limp as it contemplated its last pitiful moments. It dropped to its knees and a force shoved to the ground. Breathing heavily, the hooded warrior waited for its body to fragment into thousands of dusty flakes before she arose, pulling back her hood to reveal shoulder-length golden hair—dark at the roots—bordered by two locks that fell past her shoulders inflamed in red tips.

“Keon?!”

All he could do was breathe, recognition dawning on him. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“What are you doing here?!” she hissed, not realising she was pointing the spear at his chest.

“Uhh…”

“Are you alone?”

He just about nodded.

She checked to see if anyone was within earshot.

“Just wait here, ok? Don’t move!”

She slowly backed away towards her gathering comrades; glancing back as if to see if he was real.

“Is that it? Are we done?”

“We’re done.”

“Think so…”

“Thank you! What were they doing so far out from a blinkin’ Stronghold?”

“Prob’ly trackin’ a Mirror.”

“The same one?”

“Most likely.”

“Which means it’s close. We should report back to Wellworn.”

Keon sat up, dumbfounded, as he watched the girl melt into the curious rabble that had come to his aid. They were young—well, except for maybe this one guy—but older than him. Dressed in garments like his own; hooded shawls draped over gambesons. On the back of their shawls was the same embroidered insignia. A winged lamp wreathed in olive branches; only their lamps were lit whilst his was not.

There was the prototypical geezer Keon swiftly dubbed ‘Blonde Leader.’ Gruff and unshaven with a set jaw that seemed to stick out an inch too far from his face.

‘Hefty Guy’, kind of big, but like ‘Michael Clarke Duncan’ big. Hair in thick twists and striking hazel eyes; looked Ethiopian.

‘Tall, Older Guy’ who didn’t say a word, whether by choice or because of the mask covering the lower half of his face. Kept waving his arms around like he was playing rock-paper-scissors. Of course! He was signing.

Then there was the south Asian girl; hair tied to one side in a long braid. Her petite frame made her look like she’d fit in your pocket, but the intimidating fire behind her big, brown eyes told you she’d break your arm first.

Finally, ‘Not-So-Tall-As-Tall-Guy’ dude, east or south-east Asian; tanned. Reminded him of Spike Spiegel from Cowboy Bebop, long legs and all hair. Standing around all nonchalant, like a reluctant passenger.

Library Girl approached Blonde Leader, clearly unnerved by the way she kept looking back at Keon.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?”

“Not really. I know him.”

“What d’you mean, you know ‘im?”

She pointed the spear in Keon’s direction. Blonde Leader nudged it aside towards the ground for the sake of everyone’s safety.

Turning to look at Keon, he approached cautiously, squatting down beside him.

“You alright there, mate?” he said, cocking his head to one side.

“Not exactly…”

“It’s disorientating, init? We’ve all been there.”

“Yeah?” he glanced in Library Girl’s direction, “Where is ‘here’ exactly?”

The slightest of smiles crawled across Blonde Leader’s gruff exterior. “You’re in Underland, mate.”

Keon’s eyes narrowed, “I’m in County Durham?”

“Under-land, not Sunderland, bro,” said Not-So-Tall-Dude.

Blonde Leader gripped Keon’s wrist, pulling him to his feet, “I’m Shem; field leader for this mission,” he pointed to Hefty Guy, Tall Guy, Petite Girl and Not-So-Tall-Dude in turn, “That’s Dawit. Jonas. Avana and Kai. Apparently, you’ve already met Zahara.”

He turned to look at her. So, that was her name.

She met his stare with an awkward half-smile, finally putting the spear behind her back.

“We’re the One Millionth and Fifth Battalion, which isn’t gonna mean anything to you right now, but the important thing is we need to move.”

“I don’t understand…”

Shem slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“And I’d love to explain it to you, but you’re just gonna have to trust us, yeah?”

He eyed the weird rabble once more, eyes settling on Zahara.

“Ok,” he nodded.

They were high in the hills, walking along grass covered slopes that gazed out over a deep valley. Shifting rays of sunlight tinted the overhanging ocean purple and orange.

Keon could make out several glistening streams running through the woodlands below, converging into a single river that wound its way through the centre of the valley. In the distance, the river vanished over the edge of a cliff, dropping into a waterfall that sprayed sparkling, iridescent mist up into the air. Dotted throughout the valley, he perceived the stone walls and turrets of various stone fortresses. Dragon blood trees lined the horizon, vanishing into the blue haze of the atmosphere. What he’d thought were distant mountains were actually the stumps of fallen trees; spiralling out of the hills around each other to form these conical, mountain like ridges. He shuddered. What kind of force did it take to cut down a tree that size?

It was only when they came across the same sight twice more that Keon realised they were ascending a pillar-like rock formation along a path that spiralled around it. It reminded him of the Zhangjiajie National Forest, which he only knew about because Dad had made him watch Avatar (not ‘Airbender’) a million times and he’d become obsessed with the Hallelujah Mountains. He kicked a stone out of frustration at the thought of his dad, then looked back to see if Zahara had caught his mini tantrum.

What was she even doing here?

He thought about his phone and how it’d hung there in mid-air, unresponsive. Did this place exist outside of normal space-time or something? Was that how she could be at school one minute and part of some otherworldly group of—whatever this was—the next? It didn’t seem like she was new here. These lot had history together. Were they all from school? He sure didn’t recognise them, and they weren’t exactly forgettable faces. They weren’t even all the same age! Granted, McClinton’s had a diverse sixth form college, so it was possible. Or he really was just dreaming.

“So, like… what are you lot exactly?” said Keon.

The group exchanged glances before Shem spoke up.

“We’re Torchbearers.”

“You say that like I’m ‘sposed to know what it means.”

“I told you, it won’t mean anything to you now; but just know that as long as you have that symbol on your back, we have your back.”

Keon pulled on his shawl, straining to get a better look at the insignia.

“What does it mean?”

Shem smiled, “All in good time, mate.”

“I think this is it.”

Shem stooped to pick something up off the ground, rolling a tiny, golden mustard seed between his finger and thumb.

“The trail’s less spread out,” he said, dusting the seed off his hands.

Keon looked up towards the summit, still lingering overhead. He could make out the green outer fringes of a garden atop the pillar. And there it was again, the smell of freshly baked bread. He breathed it in deeply, reminded of the fact that his paltry dinner had done little to satisfy him.

“What’s up there?” he asked.

“Our camp, if we’re lucky,” said Shem.

“If you’re lucky? You don’t know where your camp is?”

“We’re not told the location beforehand. It’s safer that way.”

They continued silently, ascending up and up until the path ended abruptly at a sharp, perilous drop. There were four steep steps carved into the side of the rock face. Dawit went up first, followed by Kai, then Avana, Jonas, and Zahara. Zahara beckoned with her head for Keon to follow whilst Shem made a last visual sweep of the area.

Scrambling up over the edge of the rock face, Keon saw a flat, dusty clearing, surrounded by a large ring of grass and trees that tapered off towards the edges. It made the whole summit look like a floating tropical island.

Rising behind the garden was an arch of eroded rock, creating something like a window peering out over the vast country of Underland. In the centre, the grass gave way to golden dust. A makeshift stone oven and a small stone table stood near a semi-circle of large, smooth stones. The trees overhanging the central clearing spread a cool blanket of shade across the seating area.

There on the stone table lay a variety of freshly baked loaves, sprinkled with crushed garlic and oregano. There were three types; loaves of fluffy, golden flatbread, piles of thin, glistening wafers, and something that looked like bagels. As Keon took a step towards them, a stern voice rang out from the midst of the trees in a thick accent he couldn’t quite place.

“You’re late.”

He watched as the figure, lean and long-limbed, strode past them without so much as a glance in their direction. He walked over to the stone oven carrying a pile of chopped wood that he tossed into the fire. As the flames cracked, he lay a slab of stone across the opening. Wiping his hands with a white cloth, he turned to face the group—and Keon gaped.

Every inch of his exposed bronze flesh was like a lattice of thick embossed scars. Across his eyebrows, around his cheeks, through his short, unkept beard, down to his dirt filled fingernails. He looked as though he’d had a fight with a giant, mutant thorn bush—and lost. His ebony hair wrapped into twisted locks that fell past stern, dark eyes; like crooked pools of black coffee.

What was Keon getting himself into? This was why he sat at the top of the bus looking for the crazies. This guy had ‘crazy’ written all over him. In fact, with all those scars, he was pretty sure you could find the word ‘crazy’ carved into his flesh somewhere.

Was he about to be jumped? Robbed? Roasted in the oven? Would he even fit in the oven? Was he wearing decent underwear? Mum always said, “Don’t leave the house without a good pair of boxers!” You never knew if you’d get caught in some kind of accident where the paramedics would have to cut your clothes off. The last thing you wanted was to be caught in dirty underwear!

“Well? Let’s see what you brought,” he said, the r’s rolling off his gruff tongue.

Were they bandits? Maybe they were bandits.

Keon watched as each member of the crew brought out a string-tied pouch from beneath their shawls and approached the man one by one.

Maybe they were ‘noble thieves’ like Robin Hood?

Zahara was first, bringing out a handful of scented leaves. Dawit had the biggest haul, a bundle of huge, dew-speckled grapes the size of golf balls and assorted berries. Kai brought out a bag of nuts. Avana some roots. Shem patted himself down in a panic.

“Crap! Where did I?...”

Jonas tapped him on the shoulder and tossed him his pouch before going to join the others. Shem gestured with the bag as a ‘thank you.’

Jonas gently laid three pale blue eggs in the scarred warrior’s palms, bowed slightly with his hand to his chest and walked off. Shem dug out what looked like a pile of moist seaweed and slapped it on top of the eggs.

Keon stood speechless as the group regathered around him. He leaned in towards Shem, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

“Who is this guy?”

“That’s Wellworn. Captain of our battalion.”

“This is a good haul,” said Wellworn, head bobbing in satisfaction.

He grabbed a pack that was leaning against one of the stone benches and took out a set of travelling pots.

“All of you, rest up until it’s ready.”

The group dispersed.

“Not you,” he said, pointing a pan in Keon’s direction. “You and I are going to talk.”