Hoo—ray! Priscilla didn’t have to share a room with her little sisters Greta and Rosie anymore. No more dollies “bathing” in her blue backpack, no need for tape boundaries on the floor, no changing in the bathroom.

Priscilla would finally have a room all to herself in their new house on Sylvan Lane in the most-wooded subdivision in all of Lakeford. Their house was the only one on the cul-de-sac, and her new room faced a backyard so thick with trees it might be the start of a forest an elf could get lost in.

And her room had EVERYTHING: an adjoining bathroom, a double closet, a window seat, built in bookcase, carpet so thick it felt like walking on furry foam. Three of the walls were her favorite shade of periwinkle blue, and one wall had hand-painted flowers so real she nearly leaned forward and smelled one. Those petalled fineries came as a bonus because she never even saw them when they toured the house before they bought it. She loved every inch of her room and the new furniture her parents let her pick out herself was a double-bonus—it had a seawater aqua finish that made her half-imagine fish would float through them.

Her little sisters Greta and Rosie shared a room on the first floor. She didn’t even hear their fight over who got what side of the closet after she shut her door.

Curling up in her window seat, she let her eyes wander through the tree trunks and imagined taking a walk, her feet crunching over twigs, her eyes staring up into the leaves glowing with sunlight and listening to the squirrels scurrying about. Oh, how she wished she could take that walk.
She’d have to wait for tomorrow.

For now, she was supposed to unpack at least three boxes before bed. Her mom promised a full Ingfor family breakfast the next morning with pancakes, eggs, ham, and Priscilla’s favorite, orange marmalade toast. She could almost taste its tart-sweet tang as she unpacked her school supplies into her brand-new aqua desk. That finished off her last box of the day. Pencils aligned and sharpened, erasers squared away, folders organized, paper stacked and crease free, she slipped into her favorite toasty pajamas, then brushed her teeth in the bathroom she could walk right into from her bedroom.

With a goodnight to her parents, plus Greta and Rosie who were battling over a bedtime story, Priscilla went to her room to read.

As Priscilla turned each page, she’d sigh and pause to listen to nothing. Not a thing. Her room was hear-a-paperclip-drop quiet.

Finishing a chapter, she leaned into her stacked-up, fluffy pillows and said, “Thank you!”

Shutting off the light, stretching out her muscles, and saying her prayers, Priscilla got ready to go to sleep. She closed her eyes.

Silence filled the room.

No flipping and turning from her left. Rosie earned her nickname as the “Tiring Tornado.” No one sang a note from her right. Greta usually tried singing silly, made-up songs under her breath, but she always belted out her favorite lines. It never took long before Priscilla would arch her back and bellow, “Just go to sleep!”

That night she whispered it, “Just go to sleep.”

And realized that she could do just that—go to sleep.

The only trouble was, she couldn’t.

Even snuggling into her fluffy pillows in her comfy pajamas, didn’t allow her to slide off to sleep.

Not after five minutes of mentally reciting her favorite poem:

The poem usually settled her mind and allowed her to drift off, but this time it didn’t even produce a yawn.

Ten minutes later her nose itched.

Her feet started to twitch after fifteen minutes.

A few minutes later, she heard a sound. A soft swoosh-swoosh like the movement of fabric. She strained to hear it again.

Swoosh-swoosh.

She sat up to see if she’d left the window open. The curtain hung silent and still.

Swink. It looked like one of the flowers on her wall moved.

Did something fall out of a box and get carried on a breeze past the wall?

Swink, Swink. A small flower fluttered as if waving to her.

Priscilla backed to the other side of her bed. Pointing, she said, “That’s not possible.”

As if to prove her wrong the flower bent again even further down the wall.

Was the thing a sticker and it had started to fall off?

Yes. That had to be it.

Getting out of bed, she planned to press it back into place, but when she touched it, she didn’t feel smooth paper.

She felt the waxy softness of a petal—a purply-blue periwinkle petal.

Pressing it, she expected it to meet the wall, but her fingers tingled as they passed through the paint.

Yanking her hand back, she gripped it with the other hand as her fingers felt like they did when her hand started to wake up after it had fallen asleep. No pain, just little prickles. Like she had tiny popping bubbles under her skin.

The flower continued to twist forward, then back like little Rosie trying to get comfortable in bed.
And in a swoosh of wind she could hear, the flower was pulled right through the wall.

On instinct, she lunged forward to catch it and fell, landing … not on her furry-foamy carpet, but in loamy, green moss.

Sparkly bubbles of suspense started popping in her chest.

Spinning onto her backside, she saw trees and trees and a clearing in the distance. Sunlight streamed through the tall, oaky giants almost as if it pointed to the grassy, sunny oasis.

Flipping, she searched frantically for the flower, foolishly thinking that if she found it, she’d be whisked back home.

“Where is it? Where is it?”

“Where be what?” came a soft, accented voice from behind her.

She turned to face a … a …

“Name be Nybbor. Happy helping. What be looking?”

The yellow-vested fellow offering his assistance stood about three feet tall with a rounded belly, tan pants with leather patches at the knees and mossy brown hair on his pudgy toes that matched the fur covering his entire body, except his wide, catlike ears with white tuffs at the tips.

Illustration by Victoria Coles.

“Umm …”

He smiled, his yellow eyes sparkling. “You be Othersider?” he asked, making a rising almost musical noise that sounded like “Yeese”

“Othersider?”

“Find wall flower full?”

“Umm…yes.”

“Welcome a Sylvania. Treeland.” He held his furry hands towards the canopy around them.

“How?” The word just popped out like a thought bubble had burst.

“Flowers portkey. They poof?”

Poof. Did he mean disappear or appear? “I never saw them before we moved in today.”

“Yeese.” He nodded. That noise must mean yes. He added. “When Sylvania time be done, they poof another child.”

He sighed and tucked his thumbs into his vest. “Proud be. I Sylvanian to make acquaintance.”

“Huh?”

“I be first. Means be guide.” He stiffened and saluted. “Nybbor Aseret Eyafal helping.”

Standing and dusting herself off, Priscilla said, “Thank you.” Still a little unsure of this whole situation. Plus, his way of speaking took a little bit to translate.

“Troubles? Child comes trouble totting.”

“You mean besides finding out there’s a portal to another world in my bedroom?”

“Flower portkeys be trouble?”

Taking in the calm, inviting forest that looked so much like the trees behind her house, she said, “I guess not.”

“True trouble?” His furry face looked so soft and kind.

“Um … I can’t sleep.” That is, unless she was actually sleeping at the moment and this was just a dream that included a twig stuck painfully between her toes. Ouch!

Yanking it out, she saw a spot of blood. Nope. Not dreaming. That really hurt.

“Ah … “He waved over his shoulder and started walking towards the clearing. “Following?”

Her training in not trusting strangers flared. Should she trust this little creature?

Seeing that she didn’t follow, he turned back. He frowned in confusion for a moment, then said, “Oh. Forgetting.”

He looked around, asking, “See flower trunk?”

“What?” She looked. The tree trunks had the patterns of flowers in them as if they bloomed through the wood itself. “Oh.” Searching, she found a periwinkle. Pointing at it, she said, “This one.”

“Tapping.” He rapped the air.

She knocked. The sound of Greta singing came from within the tree. Scratching at the bloom, she pulled open a tiny door, shouting, “Greta!”

“Who be Greta?”

“My sister.”

“Hmm. She be tree?”

Right. Greta couldn’t shrink to fit within that tree. Priscilla looked inside, seeing what looked like a flashlight, and she heard what could only be Rosie, tossing and turning.

She almost wished she could make sure Rosie hadn’t dropped Putty-tat her favorite stufftie.

The flashlight-thingie glowed periwinkle. “Oh!” Jumping back, she asked, “What is that?”

“A necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“Need have. Need come. Light. Protection. Any be. If necessary. True necessary, it come.”

Priscilla gripped the Necessary and willed her room to appear. Seconds passed, it didn’t change.

“Nothing is happening.”

Want o need?”

Now the little creature sounded like her mother when Priscilla asked for her own cell phone. “Oh.” She shrugged. “What I really need are my slides. My feet hurt.”

Plip plop a pair of periwinkle slides fell to the ground.

“Seeing?”

The Necessary was now no bigger than a compass.

“Wow.”

“Going.” He waved and started off towards the clearing.

Slipping into the slides, they felt warm on her feet. Nice. She wished her world had Necessaries. “Can I take this home with me?”

“Oh no. Sylvian stay. Sylvian Othersider no mix.

“But I’m here with you …hey, how do you know English?”

“PPPPractice.” He trilled his p. We Sylvians practice be guide. Few flowerful ones come. I worry never me.” He hopped and spun. “Be me!”

He put his hands over his heart. “Thanking! Name?”

Her stranger-danger alarm went off again.

He pointed, “Fear eying.” Tapping it, he said, “Necessary giving defend. No need. I …” He hugged himself. “Safe.”

She gripped it and said, “You can call me, P.”

“P.” He smiled. “Following?” He stepped to the side, opening his arm towards the clearing. He walked in that direction, checking to see if she followed.

He sauntered up to a stump that was shorter than her and four times as wide as him. He opened the oval door and said, “Coming?”

She was about to say, “That’d be a pretty tight squeeze, but saw that the room inside was cozy, but plenty large enough for a table, two armchairs, end tables, a well-lit fireplace, and more. Now that was some room-sizing magic.

“Wow.” Priscilla stepped into the cozy warmth, feeling like she’d walked through a thin layer of static as she passed inside the door.

“Don’t get up on our account, you lazy scurmy.” Nybbor clicked his tongue as he went to a cupboard. “Some watchman he is.”

“Um, your voice is different.” Priscilla said, as a furry black face near the fireplace lifted off white paws. The scurmy blinked its owly eyes, sniffed, then went back to sleep.

Nybbor chuckled. “Guess that means you’re safe.”

He spun a glowing glass ball on the table. “Inside, I speak in my native tongue, but you hear the words in yours. Thanks to this all-are-welcome-here stone.”

“Wow.” She loved this place.

“Have a seat.”

She sat. Boy, oh boy was that chair warm and sleepy cozy. He dropped what looked like twigs into cups, then went to the fire and used a mitt to grab a metal tea pot dangling over the flames and poured in hot water. Setting the mug on the table, he said, “It’ll taste like cinnamon tea.”

Blowing on it, she gave it a try. Oh, and it did. Sweet roll yummy cinnamon. “Thank you.”

“So, any clues as to why you can’t sleep?”

“New house?”

“Perhaps.”

“New room?”

“Maybe.”

She shrugged.

“You said a name when you found your Necessary. Why?”

“I heard her singing.”

“This Greta.”

“My little sister.”

“Does she usually sing when it’s bedtime?”

“Every night.” Priscilla rolled her eyes.

“Maybe you liked it more than you thought?”

“Pft! Don’t be silly. I hated it.”

“Oh … are you sure? What song did she sing?”

“That’s just it. They weren’t songs. Just things she made up about her day. “I went shopping for shoes and my new sandals are glittery sweet on my feet.” Priscilla sang in Greta’s singsong off-key voice.

A squawk in the corner startled Priscilla, then a brightly colored bird pulled its head out from under its wing and repeated what she sang, making it into soothing sounds. Not once. Not twice, but three times. Slower and sweeter each time until Priscilla found her eyes fluttering at the third go round of “sweet on my feet.”

“I miss Greta’s singing.” Wow. I never thought I’d say that.”

“Thank you, my love-dove,” Nybbor said to the bird.

“That’s a love-dove?”

“It most certainly is.”

The bird preened its feathers changing colors as it did.

Priscilla pointed.

“It’s like an emotional what’s it called—cah—cah–chameleon—its feathers change colors with how it feels.”

“Cool.” Priscilla yawned. “I think I could fall asleep right here, but I should go home. Do you think this thing will show me the way?” She tried to look at the compass-sized Necessary and realized she held a periwinkle flower in your hand. “How’d that get there?”

“You solved the problem that brought you here and believe you me they won’t all be that easy.”

“All?”

“Aye. I’ll wager you’ll be back soon enough.”

“I will?”

“If you need to.”

“I want to.” Especially if it meant coming back and meeting creatures like Nybbor and a Scrum-whatyamacallit and a Love-Dove and drinking such scrumptious tea.”

“Well, for tonight, sleeping seems the right thing to do, don’t you think?”

Yawning, she said, “I sure do.”

“Then pick a petal.” He pointed to the flower.

“Are you sure I can come back?”

The Scrummy critter looked up and wagged its tale.

“I’d wager a winter’s worth of that tea on it.”

Taking a sip, it felt warm all the way down. “Good.”

“Thanks for everything, Nybbor,” she said, but he faded away before she’d even gotten to his name. In fact, she said it out loud to her empty room. She stood with bare feet and petals besides her toes. She turned to find a blank spot on her wall. Gazing over the wall, she realized she had dozens of flowers left.

Would she really be able to go back to that magical forest that many times?, she wondered as she slipped under her cozy covers, her limbs heavy, and her lips warm with the tune of Greta’s silly shoe song. She only repeated the lines a few more times before she drifted off to sleep with the melodic voice of a love-dove cooing in her ears. Her last thought was that couldn’t wait to tell Greta and Rosie about her adventure over marmalade toast.