Chapter the 14th
Scott Simpson and Father Clement rode the elevator together up to the ICU with a worried-looking woman and a couple of paramedics. The closed-off space of the elevator gave Scott and the priest a brief respite from the strange sights they had just seen in the cafeteria, but it left them wondering what they were going to see when they reached their destination. Scott held his breath when the beep sounded and the door opened. The woman screamed and the paramedics gave out startled cries when several golden snakes slithered into the elevator.
“They won’t hurt you,” Scott told her.
“How do you know?” squeaked one of the paramedics.
“Just step out,” Scott advised.
“I’ll help you,” Father Clement offered as he took the woman by the hand and helped her step over the snakes and find safe ground on the ICU floor.
“What’s going on?” asked one of the paramedics.
“Is this one of your jokes?” the other paramedic asked Scott.
“No,” said Scott. “This isn’t funny. It’s not as bad as you think, either—I hope.”
Dozens of gold serpents slid in all directions along the hallway and past the nurses' station. Nurses, doctors and visitors were running in all directions, sometimes running into each other, as they tried to get away from the serpents or come to the aid of frightened patients.
“This way,” said Scott, pointing the way to Dornal’s room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the paramedics asked Scott.
“Leave him to me,” said Father Clement, “He’ll be just fine.”
The paramedics looked at Scott dubiously, but they knew that it is hard to argue with a priest during a crisis. Scott was amazed with the respect he was getting from a man like Father Clement. Without waiting for authorization or risking further obstruction, Father Clement led the way towards the room Scott indicated. There, two nurses were frantically trying to unravel serpents that had wrapped themselves around Dornal and around the wires of his life support system.
“Can't you see we're busy?" a nurse snapped at Scott when she saw him.
“GET OFF THIS FLOOR THIS INSTANT!” the other nurse shrieked.
“I think my friend here can help you handle this,” said Father Clement.
“This is a matter of life and death!” insisted the first nurse.
“I know,” said Scott. “Dr. Rosskill wants me to help.”
“No she doesn’t,” said the nurse as she pulled a serpent away from Dornal’s neck only to have Dornal pull the serpent back to him.
“MAY THE STRINGS OF THE HARP TURN INTO SERPENTS THAT CHOKE OUT EVERY MUSIC-HATING BREATH YOU TAKE!” yelled Dornal.
“No!” Scott countered. “Let the serpents be—“
One of the nurses grabbed Scott and shook him so hard he couldn’t finish his sentence.
“If you don’t get out of here right this instant, I will get the police up here to make sure you get out. Father, please get your altar boy out of here!”
“Blood pressure’s off the scale,” moaned the other nurse.
Seeing the need to get back to her patient, the nurse rudely pushed Scott aside, knocking him over and into the arms of Father Clement, who steadied him.
“We’d better go, Scott,” said the priest.
“No!”
Scott twisted himself away from Father Clement and retired to the farthest corner of the room.
“Come on, Scott!” Father Clement urged, his irritation and concern rising.
But Scott, ignoring the priest, took the harmonica out of his pocket and began to play softly. One nurse shot him a dirty look, but Scott ignored her and continued with his playing. The notes were not coming easily to Scott as about half of them came out wrong. But the resulting melody still held some interest, so Scott persevered with his efforts.
“GET THAT OUT OF HERE!” yelled the nurse.
Father Clement started to reach for the boy, but the strange-sounding music captivated him enough to restrain him. What also stopped the priest short was the behavior of the serpents. One of them that was wrapped around Dornal’s throat disengaged itself and crawled across the trunk of Dornal’s body in Scott’s direction. Other serpents began to follow suit in moving away from the patient so that he could breathe freely. Dornal began to relax and his breathing became less labored. When one of the nurses opened her mouth to yell at Scott one more time, Father Clement raised a hand to stop her. Unable to argue with Scott’s effect on the serpents, the nurse reluctantly held her peace. It was just as the serpents in the room had gathered at Scott’s feet that Marion Rosskill entered.
“I’m sorry, doctor,” one of the nurses apologized, “we tried to get rid of him.”
Dr. Rosskill waved her off and nodded to Scott to continue with his halted playing. She stepped over to the monitors and checked the readings. Dornal looked much calmer than he had, and then he finally drifted off to sleep. Only then did the doctor nod to Scott to stop playing his harmonica. The serpents at his feet remained in place, looking up at him expectantly. Scott looked down on them, dumbfounded at the effect his harmonica seemed to have had on them.
“Can you tell them to stay where they are and leave my patient alone?” Marion asked Scott.
The boy squatted and looked the serpents in their wide black eyes.
“Thank you for letting Dornal breathe,” Scott began. “Now, can you—uh—can you stay where you are and stop bothering people? Please? I—I have to go get a postcard and send it. I’ll be back. So stay where you are, okay?”
The serpents flickered their tongues in answer and then curled up in the corner.
“Thank you, Scott,” said Marion. “Please check on your friend again soon.”
Scott limped out of the room with the priest behind him, taking some satisfaction in seeing the nurses’ mouths hang wide open.
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Michael tumbled out of the sleigh, somersaulted through a door and over a hard floor and ended up in a sitting position, harp in hand, hand in harp and bruises all over his body. Amarilla lay on the floor next to him and the dragon with the sleigh behind him towered over his passengers. A warm fire crackled in a fireplace. The wind blew a shower of snow in on them through an open door.
"For Snowcap Owl's sake close the door!" cried a deep voice.
"Certainly," said Amarilla.
She promptly jumped to her feet and ran over to shut the heavy wooden door. A dizzy Michael Bullinger took in his new surroundings. In the fireplace, he saw a pot filled with boiling liquid. Near the fireplace, he saw a table with chairs around it. Next to the fireplace, there was an easy chair. Sitting in the easy chair was an owl reading a large heavy book by candlelight.
Michael waited for his strange-looking host to greet him in some way, but he kept his nose buried in his book, giving no indication that he knew or cared that visitors were in his room once the door was closed. Amarilla calmly walked over to a cupboard, took out some dishes, and set the table for four. She stirred the liquid in the pot, then took the pot off the stove and poured soup into the four bowls. The soup smelled so good Michael felt he was tasting it already.
“Michael, you deserve to be put to bed without neither supper nor a bedtime story,” said Amarilla, sounding like a strict mother, “but since you've had a hard day, I will invite you to the table.”
"What have I done now?” asked Michael.
"You have delayed the deliverance of Carelin, that's all," Amarilla replied.
"Since when is the deliverance of Carelin my sole responsibility?" Michael sulked. "I suppose next thing I know, you'll make me sort out the whole universe!"
"Everything is everybody's responsibility and nobody takes responsibility for it," said the owl in a stentorian voice, his beak still buried in his book.
"So there," said Amarilla.
An obscene reply rose to the tip of Michael's tongue, but he restrained himself. Michael felt as if the hand buried in the harp was playing the broken strings. He tried pulling the hand out one more time but a deadly chill attacked it, numbing it instantly. Only when Michael let the hand relax inside the harp did the chill go away and the strange musical tingling returned to his lost fingers. The melody sounding in his ears was so beautiful that Michael feared he would not survive it.
He expected the owl to speak further to his unexpected guests, but he didn't. Amarilla sat down at one of the places. The dragon shook off his reigns, trotted across the floor and sat down across from her. Michael looked over to the owl who seemed totally unaware of the meal laid out on his table, only this time he looked carefully enough to see that his host wasn't quite an owl. He had an owl’s face, but his eyes looked knowing enough to be human. He had wings, but the wings were like feathered arms with hands and fingers at the end of them so that he could hold the book in a human way. His long feathered legs with feet covered with shoes were long enough for him to cross them while he sat.
"Engelbert will come when he's ready," Amarilla explained.
Michael looked at the two free places, then looked at Amarilla.
“Either place will do,” said Amarilla.
Michael shrugged and sat down as best his aching body and lost hand would allow. He found that if he rested the harp on the floor, it would only tilt his body in its direction a little, so as to give him some freedom to eat with his other hand. Amarilla said a brief grace, and Michael and Amarilla began eating. Michael couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the dragon to see how he ate. What Michael learned was that the dragon had an elegant way of lapping soup with his tongue The soup was a rich, thick pea soup with bits of ham and German wurst in it. Michael would have enjoyed the meal immensely if he didn’t need to keep a sharp watch on the harp, all the while wondering if it would ever feel safe from it.
"What's the problem?" asked the owl, suddenly breaking the silence, but not looking away from his book.
Michael and Amarilla looked at each other.
"You tell him," said Amarilla.
"We went to Sam's to get this harp fixed," said Michael, "and it fixed me instead."
"Mind you, it's Dornal's harp that fixed Michael," added Amarilla.
"Oh, Dornal's harp, is it?" responded Engelbert. "Well, one doesn't fix that harp without getting fixed by it. I can swear to that by all that is owly."
"CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THIS HARP IS EATING ME UP FASTER THAN I CAN EAT YOUR DELICIOUS SUPPER?" Michael cried.
A long silence greeted Michael’s outburst. With effort, Michael maintained his current stalemate against the harp that seemed intent on sneaking his hand further in.
"Is anything else wrong?" Engelbert asked from his easy chair.
"My old man's been out of work for over a year, and he's turned into a zombie, and he's haunting me," Michael replied. “I guess that qualifies as something else that’s wrong.”
"Hmm. Sounds serious," Engelbert replied, but he did not sound very concerned.
"Don't you care?" Michael asked.
"Didn't say I didn't,” Engelbert replied. "On the other hand, you haven't apologized for the way you banged up my front door. It will never recover, you know. Do you care about that?"
"I'm sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"THEN I'M SORRY I'M NOT SORRY!"
Without any warning, Engelbert flew out his chair and swooped down on his place at the table where he slurped his soup in one big gulp.
"I suppose you want somebody to help you get you out of that harp," said Engelbert with his beak full.
"You bet your bottom field mouse I do!"
"I don't eat mice," said Engelbert with dignity, "but I'll let that pass. The truth is, the only way out of the harp is the way in."
"And what does that mean?" asked Michael.
"Why, once you're fully in the harp, you can go on into other things, and once you're inside these other things, you can find your way into still more things and once your inside those things or inside other things inside of those things, you’ve gotten out of the place where you were in the first place."
"I don't get it."
Engelbert flew back to his easy chair and whipped the book back up against his face.
"Michael," said Amarilla, "Do you trust me as a friend?"
Michael looked hard at Amarilla, startled by the question. As far as he could remember, nobody had ever asked him for his trust before and nobody had ever offered it. The simple question called Michael’s attention to a seriousness in Amarilla’s face that had always been there but he had never seen it. He thought back on his experiences with Amarilla and the rest of her odd family. He remembered that Amarilla had allowed Myra to swallow her up, trusting that Michael would come and deliver her and the other children. He knew that Amarilla would never say anything about that, but it showed that Amarilla was being far from flippant or opportunistic in asking for his trust.
“I’ll try my luck trusting you,” Michael mumbled, his face towards the floor.
“Okay. Now, will you believe me when I, like Engelbert, say you that have to go inside the harp, but that going inside the harp won't kill you? That when you go inside the harp, doors will open further inside and that you will find a way out to a better life than the one you’ve got now?”
“Do you mean I’ll be happier in some afterlife after I’m dead?” Michael asked angrily.
“No,” Amarilla answered, “I mean I think you’ll have a better life inside your life now.”
“I don’t get it.”
“If you don’t get it now, you’ll never get it,” said Engelbert.
Michael’s arm slipped in past his hand before he could pull back and there was no way he could get it out. Michael almost didn’t want to. The harp’s music sounding in his ears tempted Michael into thinking that between the music and Amarilla, his life would turn better if he followed her advice. But the neither the music nor Amarilla nor Engelbert could put him at ease about what the harp was doing to him.
"What do you know about it?” Michael retorted “Has a harp eaten you lately?"
Amarilla pounded both her fists on the table and glared at Michael.
"I'd give all ten of my fingers for the chance to turn into a harp like that, and all you do is sulk like a baby! Can't you see that you can heal the harp, and then the harp can heal Dornal and even you might get a little more healing than you deserve out of all this!”
"I haven't seen you try to get sucked up into this thing," Michael retorted.
Indignantly, Amarilla touched the harp with both hands but it did not even begin to absorb them. Amarilla plucked out a halting tune with the whole strings.
“That tickles!” Michael exclaimed.
“I know, but tickling is all I get from it. The harp won’t take me.”
"It's not fair," said Michael.
“I agree,” said Amarilla. “This isn’t fair at all. I’ve devoted my whole life to music and the harp won’t accept me but it wants a creep like you who can’t appreciate a note!”
“If you saw the music teachers I’ve had in Milton, you’d know it’s a miracle I’ve even tried to like a note or two of music.”
A loud knock on the door interrupted Amarilla’s sigh of exasperation. Michael stiffened, thinking it might be the zombie coming after him again. Without anybody answering it, the door flew open and banged against the inside wall. A piece of paper flew in and fluttered down on the table. Engelbert flew to the door and slammed it shut against the wind and snow. Amarilla picked up the letter.
"It says on the envelope: Michael Bullinger,” announced Amarilla.
"That's me," said Michael.
Amarilla pushed the letter across the table and Michael tore it open with his free hand. It read:
Dear Michael,
I'm sorry I'm not in Carelin with you, but some interesting things have happened here in Milton. I visited the harpist Amarilla told me about, the guy who got hit by a car. Dornal is his name. Doctor Rosskill says his head is in bad shape. He keeps singing what sounds like a curse: "May you be a long-tusked boar" and "May the threads of your painting overflow." And the curse comes true! A boar appeared in the hospital room when he sang the words and now it’s loose somewhere in Milton. The blizzard is still going strong, too. Then these golden snakes invaded the hospital and they almost choked Dornal, but they started to behave themselves when I played to them with my harmonica. So far, I seem to be able to calm Dornal down when he gets wild. Even Dr. Rosskill has decided I’m not so bad after all and she’s letting me stay with him. So far, I don’t see what else I can do. Let me know if you find something else I can do and I’ll do it. I really want Dornal to get better.
Your friend,
Scott
"What's it say?" asked Amarilla.
Michael flung the letter in Amarilla’s direction. She picked it up and read it.
“Why don’t you write him and tell him he can come and let this harp eat him up?” Michael suggested.
"Michael!"
Michael's arm slipped into the harp up past his elbow, inspiring a volley of curses over his misfortune.
"Curses and curses," said the owl. "They breed like fleas until they fill the darkest corners of the universe.”
"I didn't start this cursing business," said Michael.
“But you might have to finish it,” said the owl.
"I refuse!"
“Knowing Scott as I do,” said Amarilla, “he would come here as fast as a dragon could carry him and he would let this harp swallow him up if he thought it could help anybody.”
“Then get Scott here on the double!”
“However,” said Amarilla, “you will have to fly to the House of Healing in Milton and play Scott’s harmonica to keep Dornal calm while the rest of us finish our quests here.”
Michael pounded the table with his free arm, but a sharp look from Engelbert stopped him from uttering another string of swear words.
“What’s it going to be?” asked the dragon. “Fly you to the House of Healing in Milton and bring back Scott inside the harp? Or do I stay here and go into the harp with you?”
Michael froze, wondering if he had heard the dragon rightly.
“Did you say you would go into the harp with me?” he asked.
“I did say that, yes,” the dragon replied.
“Can you do it?”
“All dragons are capable of going inside of anything, especially bardic harps such as Dornal’s harp,” the dragon answered. “I am a dragon, and I am capable of entering the harp with you if you will go in, and I will do it—if you do it.”
“You mean it?”
“I do mean it, yes.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die if you tell a lie?”
“Dragons never lie.”
“Always trust a dragon,” said Engelbert. “I always have and I’m still alive to tell the tale. Happy harping! Wish I was there!”
The dragon began to sing and Michael's arm slipped into the harp up to his shoulder. The distant sound of singing returned to his ears along with the sound of the harp. Michael found it harder to want to resist. Finally he let go and the rest of his body sank into the harp as a dragon wing enfolded him.
“Thank you, Michael,” he heard Amarilla say, “you aren’t so bad after all.”
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Mark Clement saw a golden serpent once or twice as the sled zipped through the streets of Milton in the direction of the library. One of them snaked up a light post and another would have been sunning itself on top of a mailbox if there were any sun. But it was when a young woman screamed at the sight of a snake suddenly rising up out of the snow that Mark began to think that the phenomenon was serious.
A police car chugged to a stop at a side street just in time for the officer to see the sled speed past. When the flashing light was turned on, Mark had a sinking feeling that he and the children would not have a satisfactory explanation for their reckless driving of the sled.
“Is he after us?” asked the boy when the police car turned in their direction.
“I thing so,” Mark shouted back.
A golden serpent popped out of the snow and crawled over the windshield of the police car as the sled accelerated its motion so drastically that Mark thought it was a miracle that he was not left behind in a snow bank. The sled turned three more corners so quickly that Mark was almost too dizzy to stay on and then it jerked to a stop at the back door of the library. With his head still spinning, Mark let the girl help him off the sled. What he saw at the back door was enough to keep his head spinning. A nest of golden worms appeared to be squirming on the back porch in the snow, but a second look confirmed Mark’s suspicion that he was really looking at serpents streaming out of the library from under the door.
“I hope they’re all right!” Mark gasped as he fumbled for his key.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” said the boy with a smirk. “These serpents can choke anyone they get upset with.”
"Very funny," said Mark, surprised that he was still so irritable with the children.
“Don’t worry,” said the girl, “they can unchoke anybody you ask them to if you ask nicely.”
Mark felt as if he had opened a can of worms when he opened the door. There was simply no place to make another step inside. Seeming to think nothing of it, both of the children just walked over the serpents until there was some floor space. Not willing to let the children loose in the library without him, Mark gritted his teeth and followed their example. To his surprise, it was more like walking on paper streamers than walking on worms or snakes.
“Hey!” Mark called out to the children who were continuing to follow the serpents to their origin. “Take off your boots before you track snow all over the library.”
“Aw!” responded the boy. “I thought you wanted a snow-covered library.”
“Some librarians don’t like to have snow all over the books,” the girl reminded her brother.
The two children peeled off their boots and their coats, then made a mad dash along the threads slithering around the book stacks. As soon as he had shed his own coat and boots, Mark followed as best he could but the threads tripped him up and when he grabbed for a shelf, he knocked the books to the floor and on top of the threads. Leaving the books for later, Mark dashed to Marvella's office which appeared to have been the site of a thousand ticker-tape parades. In the midst of the chaos, he could not see the children anywhere, let alone Marvella and the manuscript expert.
"Now this thread goes here," said the muffled voice of one of the children.
"And this goes here," said the other.
Mark pawed away at the threads to make a tunnel for himself and follow the voices towards the children, the librarian, the manuscript expert, and the mysterious book itself.