Chapter the 12th
Mark Clement had never felt comfortable in Mrs. Lear’s living room the few times he had been there with his father. The spectacle of Prince Moroch the Pickled pouring apple cider out of a large jug to the clanking of his medals did little to alleviate the feeling of strangeness. Princess Mona, dressed in a pastel yellow dress so delicate it could have been made out of a fairy's wings, only added to the aura of unreality as she passed around crackers topped with Gorgonzola cheese, marshmallows covered with dark chocolate, and little hot dogs wrapped in bacon.
“Where did you get all those medals?” Edna asked the prince.
Moroch the Pickled looked down at the shining array on his chest with obvious pride. The medals were an odd assortment: one had a picture of a scholar reading a book, another a picture of a butcher slaughtering an animal, while another showed a hand holding up a torch.
“When you are the crown prince,” Moroch explained, “people suddenly discover that you are good at just about everything and they reward you for your achievements whether you’ve done anything to earn them or not. I even have an honorary doctorate from the university that my tutor did not dare protest, even though a street cleaner knows more about university subjects than I do.”
“What about the medal with the picture of a butcher?” asked Scott. “Does that make you an honorary butcher?”
“Of course. I don’t even have to touch a butcher knife to be good at it.”
“Where is your father?” Aunt Edith asked the royal children, as soon as they had seated themselves.
“Same place he was last time,” said Pickleface with his mouth full of marshmallow and chocolate.
“Which is?” Uncle Martin prompted.
“Someplace-we-don't-know,” answered Mona.
“Being a King keeps one busy,” observed Dornal.
“Having a king for a father who is always busy being somewhere else keeps us busy,” said Mona. “Somebody has to play host to important dignitaries like you.”
“And somebody has to be in charge of state affairs,” said Prince Moroch the Pickled, “such as figuring out what to do about the light that is disappearing from Carelin.”
“It's those awful people who crashed the funeral who are doing it, I’m sure of it” charged Mona.
“I am currently devising a strategy to find those miscreants and get the light back,” said Moroch.
“It is true enough that they are opening up both Carelin and Milton to the Dark Lake,” said Aunt Edith, “but it is also true that we are giving them the openings they need to do this.”
“Which the people of the fair city of Milton are doing very well,” said Moroch with self-righteous ardor.
Edna bristled.
“I will have you know that the citizens of Milton, Pennsylvania are godly, upstanding people,” said Edna, “with only a very few exceptions,” she added with a sidelong look at Scott.
“We’re mostly downsitting people if you ask me,” said Gary, sprawled over his chair.
Edna glared at Gary.
“I did not ask you,” said Edna.
“Gary’s point of view is most enlightening to the Crown Prince,” said Moroch the Pickled as he gulped down another chocolate marshmallow.
“If you don't mind my saying so,” Aunt Edith interjected, “or even if you do mind my saying so, it is my perception that our thoughts here in Carelin have not always been above criticism as much as we would like them to be.”
Moroch sat up and gave Aunt Edith a cross look.
“Are you implying that my thoughts are not adequate to the crisis confronting our kingdom?” Moroch thundered.
“I think Prince Moroch the Pickled can keep his thoughts up to snuff about as well as any crown prince ever did,” said Uncle Martin.
“And how up to snuff is that?” asked Mona.
Dornal played a slightly dissonant chord on his harp.
“I think that answers the question,” said Aunt Edith tartly.
“If you don't like my thoughts,” said Moroch, pointing to the bronze medal with the torch pictured on it, “I will have you know that just yesterday, I was given an award for bringing the light back to Carelin.”
“But you haven't done it yet,” Mona reminded him.
“Details, details,” Moroch muttered. “I’ll find them in the morning and put them under arrest and make them give us all the light back.”
“What if they don't have the light after all?” asked Aunt Edith.
“Who else could have it?” asked Moroch.
“Why, lots of people,” said Uncle Martin. “I suppose it could be just about anybody.”
“Are you implying that I could be the one who is stealing the light?” asked Prince Moroch.
“No more than Martin himself or even me for that matter,” said Aunt Edith.
“Could it be that Martahol has come back?” suggested Dornal.
“Who is that?” asked Edna.
“I'm glad you asked,” said Aunt Edith, “there is a story about him.”
“I know the story,” said Moroch with a totally bored look.
“Just because you’ve heard the story doesn't mean you know it,” Mona retorted. Her brother gave him a poisoned look. “Besides, our guests don't know the story and they should hear it.”
“Very well, Edith, Mother of Amarilla, Roger, and Samantha,” said Moroch, “You may proceed with the story.”
Dornal began to play his harp softly. Aunt Edith's eyes took on a far-away look. Then she began:
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Captain Karen stood at the bow and watched the waves part beneath her. She was worried that the crew had still not agreed on where they were going and why. Except for that worry, she felt she could live on the pirate ship forever now that she had gotten her sea legs. The rough but surprisingly amiable pirates were congenial company, and the choir boys were as gallant as they were gifted with song. She suspected that this was the first pirate ship manned by boys who could Mozart in with their pirate songs when they swabbed the deck. As Captain Karen meditated on these thoughts, Captain Edmund came up to her. Once again, he was wearing his homesick look all over his face.
“Do you want to go home tonight?” Captain Karen asked him.
“Uh-huh, but I'm not going to cry about it this time.”
“It's okay to cry once in a while, Edmund.”
“Captain Edmund,” the boy corrected her, barely holding back his tears.
Karen still had a hard time remembering that everybody on board was a captain. At first, it had worked out well for everybody to be a captain with everybody followed everybody else’s orders somehow. But the wind had turned chilly and the sun had grown darker, and everybody seemed to want everybody else to follow their orders without following the orders of anybody else in return..
“I'm sorry, Captain Edmund,” said Karen. “Even captains cry once in a while.”
“No they don't,” said Edmund. “Pirates never cry.”
“What about Captain Polly?”
“He's so big nobody dares make fun of him for it.”
Karen remembered how, the first night Captain Edmund was homesick, Captain Polly took Edmund into his hulking arms and rocked him to sleep.
“Captain Polly may be big, but he's also too nice for us to make fun of him,” said Karen.
“Do you ever feel homesick?” Edmund asked Karen.
“Yes. But then I get homesick at home, too.”
“How come?”
“My father walked out on us years ago, and mother has to work all the time.”
“Oh, that’s almost as bad as Nigel’s home,” said Edmund.
Suddenly, as the chill wind picked up and the ship pitched a little, voices at the back of the ship exploded into torrents of abuse.
“Come on Captain Karen,” said Captain Edmund, “it's time you settled matters once and for all.”
“Can’t somebody else settle therm?” Captain Karen asked.
“No.”
The last thing Captain Karen wanted to do was enter the eye of the storm where unkempt brawny men and rebellious boys were at each other's throats. But with little Captain Edmund brave enough to lead her into it, Captain Karen felt she had no choice but to follow him. It was no surprise to her to see Captain Eagle, Captain Polly, and Captain Nigel at the center of the fray with the rest of the pirates and choir boys egging them on.
“We'll never find the island I tell you!” Captain Eagle thundered as he waved the wooden eagle's claw that substituted for his right hand.
“Find island find island!” chirped Captain Polly's parakeet, Polydorus.
“Did you hear Polydorus, or didn't you?” exclaimed Captain Polly. “If we wasn’t going to find the island, Polydorus wouldn't say we would.”
“Who says Polydorus knows every island in the ocean?” yelled Captain Peg, who had a peg for his left foot.
“We have the map of the island,” Captain Nigel insisted in his cracked adolescent voice. “If the island wasn’t there, we wouldn’t have this map.”
“Yea!” cried Captain Hilary. “How can you have a map of an island that doesn’t exist?”
“By making it up, Stupid!” replied Captain Geoffrey.
“My Great Aunt says there’s a treasure at the X of every true treasure map,” said Captain Dennis.
“How do you know a true treasure map when you see one?” asked Captain Scratch.
Captain Dennis hid his face in his hands and started to cry.
“Sir Kevin the Painter Weaver made the map,” said Nigel stoutly, “so it has to be a true map, or Sir Kevin wouldn’t have drawn it.”
“I say we forget this treasure chest that has we-know-not-what in it and is located we-know-not-where and raid the coast of Corelee where we know where the pickings are!” said Captain Eagle. “Then we'll have enough supplies to last us while we look for an island that's off the edge of the world for all we know.”
“You can’t sail off the edge of the world,” Captain Karen interjected.
“Why not?” asked Captain Nigel with an incredulous look.
“Because the world is round,” Karen explained. “There is no edge you can sail off.”
The boys and the pirates looked at each other and at Captain Karen with puzzled looks.
“Kevin’s map is flat,” said Captain Edmund.
“That doesn’t make the world flat,” Captain Karen insisted.
“It does too,” Captain Hilary insisted with twice the volume.
Captain Karen began to fear that she was headed for the same impasse she had with Roger and Samantha about how the world was made, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying to explain things to the people of Carelin.
“I was taught in school that the world is round,” said Captain Karen, feeling helpless to explain the matter. “What do they teach you in school?”
“THE WORLD IS FLAT!” roared Captain Eagle.
“AS FLAT AS THE DECK YOUR SITTING ON!” yelled Captain Polly.
“Flat sitting, sitting flat deck,” chirped the parrot.
“Haven’t you heard of Captain Jolly Roger Hammerschmidt?” asked Captain Geoffrey. “He sailed to the edge of the world and barely kept his ship from sailing over. He almost landed on poor Sylvester.”
“Poor Sylvester,” said Captain Hilary with a smirk.
“Who is Sylvester?” asked Captain Karen.
“Sylvester's the turtle who carries the world on his back,” said Captain Nigel.
Captain Karen looked over at the pirates, but they all nodded seriously at what Captain Nigel had just said. She wondered if they saw the problem the boys were setting up for themselves.
“Well, who holds up Sylvester?” asked Captain Karen.
“Why, Bertha the Elephant,” said Captain Geoffrey.
“And who holds up Bertha the Elephant?” asked Karen.
“Cornelius the Beetle, as every schoolchild knows!” thundered Captain Eagle.
“A beetle holds up an elephant?” Captain Karen questioned.
“Better than you can,” said Captain Hilary.
“And—who holds up the beetle?” asked Karen.
“My Great Aunt says—“ Captain Dennis began.
“We won't go into that,” said Captain Polly, cutting off Captain Dennis and putting an end to the questioning.
Captain Dennis shed a few tears that Captain Edmund tenderly wiped away. Captain Karen looked up at the stars, strange as the constellations were to her, hoping to regain a grip on reality.
“You don't think the sun revolves around the earth, do you?” she asked, much as she feared how they would answer her.
“Of course not,” Captain Michael scoffed.
Karen sighed with relief.
“Then at least you know the earth revolves around the sun,” said Karen timidly.
“No,” said Captain Edmund seriously.
They strange looks from the pirates and the choirboys made Captain Karen uncomfortable. Captain Patch stepped over to Karen and squinted at her with his good eye.
“Captain Karen,” said Captain Patch, “you are the kindest and fairest maiden I have ever sailed with, but when it comes to cosmology, you win the ultimate prize for ignorance.”
Karen blushed with anger. The sea’s chop got just a bit rougher.
“I think Captain Karen's trouble is that she hasn't heard the story of Martahol,” said Captain Polly.
“Well, it's true I haven't heard that story,” Captain Karen replied, trying to recapture her sense of dignity amid the stifled giggles among the younger boys.
“I know the story!” Captain Dennis declared. “My Great Aunt’s told it to me millions of times.”
“Captain Nigel can tell a story better than you any day,” said Captain Edmund.
“I say, let the Head Singing Boy tell the story,” said Captain Patch.
Captain Nigel looked at a tearful Captain Dennis with sympathy.
“Very well,” said Captain Nigel. “I promise to tell the story the way your Great Aunt tells it. If I make a mistake, I will depend on Captain Dennis to correct me. Okay?”
“Okay,” captain Dennis sniffed.
Some of the boys began to hum softly as Captain Nigel leaned back against a lifeboat and began to tell the story:
__________________________
Father Clement had just about lost his sense of time and place. He vaguely knew it was getting late into the evening, and that the rectory was next door, but it felt was worlds away from a house where train cars could move about the room at their own volition and there was no electrical power that the priest could discern. Father Clement took another sip of his drink and marveled that a small girl like Samantha could mix a better drink than any bartender he knew. Amarilla treated Father Clement and the lost children to shrimp pizza that she produced so quickly, that the priest asked her if she had used a microwave. Amarilla did not understand the question.
“Roger?” asked Sheila.
“Yes?”
“When I was in—in this candle store, I found this piece of music wrapped around a candle.”
Roger’s eyes lit up and he ran over to Sheila’s chair.
“Let me see it!” he exclaimed, as he practically tore the manuscript out of Sheila’s hands.
“Roger, restrain yourself,” Amarilla admonished her brother.
“You know I can’t restrain myself when it comes to violin sonatas,” said Roger. “But I’m still sorry about being rude.”
Roger looked at the manuscript and his jaw dropped and his eyes grew wider.
“Voluptuous violins and stimulating strings!” he cried. “This is the violin sonata I lost before I had a chance to write it!”
“How can you lose the manuscript for a piece you haven’t written yet?” asked a nonplused Father Clement.
“Roger is always getting his composing and his times mixed up,” Samantha replied.
“Oh,” said Father Clement in that tone of voice that showed he understood that it would not be productive to pursue this line of inquiry.
Roger hastily unpacked his violin case and tuned his instrument.
“Do we have to listen to you play your sonata?” asked a boy.
“No,” said Roger. “You may close your ears if you want.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” said a girl. “It isn’t every day that you get to hear the world premiere of a new violin sonata by Roger.”
“A good thing, too,” said another girl.
“I’ll listen to your new piece if you trade me two of your mastodon trading cards,” offered another boy.
“It’s a deal,” said Roger.
Roger put his instrument into position and played his lost violin sonata. In spite of what some of of the children had just said, all of them listened with attention and respect. Father Clement found it to be a piece different from even the strangest modern music he had ever heard, but it kept his interest and stirred some feelings the priest could not describe. When Roger finished, everybody remained still. Roger looked about the room with dissatisfaction and sat down with the violin in his lap.
“My sonata didn’t get any of the light to come back,” said a disconsolate Roger.
“Of course it didn’t,” said a boy. “If the light got stolen, it can’t come back just to listen to your music.”
“Your sonata lightened my heart,” said Father Clement, trying to make the boy feel better.
“It didn’t have enough light,” Roger complained.
“Well, you don’t expect to bring back all the missing light all by yourself, do you?” asked Amarilla.
“Ye-e-es,” said Roger.
“Roger likes to be disappointed,” quipped Samantha.
The priest had noticed that the living room was rather dark, but he had attributed that to the kerosine lamps that were the only source of light.
“What should we do now?” asked a boy.
“We have must create a plan of action,” said Amarilla.
“Do you mean a quest?” asked Roger.
“At least one quest, I should think,” said Amarilla.
“Do you think Martahol is taking the light back?” asked Samantha.
“If he is, we’ll have to ask him nicely to give to back to us,” said Roger.
“Uh—may I ask who Martahol is?” asked Father Clement.
“Of course, you can ask,” Samantha replied.
“Too bad mother isn't here to tell the story,” said Roger.
“But Amarilla is here to tell it to us,” said a girl.
“I guess Amarilla will have to do,” said Samantha.
“I would very much like to hear Amarilla tell this story,” said Father Clement.
Amarilla smiled gently at Father Clement and began to tell the story of Martahol:
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“Martahol lived after the world began, but before the world was formed,” Aunt Edith began. “Since the world was still unformed, Martahol, too, was unformed. Since Martahol was unformed, he could be anything he wanted to be. Sometimes he was a monkey, sometimes a porcupine, sometimes a rabbit, sometimes an octopus, and at other times a hawk. Most of all, he liked to be an anteater, because ants were his favorite food.
“At the time that the world was still unformed, there was neither light nor darkness. That is to say, the world was not dark, but the world was not bright either. For a long time, the unformed beings of the unformed world were content with having neither light to see by nor darkness to hide what could not be seen.
“One day, Martahol began to think. Once he started to think, he could not stop thinking. He thought so hard, he became tired of thinking, but he still could not stop thinking. He tried playing his flute, but that only gave music to his thoughts. He tried running from one end of the unformed earth to the other, but that only speeded up his thoughts. Finally, when Martahol could contain his thoughts no longer, he called everybody together to share his thoughts with them.”
Aunt Edith paused a moment to think. The reflective melody Dornal played on his harp filled the silence.
“What did he tell them?” asked Mona.
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Captain Nigel paused a moment to think. The other choirboys continued to hum softly. Captain Patch played a soft melody on his harmonica.
“What did he tell them?” asked Captain Edmund.
“Martahol said to them . . .” Nigel replied.
“First you have to tell us that all of Martahol's friends answered his call and they all came to listen to what he had to say,” said Captain Dennis.
“That’s right,” said Captain Nigel. “All of Martahol’s friends answered his call and they all came to listen to what he had to say. And many were the friends of Martahol who came. Some of them plopped mountains down on the unformed world and sat on them. Others carved valleys out of the unformed world and lay down in them. In honor of the occasion, every creature formed itself in the shape it liked best. By the time Martahol had sat down on a boulder and was ready to share his thoughts, he was surrounded by pine trees and giraffes and monkeys and lions and unicorns and everything else you can imagine.
“Martahol said that he could not see what he was doing, neither could he see where he was going. Once he said that, all of his friends realized they, too, could neither see what they were doing nor where they were going. Up to that time, they had not worried that they could not see what they were doing nor where they were going. But once Martahol had mentioned it, all of Martahol’s friends became afraid about what might happen because they could not see what they were doing, and they became afraid of where they might go if they could not see where they were going.
“Deeply troubled, Martahol’s friends asked each other these same questions and proposed one solution after another, but somebody always found fault with each proposed solution. Since neither Martahol nor his friends could not see what they were doing or where they were going, they could not understand what it would be like to see what they were doing or to see where they were going. Then Martahol himself told his friends what he thought they should do:
“'We must make something that will show us what we are doing and where we are going,' said Martahol. All of his friends agreed and urged him to make this wondrous thing that would help them see what they were doing and see where they were going. Then they all went away in the shapes of their own choosing so that Martahol could shape the thing that would show them what they were doing and where they were going.”
“Martahol sat down to contemplate how he was going to make the thing he wanted to make. He thought and thought about it, but his thoughts took him nowhere, because he could not make what he wanted without seeing what he was doing and he could not tell what he could do with whatever he made if he did not know where he could go with whatever he made. Finally Martahol sat down and cried for the first time in his life. This was the first time anyone had ever cried.”
Captain Polly, too, broke down and cried. The other pirates, the choirboys and Captain Karen waited respectfully, some with a tear or two in their eyes, until Captain Polly regained his composure. The tune Captain Patch played on his harmonica over the boys’ humming became as sad as the story had become.
“Don’t forget to tell us how hard Martahol cried,” said Captain Dennis. “That’s important.”
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Samantha played a few discords on the piano to portray Martahol's sorrow. All of the children sprawled about on the floor looked attentively at Amarilla. A pile of books on the shelf behind him threatened to fall on his head any moment.
“Don’t forget to tell us how hard Martahol cried,” said Roger.
Amarilla took another sip of hot chocolate.
“I have every intention of telling you how hard Martahol cried,” said Amarilla. “Martahol cried so hard and for so long that his teardrops formed many things that had never before been formed in the unformed world. His tears formed rivers and the rivers separated land on each of their banks. Finally, Martahol had cried so hard for so long that he fell into the longest and deepest of the rivers he had made. As he swam in the river in the form of an octopus, Martahol cried so hard that his tears made the river so long and so deep that he could not swim to the end of the river, neither could he never dive to the bottom of it. But Martahol dove in into the bottomless river anyway, and sank he sank deeper and deeper in the water until he fell into a dark sky.
“Martahol was so sad that he had fallen through a bottomless river he had made that he turned himself into an anteater, his favorite shape, and swallowed a mouthful of tears through his long snout. Then Martahol spit the water down at the sky. The teardrops lit up and they became stars. This was the first light that ever there was in the world. But Martahol knew that the light from the stars was too dim to show him what he was doing or where he was going. So Martahol turned himself into a hawk and flew further down into the sky. Once he was down among the stars, he turned himself into an anteater again. In his anteater form, Martahol walked over to the nearest star and swallowed it as if it were one of his favorite ants.
“As soon as he had swallowed the start, poor Martahol was on fire. For the first time ever, Martahol knew what he was doing and where he was going. What Martahol was doing was falling, and where Martahol was going was back down to the unformed earth. Martahol landed on the unformed earth with such a great crash that he burst open. The fire he had swallowed spread throughout the world and burned up everything. All of Martahol's friends took fright. Some of Martahol’s friends hid in the rivers where the water protected them. Other friends of Martahol made mountains that were too high for the fire to reach and too hard for the fire to burn. But still, the fire threatened to destroy everything that was still not yet formed. At that perilous moment, one brave friend of Martahol turned herself into a bird and she swallowed as much of the fire as she could. Then she flew up into the sky where the fire burned her up. When the friend of Martahol who had turned into a bird and swallowed as much of the fire as she could was completely burned up, she became the sun. Once this friend of Martahol was the sun, all of the rest of Martahol’s friends could see what they were doing and where they were going. But the bird's lover sorrowed over the loss of his beloved. So sorrowful was he that he drank up as much of the fire that was left that he could and flew up into the sky to be with his beloved again. There, down in the sky, he became the moon.
“After that, there was only a little bit of fire left on the earth. There was not enough fire to burn everything that was still not formed, but there was enough fire that the friends of Martahol could put it to good use. The friends of Martahol used the fire to make torches and they used these torches to show them what they were doing and where they were going. They put fire in the lighthouses so that the friends of Martahol who sailed in the river that has lost its banks could see what were doing and where they were going. But nobody knew what the fire was doing, neither did anybody know where the fire was going.”
Samantha's playing started to sound as formless as outer space. Kevin frowned with concentration. Roger sat back against the piano, thinking.