Chapter the 3rd
Marian Rosskill looked out the window of the doctor's lounge, anxiously watching the snow pouring through the parking lot’s lights. What could Karen and Kevin both be doing out of the house in weather like this? she asked herself. It was at such moments that Marian was convinced that the world was run by a cosmic demon who was always putting everybody and everything at sixes or sevens. At times, she saw no other explanation for the way some human brains got scrambled. And how could the blind workings of chaos mathematics suffice to cause so many obstacles to come up between her and her children so that she didn’t see them for days at a time? The random probability of events could hardly have timed an emergency to the very moment she was going out to see Kevin receive his art prize. And now she was in the helpless position of not knowing where either of her children were, right when the worst blizzard in decades had just struck the area.
Marian sat down on the sofa in the staff lounge and picked up the periodical she was reading, but she knew it was useless. She couldn't take in a word of the vital information she needed to keep up on the latest neurological research. At the other end of the sofa, Dr. Benninkopf, a ruddy, heavy-set man, was reading about the latest cancer research as if he didn't have a care in the world. Marian read a couple of paragraphs more, but could not escape a growing fit of anger at her ex-husband Harold. Why did the man have to be so addicted to irresponsible living that he couldn't stick to one family for longer than seven years? He had accomplished nothing in life except to leave her with two little children who were bitter over losing their father. Then came the second, and worse, fit of anger. Why did she have to fall for such a jerk? Why had she been so busy learning about the structure of the human nervous system that she couldn't see that her husband's personality wasn't wired properly? And why did two innocent children have to suffer for all that? And yet, even now, Marian could not recall Harold's handsome, animated face without a pang of regret for what might have been.
Tossing the periodical onto the pile of more reading material, Marian stood up and walked back to the phone. Ten minutes were all she could stand between attempts to call home. But by the time she had reached the phone, her constant companion, the beeper was signaling her. After listening to the familiar fuzzy voice, Marian reluctantly suppressed her need to call home and dialed the ER instead to tell them she was on the way.
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Karen still could not believe that she was walking through a blizzard with Michael Bullinger at her side on the way to Mrs. Lear’s house. If there was one person at Middle School she least wanted to be stuck with in such circumstances, it was surely Michael. If there was anybody she less wanted to visit, it was Mrs. Lear. If there was anybody she was least interested in chasing to the ends of the earth, it was Kevin. But with her mother tied up at the hospital, she was responsible for her brother and Karen would rather walk to Mrs. Lear’s house with Michael Bullinger in search of Kevin than shirk responsibility. A sudden gust of wind almost knocked Karen over. Michael steadied her with his free hand. Karen screamed until Michael let go.
"I'm not really an ogre, you know," said Michael.
"I don't know."
"So I've noticed,” said Michael, his voice as cold as the wind. “The truth is that I only eat children on Mondays and Wednesdays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I look out for lost children. And today is Thursday."
"Very funny."
Karen almost slipped again, and this time Michael stood there as straight as a post while Karen floundered until she grabbed hold of a No Parking sign. Michael stopped and waited for Karen to steady herself and then start off again. Too proud to complain about Michael’s neglect, Karen tried to act as if nothing had happened. Michael led Karen around the corner of the street where she lived. The steeple of the church looked like a rallying point for her. Looking at her own dark house made her shudder. Much as she hated Michael, she wasn't sure she was ready to go into her dark house just to get away from him and Mrs. Lear. So when Michael plowed his way up Mrs. Lear's sidewalk and rattled on the door knocker, Karen followed along, doubting her sanity further with each passing second.
A couple of houselights were on in Mrs. Lear’s house, but the first flurry of knocks did not bring about an answer. Neither did the second. Not until Michael let loose a third volley of knocks, did they hear the click of door chain and the door opened. Mrs. Lear squinted through the crack in the door, looking none too pleased with what she saw before her.
"You collected two days ago," said Mrs. Lear, her face sharp as a hawk's. "So why should you be out on a night like this robbing innocent customers?"
“I came to collect some advice tonight, that's why," Michael replied.
"What kind of advice?"
"About how to find a missing child and what to do about this harp," said Michael as he held up the harp for Mrs. Lear to see.
“WHAT IN ALL THE BLIZZARDS SINCE THE ICE AGE ARE YOU DOING WITH DORNAL’S HARP?!!” Mrs. Lear yelled in a voice that could have been heard in the next country.
Karen shrank back, but Michael stood his ground.
“I’m holding it for safekeeping,” Michael answered.
“WHAT KIND OF SAFE-KEEPER OF A HARP ARE YOU WHEN YOU’VE BROKEN MOST OF THE STRINGS?!!”
“A safe keeper who tries to find a way to get the broken strings unbroken, that’s what!” Michael answered back. “Just because I mis-deliver your newspaper all the time doesn’t mean that I vandalize harps for the fun of it.”
“The owner of the harp just got run over by a car,” Karen explained, emboldened by Michael’s ability to stand up to Mrs. Lear.
“Dornal got run over by a car? Here?” asked Mrs. Lear.
“If you aren’t going to let us in so we can talk about it,” said Michael, “we’ll just go off on our own and do the best we can.”
Mrs. Lear eyed both children suspiciously, then she lifted the chain and flung the door open.
“I guess you’d better come in, then.”
Michael carried the harp into the vestibule and stamped the snow out of his shoes. Karen stood back against the door.
"Don't be afraid to come in, Karen," said Mrs. Lear, suddenly appearing to be on the verge of kindness. “It never has been my intention to bite your head off and it never will.”
As she entered the house, Karen could see that she accentuated her old-womanish appearance by wearing a plain dress of a noncommittal shade of brown. She wore her hair in a bun at the back of her head, and had wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. She supported herself with a thick ivory cane covered with elephants.
Karen took off her coat and dropped it on the floor next to Michael's where the melting snow was already forming a puddle. Mrs. Lear seemed not to mind. Michael walked on into the living room as if he lived in the house, and Karen followed him. Everything conformed to Karen's idea of an old lady's living room. All of the furniture looked antique. The red and off-white pattern of the sofa and the chairs made Karen afraid to sit down in them, but when Michael plopped himself into one of the chairs, Karen hesitantly sat in another one. There was a hutch cabinet with its shelves filled with exquisite china ware. On top of the mantel there was a silver tray with three perfectly shaped goblets resting on it. Mrs. Lear perched herself on a dark wooden straight-back chair and folded her hands.
“Is your brother the missing child, Karen?" Mrs. Lear asked.
"How—did you know?"
"I don't know what else could have possessed you to come to my door with the likes of Michael Bullinger,” said the old woman, showing a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Neither do I.”
"How are your grandchildren?" Michael asked Mrs. Lear, pointedly ignoring the insult.
"Oh, the grandchildren. Doing fine as far as I know."
"Even Pickleface?"
"Pickleface?"
"That's what I called your grandson when I first met him. I thought it was a good name for him.”
A snort of laughter escaped from Mrs. Lear's mouth.
"Pickleface!" she exclaimed, her face transformed by the sudden laughter. "To think I never thought of that name myself. Why, your intuitive grasp of the boy is perfect! I love him dearly, of course—he is my grandson after all—but—well—he can be a Pickleface, as you know. And speaking of my grandchildren, I just got a letter from them a few minutes ago. They're hoping they can get through this storm to visit me.”
"I guess they have—unusual methods of travel," said Michael.
"From your point of view, you could say that," Mrs. Lear replied.
“I hope you enjoy their visit,” said Michael.
Now that he could look at Dornal’s harp in a decent light, Michael felt embarrassed over holding such a fine instrument in his hands. Its rounded shape was adorned with luxurious decorations carved in the harp's frame that flowed into a rounded flower at the top. Inside the flower there was a slight hint of a kind human face looking out of it. The golden strings glistened and seemed to vibrate just from being looked at, broken as they were.
“Now, do you mean to tell me that this blizzard blew Dornal all the way to Milton, Pennsylvania and that he got hit by a car?” asked Mrs. Lear.
“Yea,” Michel replied. “Something like that.”
Michael went on to recount the hit-and-run accident in which the young harpist was injured, concluding with: “He should be in the loving arms of Karen's mother even as we speak."
"Hmm, I suppose he would be, come to think of it. Well, Karen, I'm glad our harpist is in good hands. That is very important."
"And the reason Karen and I were walking up the street we were when all this happened,” Michael resumed, “is because we were already on the way to your house to ask your help in finding Kevin."
“He was last seen in the library,” said Karen. “But he isn’t there now. He's always going there—probably to get away from home—and because he likes to hunt up odd books and copy pictures out of them. Miss Anderson said she saw him come in this afternoon, but she never saw him leave."
Michael pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Lear.
“We found this drawing at the place where Mark Clement saw him upstairs."
Mrs. Lear adjusted her spectacles and looked carefully at the drawing.
"Well, I dare say I would guess that Kevin was copying from an Irish book. The early medieval Irish monks illuminated manuscripts in this style. But this drawing is different, too. Perhaps Kevin was playing fast and loose with the whatever he was copying. Either that, or Kevin was copying something atypical. The only thing is, I know our library rather well, and I know the library doesn’t have a book anything like this."
“Are you suggesting that Kevin wandered into some other library where he found this book to copy?” asked Michael.
“OF COURSE THAT’S WHAT I’M SUGGESTING!”
Karen gave Michael and Mrs. Lear a bewildered look, but she didn’t know how to ask them what they were talking about.
“And those two things just happened to happen right when a blizzard came out of nowhere,” Michael observed.
“So they did,” Mrs. Lear agreed.
"Do you think they are connected?" asked Michael.
"EVERYTHING IS CONNECTED TO EVERYTHING, YOU DUMB MOLLUSC," Mrs. Lear replied. "but yes, the connection in this case appears to be very close.”
"So, a harpist from Carelin has gotten misplaced in Milton,” Michael observed.
“That appears to be the case.”
“So, is there a chance that a young American artist from Milton is misplaced in Carelin," Michael suggested.
"What are you two talking about?" asked Karen in some bewilderment.
Michael and Mrs. Lear looked at each other for a long time, seemingly at a loss as to how to answer what should have been a simple question.
“Carelin is a town that’s something else again,” Michael answered, as a faraway look came into his eyes.
“It’s hard to explain,” said Mrs. Lear. “Carelin is a place that I know well and Michael knows not so well. It seems possible that Kevin is there. If he is, will probably be all right, provided he stays away from my son. Perhaps it will help if we backtrack a little and ask some elementary questions we have overlooked. Did you notice anything about Kevin today? Did he seem upset or anything?"
"We didn't even have much of a fight today," Karen replied. "Nothing like the fights we get into some times. I didn't see him for more than a minute. He was out the door as soon as I was in. But Kevin's edgy all the time. I think it's mother."
"What about her?" Mrs. Lear asked with surprising sympathy.
"You know how it is, her being a neural surgeon and all. She doesn't get home much. And Kevin has been in a real snit with her since the night she was called for an emergency just when he was about to receive the art prize at school. Mother never did get to the ceremony."
"I understand," said Mrs. Lear. "A frame of mind like that could very well lead one into a different region of reality than is usual.”
"You mean—you think he went psycho?" Karen asked.
"Oh, I wouldn't say Kevin went psycho, at least not in the sense you mean it,” said Mrs. Lear. “But indications are that Kevin needs some help. With the harpist Dornal on your mother's hands, you may have at least a double mission ahead of you.”
While he pondered what Mrs. Lear was saying, Michael found a string on the harp which was intact and plucked it. A low note vibrated through the room. Michael plucked the same note several times so that it sounded like the tolling of a bell. With the drone bass established, he played on the few strings in the upper register that were still intact. Soon he managed to play a simple but appealing melody. Karen watched and listened in amazement. The disgusting boy was turning out to be very different from what she thought he was. One of the display goblets on the mantel began to pick up the vibration. It shook until it reached the breaking point, but it didn't break. Instead, it floated off the mantel and landed in the lap of an only slightly flustered Mrs. Lear, while a light golden liquid filled the goblet. Mrs. Lear took a modest sip and smiled. Michael stopped playing and stared at her, his mouth open.
"A wonderful glass of mead!" Mrs. Lear exclaimed.
"What's that?" asked Michael.
"It's fermented honey. Since you are under age, I can only let you each have a small sip, but that much won't hurt you. You just must sample this for yourselves."
Michael nodded for Karen to drink first. She looked as if she needed a drink. Gingerly, she brought the goblet to her lips and tried the liquid. She was pleasantly surprised by its mellow flavor. Michael took as large a sip as he thought Mrs. Lear would allow, and wished it could have been more. Before he could hand the goblet back to Mrs. Lear, it floated out of his hands and settled back on the mantel where it came from.
"Well, if we needed confirmation of our surmise that you are holding Dornal’s harp," said Mrs. Lear, “that would do it.”
“I suppose it would,” mumbled a subdued Michael.
“That Dornal should be here, in Milton, with his head broken,” said Mrs. Lear, “and the harp should be in the hands of the likes of you with half its strings broken, while a troubled boy with unpredictable artistic talent should be missing while a blizzard is raging here and, most likely elsewhere, is all very serious.”
“I suppose it’s so serious that we have to do something about it,” said Michael.
Mrs. Lear gave him a withering look.
“You could say that.”
“How about going to a music store and getting the strings fixed?” Michael suggested.
"That is one of many things that will have to be done, and done quickly,” said Mrs. Lear. “However, there are no strings that can replace the broken strings for that harp. You will have to find the notes that will bring the broken strings together."
“The notes?” asked Karen.
“Yes, the notes,” said Mrs. Lear.
“You mean, like a D-Natural and an F-Sharp.”
“Yes, whatever the missing notes are. But we aren’t talking about ordinary D-Naturals and F-Sharps. We are talking about the exact notes that this harp makes when it is whole.”
“Where do we find them?” asked Karen.
“Somewhere in Carelin, I should think,” Michael suggested, eagerness creeping into his voice.
“The notes you seek could very well could be in Carelin,” Mrs. Lear agreed.
“And Carelin is where we should look for Kevin as well,” Michael added.
“It is,” Mrs. Lear affirmed.
“Where is this place called Carelin that you keep talking about?” asked Karen.
“No idea,” Michael replied.
“Then how do you propose to get there?”
“Good question,” Michael replied.
Michael stared into space for some time while the wind struck the house a blow that shook its frame. As if inspired by the wind, Michael began to pluck the usable strings on the harp at random until he came up with a musical phrase that seemed to make sense. The living room grew dark. Karen shrank into her chair. The old woman smiled at her reassuringly. The odd tune Michael had come up with sounded as if it belonged in some other world, but not an unfriendly one. The sound of a violin began to filter into the room and play above the harp's music. Then a cello, a flute, a bassoon, and a piano all joined in. Karen gasped when the musicians materialized. They were playing in a crowded living room where there seemed to be room only for musical instruments and books. Three of the musicians were children and two were adult, but they all played very well. Karen was feeling overcome with longing to enter that living room when Michael suddenly stopped playing. The vision and the music faded, leaving Michael and Karen in Mrs. Lear's living room. Michael was looking at his hand as if it had suddenly been burnt. Karen could not believe she had seen what she thought she saw. It had appeared that Michael’s fingers had begun to disappear into the harp, and he had just pulled them free in time.
A high-pitched wail accompanied another gust of wind. Michael pricked his ears, ran to the window, and let out a whoop of joy.
"Get your coat back on!" Michael cried as he ran into the vestibule snatched up his own.
When Mrs. Lear nodded to Karen, she also went to put on her coat, all the while seriously questioning her own sanity.
"Do you have something we can cover this harp with?" Michael asked.
"I suppose I could lend you a plastic garbage bag that might fit," Mrs. Lear replied, "but I think that is below the harp's dignity. A pity that poor Dornal got in such a tizzy he forgot to bring his cover along. However, if you stop a minute, you might find a note on the harp that will bring it to you."
Hardly concealing his impatience or his apprehension for what the harp might do to his hand, Michael composed himself as best he could and let an inner instinct guide him as to which string to pluck. To his surprise, he felt his hand guided to a broken string, but he gingerly plucked at it just the same. It only produced a non-musical ping, but even so, a smooth leather cover showing serious signs of wear and tear suddenly fitted itself around the harp,.
"So, that worked," said Michael, slightly shaken at what he could do. "Come on Karen! Off to a great adventure!"
Michael pulled Karen outside with him, waved quickly to Mrs. Lear and slammed the door. In spite of the odd conversation and events inside Mrs. Lear’s house, Karen was hardly prepared to see a golden dragon standing under a streetlight. When Karen hesitated, Michael dragged her straight to the strange beast.
"Come on, he won't hurt you, you know!" Michael urged.
"How do you know what I know and don't know?" Karen retorted.
"It comes from harp playing," Michael returned. "I'll help you get on."
There was no time to think. When Michael made a stirrup of his hands, Karen climbed on the dragon's back and clutched at its long neck. Then Michael slid on behind her and settled the harp in between them. The dragon let out another high-pitched wail that almost sounded like music and took off into the blinding snow.
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"What is your name?" Marian asked her patient for what seemed the thousandth time.
"I am the winter star who sings a century's worth of snow into being!" answered the young man.
Marian shook her head and looked at the paramedic who had wired the young man to a life support system.
"I give up for now,” said Marian. “I want an emergency MRI taken tonight or tomorrow morning. Call in Dr. Goodman if he isn't snowed out of here the way that I'm snowed in. It beats me how much is psycho and how much is neurological."
Marian took one last look at the arm band with no name on it before leaving the room. She couldn't remember having felt so exhausted in a very long time, not even when performing middle of the night surgery in cases where one bad move could impair a patient's mental functioning for life. But then she hadn't been so plagued by anxiety as to where her children were before, either. Outside the room, she almost ran into a paramedic.
"Oh, Dr. Rosskill."
"YES!"
The paramedic flinched, but he knew Marian would want to hear what he had to say.
“I hear you’ve been looking for your kids.”
“OF COURSE I’M LOOKING FOR MY KIDS AND I CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT!” yelled the doctor.
"I saw Karen this evening," said the flustered paramedic.
"Where?"
"At the scene of the accident. With the patient you are working on. She was administering first aid to keep him awake.”
“Good for her. Then why isn’t she home now or here at the hospital looking for me?”
“She was with Michael Bullinger."
"MICHAEL BULLINGER! What would Karen be doing with him?
"Beats me."
Marian dashed to the nearest phone in the nursing station and dialed her home once more. Not until she had listened to twenty rings did Marian give up and hang up the receiver. Then she rang another number. This time she got an answer.
"St. John's rectory."
"Uh - is this Mark?"
"Yes, it is."
"This is Marian Rosskill. I need your help. Have you seen either of my children come home tonight?"
“I’ll tell you what I can,” said Mark. “I saw Kevin at the library this afternoon, but when we closed it early because of the storm, he wasn’t there any more. Karen, I haven’t seen. There are no lights on in your house so it doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”
"Hmm. Can you check out the house anyway and call the hospital, if you find anybody?”
"Sure. Hope they turn up."
"Me, too."