“There’s a catch, though, isn’t there?” Mason asked.
“Afraid so,” one-eared Van Gogh glided across the room to join the conversation. “We have no way to play but by the queen’s rules. She has advised us if we can keep you at bay, she will allow us, the master souls of earth, to continue. She promises to grant us actual freedom.”
“But if we conquer her, you will be assured your freedom,” Carter said.
Van Gogh laughed. “You’ll never conquer her. She is much too powerful. It’s a nice idea, in fact, a wonderful one, but quite impossible.”
“We’ve come this far,” Mason reasoned.
“Yes, and that is admirable. Yet we can’t take a chance. We must keep you here.”
“No!” Shakespeare, writing at a desk in the corner suddenly stood up. “That wicked woman, whom I refuse to call queen, has stolen more than my bones. She has robbed us of our souls, imprisoned us here in this dismal, horrid place. I for one would rather cease to exist, and therefore take my chances with these lads. If they succeed, we will be better off. And if they don’t, we’ll be no closer to freedom than we are at present. That insane woman will not free us. She’s nothing but a liar and a thief.”
“He has a point.” Mozart murmured.
Carter thought he might become dizzy with adulation. All of them were as close to being his heroes as anyone could ever be.
Mozart gestured at the two boys, “I don’t see why we can’t at least give them a fighting chance to play their game. What do we have to lose? We’ve already lost so much anyway.”
Poe and Van Gogh huddled together in the corner. Another ghost came towards them, whom Carter didn’t recognize.
He looked around again. There in the back were the authors Willa Cather and Emily Brontë, along with Beethoven and the Impressionist painter, Claude Monet, who was his favorite, by far. This was a dream house, as far as he was concerned. Yet he was well aware of the darkness that resided in some of these master souls. Van Gogh had suffered from a horrible case of depression which meant he had extreme emotional ups and downs. Of course Poe was quite dark and melancholy, too. He wasn’t Carter’s first choice of artists to hang out with. Wolfgang Mozart, on the other hand, was a different story. He loved the music Mozart had written. In fact, he loved his music more than anyone else’s. He knew this was an odd thing for a boy of his age, but he didn’t care. He’d learned to ignore the teasing of others. The artists and musicians in this room were what gave meaning to life. They defined the word passion.
The three ghosts in the corner turned back to face the boys. “Suppose we let you try to pass the test?” they asked in unison.
“What kind of test might that be?” Mason asked them. He was wary of the apparitions and their sullen attitude. However, he didn’t feel afraid of them any longer. What could they do to him? They appeared harmless enough.
The one Carter didn’t recognize answered, “A trivia game. That will be the test, and if you pass, you will receive the key to the palace door, which is inside this house.”
“Cool. I love trivia. This should be a snap!” Carter exclaimed.
“Ah, ah, ah, not so fast,” Poe reprimanded him. “You see, we are aware of your fondness for the arts, Carter, and we know you are educated and savvy in these areas. So therefore it is Mason who must play this game.”
“I don’t believe that is entirely fair,” Shakespeare chimed in. “I think both boys should have a chance. Besides, who deemed you three worthy of making the rules?”
“You’re a bore, Shakespeare! We haven’t had such a good time in ages! This is how the game will be played.”
Willa Cather, who had been sitting on the sofa writing something down in a notebook declared, “I think Will is correct. Both boys get a chance. Three questions each. If they answer two out of the three, then they pass. Isn’t that how the game is supposed to be played? The three of you cannot go around changing the rules whenever you see fit. This is still, after all, only a game.”
“Women!” Poe said. “It may still only be a game, Willa. Must I remind you, however, it holds our own souls in the balance?”
“Changing the rules is unacceptable, Poe, and I believe, regardless of your macabre outlook, you do know how to play by the rules.”
Mr. Poe rolled his eyes, glanced at his three comrades, and raised a questioning brow. They nodded back. “Fine,” he said. “Three questions each, and two out of the three must be answered correctly.”
Carter rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He was having a very good time.
“Me first.” The man whom Carter didn’t recognize approached him. “Carter, I am a well-known author, however I was virtually undiscovered until my death from tuberculosis in 1924. The themes of my stories have to do with the angst of modern man, who is afflicted with a grotesque alienation in an unintelligible and hostile world.”
“Huh?” Carter said. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped, because he hadn’t understood a single word this dude was saying.
“In other words, dear boy, the world is filled with a misery and people don’t handle it very well. I am a tortured soul, have always been. I struggled with my love and hatred for my father. My writing I regarded as both a blessing and a curse. My regret is I was never appreciated while alive, and still I am misunderstood to this day.”
“We’re all misunderstood, Kafka,” Mozart interrupted him. “None of us ever received full recognition for who and what we did during our lifetimes. Get over it, as these boys would say.”
Now Carter realized who the ghost was. Franz Kafka. His mother had briefly mentioned his writings to him once, when they’d been in the library and he’d been looking for a new author to read. He’d picked up a story called The Judgment. His mom had put it back and explained Kafka could be quite heavy reading and she didn’t feel he was ready for it. Remembering that now, he wasn’t sure he could answer a question from him. But he would have to give it a try.
“Now that you know a bit about me, and who I am, I believe my question should be fairly simple.”
Carter nodded, ready as ever to take him on.
“What was the title of my short story about Gregor Samsa, a man who is turned into a monstrous cockroach and eventually dies, swept away by the maid? His family ostracizes Gregor, meaning they lock him in his room after he wakes to discover he is a giant bug. Do you know the title?”
Carter was dumbfounded. He actually had no idea. Why hadn’t his mother allowed him to read Kafka before this? The only thing he could think of was the title of the story he’d picked up in the library, although he didn’t think it was correct. He decided he’d take a chance and said, “The Judgment?”
“Incorrect!” shouted Kafka in his thick, German accent. “You really should’ve known this, Carter. I am shocked and disappointed. I am still not fully appreciated! And as the rules of the game go, since you do not know the answer, I can inflict punishment on you.” Kafka pointed at Carter and said, “The Metamorphosis, that is the title of the story.”
As he spoke, something strange happened to Carter, who felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. What in the world was happening to him? His limbs changed rapidly as his body turned into a boy-sized insect.
“Oh no!” moaned Mason.
“That is not nice, Mr. Kafka! Change him back,” Willa demanded.
“Nice, schmice. The only way I will change him back is if his brother gets the next answer correct. That is how this works, Miss Willa. You should know this, since you are so fond of the rules.”
“Fine,” she replied angrily.
Carter felt awful. This was the worst ever! He’d been changed into a giant bug. His entire body ached from the transformation. And what was that smell? It was him! He smelled something awful, like the time Izzy’s milk bottle got tossed into the back of the car and for weeks, no one could figure out what the smell was.
Carter wanted desperately to cry, but found he couldn’t. He didn’t have tear ducts any
more, only two horrible antennae and a sick, desperate feeling in his stomach.
“You’re a real jerk,” Mason said. “Bring it on! I’m ready for your stupid questions.”
Mozart stepped forward before anyone else could. “I’d like to ask Mason, if you don’t mind.” He faced the others, who nodded their heads in agreement. “A bit about me, Mason, that I think you should know—when I was a child, many recognized my talents. But when I became a man, I was shunned. I lived through years of poverty and four of my children died when they were infants. Then my wife became ill from malnutrition. So, contrary to what some believe, I had many difficulties in life. However, I always counted on my music to bring out the best in me. Passion will do that, dear boy. And I am aware you have also a passion for your sport, the one you call gymnastics, which I think is a fine thing.”
“Get on with it,” Kafka interrupted.
“You had your opportunity.” Mozart glared at Kafka and then glanced over at the huge insect Carter had become, morosely curled up in the middle of the room. Out of empathy for the boy, he decided to hurry and pose his question to Mason. It was one he thought fairly easy. It was obvious Mozart wanted the boys to succeed. “My question for you, Mason, is this: I was considered to have written the greatest opera of all times. Do you know the name of that opera?”
Carter jumped up and down on his six legs. He seemed to know the answer. Mason wracked his brain. He closed his eyes, searching for an answer. Then, something came to him. A night three years ago entered his mind. His mom had bought tickets to an opera and their dad, a doctor, had to return to the hospital to deliver a baby. Carter wanted to go with her, but he had a terrible case of the flu, and Grandma came to watch him. Mom was pregnant with Izzy at the time, and insisted Mason come with her. He couldn’t say no, but he hadn’t been too happy about it. He’d sulked and pouted, but in the end, he’d kind of liked the whole thing. And right now, he loved it and loved his mom for making him go with her. “I know it,” he said cooly. “It’s Don Giovanni!”
“Correct!” Mozart replied with glee.
There were grumbles from the crowd, but most were happy Mason succeeded. Carter immediately turned back into himself.
“Whew! That was great, Mason. Not the part about me being a bug, but your answer. Thank you, thank you!”
“All right, pipe down!” Kafka shouted. “You have one strike against you and one for you. You still have one more question each to answer.”
“Go for it, Metamorphosis man!” Mason exclaimed, his confidence up.
“Me, me!” Shakespeare stood from his desk. “I would like to pose Carter’s question.”
“Too easy. He’ll know anything you ask,” Kafka muttered. “It’s obvious he’s studied you. Who hasn’t?”
“No, no, I’ll give him a hard one. I, too, know the rules.”
“Oh, all right, then. But it cannot be something about one of your plays. He’ll surely know the answers. It has to be something from your life. That will be harder, as it was difficult for anyone to uncover the facts about your life.”
“Yes, dear man, that is true. It is also why you should not feel so sullen about your own lack of notoriety. I had to deal with the same anonymity during my lifetime. As most of you are aware, dramatists or play-writes were not considered ‘real writers’ during my era—the Elizabethan period of English history.”
“It’s still not worth nattering about,” mumbled Van Gogh. He had moved over into a cobwebbed corner, arms crossed against his chest.
“That was unnecessary. You are embittered as well, and that is why you took your own life.”
“Oh, get on with it, Shakespeare!”
“Fine. Carter, in my lifetime I had three children. One of them died. How old was this child, the name, age, and what was special about him or her?”
Carter smiled. He was sure Shakespeare had known he’d done a report on his life and times last year in Ms. Springer’s fifth grade class. He knew the answers by heart. “The answer to your questions, which I believe should give me the points I need for me and my brother to move on (because you’ve posed several questions) is…”
“No!” Poe yelled. “You answer these and then Mason gets his last question.”
“You really aren’t a nice man, are you?” Carter said. “But fine.”
Poe flashed a wicked smile.
“The answers are—your son Hamnet died at age eleven, and the special thing about him was he had a twin sister named Judith.”
“Excellent!” Shakespeare replied. Then glumly added, “Oh, how I miss them! If I ever get out of here, I shall track my family down, and be with them forever.”
“Wishful thinking, Will. Even if these boys get to the queen, she’ll crucify them,” Van Gogh said.
“You really should see someone about your pessimism,” Shakespeare told him.
“I spent my share of time in mental hospitals when I was on earth. I don’t think there is a cure for my problem, unless we get out of here. And the only way that is happening is if we keep these boys from moving on.”
“I don’t believe that. I have faith in these young gentlemen,” Shakespeare said.
“Fine, then I ask the last question,” Van Gogh said.
“All agreed?” Shakespeare asked.
Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Van Gogh posed his question, and when he did, Carter was certain the man’s animosity was only a front. He wanted the boys to move on. He believed this because the question was so basic and simple. Mason had to know it. “What type of art form am I famous for?”
“Oh, geez!” Mason said.
“Good,” thought Carter. Mason surely had to know. How could he not know?
“Art form? What the heck do you mean by art form? Like finger-painting, coloring, watercolor, what the heck are you talking about?”
“Is that your answer?” Van Gogh asked.
Carter shook his head. He could not actually believe this. How could his brother be so dense? It was so easy he couldn’t help but shout, “Post-Impressionism, ding-dong!”
“Oh, excuse me, artist man. Like I’m supposed to know that? What is that, anyway?”
“Duh, it’s the depiction of objects by means of dabs or strokes of primary, unmixed colors, in order to simulate actual reflected light.”
“What? Are you flipping Wikepedia now?”
“Gentlemen, do stop the bickering. It will get you nowhere,” Shakespeare reminded them.
Mason looked around the room, rolling his eyes, totally frustrated by this entire experience.
“Infraction, infraction,” Kafka yelled. “The younger one cannot answer for his sibling. They’re out! They are out!” he yelled, motioning the strikeout pose for emphasis.
“Oh no, we’re not,” Mason said. “You have to give me one more question. Carter answered three last time. That is fair, and that is how we’re playing.”
Kafka and the bad attitude crowd looked appalled. Mozart, Shakespeare, and Miss Willa smiled in agreement. Half were on their side and half were not. Mason was not backing down. He didn’t want to stay in this torture chamber of crazy questions forever. “Throw me one more, and I’ll get it. I know I will.”
Edgar Allan Poe stepped forward and nodded. “One more. If you fail, that’s the end of that, and you will stay here with us until Judgment Day. I, for one, believe the queen when she says she’ll spare us.” He held up a pair of brass keys and dangled them in front of the boys. “Know what these are? These are the keys to the castle—Queen Zamora’s castle. But I don’t think you’ll get to use them.” He smiled wickedly.
“Then you are more of a twisted old fool than I thought,” Shakespeare said.
“Maybe I am. Who will pose the question?”
No one volunteered. There was a great deal of tension in the air. Finally, Poe said, “Well then, there is no one better than myself, I suppose. I will not beat about the bush. As I’m certain you know, I am the creator of what you now consider today’s horror genre.
I wrote thrilling, suspenseful stories in my day. If you can tell me who the actual murderer is in my story, The Murders on the Rue Morgue, you pass, and the key to the door shall be yours.”
Once again Carter knew the answer. He loved reading Poe. But he figured if he ever got out of here, he didn’t want to read him again. Poe really was a jerk.
Mason took a long time thinking about the answer. He wasn’t sure. He knew the movie had been on TV a week or so ago, but he’d chosen not to stay up and watch it. The mention that it was by Poe had annoyed him. He’d gone off to bed, sneaking his Gameboy with him. Carter had, of course, stayed to watch the whole thing. Mason sure wished he had now. He did, however, remember Carter coming up to bed that night and jabbering on about the movie. Mason now recalled something Carter muttered about how weird that the killer had been…
“I’ve got it, I think. I can’t believe it, but I think it was an orangutan.”
“Yes!” Carter shouted. “It was. You did it, Mason! You passed the test.”
Mason was sweating. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He could not believe it, but he’d done it. “We did it, Carter!”
“Yes, you did.” Shakespeare came forward. He grabbed the keys from Poe’s hands who frowned and stormed away in disgust. “Now you can come with me.”
Carter whistled for the heart-song, who’d flown onto Mozart’s shoulder during the question-and-answer game. She didn’t move.
“You want to stay?” Carter asked.
The heart-song tweeted.
“I think she likes me,” Mozart said. “I think she is wonderful.”
Carter really wanted to keep her, but could see the heart-song wanted to stay with Mozart. “Okay,” he muttered sadly, “you can stay.” The heart-song sang out a beautiful tune. Mozart hummed along with her. Carter knew he’d made the right decision.
The Clover Siblings and the Evil of Desmal Page 11