Chapter 9
After midday sandwiches were served and devoured, Pollo challenged Mirry, Charles and me to a four-sided game of bakalog. We had no intention of playing the game, of course. We only moved the pieces around while we waited for the other boys to climb up to the sleeping loft for a nap or run outside to play with the fireball. Denny complicated things by plopping himself down to watch us play. Denson gave us a long, cold stare that made me fear he knew all our plans, then climbed the ladder. That left Denny, who was not about to go away.
“Don’t you need a nap, Denny?” Mirry finally asked him.
Denny’s face kind crumbled, and I felt sorry for him. If the rest of us weren’t planning on doing something so dangerous, I would have suggested we include him.
“I guess so,” said Denny, taking the hint.
As soon as Denny was up in the loft, Pollo nodded and we walked through the wall into the endless maze of hallways. This time, Charles led to way through more twists and turns than I could count until he reached one of the many little rooms. It reminded me of the long and exhausting drill Pollo had imposed on me all morning to prepare for this moment. With my heart beating overtime, I was afraid this whole thing might give me a heart attack.
“I must impress upon you that our journey into the Archives of Gifted Lore can be dangerous,” Charles warned us. “There are any number of creatures and secret snares, and if they catch us, no word of our fate will ever reach human ears.”
“Don’t they want anybody to find the stuff they’ve got there?” I asked.
“No, they don’t” said Charles. “The reason there are so many guarding etheric forces is to prevent the wrong people from finding what they are not intended to find.”
That’s helpful of crawling, crusty creatures with long fangs to show us when we’re close to finding something we’re not supposed to find,” said Mirry with a grin that suggested that he could hardly wait to meet these creatures. “I can shoot their slimy eyes out with fire jets from my harp.”
“I am good at creating shields,” said Pollo. “I think I can protect us all if I need to.”
“The crawling, creepy, crusty, chitinous creatures that are likely to be guarding the imprint for the chant we want may give us more excitement than we need,” Charles replied. “But those creatures are not the greatest danger we’ll face.”
“What’s worse?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
“There are many word-bearing items in the Archives of Gifted Lore,” said Charles. “Do you call it ‘knowledge overflow’ in your world, Nathaniel?”
“Uh—we call it information overload,” I replied.
“Hmm. Right. So, there is a lot of lore that’s interesting, but won’t help with our quest.”
“We have to be focused, then, is that it?” I said.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Charles. “We shouldn’t have to do go after the healing chant in this way, but it seems that we must. If Master Lesentrange were to approach a Master Gifted Archivist and request the imprint, the two would most likely find it easily, as they would know what chants were needed on the way to ward off the guarding etheric monsters. However, it seems that we are more likely to survive this quest-within-a-quest on our own than we are likely to convince Master Lesentrange to do what he could do so much more easily.”
“I fear that is true,” said Pollo. “He has had his chance to do what was asked of him, and he was refused to do it.”
“Nathaniel,” said Charles, “I hope your Singing Gift is at least as true and as strong as we think it is.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t like having so much depend on me, but there was nothing I could do except do what I could.
“Ready?” Charles asked.
Hardly, but I nodded anyway. The gleam in Mirry’s eyes got brighter. Pollo nodded solemnly.
“Then put yourselves under my cape.”
As soon as the three of us were crowded under Charles’ cape, Charles walked into the wall, and the wall turned into a dark cloud. We let the cloud carry us for what seemed like a long time, but it was probably not more than half a minute, before we came up against something soft, but unyielding. Charles sang a brief snatch of melody, but it seemed to have no effect.
“Sing it, Nathaniel,” said Charles.
“Sing what?”
“What I just sang.”
I sang what Charles had just sung, or what I thought he had just sung. This time, whatever was blocking us moved away and I felt something solid under my feet again. When Charles lifted his cape, I caught a glimpse of a creature with a toad-like face that turned around and ran off. It was a good feeling to be able to breathe fresh air again. Charles hummed softly and a small light appeared. What I saw looked like an archives, all right, but it was a mishmash like you wouldn’t believe. We were standing in a narrow aisle between two sets of shelves that extended much higher than I could see. On the shelves were scrolls, loose papers, books, photographs, drawings, and rolls of film, all of it strewn every-which-way. At my feet was a bushel basket filled with more scrolls, some tattered paperbacks, and a few cassettes.
“Do you get greeted by such nice gargoyles every time you come here?” asked Mirry.
“No,” said Charles. “I’ve never gotten stopped by anything that wouldn’t answer to my chant before. I fear we will be in for a harder time of it than I thought.”
“Is this stuff waiting to be sorted?” I asked.
“Everything is exactly where it is supposed to be—I think,” Charles replied.
He moved his light over a couple of shelves. An odd assortment of pictures popped up when the Charles’ light fell on each book or a magazine, or whatever: a refrigerator, a blue lizard, a can of tomatoes, a wooden music stand, and much else besides. Seemingly satisfied, Charles nodded and said,
“Yes, everything is right where it’s supposed to be.”
“How can you find anything?” I asked.
“Perhaps now you can understand why so many of us in the Guild of Gifted Archivists are Gifted Finders,” Charles replied.
“My! What an unexpected, pleasant surprise!” exclaimed an woman. “I most certainly did not expect to see Charles Worthington in the Archives of Gifted Lore on this day!”
When I turned around, I saw a woman who was not as old as she sounded, although the granny glasses she wore gave her a grandmotherly look. She had blond hair done up in a bun and a smooth face. Like Charles, she wore a gray cape.
“And what a pleasant surprise for me,” Charles responded with a smile that told me he was neither surprised nor pleased to see her. “I surely expected not to encounter Masteress Widdicombe so far from her reference desk.”
“My reference desk?” asked the woman. “Oh yes! I can’t do reference without my desk.”
Masteress reached in under her cape and pulled out what looked like a small box, but when she dropped it, it mushroomed into a full-sized desk with a stool behind it for her to sit on. Masteress Widdicombe pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper and a quill pen, then looked up at Charles.
“What I was expecting of you just now is that you would be rehearsing at Saint Percivale’s church on this day,” Masteress Widdicombe began. “Can you tell me why you are here with three companions who have not the appearance of being members of the Guild of Gifted Archivists?”
“We are on an urgent quest, Masteress Widdicombe,” said Charles.
“Gifted Archivists do not have urgent quests,” said the reference archivist.
“It is Nathaniel Hawthorne Brown, the one standing before you with the shining clasp on his purple cape, who is engaged on an urgent quest,” said Pollo.
“And since when does a novice in the Guild of Gifted Healers enter the Archives of Gifted Lore when he is on a quest, which I would assume is a quest for healing information of some sort? We have no medicinal entities here, you know,” said Masteress Widdicombe.
“He needs to find a song that will heal people,” Mirry answered for me.
“Well,” said Masteress Widdicombe, “I most strongly hope that you aren’t going to dig up any material about the smothering pestilence which, from I hear, has the Guild of Gifted Healers in quite a scramble just now. You must know that, for the safety of all involved, the Archives of Gifted Lore does not allow any material containing knowledge or insight pertaining to the smothering pestilence to either enter or leave the Archives of Gifted Lore until the pestilence is ended.”
I wanted to ask her how anyone was supposed to cure the strangling pestilence if nobody was allowed to search out the inscription for the chant that was the only thing that could lead to a cure, but I couldn’t do that without giving the game away.
“We’re just looking for a song about a flower growing on a tree,” said Charles, trying to sound casual. “Should we start with looking up trees, or would we start with flowers?”
Masteress Widdicombe tapped on her paper with her pen, then put her hand to her chin with the feather pen sticking out.
“I suppose that would depend on whether it is the tree or the flower that is more basic to the song,” said Masteress Widdicombe. “And then again, if it is a song you are looking for, you might want to start with music and work your way to songs about trees, or songs about flowers.”
“I should think that the tree and/or its flower would inspire the song,” said Charles, starting to sound as dreamy as the archivist.
“But the songs of the morning stars caused the morning stars to appear, didn’t they?” said Pollo, sounding even dreamier than Charles, “in which case it is the music that comes first.”
“Does that not mean that all songs are basic to the things the songs are about?” asked Masteress Widdicombe as she returned to tapping on her paper keyboard.
“I don’t see how we can have songs about stars without having stars first,” said Mirry.
“I think it’s just a poetical expression to say that the morning stars created their own songs,” Charles suggested.
“Do you mean to say that the morning stars inspired the songs sung about them and then adopted those songs for their own?” Masteress Widdicombe speculated.
Seemingly pleased with the thought, Masteress Widdicombe moved her pen all over her paper and the page filled up with words. My mind drifted along with that odd conversation for quite some time, and it might have done so forever if the light on my cape clasp didn’t bring me to my senses.
“All of this is about healing,” I said, “a song about healing. I think we should start with that and then see about songs and trees and flowers.”
“Ah! Right,” said Charles, snapping out of his trance. “That’s it exactly. Thank you very much Masteress Widdicombe. Once again, you have guided us to the fundamental branch of inquiry.”
“Much obliged to be of help,” said Masteress Widdicombe. “I hope that by following the root and branch of your route, you will reach the healing information you are looking for. I only need to remind you that . . .”
“Now that you have helped us so well,” Charles interrupted her, “you are now free to offer your sage advise to the many other people who are coming here in search of the wisdom that only the Archives of Gifted Lore can offer. Surely you don’t want any of our honored guests to lose themselves in the archives because you failed to help them in time.”
“Right. Other guests may be in need of help,” said Masteress Widdicombe, looking as if she herself was coming out of a trance. “I will seek them out immediately.”
As she said those words, Masteress Widdicombe picked up her desk, folded it up into a small box, and blinked out.
“Thanks for saving us all, Nathaniel,” said Charles. “I’ve been mixed up by that woman more times than I can count. I had to risk it this time or she would have breakwalled us for sure.”
“I’m beginning to think everybody’s against my quest,” I said.
“Keep heart, Nathaniel,” said Pollo. “Most people are behind you. It’s just a few who have foolish pocketed interests against us.”
“But why would the Gifted Archivists want to stop us?” asked Mirry.
“I think it’s the spreading of fear,” said Charles. “Master Fintchel says that fear causes the things you’re afraid of to appear.”
“Is he your master?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t he help us find the inscription?”
Charles shook his head.
“Master Fintchel is a fine teacher,” said Charles, “but he is a strict-tight for rules. I think he’d even stop kissing his own wife if the Guild made a rule against it.”
“The four of us can make up for all of Master Fintchel’s rule keeping,” said Mirry with that smile of his.
“Now, back to our task,” said Charles as he moved his light once again over one of the shelves. “Medicine. Healing.”
After a number of images flickered in and out, Charles stopped at an image of two snakes twining around each other. He sang a few notes and the image swelled to a human-sized archway, formed by the snakes twisting and turning their bodies in place. They looked at us with curious but, I hoped, friendly eyes. Mirry gasped and took a step backward.
“Are they—are they poisonous?” he asked.
“What do you think, Nathaniel?” Charles asked me.
“Probably yes and no, if these snakes stand for medicine, like I think they do,” I replied. “My dad told me once that the word ‘pharmacy’—that’s what we call a store where you sell medicine—comes from a Greek word that means both medicine and poison.”
“Makes sense,” said Charles. “Take too much medicine and you get sicker instead of better.”
“And perhaps that is why the Guild of Gifted Archivists fears our finding the inscription for the healing song we need,” said Pollo.
“That is why we can waste no more time talking about this,” said Charles. “Let’s go.”
“Do you mean: go past those snakes?” asked Mirry.
“You don’t have to look at them under my cape,” Charles replied with a grin.
“That’s worse!” Mirry exclaimed.
I moved under Charles’ cape as soon as he spread it out and Mirry stayed close to me, while Pollo came in under the other side of Charles. We took a couple of steps forward and the floor dissolved. A few seconds later, we landed, if that’s the right word, somewhere else. The archway of the two snakes was now behind us. As soon as Charles moved his light away from them, they faded from view.
“I’m glad to be rid of them,” said Mirry.
“Don’t you like snakes?” Charles asked.
“Not since my cousin sent a snake up my back when I was little,” Mirry answered.
We seemed to be in an aisle much like the one we had left, but I could see that the assortment of scrolls and books and whatnot was quite different, and these shelves were even more cluttered than the ones I saw before, if that was possible.
“Have we gotten to the medicine section?” I asked.
There wasn’t anything I could see that indicated what sort of material would be on those shelves. Charles brought his light to the nearest shelf. The musty smell was suffocating and my nose itched. Again, an array of images showed themselves in Charles’ light. Some of them were just medicine bottles, but others were leaves of various kinds, or insects.
“Yes,” Charles replied. “Living materials with healing properties should be this way.”
Charles led us around a corner I didn’t see until Charles turned it. He stopped short and the rest of us almost ran into him. I heard a low-pitched growl before I saw a toad-like creature about as big as Mirry face to face with Charles. It didn’t look dangerous, but it wasn’t giving us any room to pass it, either. A shimmer of light in front of us reassured me that Pollo had already put up a shield for us.
“Listen carefully, Nathaniel,” said Charles to me.
Charles sang another snatch of melody, not unlike the one he sang before. This time, his singing worked. The toad, or whatever it was, hopped into the middle of a shelf and was gone.
“What was that?” I asked.
“That’s more like our usual kind of gargoyle,” Charles answered. “I hope you remember what I sang, Nathaniel, in case you’re the one who has to sing it next time.”
“I think I’ve got it,” I said in reply. “Does it go like . . .”
“Don’t sing it now,” said Charles. “If there isn’t a gargoyle about when you sing it, one might come along in answer to your song.”
“Oh.”
When Charles put his light over the shelves we’d just come to, he lit up an amazing variety of leaf shapes, root types, and animal species. When he came to what looked like an ivy leaf with small orange and white flowers, he lingered to look at it. It looked so much like tiny bells that I could almost hear them ringing.
“What are they?” I asked Charles.
“I don’t know,” Charles answered.
“Then I take it you are not looking at an image of the blossom of the windmere willow, are you?” said Pollo.
“Uh—sorry,” said Charles as he hastily moved his light away. “That’s what I mean by knowledge overflow.”
Charles’ light darted to and fro over a stacks of filing cards, books and piles of magazines. When a small purple animal with rabbit ears poked its head out of a bush, Charles hesitated briefly.
“Can we look it up again later?” I asked, wishing myself that we had time to read about it.
“Probably not,” said Charles.
He moved his light on again until it settled on a collage of animals and plants. He sang a few notes and the collage mushroomed until it towered over the four of us.
“Do we step into that?” asked Mirry.
“Of course,” said Charles. “Under my cape with you.”
As soon as the three of us were well covered by Charles’ cape, we stepped on vegetation so lush, it was almost like walking on quicksand. I felt grass and other small plants under my feet but no solid ground for several steps. Since none of us were sinking, I assumed we were all right. As soon as I got one foot on a solid floor, I bumped into a wall. The wall moved, it growled, and it pushed us back. Charles started singing the gargoyle chant even before I got my head out from under his cape. The growling animal with a rat face, fiery red eyes and rabbit ears as sharp as swords did not seem to respond to Charles’ singing at all. Pollo raised a shield for us. When Charles’ chant ended with no effect, I sang the gargoyle chant myself, but the only success I had was to make the monster blink. Mirry shot several jet flames at its head, but the monster didn’t even seem to feel an itch. Then the monster opened its mouth wide, showing a several rows of razor-sharp teeth, It snapped its jaws at us, but Pollo’s shield stopped it.
“Hoo!” Pollo exclaimed. “I don’t think I can hold this thing off for long. Know any more chants, Charles?”
“This—sort of thing—has never guarded anything—in the archives before,” Charles stammered.
The monster opened its mouth a second time and let out a thundering roar. I sang out whatever came into mind, sounding like an opera singer fighting for his life. Even that didn’t stop the monster from closing in on us with its upper teeth right above our heads.