The children stop, the few directly in front of me parting to reveal Anthony’s trembling form. He stands at the center of the garden, the flowers at his feet the only ones left unbroken. No more than twenty feet away, he may as well be a mile.
His gaze flicks in the direction of the schoolmarm, his bespectacled eyes filled with fear at her dispassionate gaze. Beneath her disinterested facade, however, she clearly is taking my measure even as I take hers.
“The boy’s name is Antoine.” The words that flow from her mouth are flavored with a thick French accent. “Go along and play with the rest of the class, young man.” She pushes him away from me and into the mob of children. “I will deal with this… person.”
A war plays out across the boy’s features. He shifts his feet, about to run to me, when the schoolmarm’s open hand becomes a pointed finger.
“Stay away from her, Antoine. Remember what your mother taught you about talking to strangers?”
The boy deflates, his crisp features devolving into a wash of watercolor pink even as the schoolmarm sharpens like a camera image coming into focus. She strides in my direction, the children parting around her as if she were Moses crossing the Red Sea, until she stands directly over me. The blue and pink train of flowers adorning her dress brushes my nose.
“And who might you be, stranger?”
“I am called Scheherazade. And who, may I ask, are you to speak so to this boy?”
“I am Antoine’s teacher, Madame Versailles. I watch over him as he plays with the other children and keep him safe. No one touches him here.” She kneels before me, bringing her nose close to my face, and locks her steely gaze onto mine. “No one.”
The whirlwind of emotions abates for the briefest of moments and I get my feet beneath me. “He must trust you explicitly, then.”
Versailles smiles. “I’m all but family. Ask his mother. She’ll tell you.”
“Why do you keep him here, then? Surrounded by all these children, and yet so alone. Don’t you see how cruel all of this is?”
Doubt crosses her features, banished a moment later by a mask of cold determination.
“Before this place existed, the other children did anything but leave him alone. Do you know how many lockers Antoine has been thrown into? Dumpsters? Walls? They hit him with their textbooks and book bags and fists and feet. His school, his neighborhood, even his home is a gauntlet he has had to survive each and every day of his life. Here, no one bothers him, or for that matter, even notices him.”
“I would argue this fate is no improvement.” Fighting off waves of pain, I struggle to my feet. “To be ignored is far worse torture.”
“Like you would know. You’ve never been ignored in your life. Look at yourself. Perfectly coiffed hair, dark brown eyes, immaculate olive complexion. You claim to understand anything about what this boy has seen and experienced?”
We both turn in time to see Antoine pick a large gob of wax out of his ear canal and wipe it on his shirt.
“He used to eat it, you know.” She smiles at me like a predator. “I taught him different.”
“Wow.” My lips turn up in kind. “He’s come so far.”
“Enough with this.” She squints at me. “Why have you come here?”
“As I said before, Anthony’s mother sent me to retrieve him.” I clutch my stomach as another wave of pain passes through me. “I’m not leaving without him.”
“His name” she hisses, “is Antoine.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” I grunt. “He’s still coming with me.”
“It seems we are at cross purposes, then.” Madame Versailles’ eyes begin to glow, the blue of her irises scintillating yellow as if afire. “Children, please escort Lady Scheherazade back to the hallway of the Exhibition.” A pleasant melody of alternating flute, oboe, and strings fills the air. What follows, however, is anything but pleasant.
The dozens of watercolor children wandering the garden all stop and turn to face me. Their eyes, glowing with the same golden phosphorescence as their teacher’s, pierce me with their cold cruelty. As one, they rush me, their little faces turned up in snarls like rabid animals, their teeth gleaming in the light cast from each other’s radiant gazes.
Before I can slip the dagger from its jeweled scabbard, the first wave collides with my legs and forces me to the ground while the second grabs my arms and holds me still. The vinegar of their anger, however, overpowers the other ambient emotions and for the first time since I entered Tuileries, my mind is free.
“Hold her.” An apple appears in Versailles’ hand. She takes a bite as she stares down at me without an ounce of pity in her gaze. I crane my head to the side and catch a glimpse of Anthony. He stares at me from the same spot as before, his eyes sorrowful behind his crooked glasses.
“Anthony… Antoine,” I groan. “Help me.”
He pauses for the briefest of moments and takes a step in my direction when a rough voice rings out.
“Off of her,” Tunny shouts as he tears one of the children from my shoulders. “Leave the Lady Scheherazade be, you brats.” Tunny may not be much to look at, but seeing him in action, it’s clear those tiny brown fists pack a wallop.
“Careful, gnome.” Another welcome voice, Modesto holds his silver horn above his head and away from the sea of small hands that would no doubt love to tear it apart. “Wouldn’t want to hurt the children, now would we?”
The shock of Tunny’s initial attack spent, the next line of children closes on the three of us. Tunny lowers himself into a wrestler’s crouch, the heels of his boots scraping against my rib cage, and again raises his fists.
“I’m warning the lot of you. Lay another finger on Lady Scheherazade and you’ll pay.”
Versailles raises her hand and turns her index finger in a slow spiral. “Encircle them, children. Show your teacher how much you love her.” She looks down on Tunny with utter disdain. “Try as you might, you can’t hold off all of them, little gnome.”
“He won’t have to.” Modesto puts the instrument to his lips and begins to play, the melody overpowering that of Madame Versailles. The tune slow and familiar, the notes of the main theme from “The Old Castle” fill the air. As he continues to play, the lights in the children’s eyes fade and they begin to mill about the garden as they did before. Even the few still holding my legs let go and join the others in their aimless wandering.
“You’ve brought a Pied Piper with you.” Versailles’ face turns down into a scowl. “We’ll see how effective he is without his precious instrument.”
She dives at Modesto even as Tunny leaps between them in an effort to stave off her attack. I scramble to my feet and survey the situation. Surrounded by a mob of directionless children, Versailles, Tunny, and Modesto grapple over the troubadour’s horn. I inhale to scream when a voice I’ve never heard before takes the words from my lips.
“Stop fighting!” The merest hint of a French accent colors Antoine’s squeaky voice as he rushes to my side, grabs my hand, and squeezes. “You’ve got to stop them. Now.”
“Why, Antoine?” I don’t understand his insistence. “What’s going to happen?”
“They’re going to bring her.” Antoine’s eyes squeeze shut as terror continues to color his every feature. “They’re going to bring her here.”
“She won’t come here.” Versailles shoots Antoine and me an incredulous glare. “She wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh really?” The voice booms down from above as a single orchestral hit shakes the space.
“Oh no.” The fear that stabs my heart is mirrored on every face in the garden and none more so than in the wide-eyed gape of Madame Versailles.
“No,” she says. “It’s impossible.”
A couplet follows, then the rolling melody of the witch.
“She’s coming,” I rush over and grab Versailles by the shoulders. “Stop this senseless fighting and help us save the children. I can get Antoine to safety, but not if you and all the other children are against us.”
&
nbsp; “None of these children matter,” the teacher says. “You know as well as I they are mere figments of the boy’s mind.”
I lock gazes with the furious schoolteacher. “As are you, Madame Versailles.”
“I exist only to care for Antoine. The rest of these children can rot.”
“Fine.” I push my anger down and turn to Modesto. “You’re our resident Pied Piper. Think you can get them all to the castle?”
Modesto raises an incredulous eyebrow, as if I’ve asked him to achieve world peace, before throwing me a wink. “I can try.”
Versailles steps away from the troubadour and he resumes his song, albeit with a faster tempo. The haunting melody washes over the children, and in seconds, all but Antoine have gathered around Modesto’s dancing form. Turning, he steps out of the painting and into the hallway beyond and one by one, the children follow, leaving only Tunny, Madame Versailles, Antoine, and me in the garden.
As the witch’s melody continues to crescendo, Versailles glares at me with smoldering hatred. “So, Lady Scheherazade. Mere days as a part of the Exhibition and now you’re the hero of the piece? Who do you think kept Antoine safe before you came along? Kept his soul intact as the entire world did its level best to tear him down?” Her chin falls to her chest. If I didn’t know better, I would swear she was crying. “Now you’re trying to take him from me.”
The music continues to grow louder. Time is short.
“Perhaps you do care about the boy, but keeping him a prisoner and keeping him safe are two different things. Now, I’m freeing Antoine from this place. Please don’t try to stop me.”
“And what of me?” she asks. “Would you leave me to the witch?”
“Your fate is your own decision.” The fact that, on some level, I’m arguing with Anthony over whether he’s going to let himself come with me or not sends a twinge of pain through my head. “You are, of course, more than welcome to join us.”
“And leave the garden?” Her eyes flash with fear. “But… Tuileries is my home.”
“Then make a new home with us.” I offer a conciliatory smile. “Antoine could use such a fierce and determined advocate.”
She actually considers my words. A miracle. “Where do you plan to take him?”
“A safe place. At least as safe as I’ve found among the Exhibition.”
She glances down at Antoine and another emotion that seems foreign on her face appears.
Compassion.
“Is this what you want? To go with the storyteller?”
He doesn’t answer, his frightened gaze shooting back and forth from Madame Versailles to me. Through the hammering music, the sound of the pounding pestle and scraping mortar grows louder with each measure.
“Antoine,” I whisper. “She’s almost here. We can keep you safe, but you’re going to have to come now.”
After a momentary pause, he nods and looks up into his teacher’s tear-filled eyes. “Please come with us.”
I lock eyes with Versailles. “Make your call. We’re leaving now.”
She stoops before Antoine. “I’m sorry, my child. I cannot leave this place. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. Now, go with Lady Scheherazade. She will keep you safe.”
“But, Madame Versailles. I―”
“Go, Antoine.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure about this?”
“It’s clear. He doesn’t need me anymore. Not with you here.” She turns her back on the portal leading to the Exhibition. “I will hold her as long as I am able.”
“Thank you.” I scoop Antoine up and sprint for the open face of the painting, the dim light of the Exhibition hall just steps away. Antoine fights the entire way. We dive out into the hallway and I chance one quick glance back.
At the picture’s horizon, a black dot in the distance grows into the familiar form of the witch hunched atop her stone mortar. From within the painting, Madame Versailles gives me one last look, her eyes filled with determination, before turning to face her fate. Her feet set shoulder width apart, her hands ball into fists and before I can think another thought, the canvas crumples inward as if squashed by invisible hands.
o!” Antoine screams. “Madame Versailles!”
I leap for the hall with Antoine’s struggling form draped across my shoulder and run for the alcove of The Old Castle. Barely halfway across the parquet floor when the witch’s theme begins anew, I curse myself for believing Versailles’ sacrifice would slow the witch for even a second. Everything here is governed by one set of laws only–the limits of a boy’s imagination.
“Hurry.” Modesto pops his head out of the alcove. “She is coming.”
We’re halfway across the great hall when the floor beneath me splits open and catches my foot. The momentum of the fall sends me careening headfirst into the floor as a sickening crack splits the air. Antoine flies from my arms and hurtles into the wall by Modesto’s alcove. White-hot agony shoots up my leg, wrenching a scream from the depths of my soul. A glance down my body reveals my ankle bent at an angle I would have once considered impossible.
“Lady Scheherazade,” Modesto shouts, his eyes wide with fear. “You must come now.”
“It’s too late,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “She is nearly upon us.” Holding back a second scream, I lock gazes with the panicking troubadour. “Take Antoine. Hide him in the castle. He should be safe there until my return.”
Until my return. Pretty big assumption.
Modesto stares at me, impotent.
“Now, Modesto.” My words cut through the space and even through the mounting melody of the witch. “Get him out of here.”
Another second and a decision plays out across the troubadour’s features. He steps out of his alcove, scoops Antoine up from the ground, and disappears back inside to where his painting and castle reside, leaving me alone. The various themes of “Promenade,” “The Old Castle,” and the witch all battle for supremacy, louder and louder and louder. Then, there is silence.
Face down, bloodied, and mere steps from safety, I await the witch. Her foul presence creeps along my other senses long before I see her. Turning my head to the side, I spit out a mouthful of blood-tinged phlegm before turning my eyes on my pursuer. Crouched atop her stone mortar like some dark bird of prey, the witch glares at me. The pestle rests easily in one gnarled hand while the ever-swishing broom continues to pass back and forth behind her like a wagging tail.
“Oh, Scheherazade. You must be so proud. You have gathered the gnome, the troubadour, and the young monsieur. How you convinced the fine Madame Versailles to allow the boy to leave her fine home is beyond me. Still so far to go, though, and the irony is you don’t even know what it is you’re here to accomplish.”
“Then why don’t you tell me, oh wise and omnipotent Baba Yaga?”
She starts at the utterance of her proper name, likely the first time it has been spoken above a whisper in this space in a very long time.
“You… dare?”
“Yours is but a name like any other, witch. The others fear you, but I know where you come from. What you want. Who you really are.”
Yaga’s mouth turns up in a repulsive grin, her rusted iron teeth glistening with foul saliva. “You know many things, storyteller, but you do not know everything. That dagger you fiddle with beneath your emerald robes, for instance. Do you truly believe its blade is meant for me?”
She pounds the pestle into the ground and the crack that holds me fast opens a bit, releasing my injured foot.
“Stop this,” I shout, trying to keep the fear from my voice. “I mean you and your Exhibition no harm. I’ve merely come to help a boy who needs me.”
Yaga, atop her mortar, floats in my direction, the rhythmic swishing of the broom a distinct counter point to the echoing thunks of the pestle striking the ground. As she reaches my crippled form, the mortar upends itself until she hangs beneath it like a bunch of dried grapes dangling from a severed vine. Directly above me, she cranes h
er neck till we are nose to bulbous nose. She opens her gaping maw and from between her metallic teeth comes breath so fetid, my stomach threatens to rebel.
“I cannot fathom why you continue to invade my domain, fair Scheherazade, but if you’ve come here to learn, then I shall be your teacher.” She rights her mortar and raises the pestle above her head, hesitating for an excruciating moment before bringing it crashing back down. I clench my eyes shut in anticipation of impact, but the wooden club strikes the floor rather than my skull. With a roar like an avalanche, the crack in the floor splits open, forming a chasm that swallows me whole before I can mutter the magical word Archer taught me.
I fall for what feels like forever, the darkness punctuated by rays of blinding light that somehow find my eyes even when my lids are closed. The word “coda” passes my lips no less than a dozen times before I face the fact it’s not going to work this time.
Just as I can learn, so apparently can the witch.
As the last remnant of conscious thought threatens to leave me, the falling stops. I open my eyes on a new landscape. Somewhere between the lush vegetation of Tunny’s home and the cold stone of Modesto’s castle, this new place stretches out before me in all directions, a bucolic masterpiece crafted in muted pastels.
A road unfolds before me. To my left, a split-rail fence borders a large grassy field while the forest to my right blocks whatever is around the next curve. A plodding piano dirge echoes in the distance. A snort to my rear prompts me to spin around where I find a pair of oxen pulling a wooden cart in my direction.
Atop the cart, a man roughly my age dressed in a forest green shirt and a burgundy vest drives the oxen. The music grows louder as the oxen get closer, their legs and hooves moving in time with the lumbering music as the man guides the pair of bulls with an expert hand. As they pull up alongside me, he brings them to a halt with a flick of a long tasseled stick.
“Ho, there. And who might you be?” His accent is Polish, but not difficult to understand.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“My property, milady, and I shall ask the questions here. Now, who are you and why do you trespass on this section of road?”
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 11