The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  Brian looked warily over at April. She flashed an exaggerated monster face at him, holding her fingers up like claws. Brian laughed. Chloe frowned.

  But all Horace could think was: dangerous. It would have been a mistake to create such an instrument. Was the Fel’Daera a mistake too?

  Mr. Meister pointed at his own wrinkled forehead and went on. “Imagine a world where the private mind was no longer private. Where your emotions, your intentions, your hopes, your fears, your histories, your allegiances—all your thoughts—were no longer yours to keep.”

  Chloe hunkered down in her seat, pressing her knees against her chest, and glowered at the others as if they were trying to read her thoughts right now.

  “But wouldn’t it be kind of awesome?” Brian said. “We wouldn’t have misunderstandings. People couldn’t lie. No one could keep secrets.”

  “Lying is often useful,” Mr. Meister said. “And the world cannot function without secrets.” He lifted his arms, gesturing to the Great Burrow all around them. “Indeed, without secrets, what would become of us? What would become of our Tan’ji? To create a Tanu that allows us to see into the minds of others is to cross a line. A perilous line.”

  Chloe eyed him. “And you’re sure that line has never been crossed. Not even by the Riven.”

  “If it had,” Mr. Meister said, “we would not be here right now.”

  “Here’s my question, though,” said April. “How does the vine even know the difference between humans and animals?”

  The question tugged at Horace. “Yeah, we’re animals,” he said. “So where do you draw that line?” Brian frowned thoughtfully, as if even he wasn’t sure how such a thing could be accomplished.

  “You underestimate yourselves,” Mr. Meister said. “We humans are far more intelligent than other animals.”

  “But honestly, how are you measuring that?” said April. “By our ability to cut down the forests the animals live in, and poison the oceans they swim through?”

  “Preach it, sister,” said Brian.

  “I wasn’t finished,” Mr. Meister said coolly. “We are also self-aware—”

  “Elephants are self-aware,” April said. “If you put a dot of paint on an elephant’s forehead and have her stand in front of a mirror, she’ll reach up with her trunk and feel her forehead to see what’s there. She knows she’s looking at herself in the mirror.”

  “We practice deceit—”

  “My cat practices deceit,” said Horace. April nodded at him approvingly.

  “I think I know what the difference is,” Chloe said quietly. Now everyone looked at her. “Unlike the other animals, we have the ability to imagine that someone might be reading our minds in the first place. We have the ability to imagine what we might then do to such a person. And I can tell you, I am imagining some pretty terrible stuff right now.”

  Brian stroked his chin, watching Chloe skeptically. “That sort of makes me want to build a mind-reading device,” he said.

  “It is forbidden,” said Mr. Meister.

  Chloe ignored Mr. Meister and gave Brian a savage look of warning. “If anyone ever came near me with an instrument that let them read my thoughts, they would be very, very sorry.”

  “What’s the matter?” Brian teased. “Afraid we’ll discover your secret desires?”

  Chloe shot up, fists at her side. “Oh, I’ve got a desire, all right. Keep talking and you’ll find out what it is.”

  April’s raven let out a strange, low warble, shifting nervously. To Horace, he looked and sounded worried. But April was watching Chloe. She said cautiously, “I thought you guys were friends.”

  “Maybe you thought wrong, Doctor Dolittle,” Chloe snapped. “Still want to be in the clubhouse?”

  “Chloe, come on,” Horace said. “What is your problem?”

  Chloe rounded on him, bristling furiously. “Are you kidding me?” she said, and then the wings of the Alvalaithen sprang to life. “You, of all people?” Without a look back at any of them, she marched from the room, passing right through Mr. Meister’s closed door.

  That sat in silence for a moment. Brian wore a look of guilty shock. “Oops,” he mouthed at Horace. The raven croaked softly, his head bobbing up and down.

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Meister said to April, giving her a slight bow. “Chloe is prickly under even the best of circumstances, and the current circumstances are far from the best.”

  “She’s Isabel’s daughter,” April said.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Meister. “Chloe has not seen her mother since she was a young child. Her life took a drastic and unforeseen turn on that riverbank last night.”

  “And it’s my fault Isabel is even here.”

  “Isabel took advantage of the situation, yes,” said Mr. Meister. “But you are not to blame. What matters is that you are here. You are safe.”

  April nodded, then smiled ruefully. “But will I be when I leave? I have to go back home. Even if I did want to stay here and join you, I can’t just run away.”

  “We do not accept runaways. And we cannot simply steal young Keepers away from their families without explanation.”

  Horace could almost hear the joke Chloe would have made had she still been here: I’m sure that’s very disappointing for you. He wondered where she’d gone, what she was doing now.

  “You saw the academy above the Warren,” Mr. Meister continued. “It is there for a reason.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick blue folder that said Mazzoleni Academy on the front. It was crammed with papers and pamphlets and forms. Horace listened, impressed, as the old man explained the plan to April—the offer of a scholarship, an actual education. “You would attend school right upstairs. Your family does not need to learn the whole truth, of course, but what we tell them is true enough to put a parent’s mind at ease.”

  “My parents are dead,” April said flatly.

  Mr. Meister folded his hands politely. Horace looked down at his shoes, unsure what to say. Just when the silence was getting uncomfortably thick, Brian said cheerily, “Problem solved, then.”

  Mr. Meister’s face turned into thunderclouds. But April turned to Brian calmly, apparently untroubled. “Exactly what do you do here, by the way?” she asked. “You weren’t on the riverbank.”

  Her voice was so placid—and so laced with polite interest—that it clearly threw Brian. He grinned awkwardly and jiggled his skinny legs nervously. “I make . . . bad jokes,” he said. He held out the front of his shirt as an example. It said:

  MY OTHER SHIRT

  MENTIONS THIS SHIRT

  “I see,” April said, reading. “How many shirts do you have that say that?”

  “Um . . . just this one.”

  “That’s less funny. You should have two.”

  Brian peered down at the shirt. “You’re right,” he said, clearly chastened.

  April sat back and gazed up into the rounded dome of the office. Her raven was still directly overhead, immobile, but higher up, the little birds that lived here were flitting to and fro. She watched them thoughtfully, her eyes distant, and Horace got the distinct impression that she was listening to them with her Tan’ji.

  “Anyway,” April continued, “I guess it does help solve the problem a little bit—my parents being dead. My brother and I live with our Uncle Harrison, but he’s more of a landlord than anything else. It’s my brother who would raise a fuss about me being gone. He’s the one who really looks after me. Well . . . besides myself, I mean.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Meister. “And your brother—where does he think you are right now?”

  “At a friend’s house for a few days. I hope. I’m supposed to be back home Friday night.” She squinted in confusion. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Meister said. “And what if—hypothetically—we were able to fix your Tan’ji before you went home? Would you return? Would you join us?”

  April seemed to be holding her breath, overwhelmed by the very notion. As if on cue, her raven slipped down
from his perch, his wings unfolding massively, and dropped onto the couch beside Horace. He croaked at Horace sociably and then turned in April’s direction, snapping his great thick bill. Horace had never been so close to a bird so large before. April pulled a chunk of something from her pocket—dog food?—and tossed it. Horace watched, fascinated, as the bird choked it down.

  “This is Arthur,” April said to Horace. “He likes you.”

  “How do you know?”

  For an answer, April simply pointed to her Tan’ji. Arthur turned and cocked his head at Horace. His eyes were shining black, and his formidable beak was twice as thick as Horace’s thumb.

  “Look, I don’t know if I want to join you,” April said. “I don’t really even understand who you are. Mostly I just know that every second my Tan’ji stays broken is one more second I stay broken too. So if you want to talk—fix me.”

  She fell silent, her pretty, crooked face sagging forlornly. Horace felt a peculiar pain in his chest at the sight, as if he too was breaking. Meanwhile, Brian looked at Mr. Meister expectantly, clearly asking for permission. Mr. Meister took a deep breath and gave him a subtle nod.

  Brian leaned into April. “I might—maybe—be able to help you,” he said quietly.

  She lifted her head, her eyes wide. Horace could hear her breathing. “Explain, please.”

  “I can maybe fix your Tan’ji. Maybe.” Brian gestured at the daktan. “Can I . . . may I?”

  Without hesitation, April dropped the daktan into his hand. And then, shocking everyone, she pulled the Tan’ji from the tangle of her hair and thrust it at Brian. “Here. Please. Try.”

  Reluctantly, Brian took the delicate instrument, handling it as if it were hot. Despite himself, Horace winced at the sight. Most Keepers were loath to allow anyone else to touch their instruments, but April seemed not to have those reservations. Mr. Meister, watching, slipped his tiny notebook from a pocket of his vest and jotted down a hasty note.

  Brian bent over the Tan’ji and its missing piece. The Tan’ji was lovely and wild, and from what Horace could tell, it seemed designed to hook directly around April’s ear. He could see the broken stem clearly now, and it made him want to retch. How was April coping with such a ghastly wound? The sight, and the sickness oozing from it, brought Dr. Jericho’s words unwanted once again to the surface of Horace’s mind. “Sickness . . . thrall-blight . . . a mistake.”

  “The break is clean,” said Brian, sounding professorial. “But it’s not just the structure. It’s the Medium, the flow of operation, the input and output.” With a steady hand he placed the daktan against the broken stem, holding it in place. The mere illusion of wholeness made April catch her breath. “I can reattach it physically,” Brian said. “That’s no problem. Weaving the flow again will be more difficult. The flower seems to be acting as some kind of vital sensor, or focal device. It would be like . . . reattaching a head.”

  “But can you do it?” said April.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Mr. Meister, his left eye looming large through the thick, shining glass of the oraculum, was watching intently. “It can be done,” he pronounced.

  “How?” April said. “Like, with what?”

  Brian stood up, a reckless and uncertain grin growing on his face. “Come and see.”

  Brian handed April her Tan’ji and led her out of the office. The bird rode on April’s shoulder, his massive talons digging into her flesh.

  “And so the moment arrives,” Mr. Meister said, standing to follow. When he noticed Horace wasn’t moving, he stopped. “Are you coming, Keeper?”

  Horace considered his words. “Yeah. Just, you know, wondering about some things. Things Dr. Jericho said last night.”

  Mr. Meister leaned back against his desk, his expression sour, but he gestured for Horace to proceed.

  “Dr. Jericho said when I refuse the future the box reveals—when I feel sick like that—my sickness affects the Medium itself. The Mothergates, too.”

  Mr. Meister crossed his arms. “He feeds you lies.”

  “He even had a name for it. Thrall-blight, he called it.”

  “I have heard the term before. I do not care for it.”

  “Blight is disease. And thrall—that’s like . . . being a slave.”

  “Do you feel that you are a slave to the Fel’Daera?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You feel free to ignore the path indicated by the box, when the occasion warrants. Last night was a dramatic, if foolhardy, case in point. Neptune told me what you were doing.”

  Horace ignored the “foolhardy” comment. He had no plans to repeat last night’s four-second stunt anytime soon. “But you’ve always told me not change the future the box shows me.”

  Mr. Meister held up a finger. “Correction. I have always told you to open the box with great care. I have explained that opening the box is the first step along the path to the future the box reveals. Take that step with your usual good sense, and this sickness—this thrall-blight—can be avoided.”

  “Okay, but—” Horace hardly knew how to say what came next. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it? The Fel’Daera is dangerous. I’m dangerous.”

  “Yes. But danger is relative. Speeding down the highway is dangerous, for example, but perhaps acceptable if you are fleeing from some great harm.”

  “In other words, the benefits of the Fel’Daera outweigh the risks—according to you.”

  “Just so. According to me.”

  “But meanwhile I don’t even know what the risks are.”

  Mr. Meister shrugged. “That is because I do not wish you to know them,” he said simply.

  Dimly Horace knew that these words should have infuriated him, but instead he felt only a ripple of irritation. And he thought he understood why.

  He didn’t really want to know the risks. He wasn’t sure he cared what the risks were—or maybe he was afraid he would care. Maybe he was afraid that the risks would turn out to be horrendous, and that even then he wouldn’t stop himself from using the box.

  “Okay,” he said, refusing to let his thoughts wander down that road. “Okay, fine. But maybe at least reassure me about something. Dr. Jericho also said . . . he said that Sil’falo Teneves thinks the Fel’Daera was a mistake. Her greatest mistake, actually.”

  Mr. Meister didn’t reply right away. He gazed at Horace for a long time, his huge left eye watery and soft, yet heavy as a hammer. “It is true that Sil’falo has proclaimed regret for the Fel’Daera in the past. When other Keepers held its reins.”

  “Oh.”

  “The last time we spoke, however, her views had changed.”

  “And when was that?”

  Mr. Meister broke into a warm smile. He put an arm around Horace’s shoulders. “Quite recently, my friend,” he said. “Quite recently indeed.” And then he ushered a suddenly blushing Horace through the door.

  Outside, Brian and April were headed for the staircase that led to Brian’s workshop. Horace, feeling a relief he wasn’t quite sure he’d earned, cast about for Chloe. He spotted her back up the slope in the opposite direction, loitering outside an abandoned doba. He turned to Mr. Meister and said, “I’ll catch up?”

  Mr. Meister nodded. “She was strong last night.”

  “Maybe you should tell her that.”

  “I have. She disagreed—vehemently. But her stubbornness in resisting the despair sown by the Auditor allowed the others to fight back too.” He sighed. “Tell her she can join us, if she wishes. If she promises not to sneer at the sanctity of what we are about to attempt.”

  “I can’t guarantee no sneering.”

  “She lashes out. She feels lost. She doubts the motivations behind her mother’s return.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Mr. Meister pushed his thick glasses up on his nose. “I have no doubt as to Isabel’s motivations,” he said gruffly, and then he spun on his heels and followed after the others.

  Horace puzzled over that response f
or a moment, then went to Chloe. She watched him approach like an angry cat watches a neglectful owner.

  “Party downstairs, I guess,” she said. “What, am I not invited?”

  “You are. Brian’s going to try to repair April’s Tan’ji.”

  Chloe’s eyes lit up briefly with an unmistakable spark of interest, but then she scoffed. “Really pulling out all the stops for the new girl.”

  “Look, it’s been a crazy day for you.”

  Chloe gasped indignantly. “What are you saying? Are you saying I did something wrong?”

  “You were just . . . you know. Rude and scary.”

  “I’m always scary,” Chloe said. “Meanwhile Mr. Meister is courting Bo Peep like she’s some kind of all-star, but she’s bad news. Isabel tricked her. Isabel used April to find the Warren. And April wasn’t even smart enough to know she was being used.”

  “I wouldn’t assume that. She seems plenty smart to me.”

  “Why, because she saw a TV show about elephants? Because she said molecules? Lots of people can say molecules, Horace.”

  “Chloe—”

  “But maybe you just think she’s smart because she wears pretty dresses.”

  Horace blushed. “Chloe, come on.”

  “Look, anybody can read a book, Horace. That’s not the kind of smart I’m talking about. April is a dupe. It’s her fault Isabel even came back.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what April said, right after you left.”

  That threw Chloe for a second. “So she knew she was being used, and she still—”

  “Yes!” Horace said. “Maybe she knew, and she did it anyway. All she wanted was to find her missing piece. Who cares what your mom was after?”

  Chloe took a step back, her eyes blazing with rage and confusion and hurt. “I care, Horace,” she said quietly, jabbing a finger into her own chest. “I care.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just meant I’m not sure it makes any sense to be mad at April for doing whatever she could to get the daktan. We’d both do the same, and you know it.”