by Ellen Datlow
And there was his kaleidoscope. It was his most treasured possession. It was a shiny brass tube filled with mirrors. A person looked through one end to see the glorious patterns; the other was a chamber that could be screwed off and opened. Into that chamber Maurice would put pieces of broken glass and the beads and the strips of colored paper and string that made the intricate images in the kaleidoscope. The most common objects could become beautiful there. He could change the images whenever he wanted, and he and his mother had spent pleasant hours walking along the roadsides looking for broken, colored glass small enough to fit inside. He unscrewed the chamber and picked out three bright blue glass shards and one crystal bead. He took the tin soldiers out of their pouch and laid them in a row along the bottom of the box. Then he put the pieces of glass and the bead in the pouch.
He would take them to the pagodas, he thought. Maybe if he gave them something they would help him.
In the morning, his nose would not stop bleeding. He kept old pieces of rag stuffed up his nose and his mother made him lie down, but every time he removed the rags, his nose would bleed again.
“Will Papa come today?” he asked.
“He may, or he may arrive tomorrow morning. It won’t be long.”
Maurice thought about that. He wanted to see his papa. He felt better when his papa held him. But he did not like the doctor his papa took him to, and neither did his mother. The good doctors, as his mother called them, had said to keep him comfortable and to give him medicines to take away the pain. The doctor Papa had found believed he could cure Maurice if he bled him. Papa had had to hold him down while the doctor had cut his arm and let his blood drip into a bowl. It had made him dizzy and sick, and he had embarrassed everyone by crying. It was why his mother had taken him away from Paris to his grandmother’s house in Ciboure.
“Can we walk to the river again?” he asked.
His mother laughed, but then she looked out the window and put down her sewing. How many mornings would he want do to something like this, she wondered? A nosebleed was manageable.
She packed them a lunch and extra rags for his nose. They walked slowly to the river. Maurice could not wait to be gone. After eating a few bites, he stuffed some of the rags into his pockets and started for the trees. His mother was glad to see him take exercise, but she could not help herself. “Be careful, Maurice,” she called.
The day was chill, and Maurice wore a heavy sweater. He took off his shoes when he came to the old rubbish heaps. He stepped very carefully down to the river, careful not to crush clumps of china shards and careful not to cut his feet. He started to be able to distinguish the shards that made up a pagoda’s shell: they were the shiny and polished ones, the ones with bits of color, not the ones caked with mud or dust.
He inspected the ground before he sat down, and he sat where he had sat the day before. He listened, but he heard no Chinese music. “Pagodas?” he whispered. “Pagodas?”
Nothing stirred. He looked around and saw a few clumps that he recognized: the terra-cotta shards, still with the black fleur-de-lys; the light pink shards; clumps that were all white.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve brought you presents.”
He took the pouch out of his pocket and opened it in his lap. He took out one of the pieces of blue glass and set it by the nearest snowy white clump. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have shivered ever so slightly at his touch. He waited for a time, then he set the crystal bead by the terra-cotta shards.
Slowly, shard by shard, the terra-cotta pieces rose up. He watched the bead roll along the different shards, passed from one to another until it stood balanced on the very top.
Other pagodas began to move then. They rose up and gathered warily around Maurice, keeping their distance. He could hear their tinkly music again, and all at once he understood part of what they were asking him.
“I’m Maurice,” he said. “My name is Maurice Ravel.”
They sang at him, and he imagined that they were telling him their names. He had never heard one of those names before. He thought the terra-cotta shards were saying “Ti Ti Ting.”
“You are all Chinese!” he laughed.
Then he started coughing, and he could not stop coughing for a time. Most of the pagodas sank down to the ground while he coughed. But not Ti Ti Ting. It edged a little closer.
“Can you help me?” Maurice asked it. “Can you make me well? Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
All the shards grew quiet. The music stopped completely.
“I know my presents are not very valuable, but it was all I could think to bring you today.”
Nothing happened. The pagodas did not tell him anything more then. After a time, Maurice could see pagodas moving all around him. The mounds were covered with them. He could see places where they were digging into the mounds—mining, he imagined, for shards to weave into their shells. In other places, they were forming what looked like protective walls four or five inches high with sharp-edged pieces of china poking out from them. He wondered what small enemies they could fear? Whatever it was, they were going about their business unconcerned with his presence.
When he heard his mother calling, he made his way barefoot back to the steps of the pottery. His mother met him there.
“Is your nose still bleeding?” she asked.
Maurice took out the rags, but no blood followed. He threw the rags aside, and he and his mother walked home.
His nose did not bleed again that day.
Before bed, his grandmother brewed him a tea from herbs she had sent for from Spain. A priest in San Sebastian had blessed the tea, and his grandmother had even paid to have the priest touch the cross of Saint Teresa of Avila to the little packet. His grandmother was sure the tea would cure Maurice. He drank the whole cup to please her. It did not taste bad.
His mother brought out her silver-handled brush from her bedroom and started brushing his grandmother’s hair. She did this every night before they went to bed. He liked to lay his head in his grandmother’s lap and watch her face while his mother brushed her hair. She would close her eyes and hold herself very still and lean her head back into the brushing. Sometimes Maurice fell asleep while he watched his grandmother, and his mother would have to wake him to take him to bed. He did not fall asleep that night. He lay awake on his grandmother’s lap till his mother finished brushing, then she led him to bed.
“Tell me about pagodas,” he asked as his mother tucked the blankets around his chin.
“Oh, they are magic creatures!” she said. “They live in crystal and porcelain cities hidden in the forests. Few people see them or their cities these days. But when I was a little girl, your grandmother told me about an evil man who had found one of their cities not far from here. He tried to steal their jewels, but the pagodas attacked him with their crystal swords. He ran away, but bore the scars on his hands and feet the rest of his life. Because of those scars, everyone in Ciboure knew he was a thief so they could watch out for him.”
She stood up to go.
“Can pagodas heal people?” Maurice asked. “You told me before that they could.”
She looked at Maurice, then she sat down on the edge of his bed and held his hands. “Sometimes in your sleep you can hear them singing,” she said. “They weave healing spells in their music. I hope you hear their music tonight, Maurice. I wish we had pagodas in the back garden. I’d set them on your windowsill and let them sing to you all night.”
When his mother had gone, Maurice touched his nose. It still was not bleeding, though it had bled most days since winter. He thought of the walks he could take now on his own, despite the fevers.
The pagodas were helping him. He was sure of it. If he could stay here long enough, they would cure him.
Maurice slept soundly but heard no music. He woke to the sound of his parents arguing softly in the kitchen. His father had come. Part of him wanted to jump out of bed and run to his father’s arms, but he did not do
that. Instead he lay listening to what his parents were saying. He could not hear the words clearly. He got out of bed and crept to the door. He heard his father say “doctor” and “bleeding.” Then, “I want him to get well too! He’s my son.”
“I won’t let anyone bleed him again!” his mother said.
“Does he still bruise easily? Does he still have fevers?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then Dr. Perrault knows how to help him! He uses ancient treatments for fevers and swelling, nosebleeds and abnormal bruising in children. I trust his techniques more than herbs and priests’ blessings.”
“Maurice is improving here. What Mother and I are doing is helping, though whether priests’ blessings have anything to do with it I don’t know. He is strong enough now to take walks every day. He sleeps through the nights. How could he ever sleep in Paris with all the street traffic?”
“You are wearing yourself out,” his father said. “You can’t do everything for him. None of us knows enough, Marie.”
“I know enough not to hurt him.”
“The other doctors we took him to had given up—they said to just keep him comfortable. At least Dr. Perrault had reason to think he could save him. Don’t you think we should try, Marie? Don’t you think we’d wonder the rest of our lives if we didn’t try?”
Maurice had heard enough. He stood and opened the door. He looked out at his parents sitting at the big wooden table in front of the fireplace. His grandmother was still locked in her bedroom.
“Maurice,” his father said. He stood and hurried to his son. Maurice did not want his father to touch him, but his father knelt and hugged him close. “Look at you!” he said. “So brown from the sun. Our neighbors in Paris will think I’ve adopted a peasant boy when I bring you back home.”
“I don’t want to go back to Paris,” Maurice said. “Don’t take me there again.”
“Never go back to Paris? Who could say such a thing? Our home is in the greatest city in the world.”
“I love the forest here, Papa. It’s magic.”
“All forests are magic,” his father said.
His mother was setting out dishes for breakfast, and when Grandmother came out they all sat at the table. There was cheese and fresh bread, strawberries and milk.
“Don’t ever take me back to Paris,” Maurice said before any of them could take a bite.
His mother and father looked at each other. They all ate in silence for a time.
His father cleared his throat. “When do you set out on your walks, Maurice?” he asked. “May I go with you today? I want to see this magic forest of yours.”
Maurice felt he had no choice but to take him. At noon that day, they set out. Maurice was nervous. He did not want his father accidentally stepping on the pagodas and crushing them. He decided not to take his father to the mounds of broken china. They would stop at the old pottery or even before they reached the trees. He’d claim to be sick, and his father would have to take him home.
His father carried a basket with a lunch in one hand, and he held Maurice’s hand in the other. They passed his grandmother in her garden. She straightened up at their approach and bent her back.
“What a lovely summer this is,” she said. “I find practically no slugs in the vegetables. The lettuce is free of slugs, and I found only one in the strawberries last week. Now if I could just keep the birds away.”
“I’ll make you a scarecrow when we return,” Maurice’s father said. “That should help.”
She smiled and turned back to her hoeing. Maurice and his father walked to the river. Maurice was not very hungry. “You should eat to build up your strength,” his father said. “Here, take more of this rabbit breast. Meat will make you strong.”
“Yes, Papa,” he said, and he did eat the meat. It was salty and good.
“Are those trees the forest you walk to?” his father asked, pointing.
They were soon among the trees and at the ruined pottery. They walked slowly. Maurice’s legs hurt, and he was not making that up. “Can we just sit here for a time?” Maurice asked, and they sat on the steps.
His father rubbed Maurice’s legs, then he put an arm around Maurice’s shoulders and hugged him close. “I—” he started to say something, but he stopped. He looked away. He just held Maurice.
Maurice looked down at the mounds. They glittered, but his papa said nothing about that. Maurice looked all over the ground for the pagodas, but he saw none. That didn’t surprise him. They would have taken cover at their approach.
But there were things moving on the nearest mound. Dark things. Maurice sat up straight. His father kicked at something at their feet, and Maurice saw that it was a shelled slug. It lay for a moment in the dirt where his father had kicked it, then it started crawling toward the mounds.
“Are those slugs on that mound, Papa?” Maurice asked.
His father looked where Maurice was pointing. “I think so,” he said. “How odd. I’ve never seen them gather like that.” He stood to walk over to the mound.
Maurice grabbed his hand. “Don’t, Papa!”
“It’s just slugs, Maurice.”
“We have to be careful where we walk. We could crush things and not mean to.”
“The slugs? You grandmother would be grateful if we stepped on them.”
“No, you don’t understand. If we walk over there, let me show you where to step.”
His father sat down beside him again. “So the magic begins here, does it? What is it we’re trying not to crush?”
His papa had a merry smile. Maurice knew that Papa thought this was a game he had made up, but Maurice didn’t care. He had to get over to the mound to see what was happening.
“Take off your shoes and step where I step,” Maurice said.
They unlaced their shoes, and his father followed along behind him. Maurice worried about his father’s bigger feet, but he saw no pagodas along the way that his father might step on. None of the shards they passed were washed and polished.
The nearest mound was a frightening sight. It was covered in shelled slugs. They heaved themselves about it in a dark mass sometimes three or four deep.
“Testacella,” his father said, “carnivorous slugs. They eat earthworms and other slugs. No wonder your grandmother’s garden is free of slugs. If these testacella migrated through this region on their way here they would have cleaned out all the other varieties in their path.”
Maurice was looking for the pagodas. Where would they have gone to escape this blight of slug-eating slugs?
“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” his father said. “I wonder if it’s their mating season?”
Maurice felt a growing panic inside him. He knew it was selfish to think only of himself, but if the slugs had done something to the pagodas or if they had driven them away and he could not find them again he would never get well.
“They seem to be trying to reach those other two mounds, but something is holding them back,” his father said.
It was the pagoda walls. Maurice understood now what the pagodas feared and why they had had to build walls. But what did the slugs want here? Where were the pagodas?
Then he saw the terra-cotta shards with the black fleur-de-lys scattered on the ground on the wrong side of the wall. Three slugs were nosing among the pieces. “No!” Maurice screamed.
He started for Ti Ti Ting.
“Come back, Maurice!” his father said. “You’ll cut your feet!”
But Maurice did not cut his feet. He stepped on the grass and the flowers and the slugs. He was glad to crush the slugs underfoot. He threw the three slugs on Ti Ti Ting into the river and knelt to pick up the pieces of the pagoda.
“What is it?” his father asked softly. He was standing next to him.
“A pagoda,” Maurice said. He could barely talk. He would not cry, he told himself. He would not let himself cry in front of his father.
His father knelt down next to him. “What was the pagoda?”
Maurice held out the terra-cotta shards in his hands for his father to see. He picked up the piece with the black fleur-de-lys. “I gave it this piece,” he said. “And I gave it a crystal bead. I can’t find the bead.”
“There it is, by your right foot.” His father picked up the bead and handed it to Maurice.
“I watched them building these walls,” Maurice said, nodding at the low walls in front of them. “I didn’t know why they were doing it.”
“Your pagoda was a brave one then. He was fighting outside the walls.”
Maurice saw some of the pagodas he recognized lying on the ground on the safe side of the walls: the pink one, the white one with the piece of blue glass he had given it, clumps of multicolored shards.
“We have to go, Papa. They won’t stand to fight if you are watching.”
His father stood. He picked up a handful of slugs and threw them into the river.
Maurice stepped forward and set the pieces of Ti Ti Ting down by the other pagodas. Maybe they could do something for him. He wiped his eyes and watched for a moment, but none of the pagodas stood up. He wished he could make them trust his papa and get up to help Ti Ti Ting or at least get up to fight the slugs.
“They’ve breached your wall over here,” his father said. “Let’s get the slugs that have crawled onto that mound.”
“It’s not my wall,” Maurice said.
“The pagodas’ wall, I meant,” he said.
Maurice went after the slugs that had crossed the wall. They were nosing down among the pagoda shards on the ground in the area. They were eating them! Maurice knew as he stepped along that he was probably stepping on pagodas, not just slugs. He didn’t know what was worse: his crushing weight or the carnivorous slugs. He threw handful after handful of slugs into the river. His legs hurt and his arms hurt, and his nose started bleeding again.