The Forgotten Land of Myria

ROY

Why do birds have to chirp so loudly on Saturday mornings? I knew it was useless trying to fall asleep again, so I pulled myself up. My head spun and my dizziness threw me back on the bed. Wearily, I reached for my alarm clock but ended up knocking over three empty beer bottles that had been on my nightstand for god knows how long.

I covered the shattered bits of glass with my bed sheets--then again, who would look for broken beer bottles in the attic? Shaking off the last bits of sleep, I kicked away the headless dolls, rusty car models, and squeaky toys laying around, and opened the hatch in the floor that I called my front door.

Why did I live in the attic? Well, the answer was waiting for me downstairs. As I expected, Ms. Bournehaut was perched on her rocking chair like I was her long-awaited visitor. Her arms were crossed over her chest, eyes wide, and her lips were pursed, forming an upside-down U. That saggy frown was one of the many reasons why I called her ‘Ms. Boarhound’ behind her back.

“Good morning, Ms. Bournehaut,” I said in a singsong voice. Her expression didn’t change.

“Sit!” she ordered, barely opening her mouth. I took a seat on the velvet couch, facing her. “I see you’re in a great mood. Have a good night’s sleep, eh?” she leaned forward as she spoke.

I sighed.

“What do you think I did this time?” I responded, cutting right to the point. Her bushy eyebrows twitched the way they always did when she tried to contain her anger.

“You tell me,” she responded. “Would you care to explain the meaning of this?”

She pulled out a sparkled purple comb, filled with long hair strands.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, smirking, “I guess I must have left it lying around. I’ll be sure to take more care.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she said. She shot a hateful glare at the comb still clutched in her hand. “This is the third time you’ve brought a girl in here--the third time that you’ve done it without my permission.”

I had to pinch myself not to laugh. Of all the many times Ms. Bournehaut had accused me of something, she was almost always wrong. Almost. On the subject of girls, two of the times she was right--this time, however, she wasn’t, and I was ready to have a little fun with it.

“What if I did?” I asked. “What’s the fuss?”

“The fuss?” she spat furiously. “Well for one, this is a foster home, Roy!” She followed that with a lecture I didn’t pay the least attention to, since I was too busy staring at her mustache. She always said the same things anyway--how I wasn’t supposed to be here anymore, and how I had grown too old for this. That’s because about a year ago, I had passed the age limit to live in a foster home. Since then, Ms. Bournehaut had been trying every possible way to get me out of the house. When I refused to move, I was “exiled” to the attic. She thought that would change my mind, but little did she know, I was having a blast.

For instance, who needs showers when you have a perfectly good garden hose hanging from your wall? Who needs sinks, when you have a clear shot at your neighbor’s garden after brushing your teeth? Living in the attic wasn’t bad at all.

After fifteen minutes, Ms. Bournehaut ended her lecture by handing me a packet of papers.

“What are these?”

“Application forms,” she grumbled. “It’s time you find yourself a job. The way I see it, you’re not going anywhere with that madhouse you call a college.”

“Geez, Bethilda, someone feeling shaggy today?” I responded, grinning. I knew she hated being called by her first name.

“Maybe I should send you out to the military base,” she said, shaking in anger. “That would teach you a few things about respect.”

At that moment, we heard stomping upstairs and Ms. Bournehaut looked like she was about to explode.

“Agatha! DOWNSTAIRS!” she bellowed. There was some silence, then scurrying feet, and Agatha appeared, smoothly leaning on the stair railing.

Agatha was one of the older children in the foster home--thirteen-years-old. As she had been there since she was a newborn, which was longer than anyone --even me--she took most of the responsibility for things. Whenever something went wrong, it was on her.

“Yes, Ms. Bournehaut?” she said peacefully.

“What’s with all the noise?”

“We were just--”

“I want no more of it!” Ms. Bournehaut cut her off. “Now tell the rest of the kids that I want you all to bring your packed bags downstairs, now.”

“Yes, Ms. Bournehaut,” Agatha responded obediently.

“And you,” she turned to me. “You should probably wake your sister up once you’re done with those applications. You and she still need to be packed and ready as well. We leave in an hour.”

“Yes, Ms. Boarhound,” I muttered under my breath, and Agatha giggled.

“What are you waiting for?” she scolded Agatha, as she heaved up the stairs. “Move!”

I looked down and flipped through the application forms. There were all kinds of lousy jobs.

“A radio station?” I muttered to myself. “She wants me to work at a radio station?”

I knew Ms. Bournehaut wasn’t going to read the applications herself, so I filled them all out the same way.

Name: Roy Kendon

Age: 19

Current occupation: College dropout

Strengths: Filling out stupid applications

Weaknesses: Anything that involves work

Thoughts: See you never!


By the time I was done, most of the kids were already dumping their bags down the stairs, so I took to helping them out.

“Smooth going,” I muttered to Agatha as she reappeared with a purple backpack slung over her shoulder. “Here’s your comb back.”

I winked at her and she smirked. One thing all the kids enjoyed was fooling with Ms. Bournehaut’s patience. While the kids gathered around the living room, I trotted upstairs into Alice’s room.

Alice was my 12-year-old sister and basically, the only person I truly cared for. Probably because she was the only speck of family I had. Also, due to her disabilities, Alice forced a protective, caring instinct out of me that I didn’t have towards anyone else.

When I creaked open the door to her room, I found her still lying on the bed, holding one of her dolls. She shared a room with Agatha who was also very careful with her situation.

“Hey,” I whispered.

“Roy?” she responded, feeling around for my face. Her hand landed on my beard and she flinched.

“Ouch!” she said, “You should really shave that thing. It prickles!”

I chuckled.

“Will do, sis.”

I picked her up as her thin fingers ruffled through my hair. “Have you washed your hair lately? You’re shaking your head, aren’t you?”

I smiled, set her down on a chair and ran Agatha’s purple comb through her hair. Not only was she born blind, Alice was diagnosed with a degenerative muscle disease when she was 5-years-old, which left her paralyzed from the waist down. So, she demanded extra attention--which is why I refused to leave the foster home until she got adopted, consequently the reason I lived in the attic.

“Here,” Alice handed me a folded piece of paper. “Agatha didn’t have time to pack for me earlier today. Brock and Terry were throwing tantrums, so she made a list to help you out.”

“OK,” I agreed.

After having taken apart every drawer in the room I was able to get Alice packed as neatly as I could. I took the bags down first and then rushed back up to help Alice into her wheelchair.

“Wait,” she said, before I rolled her away. “My necklace.”

“Right,” I said, as I plucked it out of the pink box resting over the mirror cabinet. It was a necklace that Luz, our old foster housekeeper, had made for her out of a pearl that I’d found on the beach when I was twelve. Finding that pearl was part of my happiest childhood memory, so it meant a lot to both of us. Of course, my worst childhood memory came on the same day, when I came home to find my own sister lying on her bed, paralyzed from the waist down. Happy and sad, that necklace held a lot of memories.

I brushed her hair back and fastened it around her neck, then gently placed the pink duffle bag on her lap and wheeled her out the door.

Just as the last bag was dropped on the living room floor, I heard a car pull over outside the house. Through the white curtains, I could make out the green paint job.

“Jenna,” I muttered. As I rushed to meet her, the door flung open and I got the usual greeting.

“’Sup, Turd,” Jenna grinned, dumping her backpack on me.

“Good to see you, too, Jenna,” I replied as I threw her bag back at her. We shared a smile before Ms. Bournehaut stormed in.

“Right on time,” she hollered. “Off we go!”

“So, how’s life been treating you?” Jenna asked grinning as we stuffed the bags in the van.

“Not as well as its been treating you,” I replied sarcastically, throwing the same grin back at her.

Jenna and I grew up together in the foster home. We’re the same age and at the time, we were practically inseparable. Ms. Bournehaut called us the “Delinquent Duo”, since we were always the ones responsible for a kid waking up with, say a shaved head or a paint-covered face--I swear, kids are such heavy sleepers. However, unlike me, Jenna moved out last year when she turned eighteen. She got a job in the fashion industry, which is totally out of her league, since she’s the ideal tomboy-- as long as I’ve known her, she has worn ripped denim jeans, sneakers, and her frizzy blonde hair half hidden under a black bandana.

That was probably the reason we got along so well. Ever since she got the job, she had been taking every opportunity to rub it in my face. I didn’t mind as I knew for a fact that, deep down, she hated that job.

“I mean those fabulous pink skirts aren’t going to sell themselves, right?” I said.

“Oh, shut up,” she shot back, giving me a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”

“Me? Jealous? OK.”

“Just get in,” she said, shoving me into the van’s trunk. Since Alice was handicapped, she had to travel in a special seat in the trunk of the van. Obviously, I could never let her go alone, so that meant that for as long as I can remember, I’ve spent my road trips scrunched up against a fort of suitcases and duffle bags, banging my head against the wall due to the van’s constant wobbling--I’d gotten way too big for that trunk a while ago.

I buckled Alice tightly to her chair. Once the kids were in, the rusty van engine roared to life. Everyone knew where we were headed since we never went anywhere else on holidays: Noosa. Now, to anyone, that would sound like the life--the surfer-friendly beaches, all the neat resorts, Noosa National Park, and many other attractions.

However, of all the times we went, we never visited any of those, and this time wouldn’t be any different--well, at least not for everyone else. We would ride up to Noosaville and spend the entire weekend stuffed in Ms. Bournehaut’s sister’s roach-
infested cabin in the woods.

I, on the other hand, had different plans. Ben was coming home this weekend.

Throughout my life, Ben had been my surfing instructor, mentor, spiritual leader, and best friend. We met when I was twelve--he was sixteen--and since then he’s taught me everything I know today, about, well, everything. For the past ten months, Ben had been traveling overseas doing volunteer work for the Peace Corps. He was finally coming back to Australia to live in his grandparents’ old house in Noosa and I intended to meet up with him. My hand smashed against the trunk of the van as Jenna steered up the bumpy field that lead to the house. I could hear Ms. Bournehaut snort and grunt as she woke up.

“Alright, kids,” she said lazily, “grab your things. Let’s go.” Jenna switched off the car and ran around the van to open the front door for her as the kids poured out the back doors, screaming, like angry wasps out of a hive. I patted Alice’s shoulder and she flinched.

“We’re here,” I whispered softly. She stretched her thin arms and smiled. The sun burst into the van as Jenna opened the trunk, and I went through the regular routine of carefully pulling Alice out, steering her across the field to a tulip garden--which was her favorite place to stay--and going back to grab the food baskets and all the bags that the runts couldn’t manage to carry.

“You’re still a terrible driver,” I told Jenna, rubbing my head, as we pulled things out of the van.

“At least the Boarhound trusts me behind the wheel,” she scoffed.

“For now,” I chuckled.

I watched Ms. Bournehaut pull out an umbrella to shield herself from the sun as she slugged into the cabin and slammed the door behind her. Such a pessimist.

“When do you plan on telling her?” Jenna called out, as she banged the hood of the van shut. She always checked the engine before and after using it. It was like that thing ran on apple juice.

“Tell who, what?”

“Tell the Boarhound that you dropped out of college and have been doing nothing for the past three months.”

“Oh, and admit that I’m the pathetic failure she predicted I’d be?” I laughed, “Try never. And neither are you.”

She nodded. When she found out about it, Jenna had agreed to keep it a secret in exchange for a favor--helping her get back at her boss for not giving her a raise.

“But seriously. Are you kidding? Sometime you’re going to have to do something with your life,” she said, as she stood next to me looking out into the woods.

“Says who?”

“Says the weird guy who dropped you off at the foster home when you were seven,” she snapped back. “He said you were supposed to be some real special kid.”

“Oh, you know I’m special,” I joked.

“True that,” she smiled and knocked her fist on my head. “It takes a real dose of special to be as thick as you.” She turned to get back into the car.

“Wait, you’re not staying?” I asked.

“Not this time. Unlike some people, I have to work.”

“Right. Work for that boss whose house I covered in toilet paper,” I pointed out. She smiled.

“Exactly.”

She leaned in and kissed me, and whispered “Don’t do anything stupid,” before getting into the van and driving off.