The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “Take care, Mira. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  As I close down my laptop for the night, my mind continues to work overtime trying to put together the jigsaw puzzle the Wagner case has become. If my instincts are right, Glenn Hartman is telling the truth, which means whoever is responsible for Julianna’s disappearance is still on the loose. Though I try to drive the thoughts from my mind, I can’t stop thinking about Jason’s reaction from earlier and Caroline’s big revelation about his alibi. Missing for hours, evading everyone, angry at the world. His mind may have given up Glenn Hartman’s secret, but what if Jason is hiding a secret of his own?

  pull into Caroline’s driveway a little before four in the afternoon. After losing most of the morning sleeping off the previous night’s chain of disasters and what ended up being most of a bottle of wine, I woke up with a well-deserved hangover. A couple hours walking around Uptown Charlotte helped to clear my head, as did a half hour in my room’s whirlpool tub. As ready as I expect I’ll be to face whatever Anthony has waiting for me in the Catacombs, I shift the car into park and step on to the concrete driveway. Archer’s car is nowhere in sight, but an unfamiliar vehicle with a parking sticker from Jason’s high school is parked in front of the Faircloth house.

  “At least Veronica made it.” I hold onto that, even as I cringe at the thought of entering the Exhibition without Archer here to back me up. Regardless of the fact he can do little to help me there, knowing Anthony’s Kalendar Prince is just a few feet away has always helped keep me calm. I shake off the image of the colossal doors at the end of the Exhibition hallway and knock on Caroline’s. After a few seconds, the door cracks. The circles under Caroline’s eyes appear a shade darker than yesterday.

  “Good afternoon, Mira.” She forces a smile, though she appears so exhausted, I imagine a stiff breeze would blow her over. “Did you eat? I have some sandwiches left over from lunch.”

  “I got a little something on the way.” I tilt my head to one side. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “A friend of mine always says a mother is only doing as well as her least happy child.” She shows me to the living room where Rachel sits stroking Anthony’s hair. Jason, on the other hand, is nowhere in sight. “Take your pick.”

  “I saw another car out front. I take it Veronica beat me here.”

  “In here.” Ms. Sayles appears from the hall. “I’ve only been here a few minutes. Caroline and I have been catching up.”

  “Would you two like some tea?” Caroline asks.

  “That would be great.” Veronica smiles.

  “Thanks, Caroline.” I turn to Veronica as our exhausted hostess steps into the kitchen. “And thank you, Veronica, for coming out this afternoon. I know it’s probably the last place you want to be after a long day at work, but I believe having you here is really going to help. From what I’ve seen traveling Anthony’s Exhibition thus far, you’ve made quite an impression on him.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I hope it was a good impression.”

  “It seems that way. On my third encounter with him, when Tuileries was destroyed, he sent you someplace else in his mind. Someplace safe. I think that says a lot.”

  “This all still sounds so crazy.” Veronica looks back and forth from me to Caroline. “I know he loved my class, but I have no idea why he would’ve singled me out the way you’re describing.”

  “He used to talk about you all the time,” Caroline shouts from the kitchen. “You were his favorite.”

  “It’s funny. I rarely did anything special for him. Tried to treat him like the rest of the kids in the class, except in situations where extra attention was required.”

  I glance over at Anthony. “Maybe you were the only one who gave him that. A sense of normalcy.”

  “Maybe.” She bites at her lip, and a hint of chlorine anxiety wafts across my senses. “So, I’m here. What do you need me to do?”

  “For now, just be here. I’m hoping having another person who is close with Anthony in the room will be enough to help us break down this wall he’s built in his mind.”

  “But how will he even know I’m here?”

  I shake my head as a laugh escapes me. “Anthony may be the next thing to catatonic, but there’s no question he knows when I’m around. His mother and sister too.”

  “Especially Rachel.” Caroline returns from the kitchen with a tray of iced tea and sets it on the coffee table. “Her mere presence has always calmed him, and even more so since the incident.” She joins Rachel on the couch and gently wraps an arm around her daughter. “Honey. Why don’t you go play in your room while we talk?”

  “But I want to stay here with Anthony.”

  “Please, Rachel,” Caroline says. “Go play in your room. Ms. Mira is here and she needs some privacy to work with your brother.”

  “But Anthony needs me.” Rachel begins to cry. “He told me so.”

  “Don’t be silly, Rachel. Anthony hasn’t spoken in days.”

  “He did. He told me he needed me. Not to leave. Don’t send me away, Mommy. Please.”

  “It’s okay, Rachel.” I kneel beside Anthony and stroke Rachel’s knee. “You can stay if you want to. Just be real quiet while I’m working.”

  “Mira,” Caroline says, “can I talk to you?” She rises from the couch and leads me to the foyer. “All is forgiven from the other day, but it doesn’t change the fact I don’t want Rachel to have any part of this.”

  I rest a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s scary, but I don’t think sending Rachel to her room is going to make much of a difference. The last time she got caught up in Anthony’s mental crossfire, she was all the way across town. And remember, she’s tough. The Ballet is one of the few aspects of the Exhibition that survived an encounter with the witch unscathed.”

  Caroline rubs at the bridge of her nose. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Heading back into the living room, Caroline kneels beside her daughter and takes her hands. “You can stay, but like Ms. Mira said, you have to stay quiet and out of the way so she can work. Is it a deal?”

  At Rachel’s silent nod, I pull a chair over and take my position above Anthony’s head.

  “Let’s begin.” Caroline and Veronica draw close and the three of us link hands. “Stay with me, ladies. I have a nasty feeling this one’s going to be rough.”

  My eyes slip shut even as my mind opens. My first time into the Exhibition, I had to push my way in. This time, I feel pulled―no―dragged in. The prismatic torrent I always face as I fall into Anthony’s mind this time lasts no more than a second. In a blink, I stand again in the grand Exhibition hall of Anthony’s splintered mind. Behind me, the body of artwork I’ve already explored and for the most part left in ruin rests in silence while before me await two remaining alcoves. The first is directly to my right and the second rests at the far end of the hall. Two alcoves, two remaining pictures with which to solve the mystery that is Anthony Faircloth.

  Barring one small complication.

  The alcove to my right has been completely bricked over.

  What do you know? In addition to classical music, the kid is a fan of Poe.

  I rush to the doorway and press my shoulder against the burnt orange masonry. The wall doesn’t budge, nor does Scheherazade’s dagger do any more than scratch the brick surface. Frustrated, I glance up at the ever-shifting fresco above my head and nearly have a heart attack. Filling the entire space, an image of Baba Yaga stares down and points her pestle at me from atop her enormous stone mortar.

  “Bitch,” I curse under my breath, even as a smile spreads across my face. I point the bejeweled dagger at her cackling image and shout, “Laugh as you like, witch. This time, you’re the one who’s underestimated their enemy.”

  I spin on my heels and sprint back up the hallway for the second alcove where I hope to find Modesto waiting within his castle. Stepping into the alcove, I study the painting within. The stone walls of Modesto’s home still s
tand, secured against invasion. The bridge is drawn and the windows are covered so even light cannot escape. A blue and white flag at the highest parapet flaps in the wind at half-mast.

  “I wonder who they’re trying to keep out.” A bitter chuckle wells up from within. “The witch or me?”

  I step into the frame and marvel yet again as my form takes on the properties of the painting. My arms, legs, and torso, all clothed in Scheherazade’s ornate sarong, are suddenly rendered in meticulous oil.

  “No time like the present, I suppose.” I walk across the rocky landscape to the castle in the distance and examine the churning waters below the closed drawbridge. Though it crosses my mind to try, I don’t dare attempt the swim. God only knows what creatures Anthony’s imagination has summoned to fill the black waters around one of its sole remaining refuges.

  “Modesto.” My shout echoes off the granite walls of the ancient edifice before me. “It is Scheherazade. Let down the bridge.”

  Several seconds of silence broken only by the whistle of the buffeting wind lets me know either the castle’s guardian can’t hear me, or worse, is ignoring me.

  Maybe a different approach. “Tunny, are you here?” I retrieve a stone from the ground and hurl it at the raised drawbridge, followed by another, and another. A small cairn forms below the enormous wooden barrier before a familiar groan finally answers my call.

  “Go away,” Tunny’s voice calls down from above. “You have brought enough trouble down upon our heads for a lifetime.”

  “That’s not you, Tunny. That’s Modesto telling you what to say. Ask him please to lower the drawbridge. I need to speak with him. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Modesto, Modesto. It’s always Modesto. Was I not the first you met here? Did I not save you from the burning forest? The children in the garden? Do I no longer matter?”

  Fantastic. Anthony’s inner gnome has gone and got his feelings hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Tunny. I don’t mean to upset you. Of course you still matter to me. All of you do. Why else do you think I returned?”

  A muted harrumph echoes across the moat. “Go on.”

  “I have business with Modesto. This is still his castle, is it not?”

  Wind whistles through the parapets above.

  “It is,” Tunny whispers.

  “Go and convince him to let me back inside. I have information he will no doubt find quite interesting.”

  “You have brought the witch’s anger down upon picture after picture.” Modesto’s crisp British accent cuts through the space as if he were standing next to me. “The castle is the last stronghold remaining, save the place of the dead and the realm of the witch herself. Why would any sane person allow you into their home a second time?”

  “Because she’s here to save us.”

  The voice comes from behind me. I turn to find a wistful Trilby staring at me in wonder, just as a certain little girl watched me from a waiting room a few days earlier. Still dressed in the ruby and black lace costume from the Ballet, she looks so grown up for one so young.

  She glances up at the castle. “Listen to her, Modesto. For all our sakes.”

  A moment passes before Modesto’s voice echoes down from above. “Very well. Speak, Scheherazade.”

  I mouth a quick “thank you” to Trilby and then gaze up at the castle’s stone wall. “I believe I have found a way to defeat the witch, or at least placate her, so all of you can be free. But you must let me in or my hard won knowledge is worthless.”

  “And if I don’t?” The mocking tone in Modesto’s voice stabs at me even as a faraway boom sets my heart racing. In the distance, the alternating crash and thud of Baba Yaga’s mortar and pestle begins anew. The back and forth of the twin sounds grows in volume with each repetition, even as the witch’s boisterous theme competes with Modesto’s mellow saxophone.

  “Then the old witch might just have me for dinner. You’ve read the stories, seen what she can do, know what she’s capable of. Would you leave me out here to face her mortar and pestle? Her iron teeth?”

  Modesto appears at the castle’s highest parapet. “What makes you think I care one whit about your fate?”

  “The answer to that is very simple.” I keep my voice calm and quiet. “Because you do.”

  “She’ll be here any moment,” Trilby shouts. “Let us in.”

  I glance across my shoulder. Past Trilby’s trembling form, the bounding shadow of the witch atop her mortar appears, just visible through the hole in space left by the floating picture frame.

  “The Exhibition’s mistress has dismissed me from this place oh so many times. She may not be so merciful this time.” Though my voice becomes a harsh whisper, it echoes through the space as if amplified. “Would you have that on your conscience?”

  Even from this distance, the crimson in Modesto’s cheeks stands out like a beacon.

  “We can’t just leave them out there.” Tunny’s croaking groan becomes a ray of hope as the crashing of the witch’s pestle begins to shake the trees. Exasperated, Modesto stares down at me for another second before disappearing from view.

  “No.” Panic rises in my throat. “It can’t end like this.”

  The thud of the stone mortar, so close my eardrums pop with every strike, causes my teeth to shake.

  “Please, Modesto.” I pull Trilby close to my side. “If not for me, then for your sister.”

  Silence reigns for a long moment before the clank of chains and a squealing creak fill the air. The drawbridge begins a far too slow descent, even as the witch’s music crescendoes to ear-splitting volume. My pulse roars in my ears as my heart tries to tear its way out of my chest.

  “Hurry,” I shout.

  “She’s almost here,” Trilby pleads.

  The drawbridge freezes two thirds of the way down, its rough wood-and-iron edge still several feet from the tips of my outstretched fingers. I glance back and find the witch peering at me through the framed portal.

  “When will you learn, Scheherazade, that you are not welcome here?” Her clashing iron teeth ring like hammer strikes on an anvil. “I had hoped you would honor my polite requests to leave, but perhaps a visit to my home is in order. Are you available… for dinner?”

  “Let the bridge down,” I scream. “She’s coming for us.”

  “It’s stuck. God help us, it’s stuck.” Modesto’s crisp accent cuts through the space even as the sound of brisk steps like wooden mallets reverberate through the bridge.

  “Scheherazade.” Tunny peers down at me frantically from the bridge above. “Hand me the girl.” He stretches down his stump-like arms. Without a second thought, I scoop up Trilby’s squirming form and hold the girl above my head.

  “No, Scheherazade.” She bucks in my grasp. “I won’t leave you.”

  “Take her, Tunny.”

  The gnome pulls Trilby up and over the lip of the bridge. Then, the longest thirty seconds in history pass before he returns for me. Though we both stretch for all we’re worth, his gnarled root fingers remain more than a foot out of reach.

  “I’m sorry, Tunny. It’s too far.”

  “Then take a leap of faith, Scheherazade.” Tunny waggles the stubby fingers of his outstretched arm. “As we have with you.”

  “Yes, fair Scheherazade. Leap to your death.” Her mortar and pestle left behind in the gallery, Baba Yaga strides toward me armed with only her broom, the grass and weeds at her feet wilting as she passes. “See how you fare against the creatures that stir the murky waters surrounding this ancient castle.”

  I glance down at the churning water mere inches from my toes and make a decision. I tear the sarong from my body and throw the length of cloth into the air. The delicate silk catches on one of Tunny’s splintered fingernails.

  “Pull me up,” I shout.

  “The gnome cannot save you,” the witch hisses as she closes the distance between us. “No more dismissals. No more reprieves. This ends now.”

  “No.” Tunny spins
the sarong like a bullwhip, transforming the fine green fabric into a silk rope. “Grab the end, Scheherazade.”

  I leap from the witch’s outstretched claws and grab the end of the makeshift rope. Though the beadwork cuts into my fingers, the hundred little barbs give me something to cling to as my toes dangle inches above the seething black water of the moat. My weight nearly pulls the silk from Tunny’s wooden fingers.

  “Don’t let go, Tunny.”

  “I’m trying,” he shouts between grunts. “I’m trying.”

  “Don’t worry.” Trilby’s face appears next to Tunny’s. She grabs the rope with her graceful hands and pulls. “We won’t let you fall.”

  I adjust my grasp in an attempt to get a better hold on the rope and instead slide another few inches. The icy water steals the warmth from my feet as my toes dip below the turbid surface. And there’s more than mere water below me. My foot brushes against something hard and rough. I glance down and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  A pair of antennae longer than my body emerges from the churning water, followed by a giant claw that reaches for my dangling legs. My breath catches in my throat as a terror from a child’s darkest imagination rears from the moat’s muddied surface. A nightmare combination of lobster and squid, the thing levels its two eyestalks in my direction, its monstrous pincer unhinging as bile-colored water runs off its muddy green exoskeleton.

  Hand over hand, I pull myself up the quickly unwinding silk, the creature’s slime-covered claw snapping at the air where my leg was a split second before. With a roar, the monster erupts from the water, its beak-like maw gaping as it hurtles at my midsection.

  “Pull, you two,” I scream. “Pull.” The sound of rending silk fills the air, only to be swallowed by the creature’s bellowing even as the witch’s staccato laughter echoes in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining myself falling toward the creature’s mouth, when two very different sets of hands grasp my wrists. One like tree bark, the other as supple as a lover’s touch, the two hands jerk me up and over the lip of the drawbridge. I open my eyes to find Modesto and Tunny hauling me across the lip of the drawbridge as Trilby holds what’s left of my sarong.