Chapter the 12th
Mark Clement was weighted down by a couple of bags of groceries as he slogged through the snow. With all the stores sold out and elderly parishioners unable to get around at even the best of times, frantic calls kept coming in to the church asking if the kitchen had anything left. Although it would be a relief not to have to run any more errands of mercy, Mark dreaded the day he might have to tell people that the church kitchen, too, was wiped clean. Mark knew he had a good chance of getting police permission for driving a car on church business, but the difficulty of navigating the streets still made that a poor option. Mark did get to wishing that he had a sled or that he had thought to call the parish’s senior warden who had a snowmobile.
Suddenly Mark tripped and the shopping bags went flying. He felt like cursing but decided he didn’t want to have to add that to his sin list. Mark tried to position himself to get back on his feet but something pulled at his feet to keep him down.
“What is going on now?” Mark asked himself.
Mark saw two ribbon-thin trails in the snow leading up to his feet and then moving away from them. Mark tried to move his legs but he still couldn’t. When he brushed the snow away, he could hardly believe his eyes. Two golden threads slithering along like snakes had just tied him up. When Mark reached down and untied the threads, he quickly dropped them when they wriggled in his hands.
“Need some help?”
Looking up, Mark saw the same boy with his sister on the sled he had run into before.
“Looks like you do need some help,” said the girl.
“Is this some sort of practical joke?” Mark asked angrily.
“Don’t blame me,” said the boy, “I do enough mischief without doing this.”
“Golden snakes from a manuscript on the loose are no joke,” said the girl, “practical or not.”
Both children hopped off their sled and petted the snakes with their hands.
“Come on, Come on,” the boy prodded the snakes.
“If you want to get to where you’re going, let me untangle you,” said the girl.
Between them, the children got the snakes loose from Mark’s feet and they continued on their way along the street.
“Are you going to the library?” the boy asked Mark.
“I thought I might check on things again,” said Mark, “but first I have a mission of Christian Charity to take care of.”
“What’s that?” asked the boy. “Father hasn’t given us any lessons in that.”
“Which means it might be a good thing,” said the girl.
“It means lots of things,” said Mark. “Right now, it means taking food to a woman who has run out and can’t go out and get any.”
“I think Grandmother would approve of that,” said the girl.
“Yea, she’s an old woman herself,” said the boy.
“Can you help me pick up these groceries that got spilled all over?” asked Mark.
“Sure,” the children answered.
With help from the children, Mark soon had everything restored to the shopping bags. To his bemusement, more golden snakes, their small black eyes showing a sense of purpose, were making their way through the snow, followed by others.
“Want a ride?” asked the boy.
“Uh—actually that would be helpful.”
“We’ll take you on your mission of Christian Charity if you go to the library right after,” said the boy.
“I don’t think I can let you in,” said Mark. “The librarian is checking out a manuscript with an expert who lives here.”
“We know,” said the girl, “that manuscript is where these snakes are coming from.”
----------------------
A sound of chimes playing a sour but brisk melody announced the arrival of Amarilla and Michael at Sam's Music Repair Shop.
More missing notes?” asked Michael.
Of course,” Amarilla answered.
As he entered, Michael stumbled over a pile of recorders left on the floor and broke his fall by slapping his free hand against a harpsichord that promptly slid up against an organ. Through it all, Michael retained his hold on the harp, but barely. Guitars and violins and various wind instruments that Michael had never seen before hung from the ceiling as thickly as the pots and pans in Aunt Edith’s kitchen. A large double bass sat in the middle of the chaos as if it were a grandfather presiding over a group of children.
"Ah! A serpent!" Amarilla exclaimed as she picked a serpentine wind instrument off its hook.
"What’s that?" asked Michael.
"I told you, a serpent. It’s what you call this instrument."
“Silly name.”
“Watch what you say,” Amarilla warned Michael, “you don’t want to offend an instrument that’s bigger than you.”
Amarilla proceeded to play a few spluttering notes that came out at a very low pitch. Michael absently ran his fingers over one of the harpsichord’s keyboards, only getting half the keys to produce a sound.
"You called?" asked a muted voice of a man who remained invisible.
“Of course I called,” said Amarilla. “I’m not here just to admire the decayed state of all music today.”
A scuffling sound could be heard from somewhere in the middle of the shop. Then a small hand emerged out of one of the sound holes of the bass fiddle. A foot followed, and then a slender man as tall as the double bass stood before the two customers. His skin was light brown, the color of the instrument, and his hair was the same color as that of the bow he held in his hand.
"What can I do for you?" asked the man.
"We have a harp that needs fixing, Sam," said Amarilla.
"Some of the strings are broken, " Michael added.
"A harp? There are many instruments easier but few more fun and challenging to repair than a harp and I have more harp strings in stock than there are notes in a Bruckner symphony. Let's have a look-see and a listen-hear."
"But this is not an ordinary—“ Michael started to say when Sam grabbed the instrument and tore off the cover.
"Jumping sackbuts and trotting bassoons!" Sam exclaimed. "This is—I mean this has to be—that is to say this harp is—“
“Dornal's harp," Michael and Amarilla chorused.
“Well yes—of course—there is only one—the one and only harp that Dornal inherited from his master, the Bard Feronal the Moderately Great," Sam stammered, “and there was only one of him and he had only one—a one an only harp that he bequeathed—“
“How about the strings?” asked an impatient Michael.
“Why the strings! Of course! Some of them are in perfect musical playing order but I see that some of these strings are severed from their relationships with the rest of the world of music and severed from the rest of the worlds for that matter and yes—that does seem to be a problem.”
“Can you fix it?” asked Michael.
“The harp—Dornal’s harp,” muttered Sam, eyeing the broken strings with deep concern, “fix this harp—this harp of all things. First of all, I need an explanation as to how it is that you happen to be the bearer of this harp and not Dornal the Master Harper.”
"That's a long story," said Michael.
“Then no matter how long the story,” said Sam, “I will have to listen to it. So tell it good.”
Sam sat down in the bell of a tuba that was about his size and waited for his visitors to begin. Michael and Amarilla looked for places to sit, but couldn't find any. Michael had to content himself with leaning against a contrabassoon and Amarilla leaned against the serpent.
“It started when the snow started to come down pretty heavy,” said Michael.
“The snow!” Sam cried. “It began with the snow! I knew it!”
“I ran into Karen Rosskill who was looking for her brother, Kevin. We looked in the library—“
“Which book?” asked Sam. “What book was he in?”
“Didn’t find him in a book,” said an increasingly irritated Michael. “Didn’t find him at all. We left the library and the snow was really coming down—“
“In truth a real snow!” Sam exclaimed.
“And then Karen and I saw this guy get hit by a car. We went up to him and he was dressed funny and he had this harp in his hand and all these strings were broken—“
Sam leaped out of the tuba’s bell and stuck his nose in Michael’s face.
“So! You stole Dornal’s harp! Where is he? If he’s been hurt in any way—“
“He was hurt by the car, not by me,” said Michael, edging away from the music repair man. “We had to get somebody to take him to the hospital.”
“DO YOU CALL THAT HOSPITALITY?” Sam raged. “YOU BEAT A HARPIST ABOUT THE EARS AND CALL THAT HOSPITALITY?”
“No,” Michael answered, his hands folded about the harp.
Sam backed off a little and stood in front of Michael with his hands in his pockets.
“Go on,” Sam prompted Michael.
“No.”
“For a musician, you have been a very poor listener,” Amarilla reproved Sam.
“Me? A poor listener?”
“A very poor listener,” Amarilla reiterated. “If you would listen, you might find out that Michael lives in Milton, Pennsylvania and it is in Milton, Pennsylvania where Dornal was hit by a mechanical device that transports people and it is in Milton, Pennsylvania where Dornal has been taken to a house of healing where a healer is treating him and where a mutual friend of Michael and myself is lending is heartfelt assistance.”
“Milton? Penn-see-vane-ya? Asked Sam. “Where in all of violas in Cuba is that?”
“The same sphere of reality Michael came from when he redeemed the lost children from Myra Goldendragon.”
Michael winced at having Myra brought up once again.
“Do you mean to say that you brought the dragon egg guzzler and swallower into my music repair shop?” Sam yelled.
Michael turned his back on Sam and started to inch his way through the cluttered instruments towards the door but soon became mired in stacks of violins and violas and could move no further.
“What I mean to say,” said Amarilla firmly, “is that I have brought Michael the Bearer of Dornal’s Harp. What I mean further is that Nigel Head Chorister reports that nobody has found the royal palace since the blizzard began," said Amarilla.
"Now if that ain't suspicious," said Sam, "then porcupines can fly and chickadees burrow in the ground."
“There is only one thing I know of that can send a harpist from one world to another, stir up a blizzard in both words, break half the strings of his harp, and drive half of the notes out of all the worlds,” said Amarilla.
“There is only thing I know of,” said Sam, “that can send a harpist from one world to another, stir up a blizzard in both words, break half the strings of his harp, and drive half of the notes out of all the worlds. If Dornal the Royal Harpist didn't sing a satire against the king then clams live in the clouds and fish swim in the snow."
“Do you mean Dornal just made fun of the king and that caused all this?” asked Michael. “What kind of worthless king have you got, anyway?”
“The sort of worthless king who spurns the musical offerings of his royal harpist,” answered Sam.
“The sort of worthless king who stirs up a cosmic rage in his royal harpist,” added Amarilla.
“But a satire is just a song or a story that makes fun of somebody," Michael protested.
Sam straightened himself up and looked at Michael as if he were talking to an infant.
"If that is all a satire is," Sam scoffed, "then lobsters climb trees and mastodons swim in the ocean. No, A satire is a curse in verse, my frowning friend. When a harpist like Dornal sings a curse in verse and plays it on his harp, then we're lucky that a century's worth of a blizzard is all we've got!"
“Not only do we have a century’s worth of a blizzard,” Amarilla reminded Sam, “but we also have broken harp strings that require repair.”
Sam ambled through the instruments and poked his nose at the harp.
"Well, the good thing about Dornal's harp is that it’s the best harp in any universe I know about. The bad thing about Dornal's harp is that for all the harp strings I’ve got, none of them can replace the broken strings of this harp. We have to fix the strings themselves."
"Be my guest," said Michael.
Sam knitted his brows.
"I thought you were my guest in my shop."
"Just an expression," said Michael.
"Just an expression indeed," Sam muttered as he looked over the broken strings carefully.
“The tuning key for Dornal’s harp is in Michael’s pocket," said Amarilla.
“Good for it,” muttered Sam. “It won't do any good till we get the strings fixed. Now you, with the frown on your face, help me hold the pieces of this string together."
Michael looked to Amarilla, but she turned her head in such a way to make it clear that he was the one with the frown on his face and that he would have to hold the string.
"It isn't going to eat you up or anything," said Sam.
"Wanna make a bet?"
"Sure," said Sam, "I'll bet you six piccolos and one viol de gamba that the harp won't eat you. What do you bet that it does?"
"Uh - twenty chocolate donuts," said Michael.
"Done!" Sam exclaimed as he pumped Michael's hand. "Now hold the string."
Gingerly, Michael pinched the broken pieces of the string Sam designated between two fingers, while Sam rummaged about noisily in a tool box. A haunting tune entered Michael's head that was so beautiful Michael began to think he wanted to hold the string forever.
“Pluck an unbroken string,” said Sam.
With his other hand, Michael plucked a string. A golden thread emerged from between a broken string and wormed its way towards the string Michael was holding until the broken string absorbed it. More tunes flooded Michael's mind. Michael’s fingers began to melt into the string.
"Now the next one," said Sam.
"No!"
"Do you want the harp fixed or don't you?" asked Sam.
"No!" cried Michael.
"Michael, we have to finish fixing this harp," prompted Amarilla.
"Can't you see what it's doing to me?" Michael retorted.
"Why yes," said Sam after he looked took in the situation, "it looks like I'm losing the bet. Six piccolos and one viol de gamba for you."
"I'd rather have the twenty chocolate donuts!"
"Done! But only if the harp eats the rest of you. So far, you've only earned one donut hole.”
"But—how can the donuts do me any good if the harp swallows me up?”
“I’m sure the music will inspire you with a clever way to enjoy the donuts,” said Amarilla.
“It will not!”
Michael pulled once more, but his fingers were hopelessly trapped in the harp string. More golden threads emerged from the gaps in the broken strings and slid down the harp to the instruments littering the floor.
"Look Frown-face," Sam pleaded, "we've got to fix this harp and there is no other way to do it. Only a harp made whole can recall the storm and restore the lost notes. If the harp is not made whole, half the world’s notes will be lost forever and all affected worlds will be destroyed by this blizzard. You don't want that to happen, do you?"
"I don't care," Michael replied, as he struggled in vain to free himself of the harp.
“I’ll take care of you after the harp eats you up," Amarilla assured Michael.
"So you're both in this!" cried Michael. "You knew this would happen!"
“I only suspected it,” said Amarilla primly.
The harp string pulled at Michael's arm and it took all his effort to keep the harp from sucking him further into it. Yet, the further the harp absorbed him, the stronger Michael felt its music. The lilting tune he heard inside his head was almost enough to make him let go and let the harp take him. Almost, but not quite.
“You don’t care what happens to me, as long as your dear sweet little town gets delivered from this blizzard and you get your precious notes back to that you can make music with the harp made out of my dead bones!” Michael charged.
By this time, several golden threads were crawling out of the broken harp and crawling over the violins and violas towards the door.
"You don't trust us, do you?" said Amarilla.
"YOU BET YOU'RE LAST TIN WHISTLE I DON'T!"
“The snakes!” cried Sam. “The musical snakes! Stop them!”
“Stop them yourself,” said Michael.
Some of the golden snakes climbed up the door and turned the knob, letting in a gust of wind that swept the instruments up into a whirlwind. Sam ran over but was knocked down by a flying trombone. The dragon drove the sled through the open door and brought it over to a half-stationary Michael.
"Oh, my poor instruments," moaned Sam.
Amarilla picked up the helpless Michael, harp and all, as if he were a baby.
"I can walk," Michael insisted as he struggled against her.
"Like a standing stone you can," Amarilla retorted, while maintaining a hold on Michael that surprised him with its strength.
She placed Michael in the sled and cracked the whip.
"Ho-hey-ho-hideaway!"
The golden dragon pulled the sleigh up in the air right into the teeth of the wind. For a brief period, Michael could see golden snakes crawling through the snow. Already, he saw not a trace of Sam's Music Repair Shop. Michael held on to the side for dear life with his free hand as the sleigh bumped around in the air as if it were sailing on a stormy sea. The harp’s music filled his ears as he struggled to free his hand, knowing he had already lost the battle.
Michael's ongoing battle with the harp continued unabated. The harp pulled in his hand deeper, until his left hand was inside the harp up to his wrist. At that point, the battle became a stalemate. Michael could not pull any part of his hand out of the harp, but the harp could not pull his arm into it—yet. The harp sang a song of the storm, giving the whirling chaos a musical shape, and tempting Michael to let himself sink deeper into the song. Michael continued to resist.
"Who wants six piccolos anyway?" Michael muttered to himself.
"What was that?" Amarilla asked.
"Never mind. I can't even play one piccolo, let alone six of them."
"I could teach you," Amarilla offered.
"My, your generous."
The dragon pulled the sleigh over a forest of golden snow-covered trees whose branches twisted around each other so tightly that it was impossible to see where one treetop ended and the next one began. Embedded in the forest was a snow-covered castle. The harp pulled again at Michael so strongly that he barely saved himself from sinking in up to his elbow. Scraps of a harp melody flitted in and out of Michael’s head as if the wind were blowing the music about. As the dragon swooped the sleigh down towards the castle, a small glow of light emerged out of the swirling snow. Branches of the golden trees waved in the wind like snakes squirming in the grass. The harp’s sound was sporadic with gaps in the melody. Even as he struggled against it, the fingers of Michael’s free hand itched to play and fill in the gaps by making the broken strings whole. Faint strains of a harmonica reached Michael’s ears followed by the sound of treble voices. The dragon circled the castle in a downward spiral to make a landing. The glow of light became a prickly star and he realized that the branches of the golden trees squirmed like snakes because they were snakes converging on the castle. They looked up at Michael with their round black eyes and flickered their tongues in welcome.
"No!" Michael cried. "Get away from there!"
"Why?" asked Amarilla.
“BECAUSE THIS MAN-EATING HARP GETS HUNGRIER THE CLOSER WE GET TO THAT CASTLE!” Michael yelled.
"It will be hard for me to change course with the dragon and the wind acting the way they are,” Amarilla replied.
"IT WILL BE HARD TO GET ME OUT OF THIS HARP IF IT EATS ME UP!"
Two points of red light surrounded by a dark shadow moved among the golden trees turned snakes.
“IT WILL BE HARD FOR EVERYBODY ELSE IF YOU DON’T LET THE HARP EAT YOU UP!” Amarilla yelled back.
An animal roared with the sound of Michael’s father. The points of red light showed themselves to be the eyes of a golden boar and the shadow was the zombie riding the animal. Golden snakes twisted around the boar and the zombie. Snatches of a lively melody and the singing invited Michael to escape the menacing figures and then the harp sucked Michael’s arm in up to the elbow.
“WHY DOES EVERYBODY ELSE WANT TO SERVE ME UP ON A PLATTER JUST TO GET THEM OFF THE HOOK?”
“THANKS FOR HELPING FROWNING FACE!” cried Amarilla.
The girl tightened her hold on the reigns and steered the dragon in the opposite direction, straight into a headwind. The sleigh reeled from the impact. The boar took off and followed the sleigh up in the air. The boar roared and the zombie matched the beast’s roar. Amarilla pursed her lips and drove on with renewed determination.
“MAY GOLDEN SERPENTS CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF YOU!” sang Michael in his rough adolescent voice.
“NOT THAT SONG!” cried Amarilla.
But the fury of the storm had caught the fury in Michael’s life. The boar and the zombie were almost breathing down Michael’s neck.
“MAY THE WILD BOAR TRAMPLE YOUR UNGRATEFUL HEART!”
The wind redoubled its force, tossing the sleigh in all directions.
"Hey Ho Holiday!" Amarilla called out just as a tree appeared out of nowhere and the sleigh crashed against it.