Chapter the 32nd
“You would think I would have found more light here in the lighthouse than I have,” Prince Moroch muttered to himself.
From the tower, Prince Moroch saw very little beyond the dark chunks of humanity struggling with one another with only the colorful bubbles and the spray from the fountain to light them.
“You have failed your people as badly as your father,” said the older man.
“You had your chance to take back the rose petal that was stolen from the royal house and you failed to do it,” said the woman.
“You tried to save your country single-handedly, and you failed,” said the younger man.
But as Prince Moroch listened to those words, one of his favorite harp songs sounded inside his head once more. It was a song that Dornal had played at court many times, a song his grandmother sang in her broken voice to console him and his sister when their mother died, and on the many occasions when they found their father impossible to deal with.
“I still think I am standing here for a reason,” said the prince.
“There is no reason for anything anymore,” said the older man.
“But there is a reason why you are standing at the top of the lighthouse, isn’t there?” said the younger man.
“The reason you are still here is so that you can cut the remaining thread of that horrible spider web and cut off all relations with all the people who have never appreciated you,” said the woman.
Moroch raised his sword to cut the thread that dangled from the broken light bulb, but the music in his head reminded him that nobody should cut the Web spun by Melanie the Web Spinner. The prince could not understand why he heard Dornal’s harping so clearly in his head. His memory for music wasn’t that good. Was it because Dornal was somehow trying to influence him?
“Somebody is trying to influence you,” said the older man.
“You should think for yourself,” said the woman.
“Don’t let other people do your thinking for you,” said the younger man.
“Then why are you trying to influence me?” Moroch retorted.
“Do not cross the police line!” ordered a police officer through his megaphone.
In spite of the police order, two figures trotted up to the lighthouse, well past the barricade that the police had put up.
“Do not enter that tower!” ordered the officer.
But, heedless of the officer, the two figures melted into the door. Several officers pounced on them, but for all their activity, they could neither apprehend the two fugitives nor follow them through the door. Watching the officers trip each other up and get turned around was enough to make Moroch laugh, but the sound of frantic footsteps cut his laughter short. He turned around just in time to face meet two unexpected but familiar faces.
“Edith, Mother of Amarilla, Roger and Samantha, what are you doing here,” the prince asked in his most peremptory manner.
“We must speak with you at once,” said Aunt Edith.
“I don’t have time to listen to you,” said the prince.
“That may be,” said Aunt Edith in her most tense voice, “but Martin and I did not forsake your grandmother’s house at a time like this just to be sent away on account of your arrogance.”
“How come you always have to come and criticize me?” Moroch asked.
“I suppose it’s because nobody else will do it,” Aunt Edith replied.
“Besides which,” said Martin, “Edith isn’t here to criticize you; she’s here to tell you something. The living quarters of the lighthouse are just a floor below us. We can make ourselves comfortable there while we talk.”
“It is below my dignity to obey my subjects,” said the prince stiffly.
“It should be below my dignity to share a vital information with a boy who prefers not to listen to anybody,” said Aunt Edith primly, “but I will swallow my pride and tell you anyway, if you have the sense to listen to me.”
“Come on, Pickleface,” Uncle Martin urged, “you’ve got nothing to lose except everything if you refuse to listen to us.”
“Don’t call me Pickleface,” ordered the prince.
“If you don’t like the nickname I just used,” said Uncle Martin, “just think about how you’ll like going down in history as Moroch the Stony-Eared.”
The sound of Dornal’s harp became insistent in Moroch’s head. He felt the music taking the edge off his pride and lessening his fear that everything was getting out of hand. Another voice told him to go down to the living quarters of the lighthouse and listen to this woman in the hope that listening to her would help him know what to do.
“Very well,” said Moroch, “I command you to go downstairs to the living quarters and sit down and tell me what you have to tell me.”
The three of them made the short journey down the stairs to the living quarters where Aunt Edith and Uncle Martin each settled themselves into two of the marginally comfortable wooden chairs that surrounded the dining table. Moroch started to sit but, finding himself too restless for that, paced about the small room as he listened.
“Once upon a time a town was plunged into darkness soon after three certain people threatened to steal all the light,” Aunt Edith began. “At the time that the light was dimming from the eyes, the minds and hearts of all the people in the town, several children went out on various quests to retrieve the light and bring it back. One of the children was a child with a good heart, but she lacked the understanding of all that was needed during the crisis of darkness. I could be wrong, but I suspect that this child had the name of Amarilla, so I will call her that. For a reason which this storyteller cannot fathom at the moment, Amarilla impulsively caused luminous roses to appear on the side of the house of an ungrateful person. No doubt, this was an act of unmerited generosity. Unmerited acts of generosity have their place. In fact, they keep the world from falling apart, but these acts have their problems and these problems must be solved. One of the problems is that an unmerited gift can be destroyed. That is what has happened in this case. First, all the luminous roses but one wilted and then, the last rose was destroyed when the person who tried to take it for himself was attacked by a mob that was angry over the darkness filling the town. Now, it is a good thing that Amarilla had caused the luminous roses to appear because they became the only source of light in the town, save from bubbles that were blown with water from the fountain from the town center of Carelin. Moreover, the light of the roses created by Amarilla was the only light that could be restored to a certain lighthouse, which was occupied by a prince of Carelin, before a ship crashed into it for lack of lighting. It is unfortunate, therefore, that the last rose was destroyed. But, it is fortunate that there is one known possibility for repairing the destroyed rose before it is too late. Unfortunately, this single possibility requires the talent of William the Humming Bird. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
Aunt Edith sighed.
“Then I will have to tell you. It is William the Humming Bird who holds up Gertrude the Walrus, who replaced Matilda the Anteater when she fell into a rabbit hole.”
“Never heard of her,” said Moroch.
“Well, Gertrude holds up Humphrey the Bullfrog. Surely you have heard of him?”
“No. Are you going to tell me how ignorant I am for a crown prince?”
“I don’t have time to tell you how ignorant you are,” said Aunt Edith, “I will simply tell you that Humphrey the Bullfrog holds up Cornelius the Beetle.”
“At least I know who Cornelius the Beetle is,” said Moroch. “Everybody does.”
“I must get straight to the point,” said Aunt Edith. “It happens that only William the Humming Bird is capable of healing a destroyed white rose, and only a member of the royal house of Carelin can call William the Humming Bird.”
“Are you asking me to call William the Humming Bird?”asked Prince Moroch.
“I am so glad that you understand what I am asking of you,” said Aunt Edith with withering sarcasm.
“The rose is surely totally destroyed by now,” said the older man in black.
“There will be nothing for William the Hummingbird to reassemble,” added the woman.
“What if there is nothing left of the rose?” Prince Moroch asked Aunt Edith.
“Each petal has its own intelligence,” Aunt Edith explained, “and each petal will float itself into the hand of somebody it deems worthy of the honor. If William the Hummingbird flies among these people and hums to them, any such person who possesses any good will at all will surrender the petal to William the Hummingbird.”
“Surely only greedy people would go after the petals strenuously enough to get them,” said the younger man.
“What if everybody who got a petal got it because he’s greedy and doesn’t have any good will?” asked the prince.
“I’m sure—“ Martin said, his voice fading.
“Surely only a greedy person would beat everybody else in the scramble for a petal of a white rose,” said the older man, his voice drowning out Uncle Martin’s words.
“You understand people very well, my prince,” said the woman. “You know that nobody has any good will.”
“That is why you must rule firmly, because nobody can be trusted, save yourself,” said the younger man.
“You mean I’m the only one who has any good will at all?” Moroch asked them.
“You are the only one who understands their hearts,” said the older man.
“These people don’t deserve to have the rose reassembled,” said the woman.
“Especially not after the way they tore that young man apart—a boy, really,” said the younger man.
“A lot of people have been nice to me,” said the prince.
“That’s only because you are the crown prince,” said the woman.
“People have to be nice to the crown prince, you know,” said the younger man.
The sound of Dornal’s harp playing the tune We still wish ran through Moroch’s head.
“Even when we stumble and fall/ we still wish, we still wish/ we still wish/ we were good,” sang the prince.
“Now who put that idea in your head?” asked the woman.
“I don’t know,” Moroch replied, “but even I try to be nice once in a while, even when I’m acting worse than my father. I guess I shouldn’t. . .”
“. . .Make assumptions about the state of other peoples’ hearts before letting William the Hummingbird find that out for himself,” suggested Aunt Edith.
“Calling William the Hummingbird will put an extra strain on Gertrude the Walrus,” said the older man, “and Gertrude the Walrus will have to hold up Humphrey the Bullfrog with less than her usual support.”
“And, to judge by the latest upheaval,” said the woman, “Gertrude the Walrus and William the Humming Bird are not doing a very good job of holding things up as it is.”
“You might be wise to ask if anybody at all supports William the Hummingbird,” prompted the younger man.
“Who supports William the Humming Bird?” Moroch asked.
“I don’t know,” Aunt Edith admitted.
“You don’t know?” asked the prince. “I thought you knew everything!”
“I’m sorry I have failed you, my crown prince.”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me,” said Prince Moroch. “It seems that either I call William the Humming Bird and the world falls apart, or I don’t call William the Hummingbird and the world is lost in darkness forever.”
“That’s the size of it,” said Uncle Martin. “We’re sorry to put such a heavy burden on your young shoulders, but all other members of the royal family seem to be locked up in a box somewhere and you are the only one we can reach.”
Moroch paced about the room with faster, more furious steps. The sound of Dornal’s harp sounded in his ears. The music did not soothe him, but it gave shape to his thoughts.
Even if Sylvester the Turtle, Bertha the Elephant, Cornelius the Beetle, Humphrey the Bullfrog, and Gertrude the Walrus are called away from their positions, and I call William the Hummingbird away from his,” Prince Moroch mused, “the world will still be supported.”
“Who put an idea like that into your head?” asked the woman.
“How do you know that?” asked Edith.
“I don’t know how I know that,” the prince admitted. “Somebody’s been giving me ideas lately. I hope that whoever it is, knows what he’s doing.”
“This idea that the world will be supported, no matter what happens to our usual supporters, sounds pretty good,” said Uncle Martin. “You’d think somebody would have to support William the Hummingbird in any case, and whoever that is can support Gertrude the Walrus and all others above her.”
“All you need is the treasure chest,” said the woman.
“We put all the light we took from you in the treasure chest,” said the older man.
“The pirates have the treasure chest,” said the younger man.
“All you have to do is summon the pirates and demand they hand the treasure chest over to you by royal decree,” said the woman.
“You have that authority, you know,” said the older man.
“Then all you have to do is pull the light out of the chest and you will have earned your reward for restoring the lost light,” said the woman.
“You won’t have to share the glory with a hummingbird,” said the younger man.
“William the Hummingbird wouldn’t leave Gertrude the Walrus to hold up Humphrey the Bullfrog without any help if all I had to do was summon the pirates and make them hand the treasure chest over to me,” said the prince.
“Now who, in all the known worlds, put that thought. . .”
“The case is closed,” said the prince. “I shall call William the Humming Bird.”
A harp string inside of Moroch’s head played a note and then the Crown Prince hummed the note. A soft humming of that same note filled Moroch’s ears and a tiny bird landed in the palm of his hand.
“That’s our crown prince!” Aunt Edith exclaimed in a hushed whisper.
“It is indeed,” another young man said softly. “Now you’re learning to listen to the right voices.”
Looking behind him, Moroch saw Dornal, harp in hand, and, next to him, a vaguely familiar young man whom he couldn’t quite place at the moment. They both looked satisfied from having done a hard piece of work.
“So, were you two scrambling up my head just now?” Prince Moroch asked them.
“I rather thought we were unscrambling your head,” said Dornal.
The prince smirked slightly. Unlike his father, he had never been able to be mad at the harpist for more than a minute or two.
“I assume we should go back to the top of the lighthouse and wait for William the Hummingbird,” said Moroch.
“That is how I would advise you,” said Aunt Edith.
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“I guess we do have a pretty new and unusual news story for the network,” said Marcia Cummings.
“The only problem is getting anybody outside of this small section of Western Pennsylvania to believe what we have to tell them,” said Phil Carroway.
The two newscasters could hardly see each other as they sat in a booth at Donna’s Donuts, drinking their fill of coffee, as only the colored bubbles that had floated inside gave any light at all.
“If this darkness continues to spread, as it’s doing now,” said Marcia, “people will have to believe it whether they want to or not.”
The newscaster shuddered when she recalled how their car was stopped by a state trooper who was blockading the way into Milton because of the mysterious attack of darkness that had struck the town. Only much waving of their press credentials and a lot of talking had gotten them through. That, plus assurances that they had supplied themselves well with food. Most unnerving was the trooper’s telling them that the blockade line had been shifted five times because the plague of darkness had spread in all directions.
“This is the kind of thing that shows up the problem of not having local newscasters in a small town like Milton,” said Phil.
“I know,” said Marcia. “There’s been nobody to bring us up to speed except that editor of the Milton Gazette.”
“And he thinks the trouble started when one of the carriers delivered phony papers from some fictitious town last Fall,” said Phil. “That’s a big help in background information.”
“Not to speak of that March blizzard that he insists had no meteorological cause,” Marcia added with a laugh.
“I wonder if we should spend our time uncovering the monstrous prank that caused all this darkness,” Phil mused.
“There isn’t time for that now,” Marcia reminded him. “We’re committed to going on the air in half an hour. We’ll have to tell the world what seems to be happening in this town and let the network sort things out from there.”
“It would help if their mayor were around,” said Phil.
“I know,” Marcia sighed. “I wonder how much foul play we’ll discover by the time we’re done with this assignment.”
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Father Clement took another sip of tea. Gary Haggler groaned and curled himself more tightly into a ball in his chair.
“You’re pretty good at doing nothing,” Gary remarked.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Father Clement replied.
“How come you know how to do nothing and I don’t?” asked the boy.
“Hmm. I suppose it’s because in my profession one gets a lot of practice at doing nothing, all the while hoping for the best. You see, a lot of people don’t want people like me to accomplish anything as far as they are concerned.”
Gary turned about in his chair.
“Doing nothing is harder than I thought,” said the boy.
“You’re catching on.”
“And hoping for the best is impossible,” Gary groaned. “I don’t think I can even hope the world won’t come to an end today.”
“Hope is not a human talent,” said the priest.
“That’s good.”
In the silence, the boy and the priest heard a soft humming, and then a silvery whir zipped into the living room from the back of the house. The whir stopped and hovered stationed itself in the middle of the room between Father Clement and Gary. In the dim light of a few bubbles and the silvery light shining from their visitor, they could see that a hummingbird with silvery feathers and a soft red patch on its breast had flown in to the house. Gary cried out and jumped of his chair to take a closer look at the hummingbird, his face suddenly alive.
“What kind of hummingbird are you?” Gary asked it.
The hummingbird hummed and darted over in front of Gary’s face.
“I know you aren’t in my book,” said Gary to the hummingbird. “I wish I had my camera.”
The hummingbird zipped toward the front door. Gary ran after it, but stopped when the hummingbird zipped out the door and was gone.
“I’ll have to draw a picture of that when I get home,” said Gary as he paced about in the living room. “I think I’ve just discovered a new hummingbird species!”
“I’ll be a witness on your behalf if you need one at the biological nomenclature court,” said Father Clement.
“Thanks,” said Gary as he plopped back into his chair. “Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in hummingbirds,” said the priest.
Gary gave Father Clement a sheepish look.
“I haven’t told anybody before. Not even my mom.”
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“I suggest you hand over that rose petal,” said an older man dressed in black.
Harvey felt as if he had suddenly been encased in ice when he recognized the same three people who had paid so unpleasant a visit to his office earlier in the day. Although he spoke softly, the man’s voice had cut out the noise of the crowd all around them on Main Street.
“That rose will do nicely for your ransom,” said the woman.
“We’re letting you off easy by accepting just one little rose petal in exchange for the safe return of your daughter,” said the younger man.
Harvey Armstrong looked at the white rose petal in the palm of his hand. Its soft glow soothed his nerves a little, but he was still shaking inside.
“Are you talking about my little girl?” asked Harvey, his throat tightening.
“We are only trying to facilitate her prompt and safe return,” said the older man.
“You won’t even have to swing a deal you don’t think is ethical,” said the woman.
“All we are asking for is one insignificant rose petal,” said the younger man.
“Insignificant?!” Harvey exclaimed. “I was told to guard this rose petal with my life.”
“But do you really think you should have to guard this rose petal with your daughter’s life?” asked the older man.
“Surely you could never live with yourself in the childless years to come if you remain stubborn now,” said the woman.
“Especially since you can so easily get your daughter back,” said the younger man.
In his anxiety, Harvey had closed his hand over the rose petal, but its cool and smooth surface relaxed him just enough to keep him from crushing the petal before he knew he had done it.
“How do I know you even have my daughter?” asked Harvey.
“You ignore our warning at your peril,” said the older man.
“That threat reminded Harvey that there was somebody he could ask for advice.
“Uh—Mister Schnitzel—Schnitzelb-b-?” asked Harvey.
“Oh I’m so frantically grateful that you called me!” exclaimed the choirmaster. “I was deathly afraid you wouldn’t ask me what to do, and everything would be lost. Please ask away.”
“Uh—well, you said that you could not be less frantic about my Sheila than you are for any of your choristers,” said Harvey. “Is that right?”
“I most certainly did say that,” the choirmaster replied. “I said it with all my heart and I will say it again with all my heart if I have to.”
“Then, do you think I am endangering Sheila by not giving these people this rose petal?” Harvey asked.
“You must understand that they cannot be trusted in any way,” Mister Schnitzelbergen insisted. “Giving up the rose petal to them will make everything infinitely worse for your daughter than anything they could possibly do if you refuse them.”
“Don’t listen to that man,” said the older man.
“He doesn’t care about your daughter,” said the woman.
“He only cares about the boys in that choir of his,” said the younger man.
“You think you are so virtuous,” said the older man in a tone of voice that made Harvey feel dirty for even trying to think of doing what was right.
“You think you are so honest,” said the woman.
“You think you are so. . .” said the younger man, his voice fading.
“—good to Sheila that you would save the white rose for her sake,” said Mr. Schnitzelbergen, his voice overriding that of the younger man.
“I am sure that Sheila would never forgive me if I gave you this rose petal,” said Harvey.
As soon as he had said those words, a soft humming sound reached Harvey’s ears, and a silvery humming bird with a reddish breast hovered over the palm of his hand. The bird seemed to look at him expectantly.
“Is this—is this the hummingbird I am supposed to give these petals to?” asked Harvey.
“That—that is an understatement,” Mr. Schnitzelbergen stammered. “THIS Humming Bird didn’t—he didn’t fly up from under the foundations of the world just—just to take a holiday. What every you do, give him the petal! Oh, the stories I will have for my chorister now!”
Harvey obediently held out his hand for the hummingbird. He zipped over to the rose petal, picked it up in his beak, and flew off. Harvey watched the small, soft light float over the street and up towards the dark tower, looking like a ragged star trying to find its way back up to the sky.
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“I should have known better than to take your advice,” Prince Moroch muttered as he made angry circles in the tower of the broken lighthouse.
“You need a bit of patience,” said Aunt Edith. “Even William the Hummingbird needs a little time to answer you call.”
“I don’t have time to be patient.,” the prince complained. “I’ve got to do something about this darkness right away, or we’re all lost.”
As he paced around the tower, he kept his eyes peeled, looking for any sign that the hummingbird was coming.
“You have done what you needed to do,” Dornal reminded him.
“My father says that waiting is the hardest thing one can do in life, but it’s the most important,” said Mark.
“And how would he know—Oh! Your father is the priest who buried my Grandmother, right?”
“That’s right,” said Mark.
“Hmm. My Grandmother wouldn’t let anybody bury her unless she thought he was worth listening to,” said Moroch. “But if William the Hummingbird doesn’t come soon, I’m going to jump down to the foundation of the world and haul him up here!”
“That would be a journey worth singing a song about,” said Dornal, “only you won’t be around to hear me sing it.”
“There it is!” the prince cried.
“Where?” asked Uncle Martin.
Prince Moroch dropped his arms dejectedly.
“I saw something for a second. Now it’s gone.”
“That was a rose petal you saw,” said the older man.
“You should go down right now and get it,” said the woman.
“You don’t really expect a hummingbird to come all this way and get that rose petal for you, do you?” said the younger man.
“Looks like I’ve got to get that rose petal for myself,” Prince Moroch muttered.
The prince had one foot on the top stair when a strange chord played on the harp stopped him.
“Before you go,” said Uncle Martin calmly, “take a look at who’s coming!”
Prince Moroch heard the humming in his ear even before he turned around and saw the silver hummingbird with its reddish breast and a white rose petal dangling from its beak.
“Oh, William the Hummingbird,” Prince Moroch whispered. “I’m so sorry I doubted you.”
As soon as William the Hummingbird dropped the rose petal into the palm of Moroch’s hand, the prince heard the sound of distant singing. He turned around, looked out of the broken window behind him, and saw a large object laced with a purple glow heading straight for the lighthouse.
“Who’s coming now?” asked Prince Moroch. “Hey! It’s a flying ship! It’s going to crash right into this lighthouse!”
“Don’t you recognize Melanie’s Web holding that ship together?” Aunt Edith prompted him.
Prince Moroch looked at the thread from Melanie’s Web dangling from the broken light and looked again at the flying ship. That told him what he needed to know, and he stretched his hand toward the broken light with the rose petal extended.