Chapter the 9th
"Oh no!" cried Roger, "we can’t get out the back door!”
Karen had vague memories of seeing used dishes and pots and pans stacked all over the kitchen when Amarilla was heating up the hot chocolate the night before, but now she could see that the dishes amounted to a sheer wall in front of the three children.
“We can get out the back door as soon as the dishes are washed, dried, and put away,” Samantha pointed out.
“But we don’t have time for that,” Roger protested.
“This is what happens when we procrastinate when we do have time," said Samantha rather smugly.
"I wasn't procrastinating," Roger protested. "I was busy doing other things."
"Like what?"
“Writing three violin concertos and dreaming twenty dreams,”
“Did the concertos have to be written and the dreams dreamed before we could get out of the house and search for the library?” asked Samantha.
“Yes,” said Roger, “I had to have the dreams ready when Karen and Michael got here and—“
"You could have dreamed about getting the dishes done," Samantha reminded her brother.
"Why not go out the front door?" Karen suggested.
"Can't get to the library from there," Roger replied.
“Why not?”
“The library doesn’t like to be approached from the front door of our house,” Roger explained.
“Why not?”
“Because the books remember what’s in the back of our minds,” Samantha answered.
Roger turned on the faucet full blast and Samantha poured a cup of detergent that created a mountain of soap suds. Then Samantha, mittens still on her hands, picked up a stack of dishes and dropped them into the sink. Karen, inclined to be more sensible, started to peel of her coat but a dish towel landed in her hand before she could even take off her gloves. Samantha closed her eyes and started to beat on her drum. The rhythm almost put Karen to sleep. Looking over at Roger, she saw his eyes closing even as he stood beside her, a dish towel ready for the job. Karen felt as if she were dreaming when the first plates clattered on the counter, ready for drying. She had a vague sense that dishes were passing in and out of her hands at an amazingly fast rate that matched the pulse of the drum. The dishes clattered in the same rhythm as they landed in various cupboards scattered throughout the kitchen.
Suddenly the drumming stopped and Karen opened her eyes. All the dishes were put away except for one plate that Roger kept in his hands. Karen assumed that the children would open the back door and they would be on their way, but as the sleepy spell lifted, it became clear that the three of them were standing in front of a blank wall. There was no back door out of the kitchen.
“There’s still no way out of here,” Karen complained, “after all that work.”
“All that work that you did wasn’t even a sixtieth of the work the brownies did,” said Samantha.
“And there is a way out of this kitchen,” said Roger as he held up the plate. The plate’s design was a picture of a narrow, twisted house covered by snow. "It seems that the plate we need is always the last one.”
"That's because you started at the wrong end of the stack," said Samantha.
"How was I to know?" asked Roger.
"You could have asked me,” Samantha replied. “I always know which dishes we used when.”
“You just like to do dishes with the brownies,” said Roger.
“Don’t you?”
Roger didn’t reply. With plate in hand, he went into a baseball pitcher’s windup and threw the plate against the back wall where it shattered with a deafening high-pitched explosion. The fragments of the plate grew into a shimmering white cloud, then fell away, leaving a door in its place. Samantha calmly opened the door into the blinding snowstorm. There was just enough visibility for Karen to see ahead of her the misshapen house pictured on the plate Roger had just broken. Karen tumbled into the snow behind the two children headed in the direction of what she assumed was the library.
"Not that way!" cried Roger from behind her.
“What do you mean?” asked Karen, “isn't that the library?"
"Of course," said Roger. “Follow me!”
But Roger and Samantha were perversely walking away from the library. Karen shook her head and continued to plow through the snow in the direction of the library. The wind blew hard into her face, making it impossible for her to get any closer to the library. A blanket of snow wrapped itself around her and pulled her away from her destination. The more the blanket pulled her, the more Karen fought against it.
"Turn around!" Roger urged Karen. "You're walking against the wind!"
To Karen’s added frustration, Roger and Samantha were already standing on the front steps of the library, waving at her. In spite of Roger’s advice and her lack of success, the idea of walking away from the library was too absurd. She gritted her teeth and walked into the snow with redoubled determination. A powerful guest of wind stirred up another blanket that pulled her towards a dark shadow looming above her.
"Karen!" cried Roger. “Turn around!”
But the shadow engulfed Karen before she could respond to Roger and held her in its grip. Out of the shadow emerged the face of her science teacher who once said, out of the side of his mouth, that women were more suited for routine research than for making groundbreaking discoveries. Then the shadow changed into Karen's mother, a stethoscope around her neck, as she entered a hospital room. Another, darker, shadow lay on the bed with his arms wrapped about around a broken harp. The shadow with the harp took on Kevin's features, and Kevin began to play an out of tune melody on the broken strings. Her mother drew her scalpel as if it were a six-shooter and turned into Karen herself. Kevin let out a war cry, jumped off the bed, and brought the broken harp down over Karen's head. Karen fought off the strings with her scalpel, but the strings wrapped themselves around her like serpents. Every time she cut a string, two more serpents renewed the attack. Then a golden snake in the shape of a benzene molecule took on the face of a handsome young man: Karen's father. Her father opened wide his mouth as if about to bite off his daughter's head, but instead burst out into a deafening volley of laughter.
“Get away from me! All of you!” Karen yelled at the shadows.
The serpent answered only with mocking laughter that hurt the girl who tried to approach her father. Then the roar of a lion drowned out the serpent’s laughter. The golden glow of the lion's fur filled Karen’s line of vision just as she was knocked to the ground. The lion opened his mouth and filled Karen's face with its hot breath. Just as Karen gave up her head for lost, the lion stripped the serpent away from her with his teeth and jumped away. That gave Karen some breathing space, but she was still bound by the cool and soft blanket wrapped about her shoulder. She tried to sake it off, but she only caught herself further in the cloth. Goldfire added insult to injury by standing above her, purring triumphantly. He proudly held the struggling serpent in his teeth as a trophy, then swallowed it whole, not concealing a leonine smile of satisfaction. Then Roger in his coon-skin cap and Samantha joined Goldfire as a little mocking committee.
“This isn’t funny,” said Karen.
“Didn’t say it was,” said Roger.
“I’m trying not to laugh at you,” said Samantha even as she tried to suppress a giggle.
"Now will you follow instructions?" asked Roger, speaking as if he were helping a small child who didn't know any better.
"I guess so," said Karen.
Roger gently helped Karen to her feet and then kept her up when her knees buckled for a moment before she became steady.
"That's a nice shawl you've got," Samantha remarked.
“Oh?”
“Boy, I’ll say,” said Roger as he lifted the end of a white gold-flecked shawl that was wrapped about her.
“Where did this come from?” asked Karen.
She pulled at it, trying to find the other end of it, but it seemed to trail endlessly in the snow.
“I don’t know,” said Roger, “but I suggest you keep it. It's got to be connected to something."
"But—it's an awful lot of shawl to have to wear," Karen protested.
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," said Roger.
Goldfire growled gently, as if miffed that he was not getting enough attention. Roger went over to him and stroked his mane.
"You did very well, Goldfire,” said Roger." Goldfire purred with satisfaction. "But what about the zombie in the attic you were guarding?"
Goldfire growled.
“I know, Karen needed you just now," Roger assured him, "but Michael might need you because Karen needed you —“
"And then if Michael needs you, Karen will need you, and then—“ Samantha continued.
"Just go attend to Michael," said Roger, and Goldfire disappeared a cloud of snow.
"Now let's get over to the library," said Samantha, "we haven't got all day!"
"How do you know we don’t have all day?" Roger retorted.
“Because some of the day is gone already,” Samantha replied.
“Logic!” Roger scoffed. “Girls are always too logical!”
Roger took Karen by the hand and led her away from the library. Karen tugged at her shawl when she felt a bit of resistance, but the loose end did not hold her back. It still felt odd to be walking back towards Roger's house when she was trying to get to the library, but at least with the wind at her back, she was more comfortable.
"Roger, why didn't you just grab a hold of Karen and keep her with you in the first place?” asked Samantha.
"Hmm. Karen, do you like to make your own decisions?"
"Yes," Karen replied.
“Does that answer your question, Samantha?” Roger asked Samantha.
"But she made the wrong decision!" Samantha persisted.
“Does that mean that tying somebody up and dragging them around is the right decision?” Roger returned.
"You kids are impossible," said Karen.
“I know,” said Samantha. “Roger is the most impossible boy I know.”
“And Samantha is the most impossible girl I know,” said Roger.
Next thing she knew, Karen was walking up the steps of the library and Samantha was opening the door.
---------------------
Amarilla flung open the window of her room and the snow promptly covered the floor and her bed. Sticking her head out the window, she put her whistle to her mouth and blew a complex signal. Michael could see for himself that the snow was almost as high as her window and they could just walk straight out. A few seconds later, a sleigh drew up in front of the window, drawn by none other than the dragon who had carried Michael and Karen to Carelin the night before.
"You again!" Michael crowed with pleasure.
"And again and again," the dragon crowed back. "Into the sleigh with you while the journey's still fresh!"
Michael crawled in after Amarilla and reached for the reigns, expecting that he should be the driver, but Amarilla snatched up the reigns with an air of authority that left no room for contradiction. Once Michael settled himself in the sleigh and secured the harp on his lap and made sure the harp key was secure in his pocket, Amarilla gently snapped the reigns and the dragon began to pull the sled across the snow.
The snow-filled wind slapped Michael in the face so hard he felt he might just as well have been struck by a dozen men the size of his father. Through the driving snow, he could see little more than shadows except when the sleigh came close to a buried house or another sleigh pulled by one or another animal pulling it. One old woman drove by and waved at Amarilla with two llamas attached to her sleigh, and a family, complete with half a dozen screaming children, had a mastodon pulling theirs.
"Does it snow like this often in Carelin?" Michael asked Amarilla.
"I've never seen so much snow," Amarilla answered. "Mrs. Sweenfeld!" she called over to the old woman with the lamas.
"What is it, dear?"
"When is the last time we had this much snow?"
Michael had to strain to hear any conversation over the wind.
"If my feeble memory serves me right it was two hundred years ago,” the old woman replied, “when Count Metronomi swallowed a knife full of peas that had been cursed by the Witch Blandina. Mark my words, something has gone amiss once again."
"Every able-bodied man, woman, and child is out looking for the trouble!" announced the father of the large family. "Let us know if you see anything!"
"We have our suspicions!" Amarilla called back.
"Good!" cried the ruddy man, "we need suspicions or we'll never solve the problem. Are you going to the square?"
"Yes!"
"So are we!" cried one of the girls in the sleigh.
"We want to see the fountain!" bubbled a lively little boy.
"Stopping a blizzard isn't child's play!" an older boy reproved his younger.
"Yes, it is!" another girl retorted.
"Kids, kids," chided their mother good-naturedly. "If we can have fun tracking down the cause of this blizzard, and still get the job done, that’s all well and good."
"See you!" Amarilla cried out as she waved to them.
Amarilla gently cracked the whip on the dragon's back and he obediently pulled the sleigh along the street and to the park. Only the very top of the swing set and the highest branch of the dragon egg tree were still visible. The muffled sound of church bells reached Michael’s ears..
“Are they ringing church bells to try and get people to pray to the Almighty for an end of the storm?" Michael asked with contempt.
"We can't leave a snowflake unturned in our search for the problem and the solution," Amarilla replied in a tone of voice that allowed no criticism of anybody's piety.
When the dragon turned down the next street, Michael saw the Dime Store, its sign peeking just above a snow bank.
"I'll bet they won't do much business there today," Michael remarked.
"They might have a special on snow shovels," Amarilla replied.
The dragon pulled the sleigh past the dime store towards what looked, at a distance, like a glistening crystal dome but, when the sleigh stopped in front of it, it showed itself to be the water fountain, frozen in the full flower of its overflow.
“See anything?” Amarilla asked.
“Just about every color in the rainbow is shining in that ice,” Michael replied.
“I know that. See anything else?”
The mastodon-drawn sleigh carrying the large family pulled in next to Michael and Amarilla.
“See the cause of the blizzard there, anybody?” the ruddy man asked his wife and children.
"No,” said one of the boys. “Better look elsewhere."
“No! Just look over there!” cried another of the boys. “He’s the one caused the blizzard!”
Michael blinked when he realized the boy was pointing straight at him.
“How do you know I caused it?” Michael asked.
“Cause you’re the one who got Myra to eat us all up!” another boy charged.
“Don’t forget that he saved us,” an older girl reminded her brother.
“What’s he doing here now?” asked the accusing boy.
“I CAME ALONG JUST SO I COULD START UP A HUMDINGER OF A BLIZZARD FOR THE FUN OF IT!” Michael yelled. “It’ll keep you on your toes.”
“What’s he got under that cover?” asked another boy.
“None of your business,” said his mother.
“It’s our business if he started the blizzard with whatever it is,” said a girl.
“It’s just the harp that started the blizzard when all its strings got broken,” Michael growled. “Satisfied?”
“Hah!” scoffed the ruddy man. “That’s a good one! A boy like that carrying a harp and breaking it! Ha! Ha! Let’s go, kids! Got to look elsewhere for the cause of this storm.”
“Good riddance,” Michael grumbled as the mastodon pulled the family away.
“Now we can look at the fountain in peace,” said Amarilla. “Let us try again, Michael.”
Michael shrugged and focused his eyes on the stream of ice, letting the colors play tricks on his eyes. At first, the ice only blinded him, but then Michael thought he saw Dornal’s harp reflected in the ice, its gold shining. A dark band ran across the middle of the broken strings and out of the dark band emerged a golden boar. The boar ran across a number of strings and then hopped back through the dark band as it were a rabbit hole.
“Did you see what I just saw?” Michael asked, his voice trembling.
“If you saw a golden boar run in and about the broken strings of the harp, yes” Amarilla replied.
“Kevin was drawing a picture of an animal like that when he disappeared,” Michael observed.
“And now the golden boar is running from world to world,” said Amarilla.
“What can we do about it?” asked Michel.
“Try to fix the harp,” Amarilla replied. “Let’s go.”
At the next corner, a goat, bundled up in a thick fur coat, was directing the sleigh-traffic. He blew a whistle to stop Amarilla, but when Amarilla blew her whistle back at him, the goat reversed his directions, stopped another sleigh, and waved Amarilla on through the intersection.
“How dare you pass through before me?” yelled the man whose sleigh had been pre-empted by Amarilla.
“Our broken harp is better than yours,” Amarilla yelled back as her sleigh slid through the intersection.
“All right, then,” said the man, suddenly all smiles.
Amarilla steered the dragon past a sleigh full of dwarves down one street and then turned down another.
“Usually Sam’s Music Repair Shop is down this way,” said Amarilla, “but the storm seems to have moved it to Who Knows Where.”
“What’s it look like?” asked Michael.
“It has a treble clef on the door, but the door is probably all covered in snow,” Amarilla replied.
Amarilla looked over what she could see of the store fronts on the street she was on, shook her head, and gave the dragon a gentle snap. As they neared the next intersection, Michael heard weird-sounding singing by a group of boys.
“Now who could be singing like that outside on a day like this?” Michael muttered, “except for the Carelin Boys Choir?”
“I can think of no other choir in Carelin as daffy as the one you are referring to,” Amarilla replied. “Not surprisingly, they aren't in good voice today.”
"Hard to sing in a blizzard," said Michael.
Michael’s supposition proved correct as soon as the sleigh turned the corner and his sleigh was brought face to face with a large sleigh drawn by two pairs of reindeer and filled with choirboys creating large clouds of vapor as they sang away in about as many keys as there were singers. Michael recognized some of the boys as his companions in the belly of Myra. Nigel had undergone an adolescent growth spurt since Michael saw him last, but Edmund looked as small and mischievous as ever. Mr. Spitzenbergen directed them awkwardly in his heavy coat and scarf. When the choirmaster noticed Amarilla approaching with a rather sour look on her face, he cut the boys off. Nigel continued on for a bit longer in a mellow alto voice, then stopped when he seemed feel he had drawn enough attention to himself.
"Well, if it isn't Mademoiselle Amarilla," since Mr. Spitzenbergen pleasantly.
"And if it isn't Mr. Spitzenbergen, the arm waver of the Royal Carelin Boys Choir," Amarilla returned.
Mr. Spitzenbergen took a bow.
"And who is the illustrious gentleman with the mournful countenance who accompanies you on this blustery day?” asked the choirmaster."
“Why this is Michael Bullinger, carrier of newspapers and bearer of the harp.”
“You’re the one who swallowed a dragon egg and got us eaten up by Myra,” said one of the boys.
“I am,” said Michael.
“He came and got us out,” said another boy. “That’s more than some dragon egg swallowers would do.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” said Michael in his deadpan voice.
“Do you know why you are singing so far past the frontier of music?” asked Amarilla.
"Do you mean to say, you don’t appreciate our singing?” asked Edmund.
"Much as I appreciated your last concert of anthems by Orlando Gibbons," said Amarilla, "I cannot say the same for your outdoor concert today."
"It hasn't been a very good day for singing," said another choirboy.
"Some of the notes are missing," said Nigel.
“When we try to sing Palestrina, it sounds like Charles Ives," said one boy.
"But if we try to sing Charles Ives," said another boy, "it sounds like Purcell."
"But if you try to sing Purcell," said Amarilla, "I suppose it sounds like Lutoslawski."
"That's it!" cried Nigel, "but if we try to sing Lutoslawski, it sound like Roger the Brother of Amarilla.”
"But if we try to sing-" another choirboy started to say when Amarilla held up her hand for silence.
"Have any of you seen Sam's Music Repair Shop today?" she asked.
"We haven't seen it today," said one of the boys, "but I think I saw it on Rue Morgue Avenue yesterday."
"That was in the morning," said Nigel, "Yesterday afternoon it was on Scarlatti Street."
"How about Spaghetti Street?" Edmund piped up.
Nigel looked at the boy with benign contempt.
"Edmund, this is not laughing matter," said Nigel with dignity.
"Oh," Edmund replied, not looking very repentant.
"Thank you for the advice," said Amarilla. "In return for your kindness, I will give you some important information. You are quite right in saying that some notes missing. I think I know why that is so. My friend Michael has Dornal's harp with him and the harp is broken."
"Dornal's harp!" the boys chorused.
“Yes, Dornal’s harp. It seems that each note that cannot be played on the harp on account of a broken string, cannot sound on any voice or instrument.”
“And I thought the trouble was we ate two many Swedish meatballs last night,” said one of the boys.
“And now you know why we are looking for Sam's Music Repair Shop,” said Amarilla.
“Are any of the strings on Dornal’s Harp still not broken?” asked one of the smaller boys.
“Yea,” said Michael.
“Good. My grand aunt told me once that sometimes a music store won’t show itself unless you play a note it wants to hear,” said the boy.
"Very sound advice, my Dear Dennis, Nephew of the Grand Aunt,” said Amarilla. “I hope that the advice I give you in return will be as sound. I suggest you seek the royal palace and, if you find it, search it well. Some of the lost notes could be lingering there."
“Nobody has found the royal palace since the blizzard began,” said Nigel.
“Isn’t that all the more reason for us to find it?” asked Edmund.
“Right,” said Mr. Spitzenbergen. “We’ll sing what notes we can and hope they guide us to the spot.”
Amarilla gently flicked the reigns and the dragon moved along the street while the renewed singing from the choirboys faded in the distance. A street suddenly appeared where Michael had thought there wasn't one. Amarilla tried it but, again, the music shop was not to be found.
"You'd better play a string or two on the harp," suggested Amarilla.
Michael started to open the harp's case, but when he remembered what happened the last time he tried to play it, he closed the cover again.
"Not in your life," said Michael.
"Okay, suit yourself."
A strong gust of wind almost tipped the sleigh over. The dragon struggled as best he could, but the going was suddenly became much slower.
"May I hitch a ride?" asked a deep, familiar voice.
Michael looked over his shoulder and saw a hulking shadow step on the back runners of the sleigh.
"No!" cried Michael.
"Know him?" asked Amarilla.
She snapped the reigns as hard as she could but the corpse-like shadow of Michael’s father weighed down the sleigh so that it could not move at all.
"My father,” said Michael. "My father the zombie. Goldfire was guarding him last night in your attic."
"That's nice!"
"Now are you going to play the harp?" asked Amarilla.
"No."
Amarilla sighed.
"Then we're just going to have to sit here forever."
But once Michael had done enough pouting, he noticed that everything else in Carelin had stopped as well. Even the snow hung suspended in the air. Gingerly, he started to reach for the harp but his own movements were sluggish. It would not be long before he and Amarilla froze. Caught between one death and another, Michael tried to undo the harp's cover enough to pluck a string or two. That much might be safe. But he couldn't even manage that. No sooner had he touched the zipper of the harp’s cover then his hand failed him. Whether it was for a second or a century that Michael was conscious of nothing Michael would never know. This state of suspension ended when a golden paw broke through the frozen instant and scratched Michael along the arm. Thus freed, Michael slipped a hand under the covering and sounded the nearest note three times. The snow began to fall again.
"Gitty-up ho!" cried Amarilla as the sleigh moved once more.
"Thanks Goldfire!" Michael cried as the lion leaped over the sleigh and bounded down the street in a cloud of snow.
"Shows you how things come back to haunt you," remarked Amarilla.
Michael looked back anxiously and saw the corpse of his father still hanging on to the sleigh, but it no longer had the power to hinder the sleigh's movement. The dragon turned a corner and came to a halt in front of a shop with a large treble clef inscribed across its roof line.
“Is that it?” asked Michael.
“Yes!” Amarilla answered. “Hurry before it moves again!”