The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  Anthony’s every muscle is contracted, his body contorted like a scene from one of those exorcist movies. His skin is cool and clammy and his neck is so stiff his shoulders don’t touch the couch.

  “My God, what’s happened to him?” I rush to his side and apply one of the cool washcloths on the coffee table to his brow.

  “It all started about fifteen minutes ago,” Caroline says. “Anthony had a rough night, but nothing like this. Thank God Veronica got here just after it started. We’ve been able to calm him down a bit, but he’s not getting any better.”

  “Did you call 9-1-1?”

  Caroline lowers her head. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called them in the last month?”

  “Then what are we going to do?” I run my hand down Anthony’s cheek. He immediately relaxes.

  “I was right,” Caroline says. “See how he responds to you?” She wipes the sweat from her upper lip.

  “Right about what?”

  “Anthony doesn’t need any more doctors or hospitals or scans. He needs you. Please, Mira, whatever it takes, help my son.”

  Caroline’s desperate eyes make one fact imminently clear.

  This has gone on long enough.

  I’m not leaving the Exhibition this time without Anthony, witches be damned.

  “All right, then.” I crack my neck and prepared to settle into my usual spot. “Once more, with feeling?”

  My attempt at levity is cut off by a single word.

  “Mom?” A quiet voice calls out.

  Caroline glances across my shoulder and her eyes grow wide with terror. “Rachel?”

  “I don’t… feel so… good,” the tiny voice squeaks.

  Caroline nearly bowls me over as she sprints past me and catches Rachel’s head a split-second before it impacts the hardwood floor.

  “Rachel?” Caroline lowers her daughter to the floor. “Speak to me. Please.”

  Rachel’s eyes roll up into her head and she begins to convulse.

  “That’s it.” Veronica pushes a pillow beneath Anthony’s neck and shoulders and grabs the phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1 like I should’ve done when I got here.”

  “Don’t bother,” Caroline says. “I can have her to the ER before they’re halfway here.”

  “Let her call.” I rest a hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “A lot could happen between here and the hospital.”

  Caroline agrees to let us make the call, though she won’t meet my or Veronica’s gaze. I help her roll Rachel onto her side, something I learned in a first aid class an eternity ago, and sit with Anthony while we wait for the ambulance. Despite whatever is happening with Rachel, my presence seems to calm him. His body becomes progressively less tense with each passing minute, so much so that when the paramedics arrive, he doesn’t appear appreciably different from the day I first laid eyes on him.

  One of the paramedics works to stabilize Rachel, who fortunately stopped seizing a few minutes after we called, while the other examines Anthony. Caroline knows each by their first name, and flits back and forth between her two children. The fear and anxiety filling the room nearly makes me vomit more than once.

  Once they’ve declared her safe for transport, the paramedics load Rachel onto a stretcher, complete with neck brace and straps. A part of me is glad she’s not conscious. The poor girl would be terrified.

  The head paramedic eyeballs Anthony and pulls Caroline aside.

  “We’ve got Rachel all loaded up and ready to go. I assume you’ll want to ride in the back with her.”

  “You know me well.”

  “We’ve checked Anthony out as well. He’s looking pretty good. Better than some of the other times we’ve seen him.”

  The other paramedic nods. “Compared to our first visit a few weeks back, he’s practically ship shape.”

  Any semblance of good humor leaves Caroline’s face. “You didn’t see him an hour ago.”

  “Do you want us to take him on to the hospital?” I can almost hear the unspoken “again” at the end of the paramedic’s question.

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Caroline motions for me to come over and join the conversation. “Mira…”

  “You don’t even have to ask.” I sit on the couch and brush the hair out of Anthony’s face. “I’ll stay with Anthony till you get back.”

  “Actually, we’ll both keep an eye on him.” Veronica sits at his head, his body tensing again as she applies a cool rag to his forehead. “If Mira doesn’t mind a little company.”

  Caroline’s shoulders relax a bit. “I’ll call from the ER in an hour or so and check in.”

  I offer her a quick smile. “And we’ll call if there’s any change.”

  “And please let me know if you hear from Jason.”

  My stomach ties itself in a square knot. “We’ll call the second he comes around.”

  “Jason’s a big boy, Caroline,” Veronica says. “Probably cooling it at a friend’s house.”

  “You’re probably right.” Caroline turns to face the pair of EMT’s. “Did you save my favorite seat?”

  “Right this way, Ms. Faircloth,” the paramedic says with a quick bow of his head.

  The door clicks closed behind them, leaving Veronica and me alone with Anthony. His scrawny body trembles like he’s freezing even as beads of sweat again break out on his forehead.

  “Here he goes again.” Veronica dips a washcloth into a bowl of ice water on the coffee table and rings it out. “I certainly hope we don’t have to call the paramedics back.”

  “Let me see if I can help.” I take a seat just above Anthony’s head. Veronica hands me the cool washcloth and I drape it across the boy’s brow. “There now, Anthony. Everything is going to be all right.” As before, he calms at my touch.

  “I hope Rachel is going to be okay,” Veronica says.

  “She had a similar spell the other day. She made it through that one all right.” I keep quiet my suspicions about Anthony’s connection to Rachel’s seizures. “Still, I honestly don’t know how much more Caroline is supposed to take.”

  “I know you came to work with Anthony today. I suppose we could try again tomorrow, assuming Caroline can get away from the hospital, though unless I miss my guess, they’ll keep Rachel for a couple of days.” She glances down at Anthony. “Poor little guy didn’t come home from the hospital for a week when all this started. I don’t know how Caroline stood it, having her son poked and prodded for six days. Watching that happen to someone I love would’ve driven me nuts.” She strokes his cheek and Anthony pulls away from her as if burned.

  “It’s amazing the connection you have with Anthony, Mira. Your mere presence calms him while the rest of us seem to do nothing but make him want to climb out of his skin.”

  “We’ve grown pretty tight in our own way the last few days, though if he woke up right now, I don’t think he’d recognize me.”

  She waves her hand in front of his face. “His eyes are open, but he doesn’t see. There’s a poem in there somewhere.”

  “Or a rock opera.” Dominic was always a big fan of The Who. Couldn’t stand them myself, but I’ve heard Tommy enough times to have the whole thing memorized. “I bet Anthony plays a mean pinball.”

  Veronica’s face goes somber. “How much longer do you think he can go on like this?”

  I stroke Anthony’s hair. “No idea. This whole experience is a first for me.”

  “You said his entire self has been splintered. How does a person recover from that?”

  “It’s odd. Every time I’ve gone into the Exhibition and encountered some facet of Anthony’s psyche, they’ve all been for the most part friendly, apart from the witch, of course. At worst, the others were indifferent, though every part of Anthony I’ve met has reached out to me in one way or another.”

  Veronica shoots me a knowing glance. “You realize you’re the savior figure in his story.”

  “If only the part of him riding around on a mortar and pestle would let me stay l
ong enough, I’m pretty sure I could bring him out of this state. On the other hand, I’ve already been through nearly the entire gallery. There are only two pictures left I haven’t seen.”

  “If I remember right, you just visited the… Catacombs? What’s left?”

  Rolling thunder rumbles in the distance. “The witch’s realm.”

  I’ve only caught the briefest glimpse of Baba Yaga’s alcove and the painting that hangs there. Though her and Tunny’s pictures both depict woodland scenes, any similarity ends there. Gnomus opens on an idyllic forest, a place of joy and happiness, or at least it did until the witch came. The Hut on Fowl’s Legs, on the other hand, depicts a nightmare wood, the trees dark, gnarled, and naked of leaves. Even the thought of entering such desolation fills me with dread.

  “Hers was the first voice I heard on my initial walk in the Exhibition. She rules the place and unless I can persuade her to come to my side or somehow defeat her on her own turf, I think Anthony is lost to us.”

  “But if you can do it. If you can stop her…”

  “I believe I can bring Anthony’s mind back together. Already many of the characters along the Exhibition, previously all solo, are spending time together. Tunny the Gnome, Modesto the Troubadour, Antoine from the garden, Trilby the Ballerina. If I can get all of them talking…”

  “Then maybe we get our boy back,” Veronica says. “That is if the witch doesn’t interfere.”

  “It’s a long shot, but I’ve got to try.”

  “What are you waiting for, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No time like the present.” Veronica looks down on Anthony’s sleeping form. “He’s not getting any more broken than he already is.”

  “I’m not certain how Caroline would feel about me going into Anthony’s mind without her here. I agreed to help Jason without her consent and she all but fired me on the spot.”

  “Come on, Mira. Caroline brought you here today to help her son. I can stay and keep watch, just like yesterday.”

  “We are making progress.” A rush of pride hits me as my rout of the witch from yesterday and her slack-jawed expression as I walked out of her Exhibition replays in my mind. “Maybe we should strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Agreed.” Veronica sits in the chair opposite the couch. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Stay with Anthony. Make sure he keeps breathing and soothe him as best you can if he gets agitated.” I hand her my phone. “If things go haywire, call Dr. Thomas Archer and tell him what’s happening, okay?”

  “That takes care of Anthony.” Veronica’s eyes narrow. “What do you need from me?”

  “Just make sure I don’t hit my head. From what Caroline and Thomas have told me, my body pretty much goes limp once I’m in.”

  “Done.”

  “Well, all right, then.” I feel strange proceeding without Caroline present, but a big part of me wants to see the look on her face when she walks in the door and finds her boy wide awake and waiting for dinner. “You ready?”

  Veronica cracks her neck and shoots me a grin. “More than I was yesterday.”

  Rain begins to pound the roof as Veronica and I lower Anthony onto the floor and make him as comfortable as possible. Once he’s ready, I take my usual position at his head, resting my fingers at his temples.

  “Keep him safe,” I say, “and remember, positive energy.”

  Veronica offers me a faux salute as I turn my attention back to Anthony’s pained gaze. His eyes no longer vacant, he stares up at me, through me, into me.

  “Hold on, kiddo. Ready or not, here I come.”

  As I adjust to the near darkness of the Exhibition, one truth becomes immediately apparent.

  Things have changed.

  At my left foot lays the body of Schmuÿle and at my right, Samuel Goldenberg. The bludgeoning wounds covering their barely recognizable corpses seem the work of a blunt object like a club or mace.

  Or perhaps a witch’s pestle.

  As Goldenberg pointed out, he and Schmuÿle were the two entities along the Exhibition who sprang more from my mind than Anthony’s. It’s no coincidence theirs are the two bodies left for me to find. Someone is leaving me a message and I have little doubt about the messenger.

  “Hello?” My shout echoes through the strangely silent chamber. The frescoed ceiling I’ve always counted on for a quick look into Anthony’s mood remains blank. “Is anyone there?”

  With continued silence my only answer, I step across the pair of disparately dressed men. My revulsion at seeing even Sterling’s doppelganger so maimed speaks volumes.

  I proceed down the hall, taking care not to fall as the previously level floor has been rent from one end to the other. Jagged rock and splintered wood hinder my every step as I head for the first alcove. Tunny’s alcove.

  Hoping I will somehow find my diminutive friend within, I instead find only the remnants of his painting. The singed wooden frame mirrors the devastated forest depicted within. The Gnomus sign rests askew on the floor. Similarly, Modesto’s castle still bears the marks of Baba Yaga’s assault, the entire front wall of the structure now a pile of rubble. There in the moat, the clawed monstrosity rests just above water level, staring at me as if daring me to enter the painting and face it again.

  I barely take notice of the Tuileries alcove as I pass, the crumpled canvas resting untouched at the door’s lower corner. A brief glimpse into the Bydło alcove, however, shows Hartmann the Cart Man has been busy. Just inside the frame, an intricate barricade of wood and iron rests, some of the sharp edges protruding from the surface of the canvas. I enter and brush my finger across the tip of one of the nails, only to draw it away in agony.

  I’d like to think the barricade is there to keep out the witch, though I have no trouble imagining a sign proclaiming “Storytellers Not Welcome” hanging from one of the nails.

  The stage of the Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks as empty as before, I purposely keep my eyes focused straight ahead as I pass the home of Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle. I can’t decide which bothers me more, the image of their bodies or the fear I might share their fate.

  I head for the alcove containing The Marketplace at Limoges, hoping the gossips there can tell me what tragedy has befallen the Exhibition. Hopping from one intact section of floor to the next, I eventually reach the alcove. Glancing around to see if I’m being watched, I step from the darkened gallery into midday France. Much like the Exhibition, it’s clear things here have changed.

  The temperature indicative of spring or summer during my last visit, winter has fallen on Anthony’s Limoges. The marketplace is deserted, the music absent, the tea merchant’s stand where I met with Madame Versailles and the others now an empty table beneath a torn awning. I pull my sarong around my chilled form for all the good it does. As I fight to stop my teeth from chattering, I tell myself again and again I’m inside a boy’s mind and the wind isn’t real.

  It changes nothing.

  “Hello?” Answered again with silence, I turn back for the gallery where at least it’s warm.

  “Scheherazade.” The voice, barely a whisper and thick with death, hits my chilled eardrums and fills me with dread. I peer into the alley between the buildings before me. A wisp of blonde hair plays above a pile of refuse in bags. I rush over and find Madame Versailles lying atop the mangled remains of the other three women. Their gruesome injuries echo the pulverized forms of Goldenberg and Schmuÿle.

  “Baba Yaga.”

  “You see their bodies,” Versailles grunts, “and still you dare speak her name?”

  “What happened here?” I kneel by her side and pull my head close to her blood-covered lips. “Why did she come back for you?”

  “Why indeed, Lady Scheherazade?” She glares at me from her one good eye. “You now see the harvest of the seeds you’ve sown.”

  I run my finger along the edge of the crater that used to be Brigitte’s face. “I’m not the one who flies around this place tot
ing a huge club of wood and brass.”

  “You brought her down on all of us with your talk of rebellion and freedom. The witch was quite content before you came. You ruined everything.”

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I came here to free you all so a boy could tell his mother he loves her again. Even with all I’ve seen today, I’d do it all again.”

  “You should join the others, then. They still believe in you and your stories, those insidious little tales of freedom.”

  “The others.” I glance around. “Where are they?”

  “Where do you think? You’ve inspired a rebellion, Scheherazade, and rebels do what rebels do.”

  “They’ve gone to face the witch.”

  “On her own territory.” Versailles spits out a tooth. “God help them.”

  “How long?”

  “You know as well as I time has no meaning here. An hour, a day, a year. The only question is does the battle rage on, or have the others all faced the same fate as Brigitte, Antoinette, and Sophie?”

  “Your friends are all dead, Madame Versailles. How, may I ask, did you survive?”

  “You are privy to many secrets, storyteller, but as I am the only one who did survive, that secret will remain mine, if you please.”

  “As you will.” Perhaps a different tack. “The composer. Is he with them?”

  “Go and see for yourself. Perhaps your arrival will make a difference.” Her good eye rolls back in her head for a moment before focusing on me anew. “Or perhaps you will find their maimed corpses lying about the witch’s hut.”

  A pang of guilt pierces me as I turn to leave. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

  “Some secrets would prefer to stay buried, Mira.”

  Spinning on my heels, I peer back at the teacher from Tuileries. “What did you call me?”

  “Hurry, Scheherazade. Though a second may take a day here, so can a day pass in a second.”

  Turning to run for the frame hanging in midair at the end of the street, I look back one last time. “We’ll return for you.”

  “No, you won’t, but I appreciate the sentiment. Farewell, Scheherazade.”