Chapter 2:

It had been over a month since Christopher's mother stopped telling him stories. Ever since the night where he asked her the names of the four siblings, she had grown very sad. More so than usual.

It had been a rough time for the two of them, as this summer had been one of immense change.

Christopher had once had a father, as surely most every child did at some point, but it had been several months since he had seen him. Though, his father had only left a relatively short time ago, Christopher could scarcely tell you three things about him. This had been the first time mother had left him, but father had done the same many times over.

Not long after his father's most recent departure, Christopher and his mother had moved out of the city to live in the country. Away from his friends, his school, and his life, and towards a tiny cottage his mother could maintain without her husband's support.

He missed the city very much, but not because of the buildings. In fact, he loved being so near the woods. What he missed most of all were his friends. When they had moved so far away, Christopher had quietly convinced himself that they were moving to stay with family. But when they arrived at the cottage, no one was there to greet them. No long lost uncle and aunt, no grandparents with baked goods waiting for him, no one at all. Besides his parents, Christopher had never met any other members of his family. No grandparents, no cousins, and no aunts or uncles.

But he longed for more family, especially because he knew he had some somewhere. He learned his mother had had siblings one night years ago. He had accidently walked in on his mother crying over a picture of them. Before he could get a good look at it, she folded it up and stuffed it in a leather pouch. All she would say is that something had happened to them. But he had no idea what.

It was very lonely living in the cottage by the woods, without friends, family and now also without his mother's stories.

One of the only things he found enjoyable to do alone in the woods was exploring. There was always something new to distract oneself with. A rock could just be a rock, but if you flipped it over you uncovered a completely hidden world of insects and plants. There were animals in the trees, countless different birds who sang countless different songs, and smells of equal part freshness and decay.

This morning, when there was no studying to do at home, Christopher travelled further in the woods than ever before. Something about returning home felt very distasteful today. He had packed a small bag with a sandwich and a few candy bars, expecting to be out until midday. But when he had added a sweater, toothbrush, and electric torch, he knew he really hoped to be out until sunset. Maybe longer.

Over hill and between valley, he walked on and on. Just as it felt as though nothing would ever get him to turn around or stop, he saw something that stunned him to stillness.

He came upon a thin river in the forest. It forked ever so slightly into two and rejoined itself shortly after, creating the smallest of islands in between. Upon this island in the woods looked at first to be either an unlit campfire or a large pile of rubbish. But as he walked closer, he saw it more clearly. The island was covered with arrows. Not perfectly shaped arrows like one would see in an archery competition, mind you, but arrows all the same. Each one looked hand carved, and from the roughness of the work, likely carved with nothing but a dull blade. Maybe even a butter knife by how poor the arrows looked. When Christopher squinted, it looked more like a pile of splinters than of arrows.

Still, whatever the quality of the arrows didn't matter to Christopher. It was an unusual enough sight to peak his already starving interest. In no less than one second, he had bounded forward and jumped over the thin river onto the island so he could be close enough to pick one up. Perhaps the arrows were made by a craftsman hidden in the woods, or perhaps they were relics from an ancient war. They could have belonged to a band of great knights, or maybe to an archer from one of mother's stories, like Robin Hood or the Gentle Queen!

As he knelt down to pick up an arrow, his hand stopped before his fingers could grasp one. Suddenly, the wind had gotten quite cold. It was still early afternoon in the middle of summer in England, so there was little chance for such a cold wind to happen upon him.

But when Christopher looked up to see what had caused the cold, it became clear to him that he was wrong about three things:

It was not afternoon.

It was not summer.

And he was not in England.