Chapter the 7th
With the snow still falling so heavily and blowing hard, Scott Simpson knew the job was futile, but his mother gave him no choice but to plow through the driveway with his battered snow shovel anyway. When he tried to explain the problem to his mother she became so hysterical that it was easier to do the work than argue with her. With a pang, Scott remembered the times he and his father had done jobs like this together. It would be at least two years more before his father came up for parole. Now that the shock of his father’s imprisonment had sunk in, he felt like a criminal himself. Most everybody else made him feel that way. Few people trusted him with anything. Michael was among the few who did.
Having a father in jail had given Scott a number of troubling thoughts concerning right and wrong. For one thing, it wasn’t necessarily the meaner people who went to jail and the nicer people who stayed out. If people got jailed for being mean rather than for doing specific actions that are against the law, then it was his mother who would be in prison and not his father. Ever since his father had gone off to prison, his mother had been worse than ever. Scott often had the feeling she thought she could be as mean as she wanted to be just because she was a prisoner's wife. It was a painful thought that a man as kind as his father was also the kind of man who would embezzle city government funds while some highly unpleasant people on the city council were too honest to do such a thing. Even more troubling was the conviction, rumored around town, that other people were in far deeper financial corruption than his father ever was and the law had not touched them at all.
“If only we could have afforded a good lawyer!” Scott muttered to himself.
The next shovelful that he thrust into the snow bank came straight back into his face as the wind suddenly changed direction. Scott flung the shovel away in his frustration. Then he had to retrieve it out of two feet of snow. Convinced that the whole universe was against him, Scott leaned over to pick up the shovel. When he picked it up, he found a piece of paper mixed with the snow. Scott tried to thrust the paper away but the wind blew it back against his chest. Scott stuck the shovel into the snow and squinted at the paper. To his surprise, it was an envelope addressed to him. The drawing of a dragon on the back of the envelope was a dead giveaway that the letter came from Carelin. The letters he had received from Amarilla were among the few good things that had happened to him during the past several months. Scott took the shovel and stepped inside the front porch. As soon as he had his mittens off, he tore open the letter. At the top was a picture of the ruins of an old building. The handwriting was in Amarilla's graceful script. It read:
Dear Scott,
This is Amarilla, writing for Michael.
Michael came here to Carelin last night with a girl named Karen. They came to Carelin via a dragon because Karen’s sister Kevin disappeared from the public library the same night.
While Michael and Karen were still in your fair town of Milton searching for Kevin, they saw a young man get hit by some terrible things that Michael calls a car. This terrible things sounds like a self-driving chariot to me. The injured young man was holding an Irish harp at the time of the accident. Most of the strings are broken. The harpist yelled many disturbing things. Karen called for healers to come and the healers took the harpist to a house of healing in your town. Karen says that her mother is a healer and she is trying to heal the harpist. Michael and Karen brought the broken harp with them to Carelin. Upon examination, we have come to the conclusion that this is Dornal’s harp. Which means that the young man who was injured in Milton is Dornal the Harpist. That this harp should be broken and the storm raging out of control is a very serious matter.
If you can, please visit Dornal the Harpist in your house of healing. It may be hard to talk to talk to him if he is still yelling in a disturbing way, but your voice is kind and Dornal will respond to that, however great his fury. Please try to play a song he might like on your lovely harmonica. If you can’t play all the notes, that is because some notes are missing because of the broken harp. You will have to make do with the notes that are not yet lost.
Michael respectfully requests that you deliver the newspapers for him while he is here, if any newspapers are printed. You may keep the money for the papers you deliver.
If anything unusual happens in Milton, please write me a letter. The wind will deliver it. I will try to keep you informed of events in Carelin if I can. There are quests here that need to be done as well as the quest I have respectfully assigned to you.
Karen requests you inform her mother her daughter is safe and that she is searching for Kevin.
Thank you very much for your vital assistance,
Amarilla
Scott felt a stab of jealousy that Michael had returned to Carelin and left him behind yet again, but Amarilla’s gracious writing made Scott feel that Carelin had come to him. More important, Amarilla had entrusted him with an important mission and expressed confidence in him that he did not feel for himself. He took off his boots and went inside the house. His mother was seated in front of the television and eating out of a box of potato chips. She took no notice of him. Scott leafed through the phone book in search of Dr. Rosskill's number, then dialed it. He let her phone ring a dozen times before he gave up. Apparently, she was at the hospital.
"Mom!"
"Not so loud!"
"Mom. I'm going out."
“Whatever for?"
"I have to deliver the papers if they come out today."
"How come?"
"Michael's out of town."
"Oh, him."
Scott winced at his mother's tone of voice. He didn’t blame her for not liking Michael. After all, Michael had never done anything to make himself likeable to her. Even so, his father had been surprisingly cordial to Michael in spite of Michael’s rude behavior.
“Then I have a couple other things to do.”
“How can you do anything out there in this weather besides shovel snow?” his mother asked him.
"I could stop at the store if you want anything, and if they still have it,” Scott offered, preferring to change the subject.
"Let's see—you could get me some more coffee. Eggs and milk if they have any, but they probably don’t.”
"Okay. I'll be back eventually."
-------------
With the deep snow impeding his efforts, taking the small detour to the library was turning out to be a major undertaking for Mark Clement. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to stop by the library and check it out on the way home from an errand of mercy for an elderly parishioner who had no way of getting groceries for herself. But by the time Mark had decided that the extra exertion wasn’t worth it, he had just about reached the library.
“MAKE WAY!” cried a child.
Looking up the hill, Mark saw two children sliding down the street on a sled. When they reached the foot of the hill, the boy driving the sled stopped suddenly.
“Are you Mark, the preacher’s son?” the boy asked.
“I guess,” Mark grumbled.
“Or are you Mark the Library Attendant?” asked the girl sitting behind the boy.
“My name is Mark, Mark Clement.”
“We have a message for you,” said the boy.
“What?”
“It isn’t your quest to follow after Kevin the Painter Weaver,” said the girl.
“Who said it was?” asked Mark.
“Just making sure,” said the boy. “My Grandmother thinks you should stay with the library.”
With that, the children sped off on the sled, leaving Mark to wonder what that was all about as he let himself in to the library. The darkness and silence inside was eerie. Mark was used to hearing the sounds of people bustling around and whispering to each other and asking questions of the reference librarian. He flicked on a light switch. Nothing. One of the sporadic, intermittent power failures had hit the library. Mark congratulated himself on bringing his flashlight. He peeled off his snow-caked boots and made the rounds in his stocking feet, making sure that looters hadn’t broken in and taken anything or caused any damage.
After patrolling the second story, Mark had just about reached the conclusion that everything was as it should be when he saw a flickering light over in a corner. Fearing that a fire was breaking out, Mark dashed over. To his relief, nothing was on fire, but a hefty book lay open on the reading table. A strange-looking candelabra, with a few sputtering candles in it hung above the table. The mystery only deepened when Mark drew close enough to see that the pages were crinkly, like a medieval manuscript. Mark turned his flashlight on it to take a better look. The colorful design that exploded off the page convinced Mark that whatever the book was, it was not part of the collection of the Milton Public Library. Mark picked up the book carefully and started to carry it down to the office where he could try to call Marvella Anderson if the battery backup for the phone system was working. Mark had just about reached the stairs when the flickering light back at the table went out. Then he remembered that the reading table on which the book was resting did not belong to the library. And that reminded him that Kevin Rosskill was last seen back in that corner.
------
Snow plows followed Scott everywhere he went, as the only way he could make any progress himself was to walk in the street. It seemed to be a losing battle to make the streets passable enough for some local business to pick up again. Before long, Scott's bad foot was aching, but there was nothing for it but to endure the pain. Not surprisingly, the paper station for the Milton Gazette was as deserted as the center of a ghost town. Scott wished they had put a message on their phone so that carriers would know without walking the extra blocks in order to make sure there were no newspapers to deliver. Scott shrugged his shoulders and headed for the hospital. Another snow plow chugged by.
“FORE!” cried a child somewhere behind Scott.
Scott started to turn around and fell into a snowbank. He lifted his head just enough to see a long sled careen down the street with two screaming children riding it. Discouraged, Scott stayed down in the snow and tried to gather enough strength to pull himself up. His bad foot ached so badly he wished it would fall off. He thought he heard a whoosh behind him but he thought nothing of it.
"You want a ride?" asked a child.
Scott rolled over and sat up. A pair of children all bundled up in coats and scarves were sitting on a long sled.
"The police will pick you up if they catch you," said Scott.
“They can’t catch me,” bragged the boy at the front of the sled.
“They wouldn’t dare give a ticket to the crown prince when he’s doing his good deed for the year,” said the girl who was sitting behind the boy.
“Crown prince?” Scott gasped.
Then Scott recognized the boy from his visit to Carelin.
“In all due modesty,” said the boy proudly, “that is my proper title. My Grandmother said I am allowed to knock anybody off their feet if I want except for you and Marion the Healer. And then it had to be you who got in my way before I could see you through the snow.”
“Sorry,” said Scott sarcastically.
“And in atonement for that deed,” said the girl, “my brother is offering you a free ride.”
“I have to admit I can use it,” said Scott. “My bad foot is aching. I'm on my way to the hospital to see a friend."
“Dornal the Harper?” asked the boy.
“How did you know?” asked Scott.
“Our Grandmother just got a message from Amarilla that she asked you to see him,” the girl explained.
“Since it would be awkward for my sister and I to visit him right now,” said the boy, “I am grateful that you are willing to do it. Please get on.”
Scott gratefully settled himself on the sled between the two children, the boy in front of him to steer, and the girl behind. Without any warning, the sled plunged down the hill. Scott and the girl screamed when it appeared to be crashing into the back of the snow plow, but the boy steered around it and turned the corner of Main Street. Even though the ground was flat there, the sled lost no momentum. They sped past the shops and the snow piled high on either side of the street, and ran all the red lights. Scott expected to be let out at the foot of the hill near the hospital, but the boy steered the sled up the hill as easily as he had steered it downhill and he didn't stop until he had pulled in right at the front door of the hospital.
"Say hello to Dornal for me," said the boy as Scott climbed out. “My Grandmother says he’s in room 247.”
"Okay," said Scott.
Scott had no sooner stepped on the sidewalk than the boy turned the sled around and careened back down the hill.
----------------------
Marvella Anderson studied the manuscript while Mark Clement trained his flashlight on it.
"You said you found this on a table in the corner where you last saw Kevin?" Marvella asked.
“Yea,” Mark grunted, his voice shaking, “only the table isn’t part of the library.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was lit by candles hanging from the ceiling.”
“Oh.”
“Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?” Mark asked.
“I’m trying not to,” Marvella replied.
“Don’t worry,” said Mark, “I just got a message from a couple of kids who said that it wasn’t my quest to go chasing after Kevin.”
“Oh? What children?”
“I don’t know. They said I should stay with the library.”
“Hmm. Did they say anything about finding an illuminated book like this?”
“No.”
“This sure has the look and feel of an ancient manuscript,” said Marvella. “It could be Celtic. Note how the swirling design fills all the space. The Celts had an aversion to leaving any empty spaces on a page. It is, however, unusual to have a harp frame a monster like this.”
“It looks like a boar with extra-long tusks,” said Mark.
“It does. Fantastic monsters are quite common in Celtic illuminations.”
"But—“ Mark stammered, “it looks like—it might be the same picture Kevin was drawing before the disappeared—the drawing Karen and Michael found on the floor where Kevin was working.”
"I don't know what to make of it," Marvella confessed.
"Me neither.”
“I think I'll call up Gunther Schultz,” said Marvella. “I doubt if he'll be driving up to the university today, but I'll bet he'd go through three blizzards to look at a manuscript like this."
"Do you think this might be valuable enough to pay for the new library wing?” asked Mark.
"Who knows?"
-------------------
The hospital lobby was almost empty. Scott avoided the reception desk and limped straight over to the elevator. By following the arrows, he found his way to the nurses' station of the ICU.
"May I help you?" asked a nurse at the desk, while giving Scott a look that suggested she expected to throw him out in a few seconds.
"I want to see Dornal, please."
"Dornal?"
"He's my cousin."
"That may be, but that doesn't mean he's here."
“He’s supposed to be. I hear you don’t know his name, so I’m telling you. His name is Dornal.”
The nurse looked at Scott suspiciously.
“Dornal Who?”
“Uh—Dornal the Harper.”
“Dornal Harper?”
“That will do.”
"How come one of your parents didn't come to identify him?”
“My Dad's out of town and my mother can't get around in this weather. Now, may I please see him?”
“I’ll have to check with the doctor, first,” said the nurse with a heavy sigh.
She dutifully dialed a number and informed the doctor that somebody had come to identify her patient. A moment later, a haggard heavy-set woman with faded blond-hair appeared. Heavy circles under her eyes showed that she had not had any sleep for some time She looked about the station absently, then recognized Scott.
"What are you doing here?"
Scott swallowed the doctor's contempt as best he could. The doctor's formidable presence would have been enough to make Scott shrink into the floor if the importance of his errand had not given him strength to stand up to her.
"I came to visit my cousin. He has to be the one you’ve got. Whose name you don’t know. He disappeared yesterday.”
"Do you realize that it is a very serious matter to play tricks with patients and staff on this unit?" said Dr. Rosskill.
"I'm not playing tricks. Dornal's my favorite cousin. I want to see him."
Dr. Rosskill gave Scott a "like father, like son" look and sighed.
“Nobody has been able to talk to him,” said the doctor. “The young man seems to have lost his memory."
"I'll try to bring it back."
“What makes you think you can do that?”
“You don’t think I can do anything right, do you?”
Scott’s sudden conviction startled Marion.
“I—suppose I’m being unfair,” the doctor admitted. “I don’t really know you very well.”
“You might be right,” Scott admitted, “but Amarilla thinks I can talk to Dornal.”
“Who’s Dornal? And who’s Amarilla?”
“Dornal is your patient’s name. Amarilla is a friend of mine.”
“Oh.”
"Dr. Rosskill," said Scott.
"Yes?" Marion responded, her irritation sharper.
"I'm supposed to tell you that Karen is all right. She's out looking for Kevin."
Anxiety flooding Marion’s face.
"How do you know?"
"Amarilla told me that in her letter. She said Karen was with her and asked her to pass that on.”
"Where is she?"
"I—I can't say. It's hard to explain. But I promise you, she's okay. She’s with the nicest people in the world and they’re helping her find Kevin.”
"But you can't tell me where she is?" Marian asked suspiciously.
"No. Don't worry. She hasn’t been kidnaped or anything. She left with Michael. Michael’s helping her.”
“You don’t mean Michael Bullinger, do you?”
“Yea.”
“I was hoping I was misinformed about that,” said Dr. Rosskill, shaking her head in despair.
“Uh—Dr. Rosskill?”
“Yes?”
“I think Michael is nicer than he was. I think he’ll help Karen find Kevin.”
“Oh I hope so,” said a weary Dr. Rosskill.
She and led Scott down the hall to a small room where a young man was languishing in bed, surrounded by a forest of tubes and monitors. On his wrist was a name tag where a witty paramedic had written Sine Nomine. The joke made Dr. Rosskill wince. She eyed the flashing lights and waving lines keenly.
"Dornal!" said Scott.
The youth turned his head and gave his visitor a blank look.
"Dornal, it’s Scott. Remember me?"
Dornal's blank stare showed no sign that he recognized the name. He raised his hands and made motions in the air. Then he began to sing in a raspy voice.
"May the painting's golden thread ensnare you-"
Scott began to realize that Dornal was pretending to play his harp.
"This is what he does all the time," Dr. Rosskill remarked to Scott, as if the patient were not there to hear her.
"May you be the long-tusked boar forever caught in your designs," Dornal sang.
Then his voice broke off. Scott moved closer to the bed.
"Your harp is safe," said Scott. "It's back home, waiting for you."
"The strings of the harp are broken with infinite breaks and the notes are scattered into the darkness where no music can reach them!"
“Michael is trying get the strings fixed,” said Scott.
“The royal insult has broken the strings to all eternity!” the patient yelled so loudly that he could have been heard throughout the unit.
Scott frowned a moment, not knowing how to argue with the mad harpist. He hesitated to continue with his plan, but deciding it couldn't make things worse, he pulled his harmonica out of his pocket.
"Think it might help if I played a familiar tune for him?"
"You never know," the doctor replied wearily, although she eyed Scott as if he were as crazy as her patient.
Scott proceeded to play the English folk song "Waly, Waly," the lament of a deserted lover. To his dismay, some of the notes did not sound, as Amarilla had warned him. Dornal turned towards his visitor, his eyes lighting up. That encouraged Scott to keep trying. Somehow, he managed to devise a variant melody that bypassed the missing notes. Dornal joined in: "I leaned against a trusty oak/ but first it bent, and then it broke, and..." Dornal turned in his bed, his face filled with pain. Again he played his harp invisible harp. "May you be the long-tusked boar-"
A loud snort interrupted Dornal. a long-tusked boar with fiery red eyes emerged out of the curtains .
“May the tusks of the boar keep the strings forever torn!” sang the young man.
Desperately, Scott switched to a jig he knew where the words had something to do with a pig. At least half the notes blinked out but the tune went so fast it hardly mattered.
“HA! A BALLAD OF THE BOY-BOAR, YOU SEE!” Dornal yelled at the top of his lungs.
The boar snorted once more, then backed away into the curtain and disappeared. Dornal groaned and collapsed on his bed. The lights on the instruments flashed angrily. Two attendants rushed in to take care of the patient.
“What—was that?” a shell-shocked Marian Rosskill asked.
“I wish I knew,” said Scott.
“I think you had better leave for now,” said Dr. Rosskill. “But come see me later, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.”