The Never-ending School Trip: A Selection of Letters

Dear Cat,

You know how there’s The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter, these fictional places set in some place parallel to what we know and believe to be reality, but separated by some thin layer of- and I shudder as I write this, magic? Well, Cat, you will never guess where I am. 

 I am stuck in a magical-out of this world-Narnia could never compete-medieval country. Yes, you have read that right; assuming that I actually found a way to send this letter to you and you are actually reading it. I hope you are somehow, anyway. My phone’s battery died when I crash landed into this realm and as luck could have it, I was sensible enough to have my schoolbag with me even though you told me in the bus that no one in their right mind would bring a notebook to a school trip.  I write the word medieval as to arouse your attention and to call for help, as the only things that I do know about medieval England is Merlin (who possibly could be here but not named as Merlin according to Dolel, my unwilling travelling companion), knights (haven’t found one), and long-sleeved dresses (my school uniform has seen better days).  I write to you now as a sign of my life and to plead with you, a person who is not physically here and cannot see or hear me: call 911. Call my parents, my jerk older brother Matthew, Mrs. Knowles whose school trip was entirely her idea, anyone. Call for help.

That sounded incredibly desperate. To be fair, I have been stuck in this cave specifically for the past three hours because of this humongous monster chasing me. Yes, this medieval England has monsters with it too. You must be thinking of dragons and mermaids and unicorns with rainbows flying out of their butts, but I kid you not, this place has worse. Fantasy television couldn’t have possibly predicted this. Remember that we read Daphne du Maurier for A.P. English in fifth grade? I want you to recall the eponymous film and book: The Birds. Can you see them in your head, Cat? These venomous flying demon monsters, screeching and travelling in swarms? Picture one the size of our school bus, and you’ll see my friendly, lovable monster. 

If it wasn’t so loud and bloodthirsty, we’d be best friends by now. We used to play this game where we’d debate over fighting one horse-sized duck or ten duck-sized horses and I retract my stance: the horses are easier to fight with, trust me. Actually, it depends on the environment you’re in, as well as the weather conditions. Last week, I had the misfortune to meet a murder of tiny pixies who were not nearly as nice as Tinker Bell. Pixies are wasps personified and given an attitude meaner than Cristine on picture day. Thankfully, it started to rain just before as I started panicking, and the pixies ducked for cover. (They can’t fly if their wings are wet and becomes the prey rather than the predator).

I realize that I haven’t really explained the whole medieval England description, have I? I’d apologize but the screeching is nearer than I realized and I had to hide behind this huge stalagmite. I’ve been here for the past five days, seven hours, and 12 minutes- but hey, who’s counting? Are you searching for me, or have you given up and decided to search for my body instead? I know that I’m supposed to be a missing person by now, but I’m still hoping that Ecrunara is the same in Narnia, where days here is just seconds in reality. I’ve dubbed this medieval England in my head because for some insane reason, everyone I’ve met i\has an English accent. Maybe I’ve watched to many Game of Thrones episodes (god, I haven’t even watched the eighth season, is it out yet?), but now everyone I’ve met is not impressed by my admittedly boorish and loud American accent. Dolel especially have called for moments of silence when I try to small talk, where I obviously retaliated in singing Taylor Swift songs very loudly to his ear for purposes of annoying him. He’s offhandedly told me the other day that I can go undercover as a bard of some sort the next time we go to town, and that wasn’t a compliment Cat. I’ve heard the people who pass as bards in this country, and that was definitely an insult.

Dolel is this elvish boy with serious daddy issues, he’s supposedly a prince going against his father’s wishes that he rules their kingdom and be happy with his fiancée and whose engagement party I sort of interrupted. Given that I was again being chased by a hungry ogre that time (I'm starting to see a trend here, are you?), it was a surprise that he even wanted to help me. We’re currently in the Forsaken Nexus travelling to find our illustrious witch living in the high mountains of Ciadrilion which is a hop, skip, and a jump away from where we are now. We’re both assuming that she can solve everything with a bibidi-bobidi-boo of her wand. She’s called Deandria the Wise and she can help me go back to planet Earth and be a normal American sixteen-year-old and Dolel with his royal ascension issue. Problem is, no one thinks she’s real. Dolel says she is, and his magical scroll stolen from his palace archives says she is, but everyone we’ve met thinks we’re on a suicide mission. Honestly, at this point, I just don’t want to die alone. I just want to go home. I think it’s worth the risk, and Pottermore did sort me into Gryffindor, so it’s time for me to live up to some AI’s expectations of my supposed character. 

You must be wondering where Dolel is in my monster situation. Well, the truth is, we’re technically not on speaking terms. Probably the reason why I’m even writing to you Cat. We’ve said some things to each other, some very mean things like How could you be so spoiled and entitled as to give up and run away from the responsibility of being a leader just because you’re afraid and That’s rich coming from somebody who has been terrified of making her own decisions even before she got here. I can’t even remember how the fight started. I’m just… tired, Cat. I’m tired, and afraid, and alone. I’ve been running around in a foreign country and the adrenaline’s running out. There’s no other way around it: I’m stuck inside a cave hiding from a bird because I’m a coward. This really sucks, and I hate you for daring me to go into that tunnel alone. 

Wait a minute.

I can hear my heart pounding on my chest, I can hear raindrops.

…Is the bird gone?

This feels like the Schrodinger’s test. Should I stay, or should I go? 

I can see light from the mouth of the cave. The bird’s smart, it could be waiting outside to kill me. I could wait here, and pray for Dolel to come back. For someone to save me this time. 

But I do have a sword. And Dolel’s wrong: I’m not ready to die this time. My cause of death will be like Rose from Titanic: by my own terms. 

I’m killing this fucking bird. 

See you on the other side, Cat. 

 Your newly-turned warrior friend,

Bethany