The Kingdom of Kevin Malone by Suzy McKee Charnas Read Free Book Online

who had given the arches their odd names: Trefoil, Glade, Greywacke?
    No map from the real world could show me where I would come out in the Fayre Farre when I went through one of the arches. But why not memorize as much as I could about their placement? And why shouldn’t I choose my entrance this time, instead of just falling into Kevin’s country through any old arch?
    The southeast part of Kevin’s fantasy land I already knew a bit: it had the castle ruins and the Prison City (where the zoo was in reality). Near where I sat, the Gapstow Bridge crossed the shallow lake below the Wollman ice-skating rink, which would mean wading underneath the bridge to get to the Fayre Farre, and walking—maybe running for my life—in squishy shoes. No thanks.
    Playmates Arch was closest, but that was out: Kevin and I were not and never had been playmates. On the other hand, Cousin Shelly and I had gone through that arch lots of times when I was smaller, heading to or from the merry-go-round together. Even as a grown-up, she hadn’t been above taking a ride on one of the tall outside horses.
    The map showed three arches farther up the east side of the park. I decided on the one marked Trefoil. I must have passed it a zillion times in my wanderings in the park, but now I couldn’t remember what it looked like. On the map, it was the nearest after Playmates.
    Wearing my new running shoes and carrying two bologna sandwiches in a plastic bag, I folded up the map and headed east, toward the Trefoil Arch.
    It was Sunday morning. Joggers ran in the park, people sat on the benches watching baby carriages, and old men and ladies threw crumbs to mobs of pigeons bobbing and gurgling at their feet. There was no traffic on the roadways except the hordes of bike riders and skaters that use them on weekends. The East Drive took me over the top of the Willowdell Arch. Had I really skated under this archway into another world yesterday? My mind said I hadn’t. My sore legs said I had.
    The east end of the big lake came into view. I could see the shiny black rowboat bottoms stacked along the shore behind high chainlink fencing (people will steal anything in New York). Trefoil was right under me, with steps up to the lake on one side, paths and meadows stretching eastward on the other.
    I ran down the road bank and stood on the path beneath, looking west through the arch. The near side entrance was a sort of clover-leaf shape. At the far end of the passage I could see a simple rounded opening framing the concrete steps to the lakeshore. Up on top ran an iron railing sporting lacy vines and leaves, dark against the sky.
    I climbed up over the top again and looked at the other side of the arch, from the head of the steps. From this side the arch was sunk low between its green banks and overgrown on top with hummocky grass. Something unpretentious, almost hidden—that was the frame I wanted to step through into Kevin’s country this time.
    So I scrambled back over the top, and walked in through the cloverleaf side, clutching the rhinestone pin at my collar with one hand and my sandwiches with the other. The passageway, lying so low, was sloppy with mud. Surprisingly, the ceiling was just wood, a stained plank facing under the stone structure supporting the roadway overhead.
    I looked at the ceiling because I was scared to look ahead. I asked myself, Is this real? And: Am I dumb enough to do this?
    I stepped through the thick cold air curtain inside the arch—it made me shut my eyes and shiver—and came out facing not concrete stairs going up to the lake, but a high hillside covered with huge, tumbled slabs of stone, like granite dominoes tossed down from a giant’s hand. Had Kevin been crazy enough to put giants in the Fayre Farre?
    The slabs lay at angles just off the horizontal, like a flight of steps jolted out of true by an earthquake. Great: giants and earthquakes.
    It was chilly again, and damp, and no