The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “So, Scheherazade,” Trilby says. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know.” A quiet chuckle passes my lips. “Seems like all the children are grown up.”

  “Why, storyteller?” Her gaze takes on a puzzled cast. “Are you projecting?”

  “Perhaps.” I catch movement from the corner of my eye, Tunny waving to me from beyond the frame hanging in space. “I suppose my friend the gnome will have to leave and return so we can dance out of this place.” I motion for Tunny to take a walk. For the first time, Trilby and I are alone.

  “There is something I must tell you.” I grapple with the words. “You are no more Trilby than I am Scheherazade. This place is―”

  Rachel places one finger to her lips and shakes her head, not dissimilar from the way the witch directed me from atop Hartmann’s house.

  “Time for that later, Scheherazade. This day has had quite enough revelations already.”

  I nod even as Tunny comes back into view. The music begins again, and though it’s the same music from before, the lilting chirps fill my heart with gladness for the first time since setting foot in the Ballet. Rachel spins on one foot and performs a grand jeté toward the hanging frame. I follow, our steps in sync as if rehearsed a thousand times. As she leaps through the frame and out onto the hallway, she glances back and mouths the words, “Thank you.”

  As I pass the frame, I’m again surrounded in prismatic light, the music of “Promenade” buffeting my form for what seems like days.

  Then, there is silence.

  ira? Can you hear me? Mira?”

  The sound of Archer’s voice serves as a calming anchor as I return to reality. My eyes struggle to focus, the twin fluorescent bulbs above my head burning across my vision like a rectangular blue-white sun. His fingers warm on my wrist as he checks my pulse, he looks down on me with his usual mix of concern and exasperation.

  “Ah,” I mutter, “saved again by the Kalendar Prince.”

  “What was that?” he asks.

  I bring my other hand across to meet his. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “Welcome back, Mira.” Caroline’s eyes fill with teary hope. “Did you find any sign of Anthony in there this time?”

  “Give her a second, Mom.” Jason’s voice sounds from somewhere to my right. “Looks like another rough landing.”

  “It’s all right.” I start to sit up but think better of it. Every muscle in my body sings with pain as if I’ve just run a marathon. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  “You sure? Your pulse has been in the 150s for at least half an hour.” Archer rests my hand across my belly. “At least you didn’t seize this time.”

  Agnes steps into the room with a bottle of water. “Something for your throat,” she mutters. Refusing to look me in the eye, she crosses herself before leaving the room.

  Archer gives me a moment before asking, “What happened in there?”

  “Remember the troubadour from The Old Castle and how he’s the spitting image of Jason?” Archer and Caroline both nod, while Jason looks on dumbfounded. “Now there’s a ballerina named Trilby that could be Rachel’s twin.”

  “His brother and sister. They’re like guards or something?” Caroline hangs her head and rubs at the bridge of her nose. “I had no idea he felt that way.”

  “I don’t think Trilby and Modesto serve necessarily as keepers, Caroline. Like every character of the Exhibition, they are no more than aspects of Anthony, facets of a greater whole. Like Archer said, Tunny is most likely how he sees himself, while Modesto, all confident, good-looking, and musical, represents the man he would like to be.”

  “And this Antoine, the one that looks just like Anthony.” Caroline asks. “Who is he?”

  “I can tell you that one,” Jason says. “All alone in a crowd, nothing to say and no one paying attention to him? I’ve seen Anthony at school. That particular slice of his made up Exhibition isn’t so made up.”

  “That leaves the schoolmarm, the Cart Man, and the witch,” Archer says.

  “And this Trilby character,” Caroline adds.

  “I have no idea what Trilby represents.” A throbbing pain flares to life above my left eye. “I’ll tell you this, though. She’s stronger than the witch.”

  “Now, there’s a surprise.” Jason chuckles. “Girl’s got more spunk than the rest of us put together.”

  Caroline laughs as well. “You’ve seen how well she listens to me. I can tell her to do something twenty times and she still treats it like a suggestion.”

  It occurs to me the youngest of the Faircloths wasn’t sitting in the waiting room when I arrived. “Where is Rachel today?”

  “With a babysitter. Our neighbors’ daughter, Shelby, watches her from time to time.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “The last couple of times here really upset her, so we decided to leave her at home today.”

  Caroline’s cell phone rings. She pulls it from her purse and reads the screen. Her brow furrows.

  “Funny. That’s Shelby calling now.” She taps the screen twice and puts the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” Caroline’s eyes grow wide. “Yes. I understand. Just calm down. What’s wrong with her?” Her face goes pale. “We’ll be right there.”

  Caroline ends the call and gathers her things.

  “What is it?” My second attempt at sitting up is more successful. “Is it Rachel?”

  “She’s unconscious,” Caroline whispers. “Shelby found her in the yard.” She turns to Archer. “Sorry, Thomas. We’ve got to go.”

  “Wait, Caroline.” I force myself to my feet, as clumsy as a toddler taking their first steps. “I’m in no shape to drive, but I’m coming with you.”

  Sprawled on the neighbors’ loveseat, Rachel Faircloth stares at the ceiling. Her pale face drips with sweat despite the cool rag resting across her forehead.

  “You didn’t see her fall?” Caroline stands at Rachel’s head, glaring at Shelby who is at best sixteen and about to hyperventilate. With her hands on her hips and her no-nonsense tone, Caroline looks and sounds every bit like a district attorney cross-examining a murder suspect. Jason stands in the corner, sullen, his few glances at the girl filled with misplaced anger and blame. Guilt wafts off the poor girl, the odor reminiscent of a sweaty locker room.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Faircloth. She went outside to play. I was taking her some water because I thought she might be thirsty. She was only out of my sight for a few minutes.”

  “And she looked fine?”

  “Same as when you dropped her off.” Shelby wipes a tear from her cheek. “I swear.”

  Caroline looks up at Jason. “Honey, can you go take Anthony inside? He’s going to suffocate if we leave him in the car much longer.”

  “Are you sure, Mom?” He glances over at Rachel. “What about―”

  “Your sister is going to be fine. I’ll let you know if anything changes. Now, go check on Anthony. Oh, and flip on the crock pot so the roast beef can start to cook.”

  Jason nods and turns for the door, his accusing gaze flitting across Shelby before he lets himself out.

  As Caroline inhales to continue her inquisition, I step into the breach. “Shelby, can you tell me what you saw when you found Rachel?”

  She looks up at me through swollen eyes. “She was lying on the ground, pale, hardly breathing.” Her voice cracks. “Her lips were blue.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not at first.”

  Caroline leans in. “What do you mean ‘not at first’?”

  “Right before I called you, she woke up. For just a second, but she was awake. It was really strange.”

  “Strange?” I ask. “How, exactly?”

  “One second, she’s lying there pale as a ghost. Then, all of a sudden, she sits up, raises her arms above her head, and says ‘Thank you’ before falling back to the grass.” Shelby glances over at Rachel’s still form. “She’s been like this ever since, but this is nothing compared to when I firs
t found her.”

  I sit by Rachel on the couch. Running the back of my fingers down her cheek, I lean in and whisper in her ear.

  “Rachel, can you hear me?”

  She doesn’t respond, at least not with her lips. An echo of melody drifts across my consciousness.

  The chirping notes of the Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks.

  “Rachel?” I lean in closer. “Trilby?”

  At the mention of the second name, Rachel turns and looks me straight in the eye.

  “Schehera–”

  I put a finger to my lips, hushing Rachel as Shelby and Caroline rush to our side.

  “Rachel.” Shelby tries to keep her voice calm, though the relief in her voice comes through loud and clear. “Thank God.”

  I glance up at the girl, feeling her emotions cool with every passing second. “Shelby, will you excuse us, please?”

  “But―”

  “I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on here. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I need to discuss it with Caroline in private.”

  Her eyes flit from mine to Rachel and back. “She’s going to be okay?”

  “She’s going to be fine.” I take Shelby’s hand. “In no small part thanks to you.”

  Shelby leans in, kisses Rachel on the forehead, and whispers, “Feel better.”

  Rachel’s eyes flutter, but she remains silent.

  Shelby steps into the next room and I ease the door shut behind her.

  “Caroline, I have something to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “This has something to do with Anthony.” Caroline completes my thought. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but―”

  “It’s spreading,” she says, “whatever’s happened to him. It’s coming for Rachel now.”

  “Stay calm.” I sit back down by Rachel’s head and stroke her hair. “I think it’s more likely that Anthony reached out to her, the way he has with me. You said he and Rachel were close, right?”

  “As close as any brother and sister I’ve ever seen. Anthony may be an odd kid but Rachel couldn’t love the boy more if she tried. Don’t let her size fool you. The last kid who picked on Anthony with her around left with a bloody nose.”

  “Mommy?” At Rachel’s whisper, Caroline drops to her knees and grasps her daughter by the shoulders.

  “I’m here, honey. Are you okay?”

  “Where’s Anthony? He was just here.”

  “He’s at home, Rachel. It’s just you, me and Ms. Tejedor.”

  “But, I was just talking to him. Him and Miss Mira.”

  Caroline pulls Rachel into a tight embrace and shoots me an accusing glance. “It was just a dream, honey. Just a dream.”

  “If only that were true.” I take Rachel’s trembling hand in mine and gaze into her green eyes even as Caroline’s glare bores into me. “Rachel, do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  Her eyes lose focus as the melody of the ballet again fills my senses. “I think I was dreaming, but the dream became a nightmare. There was dancing and music. You were there, Miss Mira. You and Tunny.” Her cheeks flush a bit. “I mean Anthony.”

  “Oh my God.” Caroline gasps. “Rachel is Trilby.”

  I give Caroline a curt nod as I gently stroke Rachel’s hand. “What else do you remember?”

  “There was a bad person there.” Rachel’s bottom lip begins to tremble. “A witch.” A jolt of remembrance flashes across her face. Her eyes focus on mine. “She tried to hurt you.”

  “I’m fine, Rachel. I’m fine.” I brush my thumb across her damp cheek. “You saved me, remember?”

  “I guess so.” She turns her head to look at Caroline. “I’m tired, Mommy. Can I take a nap?”

  “Of course, honey. Of course.” As if in a daze, Caroline pulls a fleece throw blanket from a basket in the corner and wraps it around Rachel’s body. In moments, the girl is asleep and Caroline turns on me.

  “What the hell is going on here, Mira?” She keeps her voice low, but the anger pouring out of her is palpable. “As if Anthony wasn’t bad enough, now my daughter is getting sucked into this thing too?”

  “It would appear that unlike the other characters in the Exhibition, Trilby in some strange way is Rachel, or at least connected to her intimately.”

  Caroline thinks for a moment. “Why Rachel, though? You say this Modesto character is the spitting image of Jason, yet you’ve crossed his path multiple times in the Exhibition, and nothing bad has happened to Jason out in the real world.”

  “I’m sorry, Caroline. I wish I could tell you more. This is all uncharted territory for me.” I glance over at Rachel’s still form. “I do have a theory, though.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Anthony has chosen to populate his mind with familiar images and faces, like the gnome from his sketchpad, his siblings, even his teacher, Ms. Sayles.”

  “I think we’ve already established that pretty well.” Caroline strokes Rachel’s cheek. “What makes Rachel different?”

  I take a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”

  “This is the part I’m not going to like, isn’t it?”

  “When I first encountered your family, I sensed something familiar. Something I’ve only sensed in a few others in all my years on the planet.”

  “What are you trying to say, Mira?”

  “I believe Anthony is like me.” I wait for the information to sink in. “Rachel, too.”

  Caroline’s eyes slide closed as she slumps into a chair. Her hands tremble in her lap. “Actually, that makes a lot of sense. The way they’ve always been so close. I always thought it was uncanny how they always seemed to know when the other was sad or upset or alone.”

  “I’ve suspected Anthony possessed talents similar to mine since the first time he drew me in. I’ve come in contact with hundreds of minds over the years, but never one that pulled me in like Anthony. Your boy is very special.”

  “Special.” She says the word as if it’s a curse. “And Rachel?”

  “Her abilities are nowhere nearly as developed as Anthony’s, but the potential is there.”

  “And when you met this Trilby person, she was Rachel, wandering Anthony’s mind the same as you do?”

  “Yes and no. When I interact with Anthony, there is an intention there to help him and I know what’s happening. That may be why I keep my own identity even as Anthony translates me into his vision of the Lady Scheherazade. With Rachel, I think his talent pulls her essence into the Exhibition and she becomes just another character in his mind. The fact Trilby is more than a figment of Anthony’s imagination may explain why she can stand up to the witch when no one else can. Still, whoever or whatever the witch represents in Anthony’s mind, it’s something strong.”

  “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

  I massage my still aching scalp. “You’ve seen what happens to me when I travel the Exhibition. Rachel may be small, but she’s tough. Both of us should be fine in a few hours.”

  Caroline sighs, and for the moment appears at least somewhat relieved. “So, what now?”

  “There’s something about this whole situation I’m not getting. A connection that doesn’t make any sense.” I rise from the couch. “Would it be all right if I talked to Jason?”

  I let myself into the Faircloth home. As I step into the family room, the hair on my neck stands on end, though it’s not the chilly temperature from the air conditioning that fires my nerves. Frustration, guilt, and shame, all wrapped up in a bright red bow of anger, are to blame for that.

  “What are you doing here?” Jason stands in the doorway leading to the back of the house. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’ll be along soon.”

  He hangs from the doorframe, his adolescent biceps bulging as he does half a pull up. “How’s Rachel?”

  “Still waking up, but she talked to us. Looks like she’s going to be fine”

  “Good.” He lets go of the door face and drops t
o the floor. “I got Anthony all tucked in. That’s usually my job anyway, at least when Mom’s busy.”

  “You take good care of your brother.”

  Jason looks away. “Ms. Tejedor. I have a question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “You read minds, right? Anybody’s mind.”

  “Not read, per se, but my ability gives me a pretty good sense of what’s going on with people.” The acrid smell of onion filling the room spikes. “Why do you ask?”

  “The cops think I killed Julianna, or at least know what happened to her. You know it and I know it. They’ve brought me in twice now only to ask me the same questions they’ve already asked a dozen times.” He bites his lower lip and swallows. “No matter what happened before, I love Julianna. I would never hurt her. Not in a million years.”

  “What are you asking me, Jason?”

  “Read my mind. Tell them the truth.” His voice cracks. “Tell them I didn’t do it.”

  I shake my head. “Even if I could do what you’re asking, I’m not sure they’d believe me.”

  “You could try. I’m not perfect, not by a long shot, but I’m no liar and I’m not a murderer.”

  “You want me to touch your mind. Do you know what you’re asking?”

  “I’m asking you to help me. That’s what you came here to do, isn’t it? Help us?”

  I lead him over to the couch and take a seat opposite, the coffee table between us.

  “Have you talked to your mother about this?”

  Jason’s stare bores through me. “I’m old enough to decide what’s best for me.”

  “That may be true, but I’m not sure how your mother would feel about me mucking around in your head. You’re the only one of her three children so far untouched by all this.”

  “My ex-girlfriend’s been missing for three weeks, my brother’s comatose, my sister just had a seizure, my mother’s about to fall apart, and the police want to send me to the chair. Don’t talk to me about ‘untouched’.”

  “I’m sorry, Jason. I didn’t mean to imply―”

  “I don’t need you to be sorry, Ms. Tejedor. I need you to help me.”