Dueling with the Three Musketeers

by Lisa Samson

“Who’s there?” Johann shouted. He ran up the steps. When he got to the top … nothing.

  “What’s going on?”

  Walter was hoping he’d spy the light coming out from under his door.

  A knock resounded. Yes!

  “Come in,” he said, crossing one leg over the other, jamming his earbuds in his ears, and picking up his copy of The Three Musketeers.

  Johann opened the door. “Did you hear anything?”

  Walter took out the earbuds. “Other than The Kooks, only you.”

  Johann leaned against the doorjamb. “Funny, I thought I heard someone moaning … well, never mind. Good evening, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, well, I’m heading back out, then.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  He shook his head. “This is such a boring town.”

  Not if you have the right friends. Walter laid his book on his chest. “You think?”

  “I grew up here and couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “That bad?”

  “You could say that. I don’t know why Maddie feels so compelled to keep this place going. Then again, she was always sucking up to my father.” His mouth turned down in disgust. “Anyway, good night.”

  “Good night, Mr. Pierce.”

  When he was sure it was all clear, Walter hurried over to the bookshop, a celebration was in full swing downstairs. Aunt Portia and Uncle Augustus were dancing the jitterbug to the sounds of Glen Miller playing on the hi-fi (record player) in the living room. D’Artagnan was drinking another Coke and trying to get everybody to toast and sing old drinking songs. Father Lou sat in a chair just enjoying the moment.

  Linus and Ophelia were slicing a pan of brownies the priest brought over.

  And the guest of honor? The Gray Lady herself.

  Even beneath the heavy powder, anybody could see that Milady was pleased with herself. In a good way. “My heart was beating so quickly! I just kept thinking, ‘Keep calm. Keep calm.’ And I did!”

  “It was fantastic!” Walter said. “You should have seen her, everyone. If there’s ever been a better impersonation of a ghostly lady, I have no idea where it would have happened, because Milady was brilliant.”

  “It’s always good to have a person of the theatre around,” said Uncle Augustus, bringing his sister to a halt.

  Obviously, Aunt Portia had been running interference as to why the Countess de Winter was staying in their home. “Indeed!” she said, then stepped to for another round of the jitterbug.

  Later that night as Milady was slipping into bed in the guest room, she said to Ophelia. “You know, it’s just as exciting to do this sort of thing for the right reason.”

  “It’s true.”

  Her blue eyes rounded and she smiled. “I never would have thought as much.”

  Milady picked up her copy of The Three Musketeers. She opened the book. “Can you close that window?”

  Ophelia’s eyes rounded. “Why? It’s so hot as it is!”

  “I’ll get sick and die!”

  Ophelia remembered that back in Milady’s day, people thought fogs and mists held sicknesses. Bad humors they called them in the days when leeches were a cure and not a problem. Moving well along!

  Ophelia smiled. “You won’t get sick. Our physicians have proven that you can’t get sick from a fog. It’s something called a virus now.”

  Milady screwed up her face. “After your explanation of the America States United, I’ll be happy to take your word for it. Fine, then. Leave the window open. Goodnight, Ophelia.”

  “Have a good sleep, Milady.” Ophelia grabbed the doorknob.

  “Indeed, I will, and you do the same.”

  I have a feeling it was one of the best sleeps the Countess de Winter had in years.

  D’Artagnan, despite his propensity to fix motorcyles and drink Coke in Real World, is the main protagonist of The Three Musketeers. That means the book is mostly about him, and he is what is known in movies as the good guy. The strange thing about this fact is that D’Artagnan is not one of the three musketeers for whom the book is named.

  Stranger things have happened, I suppose. Like the fact that my colleagues in the English department give me no respect, even though, most likely, I’ve read ten times the amount of books they have.

  I’ll do my best here to summarize what Ophelia told Walter as they sat on the banks of the Bard River, the moon sailing in the skies over Kingscross. The same river that was swollen and angry during the flash flood two months before, now almost creaked along like an elderly gentleman who refuses to use a cane. Drought conditions threatened the area with no forecast of rain in sight. The weather had become as heated as d’Artagnan’s temperament. The young man from the country would pick a fight if a man so much as looked at him cross-eyed, or not cross-eyed. Just look at him and he might draw his sword.

  His great aim in life was to be a musketeer, a special regiment that was assigned to the king himself. So you can imagine the musketeers claimed to be no friend of Cardinal Richelieu! Upon his arrival in Paris, young d’Artagnan managed to insult three of the musketeers, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, on the first day. But his winning ways and handsome countenance, and not the least of all, his willingness to fight at their side when needed, soon won them over.

  But let me tell you a little secret about d’Artagnan. He’s much too romantic for his own good. His troubles might have been well more than halved had he not been wont to fall in love at the drop of a hat. (So quickly. And never mind it’s a cliché.) He had fallen in love with one of the queen’s lady’s maids and was set to fall in love with Milady later on. Give that young man an excuse to fall in love and he’d take it with both hands and wish he had a third so he could grab even more!

  In short, he was a man who was ultimately filled with desire for two things: to be a musketeer and to love women. His fighter’s spirit stood him in good stead for both priorities.

  “It’s too bad we can’t make him fall for Milady sooner than he does in the book,” said Walter, who’d bought them popsicles from the corner store nearby when they couldn’t stand the heat a moment longer. He sucked the last bit of cherry ice from the stick.

  Ophelia did her best to keep the sticky syrup from running down her hand, which meant eating the icy treat faster than usual and getting one of those blinding headaches right behind the bridge of her nose. You wouldn’t have known it, though, the way she soldiered through it. “But really in love.”

  Walter twisted the wrapper around the popsicle stick. “Can you think up a reason why he would? Surely there must be something.”

  “The Countess de Winter certainly is a lot nicer now.”

  “Isn’t she married?”

  “The book doesn’t really mention a current husband. It would be a more proper relationship for d’Artagnan, despite the fact that the lady’s maid is married to a real jerk.”

  “Well, maybe we can work on that,” said Walter.

  Ophelia raised her left eyebrow. “I’m game. And we have most of the day tomorrow to get them together.” She grinned. “It’s late. Let’s get back to the attic.”

  Walter took her hand again. And Ophelia grinned again, even more widely than before.

  “Where has Cato Grubbs been?” Ophelia sat in the backyard at the picnic table with Linus. Walter had already gone over to the school and was probably asleep by now. A midnight moon shone in the sky so brightly it illumined the tabletop Linus had painted a bright red the week before.

  “No idea.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to throw a monkey wrench into everything, do you?” Ophelia gazed up at Orion’s Belt. She loved the stars.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  She sighed. “We need to find out what he’s up to. Wait a minute! The brooch!”

  “What about it?”

  “Can you get it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not with the portal already opened.” Cato’s notes had been pretty clear on that.
/>   “If Milady and d’Artagnan found themselves with that much money, they could start a life together. You know as well as I do that Cato is in Book World right now finding that thing. He has to be!”

  “You’re right.”

  “Do you think he’d give it up, for a good cause?”

  Linus sighed. “I dunno, Ophelia. That’s an awful lot of money.”

  “Can you try to contact him? Please?”

  She looked so earnest, he wouldn’t have refused her for the world.

  “I don’t want Milady to die!” she cried. “I like her, Linus. I really do.”

  “Me too.”

  Oh my! This was love and greed. This was life and death. Sounds like a novel, does it not?

  Ten minutes later, Linus pored over as many books as possible. None had a formula for contacting Cato Grubbs. He looked through leather-covered tomes (large books with many, many words, too many words, if you ask me), paperbacks, even a few scrolls.

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  An idea hit him. “No way!” he said to no one, his own voice shocking him. He had never talked to himself before.

  He hurried down two flights of steps into Aunt Portia’s office at the bookstore. He picked up the biggest book of all.

  The thick yellow business directory made a nice thump as he dropped it on the desk blotter. He opened it to G.

  “Grubbs, Grubbs.” He ran his forefinger down the row of names, addresses, and numbers. “No way!”

  There it was. Cato Grubbs. Hidden right there in the phone book.

  The man is pure genius, thought Linus. But not smart enough to trick me.

  Good for you, Linus. Good for you.

  Not caring about what time of night it was, and figuring mad scientists were most likely night owls, he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  “I’m sorry, this number has been disconnected —”

  He dropped the receiver down on the phone’s cradle.

  A little spark jumped up from the line of type containing Cato’s information, whirled around like a fairy, then dove straight into the top of Linus’s hand.

  “Ow!” He grasped his hand and pulled it to his chest.

  He thought he heard a chuckle.

  I deserve it, he thought, remembering that old saying from King Solomon that pride goes before a fall. In other words, act all smug or think that you are “all that” and you’re most likely going to end up being very embarrassed.

  Trust me on this one. Old King Solomon knew exactly what he was talking about. Ask your parents about it. I’m sure they have plenty of personal stories they’d rather not share that illustrate precisely how true this is!

  seventeen

  Egads! Being Forced to Hand Write a Letter! What Is This World Coming To?

  Linus wasn’t quite sure what else to do. Cato Grubbs was good at leaving notes, but was he good at receiving them? Well, there was only one way to find out.

  He sat down at his worktable in the attic and composed a letter. In abominable handwriting, I must add. If a crabbed old branch, dried out and brittle could write, it would write just like Linus Easterday.

  Dear Mr. grubbs,

  as you’ve most likely guessed, we brought Someone through the circle, but so far, you’ve failed to make things more interesting by throwing your usual monkey wrenches in the mix. Where have you been?

  We need a favor, and I’m calling it up as a member of the family. Yes, we found out you’re a cousin. I didn’t know whether to cheer or boo, but nevertheless, we need d’Artagnan and Milady to fall in love in order to save her life when she gets back into Book World. Yes, they’re both here. I’ll explain later. Ophelia says we need the brooch. I’ll explain that later too, in full detail.

  I hope to receive a reply in the morning.

  Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

  Linus Easterday

  Well! The boy isn’t as short on written words as he is in spoken words, is he? Perhaps there’s hope for him yet as a communicator par excellence (of great ability).

  He went to bed hoping for a good sleep, but resigned to another night tossing and turning in the heat. And can you blame him? Let’s hope he remembers to take a shower in the morning.

  Linus arose early, around 7:00 a.m. What Ophelia doesn’t know about her brother is that he is an early riser. She is not. And while she is healthy, she is not wealthy and only sometimes wise. Maybe the old adage about early to bed early to rise is true. Ask your mother or father to quote the thing to you if you don’t know it.

  The reason she doesn’t know is because Linus likes the early hours to himself. It’s when he thinks the most clearly, when his best ideas come to him.

  That morning, however, he charged right up to the attic (forgetting that shower, unfortunately) in hopes of finding a reply from Cato Grubbs.

  A cool front had blown in during the night dropping the temperature in the attic down a touch. He looked with anticipation on the worktable and much to his delight, found a note written in even worse handwriting than his own, but thankfully, similar.

  Dear Linus,

  So you know, eh? Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree now, does it? You must know that in some ways I view you as my protégé, hoping that my genius will carry on through you. Not completely, I must add. Nobody can be as wonderful as myself, but you might at least make it halfway.

  You guess correctly that I’m back in Book World looking for that blasted diamond pin you requested. This should fetch a pretty penny on the black market. The literary value be cursed, this item will stand up on its own! So forget it!

  Of course, you might be able to beat me to it. But to find out how, you are on your own, and trust me, Cousin, I wouldn’t advise going up against me just yet. Besides, no one should ever accuse me of making things easy on you. I couldn’t live with myself if I did. However, to give you at least a sporting chance, look for a black leather volume with XI in red on the spine.

  Your second cousin thrice removed, Cato Julius Grubbs

  Julius? Linus thought. That was his own middle name! And Ophelia’s was Julia. He wondered why. Did it have something to do with The Tragedy of Julius Caesar? It was the only Shakespeare play he’d ever read and Julius Caesar died. Who wanted to be named after the victim? He didn’t. But what could a fellow do? It’s not like the Drs. Easterday had given him a choice.

  A brief note here to you, dear ones, about names. If you have a ridiculous name, my condolences. (I, for one, completely relate. My middle name is so preposterous I’ve only uttered it aloud when forced by a real and present threat, like the IRS and Mrs. Cunningham, my first grade teacher.) And know that someday, you can change it if you’d like. Mom and Dad, if you don’t like this, don’t blame me. I’m not the one that chose a perfectly awful name for your offspring.

  Stop thinking about names, Linus thought, as he began looking at the books on the shelves and tables. You don’t have much time. XI. (The Roman numerals for eleven, for any reality TV dullards that somehow found a copy of this book in their hands.) He scanned the volumes, trying not to skim too fast, looking for black bindings. Brown leather bindings, most veined with faint cracks, were the most popular, naturally. Some green spines rested in between them, usually with gold lettering, but several blared red script, one in particular promising a thousand and one uses for talcum powder.

  Talcum powder.

  Can you think of a more boring book? And have you ever tried to clean up an explosion of talcum powder?

  He saw some of the old faithfuls. Stage Presence, Stage Presents, the Art of Showing Up and Showing Off. Perfect for a person like Cato. Perfectly horrid for a person like Linus. Trapdoors to Literary Realms, Linus’s personal favorite.

  He said I’d have to look for it myself. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere more obscure, thought Linus, suddenly feeling the thrill of excitement. In looking for the book he might find some other treasures. The thought quickened his pace.

  Walter hated
the fact that he was a sneak, but he’d learned from the best, an older lad named Troy, on the streets of London. Still, he wasn’t foolish enough not to use his gifts for the greater good. His lock-picking skills came in handy when trying to find Quasimodo, as well as his street-fighting skills when the bullies in the park made fun of the young hunchback and picked a fight with Walter. And hey, the other fellow threw the first punch. Walter was simply trying to avert the blow and send him on his way! His ability to run fast from the scene of a crime stood him in good stead when running through the woods to lure Captain Ahab to the river.

  This morning, however, those street senses set off that familiar alarm in his belly when he awakened. Something wasn’t right.

  People call this feeling intuition. It’s when a person knows something, but they don’t know how they know it. Some call it a gut feeling because one quite often feels it in his or her stomach. Some just call it indigestion and go about their day.

  Walter, having avoided many a scrape by listening to that little voice, always took heed. It wasn’t something he talked about much. He didn’t want anyone to know how he came by such a thing. He wanted to leave his life in London behind.

  That morning, after eating a breakfast of cold cereal that tasted like bird food, he heard the creak of the garden gate and watched as Johann climbed in and started the engine. Obviously the fellow was an early riser.

  Too bad he isn’t as cool as his van, Walter thought, admiring the old, dark green VW Westfalia.

  His inner alarm was blaring like a firetruck, so much so that he pressed a hand to his stomach.

  What grandiose bad thing would a guy like Johann Pierce do? Nothing came to Walter’s mind. The guy was so tall and skinny it seemed as if the slightest breeze would knock him down. And he just didn’t seem like the type to really do anything that would take real fortitude. He had that sourness about him that seemed to stem from weakness.

  You’re being daft, Walt. Utterly daft.

  Maybe the feeling would go away.

  Linus rummaged through Cato’s desk drawers, and let me tell you, that is not an easy job. Cato Grubbs is what some people call a pack rat. He cannot throw anything out. Do you want to know why Cato left the lab in the first place? Other than the main reason, which we will get to later, he simply ran out of room and didn’t need the enchanted circle any longer to travel from Book World to Real World.