Day 226

A Red-Letter day, this.  On this day, as I sat painstakingly repairing my poor tools and preparing my wretched writing materials, the thing I have so long expected and anticipated happened at last. 

The voice came through the wall.

I am not referring, of course, to the mere sound of the voice.  I mean that I came face to face with the speaker himself.  

How did this come about?  I will tell you.  First there was a scraping and a pounding.  Next a soft hiss, as of sand cascading down the face of the wall.  Then the harsh grating of stone against stone, followed by a small avalanche of mortar and rock.  I saw a storm of dust and heard a muffled cry.  And then a tall, thin figure walked into my cell.

He approached me slowly on unsteady feet, his long white beard wagging as he came, his matted hair a dirty shroud to cover his crooked back.  The remains of a high lace ruff or collar dangled from his neck like the shards of a crumbling yoke, and rusty black shreds of a ragged robe fluttered in ribbons from his emaciated limbs.  For a long time he stood over me, his head wobbling from side to side, his face a mask of profound weariness and distaste.  At last he spoke in a hollow, rasping voice.   

“Edward?” he said doubtfully.

I shook my head.

“Who then art thou?” he demanded.  “And how doth it hap that these cursed walls still hem me in?”

“I am John Izaak,” I replied.   “You’ve broken through into my cell, that’s all.  I’ve been listening to the sounds of your tunneling for a long, long time, and I’m glad you’ve come.  May I be so bold as to ask your name?”

He scowled terribly.  Stooping down, he traced a single letter in the dirt on the floor.  To my surprise, I had seen it before:

“All done, Morgan,” he heard his mother say.  “We had a good long talk, but she’s gone home now.  I invited them for dinner next week.”

Stunned, he turned at the sound of her voice.  “Them?”

“Yes.  Irene and Baxter.”

For dinner?  Morgan felt like he’d been hit with a two-by-four.  He struggled to speak, but nothing came out except an inarticulate splutter.

Just then Mavis caught sight of Grandma.  “My goodness, Wilma!” she exclaimed.  “I’m surprised to see you up!”

She hurried into the room, the breath of her perfume wafting over Morgan as she passed.  Crossing to the rocker beside the hearth, she laid a gentle hand on Grandma’s shoulder and leaned down to get a better look at her face.  “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“Better?”  The old lady frowned and swung around to face the wall.  “Not much!  Just wait till you’re my age.  You don’t know the first thing about aches and pains.”

Mavis smoothed Grandma’s hair and adjusted her afghan.

“Chicken broth,” Grandma said briefly.

“As soon as I can,” Mavis answered with a patient smile.  “I had an unexpected visitor this afternoon, so I’m a little late getting dinner, and—”

She was interrupted by a commotion at the front door—first a rapid pounding, then a frantic jiggling of the handle.  Morgan looked at Mavis.  Mavis stared back.

“I’ll go and see who it is?” she said, stepping out into the hallway.  “You wait here with your Grandma.”

She hurried to the door.  Fishing another cookie out of his pocket, Morgan glanced sheepishly in Grandma’s direction and took a small bite.

“I saw a woman,” he heard her faintly say.

“Huh?”

She blew her nose and glared at him fiercely.  “A woman!”

“Morgan!”  His mother’s voice again.  She was coming rapidly back down the hallway, calling as she came.  It sounded as if someone was following close behind.  He made a move to find out who it was, but Wilma caught hold of his sleeve.

“A woman.  In purple and scarlet.  Decked with gold and gems and pearls.”

He shook his arm free.  “What woman?”

Grandma nodded.  “Scarlet and purple.  And eyes like I never seen before.  Green.  Green and glowing.  Like a cat’s.”

Green eyes?  Morgan caught his breath and stumbled back, colliding heavily with his mother who was at that moment rushing in from the hall.  She caught him in her arms.  He in turn shot her questioning glance.  By way of answer, she nodded back over her shoulder.  Behind her stood George Ariello and the Reverend Peter Alcuin.

“What’s the matter with you George?” said Morgan, trying to force a laugh.  “Now you’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost!”

Rev. Alcuin was solemn as an undertaker.  “I’m afraid we’ve had some very bad news,” he said, his eyes fixed on George’s face, which was pale and working with emotion.  “From Moira.”

A strange and foreboding coldness crept up Morgan’s spine as he searched the minister’s face,

“It’s Eny.  She’s disappeared.”

* * * * *

“Mom, I’m home!” cried Morgan, the screen door banging behind him as he clattered into the duplex. “What’s for dinner?”

No answer.

Tossing down his backpack in the entry hall, he turned in at the kitchen door, hoping to find his mom and a snack. But as he was reaching for the cookie jar, he caught a glimpse of something that took him completely by surprise.

At the other end of the kitchen was another door through which he had a view of the dining room table. Mavis was there, her hands folded in her lap, her head bent slightly forward, deep lines of empathy and concern etched across her ivory forehead. Her eyes were fixed intently on the face of another person who sat beside her, elbows on the table, head in hands, pale cheek half concealed by a cascade of dark disheveled hair. Both figures stirred and glanced up at the ruckus Morgan was raising. Seeing the second woman’s face, he froze in his tracks with a cookie half-way to his mouth. Irene Knowles—Baxter Knowles’s mother—was in his house, talking with his mom, seated at his dining room table!

Mavis got up and came softly over to him. “She needed someone to talk to,” she explained, bending close to his ear. “I happened to be handy.”

Talk about what? he wanted to know. But his mother was already steering him out into the hallway and shoving a fistful of cookies into his hand.

“We won’t be much longer,” she added, putting a finger to her lips.

Morgan stuck a cookie in his mouth and headed for the living room. But as he passed the other entrance to the dining area—the one that opened on the hall—he couldn’t help overhearing a snatch of the conversation unfolding there. He could have made up his mind to keep moving. But he didn’t.

“It’s Baxter I worry about most,” he heard Mrs. Knowles say in a tearful voice as he crouched beside the door. “He’s such a sensitive child.”

“Mm hm,” was Mavis’s non-committal response. Morgan covered his mouth to smother a laugh.

“And his father has always been—well, less than supportive. In fact, he pushes him rather hard. As far as that side of the situation is concerned, I’m almost glad that … ” Her voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Mavis soothed.

“And yet a boy needs his father! Terribly! Don’t you think so?”

Mavis answered sadly. “Of course I do.”

“Believe me, Mavis, it wasn’t my idea to ship Baxter off to Needles. That was all Brevard! He insisted on it! And then, when he dropped the bombshell in Manhattan—when he told me that he was … Well, honestly, I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of was to come back here.”

“You did right, Irene.”

“You think so? Because sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel as if I’m at my wit’s end. Since we’ve been back, Baxter’s been out of control. I can’t manage him on my own. He seems desperate for something. He’s out at all hours doing I don’t know what.”

“Peter Alcuin might be able to able to help,” Mavis offered.

“Possibly. He’s a big boy for his age—large-boned, you know. He acts tough, but I know he’s just a lambkin. I’m afraid for him, Mavis. Afraid of what he might do—to prove himself, if you understand what I mean. It frightens me.”

“I know,” Mavis quietly observed. “There’s no telling what a boy in search of his father might do.”

Out in the hallway, Morgan felt a sneeze coming on and made a sudden bolt for the living room. That’s when he got a second surprise.

Grandma Wilma was up, sitting in the old oak rocker beside the cold fireplace, humming faintly to herself. With her back towards the door and her shriveled hands gripping the arms of the chair, she gazed fixedly at the wallpaper just as if she were watching something in its interlacing floral patterns. A white knitted shawl covered her hunched shoulders and she had a faded blue afghan draped across her lap. It was the first time he’d seen her sitting in a chair since she’d come to live with them.

“You okay, Grandma?” he said. “What are you doing out of bed?”

She looked round. Her eyes sparkled darkly. The pinched features of her walnut-like face drew together in an expression of intense concentration. Tilting her head to one side, she regarded him with a distant but knowing look.

“It’s time we were all up and doing,” she said.

Morgan sidled uncertainly into the room. “Is there anything I can bring you? Maybe you need some help getting back into bed?”

Instead of answering, Grandma Wilma fell into a fit of coughing. After a few minutes she lifted a shaky hand and pointed at the flowers on the wall.

“I’ve seen him,” she said wheezily. “Again. He appeared to me, Morgan.”

“Seen who?”

“It was dark. Dark as the pit. Black stones and foul water. Under the earth, under the sea, under the ground. His hair and beard were long and wild, but I knew him. I’d know him anywhere.”

Morgan moved closer to her chair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Grandma. I think I may have found something that will help. If you really want to get well, I mean.”

She shut her eyes and waved an impatient hand at him. “Don’t bother me with your powders and pills. I told him a long time ago what I thought of all that witch-doctoring. You listen to me.”

He bit his lip and bent towards her in a gesture of mute submission.

“He was calling for you. Your mother, too. I couldn’t hear his voice, but I knew what he was saying: ‘Come quickly. Come before winter.’”

Morgan could do nothing but stare.

“He’s speaking to you, Morgan. Speaking through me. Through the words. Through the letters. Didn’t you know?”

Utterly bewildered, Morgan nodded dumbly.

Grandma sighed and shook her head. “Perilous times. Let him that is on the housetop not go down into the house. Let him that is in the field not turn back to take up his garment.”

She’s really losing it, thought Morgan. What do I do now?

There was a pause. Then she added, “And wouldn’t you know? When he least expected it, someone came to him. Through the wall.”

“The wall?”

She grinned. “Yes, he’s waiting for you. But not alone. Not anymore. God has sent him a helper.”

I should get Mom, he fretted. He wondered if he dared interrupt Mavis’s conference with Mrs. Knowles. But even as he hesitated, there was a footstep on the carpet behind him.

(To be continued …)

Morgan was out the classroom door as soon as the bell rang the following afternoon.  It was Friday and he didn’t have a scrap of homework to do.  A sense of unbounded liberty swelled his head and sharpened all his senses as he burst out of the English Hall and into the open air.  The entire weekend lay ahead of him—three nights and two whole days to spend with his father’s books.  He couldn’t wait to get started.

He ran all the way to the bike racks.  As he knelt, all out of breath, and began dialing the combination on his bike lock, he couldn’t help but notice a group of five boys throwing a football around on the other side of the fence.  By the time he was yanking his bike free of the rack, the boys had dropped their ball and were sauntering slowly towards him through the gate.  The expressions on their faces weren’t encouraging.  Morgan didn’t get the impression that this was meant to be a friendly visit.  They surrounded him before he had a chance to swing into the saddle and push off.

“Look who it is, guys,” said the one who stood directly in his path—a heavy-set, boy with a ragged crew cut and a face as red as a beet.  “Mr. Wizard himself!”

“How are the experiments going, Dr. Frankenstein?” chimed in one of his cohorts, a short kid with big ears.

“Yeah, didja come up with a cure for stupidity yet?” added another.  “Oh, wait—you’re still dumb!”

They were Baxter Knowles’s cronies.  Morgan recognized them at once, even without their leader.  Most of them were new to the gang.  Baxter, it seemed, had picked up a fresh set of recruits since his return from exile.  For some reason, most of his former disciples had declined the opportunity to sign on again.

Morgan licked his lips nervously as he gazed around the circle.  A year ago he would have been trembling uncontrollably.  He might have trembled still if he were standing nose to nose with Baxter himself.  But he was also keenly aware that things were completely different this year.  This year he knew what it was like to face giants and confront enchantresses.  This year he possessed a sword that could put an army to flight.  Besides, Baxter wasn’t there.  I can handle this, he thought.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, slipping his arms through the straps of his backpack and straddling the bike.  “I don’t have time for this right now.”  And with that, he put his feet to the pedals and pushed straight ahead towards the leader.

“Hey!” cried Beet-Face, dodging to one side, “You can’t do that!  Get him, guys!”

In a flash the other four converged on Morgan, toppling the bike and knocking him to the ground.  In half a minute they had him down in the grass and were stripping him of his backpack and sweatshirt.  Big-Ears took up a strategic position on his chest.  Another boy held his legs.  Still another grabbed him by the throat and raised a fist to pummel him.  But then a voice rang out above the fray:

“What do you idiots think you’re doing?  Get off him!”

From where he lay, Morgan could see nothing but the look of wide-eyed stupor and confusion on Big-Ears’s broad freckled face.  Slowly, the raised fist was dropped.  The clenched hand released his throat.  Then, one by one, the boys got to their feet and backed away.  When he could breathe again, Morgan sat up, rubbed his neck, and shoved a few strands of yellow hair out of his eyes.  Then he looked around to see who had intervened on his behalf.

It was Baxter Knowles.

Baxter was standing directly behind Morgan, his handsome cleft chin thrust forward, his arms folded across his chest, his strawberry-blonde hair fluttering lightly around his high, smooth forehead.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” said Baxter, avoiding Morgan’s eyes and addressing his followers in what sounded like a tone of assumed nonchalance.  “He’s not worth it.  And next time, don’t try anything like this until I say so.  Got it?”

Beet-Face stuck his hands into his pockets and kicked at a clump of grass.  “Got it, Baxter,” he said, before slouching off after the rest of the gang.

Morgan got up, retrieved his pack, and picked up his bike.  Then he walked up to Baxter and looked him straight in the face.  He groped for words, but words failed him.  He didn’t know what to think, much less what to say.  So he just stood there.

As for Baxter, he went red to the ears and averted his eyes.  He rubbed his nose and mumbled something Morgan couldn’t make out.  Then, just as it had happened a few days earlier, he turned on his heel and shuffled off.

Morgan stared after him until he disappeared behind the gymnasium wall.

(To be continued …)

Scratching her head, Eny returned to her seat on the bed and resumed her writing:

                   He utters raw and raucous notes;

                   He lifts his glossy, glinting pinions …

Pssst! 

Eny was on her feet at once.  “That wasn’t the wind!” she said to herself.  “The wind doesn’t say pssst!”

But when she made a second investigation—creeping to the window on all fours so as to be as small and inconspicuous as possible—the street was silent and empty.  She thought about closing the sash, but it was too hot.  Besides, if her new theory were correct—if the Other World really could break through in a place like Hollywood—then there was really no reason to be scared.  Her curiosity was roused, and she wanted to see what might happen next.  She went back to the bed and took up her poem for the third time.

“He dives into the sun,” she wrote.

“Hssst!  Young miss!”

This time she didn’t jump or start.  Neither did she look towards the window.  She perked up her ears and listened.

“Come out!”

Someone was calling her.  It was almost as if she were expecting it.  Lifting her head from the page, she put the pencil aside and got to her feet.

Come out!  There was something about that voice, something in its tone… as if it had the power to cast a sort of spell over her.  She was not afraid.  On the contrary, rarely had she felt so calm and collected.  Slipping the notebook back into her pack, she picked up her fiddle and walked slowly to the living room.

At the front door she paused.  Come out the voice had said.  It seemed crazy, but Eny felt inclined to obey.  Slowly she reached for the door-knob.  She undid the latch.  And as she stood there, ready to fling open the door, there came a gentle knock.

She had not forgotten what her mother had told her.  She remembered that this was Hollywood.  She knew that the streets weren’t safe, that people couldn’t be trusted, that crimes of all kinds were common in this neighborhood.  “And yet,” she said to herself, “Mom never said, ‘Don’t go out.’  She just said, ‘Don’t let anybody in.’”

Tap, tap.  The knocking again.  Someone was rapping, lightly but persistently, at the other side of the door.  There was nothing harsh or threatening in that knock.  It was a friendly knock.  It was patient and kind.

What if this were Santa Piedra? she thought.  What would I do then?

Already she knew the answer.  Tucking her violin under one arm, she opened the door and stepped out into the night.

Nobody was there.  Strange, thought Eny, squinting into the darkness.  She looked to the left.  Nothing but dusky oleanders.  She looked to the right.  The lights of the apartment building next door winked at her through the leaves of an elm.  Some bits of paper stirred on the sidewalk in the sultry breeze.  A dog barked in the distance.  A moth fluttered around the porch light.

And then, without warning, she was falling.  Someone grabbed her and pinned her arms behind her back.  A hand clapped over her mouth.  Another seized her fiddle.  She gasped and tried to scream.  She twisted and kicked and struggled to wrench herself free.

At last she slipped down into an engulfing blackness and knew no more.

* * * * * * * *

Hurrying to the fiddle in the corner, Eny picked up the case, laid it on the floor, and unlatched the brass clasps.  Gently raising the lid, she lifted the glossy instrument from its velvet bed and cradled it in her left arm.  Then she tightened the bow, rosined the horsehair, and attached the chin rest.  When all was ready, she raised the fiddle to her shoulder and stepped over to the window.

Heaving a deep sigh, she stood there for a moment gazing out into the sweltering night.  It was like coming home.  It was like falling helpless and happy into the arms of a long lost friend.  It was like waking up and drinking long draughts of sweet air after a nightmare of suffocation and drowning.  She smiled.  She raised her right elbow and drew the bow across the strings.

At first she played softly and tentatively.  Feeling her way from tune to tune, she scraped out all her old favorites:  “Out on the Ocean,” “The Flowing Tide,” and “Round the House;” “The Lark in the Clear Air,” “Rakish Paddy,” and “The Dawning of the Day.”

The longer she played, the bolder she grew.  Confidence and joy rose up and intertwined, possessing her body and soul.  Like a bubbling, flowing fountain the music gurgled upward, ascending from her belly to the top of her head.  Gradually her unpracticed fingers remembered their old skill and she launched into a rousing set of reels:  “The Bucks of Oranmore,” “The Salamanca,” “The Banshee,” and “The Sailor’s Bonnet.”

At last she slipped into a melody she barely knew, a tune she could only recall having played once before—an old Welsh dance called “The Wing of the Black Crow.”  Before she even realized what she was doing, she had played it through one time without a hitch.  But when it came around again, her fingers faltered.  The name of the tune rose up before her and gave her pause.  She slowed to a stop.  The bow fell from her hand and the music ceased.

Though the night was hot, Eny felt a chill.  The black crow, she thought, peering uneasily out the window.  Away to the south she could see the great brick tower silhouetted against the luminous hillside.  In her imagination its shadow fell across her path again.  Again she felt a burst of air explode against her cheek.  Again she recoiled from a sharp blow to the top of her head.  She shrunk into herself, dropped to the edge of the bed, and sat staring down at her trembling bow-hand.

But this mood of bleak defeat did not last long.  For in the next moment a flush of red-hot anger came rushing to her aid.

“This isn’t right!” said Eny.  “I’m allowing that woman to control my life!  I have the power to stop her, and I will!  After all, a crow is a crow is a crow—not a demon!  It doesn’t belong to her!  A crow is part of God’s creation!  Fear has no place in perfect love!”

With that, she reached for her backpack, took out a pencil and her poetry notebook, and began to write in a strong, deliberate hand:

                  The wing of the black crow

                   Sails silent down the sun-blue sky.

                   At rest he sits, head downward-cocked,

                   Upon a barren, thorny branch …

Hssst!

Eny glanced up with a start. What was that sound?  She rose and walked softly to the window.  Had she heard a rustling in the oleander bushes?  Was some person on the sidewalk?  She drew back the curtain and looked out.  No one was there.  All was quiet.  Even the shouts of the children had faded away.  The circle of light beneath the lamp post was unmarred by any shadow.  Must have been the wind, she thought …

(To be continued …)

“And remember,” said Moira, forcing her unruly auburn curls to submit to the discipline of a black elastic band.  “Keep the door closed and locked.  Don’t let anybody in!  Don’t even answer the phone till I get back.  Do you understand?”

“Mom!” said Eny.  “You’re only going to pick up Aunt Grania.  It’s about ten minutes away!”

“Ten minutes too long under the circumstances.  I hope she’ll have her car back by tomorrow!  I don’t like leaving you alone at night.”

“You worry too much.  I’m not a child anymore.”

“That’s part of what worries me,” observed Moira with a wry smirk, slinging her bag over her shoulder and fishing out her big silver key ring.  “This isn’t Santa Piedra.  It’s Hollywood.  You never know who might be watching.  And don’t roll your eyes.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.  Besides, we have a lot more to worry about than just stalkers and street people.  We can’t be too careful.”  She opened the door and scanned the street from one end to the other.  “Ugh!  It’s still so hot out!  Now don’t forget what I said.  I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“’Bye, Mom,” said Eny in a flat voice, holding the door while her mother descended the front steps.  “See you in about twenty minutes.”

“Lock the deadbolt!” Moira shouted as she climbed into her old blue Rambler and drove away.

Eny shut the door and leaned against it.  Aunt Grania’s tiny apartment was beginning to feel like a prison.  Or maybe an asylum.  The orange lava lamps, mauve shag carpet, naugahyde bean-bag chairs, and avocado curtains only added to the atmosphere of insanity.  So did the mocking gray eye of the mute television set.  To Eny, the entire living room was nothing but one big garish assault on the senses.  Checking to see that the lock was secure, she turned away and slumped off to the front bedroom she shared with her mother.

It was hot and stuffy in there.  Knowing very well what Moira would say, she opened the window to let in some air.  Outside she could see the sidewalk, a few dusty oleander bushes, and the filmy yellow lights of the apartment buildings across the street.  Dirty patches of starless sky showed above the drooping palms, and search lights swept the dim horizon beyond the sagging telephone lines.  Here and there a random spark of blurred neon from the shops on the Boulevard, just three blocks away, managed to pierce the intervening barrier of buildings and trees.  Shouts of children echoed down a nearby alley.  From a great distance came the foreboding wail of a siren.

Switching on a light, Eny sat down on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes.  She tried hard to imagine that the constant swish and rush of passing cars was really the surge of the sea on the shores of Laguna Verde.  It didn’t work.

How long? she wondered.  How long will we have to stay in this awful place?  Yawning and stretching, she ran her fingers through her hair and fell sideways on the bed.  That’s when the fiddle caught her eye.

It had been months since she’d touched it.  She’d dropped it there in the corner on the day they moved in and had hardly thought of it since. Not once in all that time had she felt even the slightest urge to pick it up.  That would have been to invite memories of Simon.  And memories of Simon had always seemed out of place in Hollywood.  Always—until this week.

Lying there on her side, staring at the silent instrument in its coffin-like case, she became aware by stages that her feelings about the violin and everything associated with it were changing.  She realized that her internal compass was shifting.  Her mind was possessed by a single image—the image of the tall man on the bus.

The resemblance was uncanny.  It might be nothing more than that, of course—an uncanny resemblance.  But then why had he, a complete stranger, taken it upon himself to protect her?  And why had he given her such an indescribably penetrating look as he stood there on the sidewalk?  Those eyes!  Only once before had she seen eyes like that.

And then there were the events of that afternoon.  There was no reasonable way to account for them.  Where had the pawn shop come from?  Where did it go?  Who was the dark-haired, smooth-tongued shopkeeper, speaking in riddles like a Sphinx?

There was only one possible explanation.  As far as Eny was concerned, the whole thing smacked of the Sidhe.  The fingerprints of the Other World were all over it.  It was thick with mystery.  It seemed dripping with enchantment.  And yet …

No, she thought, it can’t be.  Hollywood might mean “magic” to some people, but she knew better.  She was too well acquainted with its dirty, smelly, seamy underside.  Hollywood might be many things, but it was certainly not an otherworldly place—not the kind of place Moira would have called “thin”.   And a place that wasn’t thin couldn’t play host to enchantments.

Or could it?

Eny pondered.  If all this had happened in Santa Piedra—if ocean mists had been swirling outside the window instead of hot, stale smog—it would have been a different story.  In that case there would have been little room for doubt.  In that case she would have begun searching at once for further clues and evidences of the unseen behind the seen.  As it was, she couldn’t be sure.

There was, of course, that other person—the troll, the nameless, faceless pianist beneath the big floppy hat.  What about him?  How had he learned to play like that?  How could anybody create such unearthly music and yet live in hole under a freeway bridge?

His music came back to her now.  Gradually she became aware that it was inside her brain, outside the window, in the room, on the street, floating above the bed.  It was swelling all around her, stirring the air just below the ceiling, inhabiting the halo of light surrounding the lamp.  It filled her like a sweet, warm, liquid; it lapped her like a coverlet of woven lightstrands.  It ran dripping and tingling down from her head, her shoulders, her arms.  Her hands burned with it.  Her fingers itched to be a part of it.

Eny sat up on the bed.  Suddenly it was all clear to her.  In that instant she realized that it didn’t really matter where she was.  Hollywood, Santa Piedra, Timbuktu—it was all the same.  Though parted from her in body, Simon could still be with her in spirit if only she had eyes to see and ears to hear.  Only one thing mattered now:  to merge with the music.  To participate.  To play . ..

( To be continued …)

Day 213

What I have now to recount is so astonishing, even to me, that I am unable to devise a suitable method of leading up to it.  How to weave this incident smoothly into the fabric of my narrative, so as to ease for the reader the shock it registered upon my own disbelieving mind?  The thing eludes me.  There is nothing else for it.  I must jump in boldly.  I must state the bare fact in plain language.

There was a voice. 

It came from the other side of the wall.  I heard it distinctly.  No discernible words, but a human voice.  Of that I am sure. 

How did it happen?  I will tell you.  There came a lull in the scraping and tapping.  After that, a brief silence.  Then the voice spoke.  I could not understand what it said, but I could tell that it was very close.  My spine tingled at the sound. 

It tingles still …

*  *  *  *  *  *

“Le Morte D’Arthur,” said Rev. Alcuin, finding the spot he was looking for.  “Book XIII, Chapter 2.  Do you know what happens in this passage?”

Morgan shook his head.

“This is where the quest for the Holy Grail begins.”  Peter jabbed a finger at a full-color illustration that filled the entire right-hand page.  “This is how it all started.”

The picture showed a band of knights in bright, heraldic regalia, standing on a sward of emerald green beside a crystal river.  In their midst was a tall man with golden crown on his head.  Arthur himself, thought Morgan.  On the water floated—yes, floated—a large stone.  And in the middle of the stone, stuck halfway in, was a long blue sword with a shining pommel, a golden hilt, and a large curved quillion or crossguard.

“Let me read it to you,” said Rev. Alcuin.  “This is what the text says:”

     So, as they stood speaking, in came a squire and said unto the king, ‘Sir, I bring unto you marvelous tidings.  There is here beneath at the river a great stone which I saw float above the water, and therein I saw sticking a sword.’

     The king said, ‘I will see that marvel.’

     So all the knights went with him, and when they came unto the river, they found there a stone floating, and therein stuck a fair and rich sword.

     Then said the king unto Sir Launcelot, ‘Fair sir, this sword ought to be yours.’

     But Sir Launcelot answered soberly, ‘Certes, sir, it is not my sword.  And I will that ye wit that this same day will the adventures of the Holy Grail begin.’      

The Reverend looked up from the page.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Morgan.  “I thought the Sword in the Stone comes at the beginning of the story—before Arthur was king, back when he was just a boy.”

“You’re right,” said Peter.  “But this is the other Sword in the Stone.”

Morgan frowned.  “Other?  I don’t remember that.”

“Well, then, take note.  There were two.  And it wasn’t Arthur who pulled this Sword from this Stone.  Nor Launcelot.  It was Sir Galahad—the hero of the Grail Quest.  And the story goes on to say that the Grail itself appeared in Arthur’s hall that very night and fed him and all the fellowship of the Round Table ‘with such meats and drinks as every man loved best in this world.’”

Morgan felt as if he were in the middle of a thick fog.  He pictured himself standing in a swirling mist through which a point of dim light was just barely visible.  There was something, he sensed, in what Rev. Alcuin was saying—something important, something he could almost grasp, something he desperately needed to know if only he could clear away the clouds from his muddled brain.  He struggled to lay his finger on it.

“Don’t you see?” said Peter after another short silence.  “There is a link here.  Not only between the Sword and the Stone, but between the Sword and the Stone and the Grail!  That’s what I find so fascinating about all this.”

Morgan stared.  The Reverend continued.

“You haven’t forgotten what I said to you about the Grail once before, have you?  Here in this very room?  How Wolfram von Eschenbach calls it the Gral and says that it wasn’t the cup of Christ at all, but a miraculous stone?”

For Morgan it was as if a pair of scales had fallen from his eyes.  “I remember!” he said.  “And I remember something else, too.  Something about knights being fed with all their favorite meats and drinks.  That was Lia Fail, wasn’t it, Reverend?  ‘The Satisfaction of All Desire!’”

“Exactly what I’m thinking,” Peter responded.  “I wonder what it can possibly mean?”  A puzzled look clouded his gray eyes.

Morgan felt hot.  He was blushing again.  Hastily he got up and shoved his papers and drawings into his pack.

“I think I’d better go now,” he stammered.  “It’s getting late.  Mom will be wondering where I am.  You’ve given me a lot to think about, Rev. Alcuin.  Thanks.”

Then he hurried to the door.  As he turned the knob, he happened to see the Reverend’s face reflected in a large mirror that hung beside the entrance.  Its expression startled him.  He’d only seen that look on the minister’s usually jovial countenance a couple of times before—a look of deep concern mingled with a hint of pain.

“You may want to remember,” he heard the Reverend say as he stepped across the threshold, “that the beginning of the Grail Quest was the beginning of the end.  The end of Arthur’s reign and the Table Round.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Well?” said Morgan, still pointing insistently at the strange inscription.  “Do you or don’t you recognize this writing?”

“Heavens, no.  Never saw anything like that in my life.  But this here”—Rev. Alcuin indicated the three long cross-hatched lines running down the length of the sword’s blade—

” — I believe that’s Ogham.”

“Ogham?”

“Yes.  An ancient Irish system of writing that consisted entirely of straight lines.  It’s similar in that respect to the Germanic runes.  Perfect for scratching messages into wood or stone.”

Morgan’s heart jumped.  “Do you know what it says?”

“Oh, I can’t read Ogham.  I just have a general idea of what it looked like.”

“Can’t we get some books on it?”

“Perhaps.  At a university library, maybe.  I don’t have any.  That was more in your dad’s line.  Maybe you should search your stash.”

Rats! thought Morgan.  He felt like a deflated balloon.  Dropping the papers on the table, he slumped back in the rocker and stared down at the toes of his tennis shoes.

“What I’d like to know,” said the Reverend after an awkward silence, “is where you came up with all this in the first place.  Have you ever seen this sword?”

Morgan glanced up.  He hesitated.  “Only in a book.”

“What book?”

“One of my dad’s.  The one I was looking at when the notebook fell out.”

“And that book was … ”

“It was a book about …”—he felt his cheeks beginning to burn—“… a book about Paracelsus.  His Life and Times.  Paracelsus was another—well, another famous alchemist.”

“I’m familiar with the name.”

“Paracelsus was the greatest of them all,” said Morgan, warming to his subject.  “Apparently he had this big sword.  I copied that picture out of the book.  He carried it with him everywhere he went.  Even slept with it.  That got me to thinking.”

“Yes?”

“Well, my dad was really interested in Paracelsus and alchemy and all that.”

“As you and I both know.”

“And you told me that he thought there was some kind of connection between the Philosopher’s Stone and the Grail and the Stone of Destiny.”

“So I did.”

“So I couldn’t help wondering—” he stopped to take a breath.

“Go on.”

“—I couldn’t help wondering if there might be another connection.”

Peter paused in the act of pouring himself a second cup.  He looked straight into the boy’s eyes.  Morgan leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table with both hands.

“The Sword in the Stone,” he said by way of explanation.

Rev. Alcuin gave a start.  Some of the tea spilled over the edge of the cup and splashed onto a copy of Scientific American.  He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Sword.  Stone.  The Sword in the Stone.  The two just go together, don’t you think?  They have to for anybody who has ever read King Arthur.”

“I suppose so,” admitted Rev. Alcuin, wiping up the tea with his pocket handkerchief.  “But—”

“They do!” persisted Morgan.  “And I haven’t been able to think of anything else since—well, ever since I saw that picture.  I keep thinking about Lia Fail and the Philosopher’s Stone.  And now this sword.  Do you see what I mean?”

A light came into the minister’s eyes.  He dropped the handkerchief, got to his feet, and walked slowly to the other side of the room, where he stood for a moment intently scanning the shelves of a tall bookcase.

“I can’t say that I know exactly what you have in mind,” he said thoughtfully as he mounted a low stool.  “But what you say does remind me of something.  Give me half a minute.”

He ran his forefinger along the spines of the books lining the top shelf.  “Lewis,” he muttered.  “Lindgren … Livy, London, Longfellow … MacDonald … MacDonald—Malory!”

Pulling down a large volume, he blew off the dust, hopped down from the stool, and resumed his seat at the coffee table.

“This is it,” he said, opening the big book.  Moistening a fingertip, he rapidly flipped his way through the thick, musty, yellow-edged pages until he found the spot he was looking for …

(To be continued …)

“Rev. Alcuin?”  Morgan rapped tentatively at the door of the minister’s study.  “Are you there?  It’s me.”

No answer.  He bent down and peered through the keyhole.  He put his ear to the door.  It sounded as if someone inside were whistling a softly lilting tune.

Again he knocked—once, twice, three times.  Slippered footsteps approached from the other side.  The knob turned, the stubborn door shuddered.  It opened a crack.  At last it swung wide, revealing a round, ruddy, bespectacled face crowned by a wide expanse of gleaming baldness.

“Morgan, my friend!” beamed Peter Alcuin, his eyes twinkling.  “So glad to see you.  Come in!”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time …”

“Not a bit!  Working on my sermon, that’s all, and I’m in desperate need of a break.  Find a chair.  I’ll brew us a pot of tea.”

Morgan shuffled into the room while Rev. Alcuin bustled out to the adjoining kitchenette.  Locating a chair was no problem, for the dimly lit study was packed with seats of various kinds:  armchairs, desk chairs, couches, footstools, ottomans, Victorian settees.  Finding a place to sit down was another matter, since nearly every available space, including the coffee table and the sewing cabinet Rev. Alcuin used as a writing table, was piled high with books and bundles of paper.  For a moment Morgan stood doubtful in the midst of the jubilant clutter.  At last he removed three volumes of Kittel’s Theologisches Worterbuch from a cane-backed rocker, stacked them on the floor, and threw himself down in the chair.

“Milk and sugar?” called the Reverend.

“Just sugar,” Morgan answered, idly leafing his way through an illustrated copy of Dante’s Inferno that lay in front of him on the coffee table.  The pictures—Gustave Dore’s woodcuts—affected him strangely:  so precise in their intricacy and detail, so repulsive in their graphic representation of the sufferings of the damned.  He shuddered and wrinkled up his nose at one particularly bizarre engraving.

“Weird!” he grunted as Rev. Alcuin emerged with a steaming teapot and a rattling tray of cups and saucers.  “These people all have their heads on backwards!”

Peter set the tray down atop a massive Oxford Dictionary and bent over the book.  “Ah, yes.  That’s the Fourth Bolgia.  It’s a place in the lowest circle of Hell.  Those are the sorcerers.”

Morgan glanced up at him.

“Their heads are twisted around like that because they’ve lost the ability to look forward.  Into the future.  Something they attempted to do all their lives, but always by means of the wrong methods.  One of them, says Dante, is Michael Scot.  The famous alchemist and astrologer.”

Morgan shifted uneasily in the rocker.  He had an uncomfortable feeling that the Reverend’s observation was intended as something more than a commentary on the text.  “I don’t do alchemy anymore,” he said.  “Not since the beginning of summer.”

“Really?”  Peter poured out the tea and handed him a cup. “Sugar’s on the tray.  Sorry I haven’t anything else to offer you.  Fresh out of scones.”

“I’m okay,” said Morgan, reaching for the sugar.

The Reverend loosened his clerical collar, cleared off a stack of newspapers from his favorite Windsor chair, and sat down facing Morgan across the coffee table.  “Now then.  I assume you have some reason for coming to see me this afternoon?”

Morgan nodded.  Unzipping his backpack, he fished out the little green notebook and tossed it down on the table.  “Have you ever seen this before?”

Peter Alcuin’s eyes opened wide.  He set his teacup aside, picked up the notebook, and studied it closely.

“Where did you find it?”

“It’s my Dad’s, isn’t it?”  Morgan had to struggle to keep a tremor out of his voice.  “Can you tell me anything about it?  Do you know what’s in it?”

Rev. Alcuin thumbed his way through the soiled and closely written pages.  “Not necessarily.  But I do recognize it.  I’ve seen him jot things in this little diary many times.  He used to take notes on everything.  He’d often sit there—just where you’re sitting now—writing and writing all the while we talked.  Aggravating when it didn’t suit my mood.  But that was the way his mind worked.”

“It fell out of one of his old books while I was looking for something else.  Some of the handwriting is pretty hard to make out.  I was hoping you could help me decipher it.”

The Reverend looked doubtful.  “Possibly.  But there’s a chance we’re up against something tougher than just cramped or sloppy handwriting.  Your father was in the habit of using several different forms of shorthand.  Some were of his own devising, almost like secret codes.  And of course he was familiar with all sorts of obscure languages and writing systems.  There may be a great deal here that we simply can’t read.”

“But we can try, can’t we?”

Rev. Alcuin smiled.  “Yes, Morgan.  We can, and we will.”

There was a pause while the Reverend raised his cup to his lips and Morgan dipped into his backpack again.

“There’s also this,” he said, unfolding a large piece of paper and spreading it out on top of a stack of National Geographics.  “It’s a drawing I made myself.  What do you think?”

Rev. Alcuin leaned forward.  He squinted through his spectacles and tilted his head to one side.  “It’s quite good.”

“Thanks, but that’s not what I meant.  Does this sword look familiar?”

The Reverend bent closer.  “Well … it’s definitely northern European.  Celtic or Teutonic.  Ninth or tenth century, perhaps.  Though there are some rather odd, extraneous elements.  Foreign touches and anachronisms.  And the pommel is quite large.  Unusually large.  Wielding a weapon like that in a fight would have been a bit awkward.  But no, I’ve never seen this particular sword before.”

“I’m mainly interested in the inscriptions.”

“I see what you mean.  Rather hard to make out, aren’t they?”

“In the drawing.  That’s why I copied them over again here.”  He unfolded another piece of paper.

“Mmm.  Now this type of thing was right up your father’s alley.”

“Yours too, maybe?”

Peter laughed.  “Your father and I shared a love of literature and history, Morgan, but when it came to languages I couldn’t keep up with him.  I know some Latin and Greek and Hebrew, but that’s about my limit.”

“So you don’t recognize this writing?”  Morgan pointed out the two strange inscriptions he’d copied from the sword’s crossguard:

(To be continued …)

Day 197

Today the tapping on the other side of the wall got louder and seemed to come much closer. 

When I heard it, I laid aside my own poor tool and put my ear to the damp stones.  I held my breath while my heart kept time with the steady tick-tick-tick.  But on this occasion there was no need to strain.  The sound was clear as a winter dawn, sweetest of my dim memories.  And with it came an even clearer mental picture:  a chick inside an egg; a tiny, wet, bedraggled prisoner patiently picking away at the last thin, frangible barrier between constraint and freedom, night and day, dark and light.

In the Signatura Rerum Jacob Boehme speaks of the Philosopher’s Stone as the New Birth.  I begin to understand why.  The fire-flash of the Flagrat is the end of the first desire.  Sulphur is the dry hunger, Salt the working life, Mercury the walm and wheel of the moving spirit.  The goal is heaven, which, as I now see, must be as death in the soul. 

I suppose I listened for an hour or two—perhaps longer—before resuming my own work.  Then I went at it with gusto.  By the time my meager supper came two more stones were free of the clinging mortar …               

*  *  *  *  *  *

“Who was that?” cried Eny, pointing after the little man.

The shopkeeper looked up from an unruly heap of invoices and receipts.  “The name escapes me,” he said.  “Though I’ll admit that he has been in here quite a lot the past few days.  Someone said he’s a troll.”

A troll?  Immediately Eny’s mind flashed back to her adventures in the Sidhe.  In the Otherworld she’d seen giants, angels, shape-changers, and tough, spindly dwarf-folk.  But in all her strange wanderings she’d never come across a troll.  “You mean like the trolls in The Hobbit?” she said.

He laughed.  “More like Billy Goat’s Gruff.  I take it you’re new around here.  ‘Trolls’ live under bridges.  In this case, freeway bridges.”

She was out on the sidewalk in ten seconds.  It didn’t take long to spot him.  He had crossed the Boulevard and was making his way north along Gower Street at a surprisingly rapid rate.

Eny clenched her fists.  The light was red, and she felt as if it would never change.  When it did, she bounded off the curb like a hound after a hare.  Up the first block, past the Greek Deli and the falafel stand, past the dirty yellow apartment buildings she pursued her quarry.  She ran like a deer, but she was still about fifty yards behind when the little man slipped into the shadow of the church’s big brick gothic tower.  That’s when she saw the crow.

It was sitting in the same position as the day before—on a stone window sill just below a hanging lantern of wrought iron.  As she drew near, it fluffed up its wings, cocked its head, and clacked its beak threateningly.  Eny felt a chill go down her spine, for it was strangely cool in the shade, and she imagined she saw a glint of green in the bird’s beady black eyes.  For a moment she slackened her pace and almost slowed to a stop.  Then, tearing her eyes from the crow’s hypnotic gaze, she forced herself to push ahead, fixing her attention unswervingly upon the object of the chase.

The man in the hat had now passed the church grounds and was fast approaching the freeway overpass just beyond the corner.  Of course, she thought—the bridge!  With that, she picked up her feet and ran as if she were running for her life.  She just had to see where he’d go next.

She had almost reached the end of the block when seemingly out of nowhere something crashed into her ear with the force of a sudden blast of wind.  In the same instant another something—something like an ice-pick—struck her hard on the crown of her head.

“Ow!” she cried, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk and sprawling onto a patch of weedy grass.  Bewildered and stunned, she looked up in time to see a swift inky blot go darting and wheeling away into the high blue air.  The crow!  It had knocked her down, and now it was making off with a lock of her coppery hair!

Gingerly she reached up to touch the smarting spot on the top her head.  There was a warm, sticky fluid in her hair.  Licking the blood from her fingers, she got to her feet, picked up her backpack, and looked towards the freeway overpass.  The little man was nowhere in sight.

As if in a daze Eny crossed the street and plunged into the vaporous and echoing shadows below the bridge.  Except for the cars and trucks rumbling by, she was alone in that dim place.  He must be in here somewhere, she thought, her heart pounding fast.  He couldn’t have disappeared that fast.  But though she searched a long time, she saw nothing under the bridge that looked like a potential dwelling place for a troll.

At last she glanced up and noticed a high concrete ledge on the right.  Above the ledge was a hole about four feet high and three feet wide—an opening like a small door in the wall:  an obscure, secret portal lurking in the shadows, both inviting and forbidding.  It was dark inside that door, so dark that nothing was visible within.  But something told her that he was there.

Climb up, said a voice inside her.  Climb up and take a closer look.  But try as she might, she could not pull herself up to the ledge.  For a moment she stood staring up at the hole.  Then, with a shiver, she took a step back from the wall.  At last she turned and ran back to the church.

Later that evening, as she and Moira passed the corner of Hollywood and Gower on their way home from the Lord’s Lighthouse, Eny couldn’t help but notice:  the pawn shop had vanished without a trace.

Atop the counter sat a brass cash register, and behind the register stood a slim, pale-faced man with a delicately curved nose, large, heavy-lidded eyes, and graceful high-arching eyebrows.  Wavy black hair fell over his shoulders in a rich cascade of curls and ringlets.  Even according to Hollywood standards, he was oddly dressed—in a long coat of dark-green cloth with wide gold-buttoned cuffs and a high starched collar.  He closed his eyes and bowed slightly as she approached.

“Where did you get that fiddle?” she asked breathlessly, banging up against the counter and leaning on it with both hands.

The man raised a black eyebrow.  “Fiddle?” he said, eyeing her down the length of his hawk-like nose.

“Violin!  The one in the window!  Do you remember who sold it to you?”

He smiled.  “Ah!  But he didn’t exactly sell it.”

“Well, whatever it is you do here, then.  Pawn, trade, barter.  What I want to know is who you got it from.”

The man laid a finger alongside his prominent cheekbone.  “Mmm.  Let me see.  I could check my records.  But would it be ethical?”

“What are you talking about?  I think I might know the person who used to own it!”

As she spoke, Eny became dimly aware of a faint melody fluttering somewhere in the background.  It floated across the field of her perception like a wisp of fog across a clear sky.  But she was too intent upon her purpose to let it invade the active portion of her mind.

“My records,” he muttered again, yanking open a file drawer under the counter.  “Now where did I leave them?  Ah, yes!  Not many ask such questions, you know.”

“About the people who sell—I mean, pawn stuff here?”

“I am speaking with reference to ethical questions,” he said.  “And is the reason for this deficiency far to seek?  I think not.  For when passion leads a man to do a thing, he forgets his duty.”  He sighed.  “Inconstancy, weariness, boredom.  Such are the commonest roots of human behavior.”

Eny felt as if she was about to burst.  “Can’t you at least tell me what he looked like?” she asked frantically.

The music was gathering strength.  Sweeping arpeggios mounted like flocks of birds to the ceiling.  Winged pairs of point and counterpoint darted from wall to wall.  Massive chords throttled the big plate glass window.  Cups and saucers rattled along the shelves.

The man bent over the counter and looked into her eyes.  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said quietly.  “But then you don’t really need my help.”

Suddenly it hit her.  Someone was playing the piano at the front of the store!  Spinning around, she looked out across the cases of jewelry and the clothing racks to where the big black upright was rocking and swaying in time with the rising music.  The keyboard faced the window, and the instrument was unusually tall, so Eny was unable to get a good look at the person on the bench.  But there was one thing she saw very clearly—the flapping motion of his wide-brimmed hat.

With a muffled cry she dropped her pack and took two steps toward the source of the soaring harmonies.  Instantly the piano fell silent, the keyboard cover slammed shut, and the pianist was up and out the door …

(To be continued ...)

Eny could tell that Inaiah and Randall were watching warily as she stepped off the bus the following afternoon.  She could feel their eyes on the back of her head as the driver pulled away from the curb and the bus rumbled off in a brackish cloud of pungent exhaust.  Hitching her backpack up over her right shoulder, she smiled to herself and shook her head.  I’ll bet they still don’t know what hit them, she thought.

But Randall and Inaiah were the least of her concerns as she shuffled along through the smog and stifling heat, past the bus stop bench and the dingy storefronts on the Boulevard.  Her mind was too full to allow them anything but the tiniest corner of her attention.  It was brimming to the top with unrelenting music.  The music had been with her all day long, coloring all her thoughts, pressing upon her consciousness like the memory of a recurring dream.  She could not get the strains of the Fantasie Impromptu out of her head.  Nor could she free herself from the haunting image of the little man in the big floppy hat pounding away at the piano keys like an undersized Horowitz or Rubenstein.

With a twinge of regret, she realized that, until she’d heard him play, she had almost entirely forgotten about her music—forgotten the power, the joy, the enchantment of her first love.  With a shiver, she thought of her own fiddle lying neglected in the corner of her room at Aunt Grania’s.  She hadn’t touched it in weeks.

Just then she looked up and saw her reflection in a storefront window.  The hot September breeze had mussed her hair, tossing it into an asymmetrical pile on top of her head.  Dismayed, she stopped to rearrange it; and while she stood there smoothing it down, she noticed something else, something that peered out at her from behind her image in the glass—something in the display case on the other side of the window.  Eny caught her breath.

It was a violin.  A red violin in a black alligator case with silver clasps and blue velvet lining.  The wood was deeply and richly grained.  The fingerboard was inlaid with ebony and ivory.  The head-piece was intricately carved in the shape of a roaring lion.  The black tuning pegs were edged in opalescent mother-of-pearl.

Her heart nearly stoppedat the sight of it.  She knew that fiddle.  She would have recognized it anywhere.  She had played her own instrument alongside it too many times to forget the mesmerizing quality of the tones it was capable of producing.  As she gazed upon it open-mouthed, the image of a face rose once again before her dazzled mind’s eye—the face of Simon Brach.

Glancing up to find out what sort of a shop it was, she saw two lines of large yellow block letters painted in a double arch across the top of the window.  PASCAL’S MUSIC & PAWN, read the top line.  Below that, We Buy Instruments.  Instant Cash.

A pawn shop? thought Eny.  There wasn’t any pawn shop here yesterday!

She shouldered the door open, pushed her way inside, and hurried past a big black Wurlitzer upright piano, a stand of polished trumpets and saxophones, and a jumbled display of guitars, mandolins, and banjos.  Navigating her way through a maze of glass cases exhibiting a profusion of watches, toasters, coffee pots, alarm clocks, bracelets, earrings, and gold and silver necklaces, she came at last to a battered wooden counter that spanned the rear portion of the shop …

(To be continued …)