Neverworld

Neverworld-Part one

Prologue

The woman exited the door in the tree and entered the woods at just past eight o'clock in the evening, Outworld time. It was early winter, and the air was cold but not yet bitter, the moon and stars hidden behind a thick and dull-colored blanket of clouds. A faint scent of smoke was in the air, probably from fireplaces in the nearby town. Not that anyone here really needed an open fire to stay warm. This was the Outworld after all, where comfort was commonplace.

It was a thin wood, mainly birches, and some old oaks, twisted with age. There was little in the way of ground cover-a few scattered leaves and twigs-and the earth was winter-hard, so that her steps were almost silent as she made her way toward the lights of the town.

The tree line ran up to the main road, and she followed it, moving from dirt to concrete without breaking her stride. She walked quickly along the sidewalk, avoiding the harsh glare of the lampposts and keeping as much as possible to the shadow of the buildings. Not that she would have been easy to see, even in the light. She was covered in a long purple cloak with the hood pulled over her head, although in the dimness it might as well have been black. In her right hand was a large basket of woven reeds; a gift from a friendly Nymph.

She reached the town square and paused at a statue erected in the center. At its base was a bronze plaque, proudly proclaiming that she was in the town of Beckett Groves, so named after its founder, a one-eyed traveling preacher whose name was Emmanuel Beckett and his pack mule whose name apparently, was not known. At some point in the recent past, someone had climbed the statue and painted in a second eye. The mule had been maligned as well.

Beckett Groves. The name meant nothing to her, but then this place wasn't chosen for any particular quality of the town itself. It was chosen for only one reason: it was near a door, a door for which there was a key. That in itself was a rarity these days. It might be years before that same door returned to its present location or it might never return, but that too didn't matter. There was little chance anyone would need to come this way again.

The woman continued across the square, finally stopping in front of a drab, two-story stone building. Above the doorway, three large letters had been engraved into the granite: DFS. Most of the windows were dark except for a single light in one of the first floor offices. She hesitated. It shouldn't have to be this way, she thought. But there was nothing to be done for it. Rousing herself, she walked up the steps and rang the bell.

Several minutes passed before a voice called out through the door. A female voice. "Can I help you?"

"Is this the agency charged with the care and protection of human children?" the woman asked.

A pause. "Did you say, human children?"

"I did indeed."

"This is the Division of Family Services." There was a hint of wariness in the voice. "But you'll have to come back tomorrow. The building is closed."

"If you open the door, it won't be."

The voice became flustered. "I mean the service is closed. We're open from eight to five, Monday through Friday. Please come back then."

"But I don't need assistance between eight and five. I need assistance now," she said.

"I've already told you, there's no one here."

"You are here."

There was a groan of exasperation and the sound of a lock turning. The door opened just a crack, the security chain still in place. Warmth and light radiated from the room beyond. The small head of an older woman appeared in the space, her glasses magnifying the size of her eyes several times.