by I.D. Blind
22. Tarot Session
In the morning, the three witches and their Aunt were treading in the field near the forest’s edge. With wicker baskets hanging on their folded arms the girls were collecting herbs and singing under their breaths:
“As I was walking all alane4,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
'Where sall we gang and dine to-day?'
“'In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
“'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.”
Their aunt had been teaching them about medical and culinary herbs recently. The baskets were full of green-leaved rosemary for making tea and easing headaches; parsley, to clean the blood and ease spasms; poisonous aconite which, when prepared correctly could be used as a painkiller; and leaves of thyme to be used as antiseptic and against coughs.
The day was calm; the sun was shining down on the field, brightening their glossy hair. The field was swarmed with chamomiles, which constantly distracted Electra and Cassandra, taunting them to pick one every other minute and play the ‘loves me, loves me not’ game. Each time they would either smile with delight or throw the stalk away with resentment and continue their song.
“'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.”
“'Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'”
On the other side of the river, Sheriff De Roy was passing on horseback, with Magnus McCormack by his side. They gazed at the field, where, almost at the edge of the forest, three young girls were collecting herbs and singing a song about the crows that were preparing to eat the dead knight’s corpse. De Roy clasped the reins and gritted his teeth.
“Witches.”
Magnus McCormack scowled, his long grey hair waving in the air. “Just a bit more patience. We shall get rid of them soon.”
They hit the spurs and vanished from the field. Neither the girls nor their aunt had noticed them. When the baskets were full, they seated under the shades of the maples and began sorting the herbs. Electra and Medea were talking about something, but Cassandra wasn’t listening to them. For some time she sat by herself, quiet and thoughtful. Then a white hand patted her on the head, and Andromeda sat beside her.
“My child, is anything bothering you?”
Cassandra shook her head.
“I can see that you are worried about something. What is bothering you, my angel?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Meda. I think it’s only a flight of fancy and nothing more.” Cassandra threw a quick glance at Medea and just as quickly looked away.
“Is it about Medea?” Andromeda asked. “What has she done?”
“No, nothing. It’s not about her. Rather about my imagination.”
“Tell me about it.”
Cassandra bit her lips.
“You remember what happened the last time when you kept secrets from me, right? You can tell me anything. I won’t get angry, but I want to be sure that my girls are not in trouble.”
“Why is she different?”
“Medea?” Andromeda looked at the black-haired nymph sitting under the trees, telling something to Electra and laughing heartily. “You all are different, my dear. Everyone is different.”
“Yes, but she… she is… it is like she’s not…” She stopped halfway and looked at Medea, at her pale skin, paler than theirs, at her black hair and the black fathomless eyes. She then rested her eyes on the wicker basket near Medea, which was full of herbs, flowers, and fly agarics. Morrigan flew above their heads and cawed.
“That day at the fair,” Cassandra said. “She changed. I didn’t recognize her. I am so scared for her. What if she doesn’t restrain herself? What if she gives them a chance to accuse her? My poor Medea. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
Now she was trying hard not to cry. Her eyes were lost in moisture, but she knew she had to hold the tears back to avoid upsetting her sisters. Andromeda kissed her brow and assured her she wouldn’t let anything happen to them. She left Cassandra, went near Medea, and began sorting the herbs in her basket. Cassandra wiped away the tears that had managed to crawl down her cheeks.
“Then I told him that witchcraft is not for everyone,” Electra was saying. “But he is so stubborn, my lovely fellow. Now I’m wondering if there is anything easy enough to be taught to him.”
“You don’t need this.” Andromeda took an acorn out of Medea’s basket. Medea snatched it and threw it at the tree where Electra was sitting. The acorn hit the bark and fell into Electra’s basket.
“Hey, darling, don’t you dare tell your boyfriend our family secrets.” Medea laughed.
Electra took the acorn, looked at it for a second, and tossed it at Cassandra, aiming into her basket. “Cassie, tell your sister that I’m not so stupid to teach Eric family secrets.”
Cassandra gave the acorn to the squirrel nearby. The squirrel took it and scurried up the tree. “How do I know what’s on your mind? Maybe you will,” she said with a smile.
A butterfly floated before Cassandra’s eyes and settled down on her head. A moment later another dozen butterflies appeared around her and perched on her soft hair, forming a colorful headband. Cassandra laughed. “Beautiful crown,” she said. “Now set them free.”
“Free!” Electra spread her hands aside. The butterflies rose above Cassandra’s head and scattered away.
Andromeda helped Electra with her basket and all four returned home. Eric was in the blue castle, waiting for her. She sat with him on a swinging couch in the garden, among the lilies and lavenders, and listened to Eric’s story about the premonitions he had been having recently.
“I don’t know if I’m really sensing something, or if this feeling is because of the diaries I’ve read and the creature that’s lurking in the town. I’m having nightmares every night. I wake up covered in sweat, but maybe it’s only because I sleep with closed windows, and my room is hot. I’m so worried, sunshine.”
Electra wrapped her arms around his neck and put her head on his shoulder.
“Am I thinking too much into it?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. So many things are happening. Would you like to tell me about your dreams?”
Eric stroked her check with his knuckles. How beautiful she was: a flower among the flowers, fairer than all the garden roses around. He tore off a white lily from its stem and tucked it into her braid behind her ear. Eric then lay down on the couch and put his head on her lap.
“I don’t remember my dreams, but I remember the feeling after I wake up. I feel devastated. Sometimes I can feel I’ve been crying in my sleep. The only thing I remember about my dreams is the shining of the stars. And then there’s darkness. I feel something bad will happen.”
“You know what we shall do? We shall go to Aunt’s Fortune-telling Room and have a cartomancy session.”
Electra led Eric into a room on the second floor of the castle. She told him to sit in front of a round table, and lit up the candles. The room was hazy; only the table and one of the walls were illumined by the candlelight. Electra picked up a crystal ball from the table and put it away. In the dark corner of the room, she loosened her hair, and came back wearing a long mantle, with a black conical hat in her hands.
“Is that necessary?” Eric asked when she put the hat on.
“Not really. But I look good in it, don’t I?”
“Absolutely, my gorgeous witch.”
Electra took a de
ck of tarot cards and sat in front of Eric. “And now, young man, let's see what is bothering you,” she said, shuffling the deck. “This is your past.” She pointed at a card on the table. “Four of Wands. Appreciation, harmony.” Electra pulled out another card. “Two of Cups—a romance, new friendship.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Now what your present says.” She placed a card on the table. “Eight of Pentacles. That’s employment, a new profession.”
“Wow.” Eric looked at the card with a craftsman at his work. “Until now you haven’t been mistaken.”
The fortune-teller pulled out another card. “Ten of Cups. A family quarrel.”
Eric sighed. Electra put one more card on the table. “The Star. Upright!”
“What’s it?”
“Hope. Optimism. Faith. And now the future.” Electra put three cards on the top of the rest. A shadow clouded her face. All cards were reverse. All predicted misfortunes.
“Why did you stop?” Eric asked. “What’s this card?” He put his finger on the card with ten coins.
“Ten of Pentacles.”
“What does it foretell?”
“It augurs family misfortune.”
“And this one?” He pointed at a man with a sword in one hand and scales in the other.
“False accusations. Unfairness. Bias.” For a moment Electra thought about lying to him, and hiding the true meanings of the cards, but changed her mind. She wasn’t going to conceal anything from him. They looked at each other, then their eyes rested on the last card: a horseman on a white steed.
“Death,” was written under the card.
23. Planning the Future
Cassandra was resting on the bank of the river, enclosed in her beloved’s arms, and wondering how she was going to live without him for the upcoming months. Raymond was supposed to return to Ornshire and stay there until the end of the winter.
“I wish I didn’t have to go,” he was saying. “But grandmother needs me there, and I can’t disobey her.”
“I know,” she sighed. “But I was hoping you’d stay the whole autumn in Hollow.”
Raymond cuddled her. “I will talk to grandmother as soon as I have the chance.”
“You will talk to her?”
“Have you forgotten? I’m going to talk to grandmother about my future, our future—mine and yours.”
“Our future,” she mumbled, forcing a smile.
“I want to introduce you to my grandmother. I am sure she’ll love you as much as I do.” Raymond drew her closer and bowed to her lips. “I can’t wait to show you Ornshire. That’s one beautiful place. I know how much you love Hollow, but Ornshire is something different. I’ve never seen so many trees as in Ornshire. It’s one huge forest, teemed with oaks and poplars, cedars and aspens. It's so green there, and the air is cleaner than you can imagine. Ah, Cassie, I can’t wait to take you there. Bonnie and I will take you on a tour, and you’ll see that I wasn’t lying, not even exaggerating. Grandmother takes good care of the place. No one can touch anything in Ornshire without her approval.”
“She looks so grave—your grandmother. Always so serious.” Cassandra considered the Dowager a woman with no soul, a rare jewel, polished to brightness and perfection.
“She is, most of the time. She’s a strong woman, taking care of so many matters for the last three decades. You know her husband, the Duke of Ornshire, died very early, and being all alone made my grandmother develop a harsher character. My father’s death was another strike for her, but she bore her grief silently, as she always does; she rarely shows emotions. She doesn’t even smile.”
“Maybe before you talk to her we need to discuss it?”
“Discuss what, my love?”
“Our future.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Cassie. I’ve thought of everything already.” He kissed the top of her head. “No need to burden this beautiful head with problems. I will think for both of us.”
Cassandra bit her lips and kept silent. Raymond spoke about their future life in Ornshire for another hour, but she hardly heard him.
“You need to tell him you’re not ready,” Electra told her after Cassandra shared Raymond’s plans with her sisters. “You’re only seventeen, why would you marry so soon?”
“I don’t want to marry,” she said. “But I love him, and I’m afraid I might lose him if I tell him that. There’s probably a whole line of girls ready to marry him this very moment.”
“Cassie, I may not be the best advisor, I am only four months older, but if he loves you, he won’t leave you just because you’re not ready for marriage. You need not sacrifice yourself.”
“She’s right,” Medea said, sitting on Cassandra’s bed. “Why is it that you have to do as he wishes when he hasn’t even asked if you want to marry? Getting married at seventeen is silly.”
“Besides, is Raymond planning to live his whole life as the Duke of Ornshire and spend his days and nights lying on the couch doing nothing? Has he talked about that?”
Cassandra cast her eyes down.
“Sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”
“You’re not harsh. You both are right, but I’m not sure I can tell him all this. Maybe I need to write him a letter?”
“A letter?” Medea chuckled. “Are you such a coward that you can’t say what you think straight into the face of the fellow you love? Or are you so unsure about him?”
“No! No, I am sure. I know he loves me just as much as I love him.”
“Then talk to him. Do it tomorrow, before he leaves. I don’t know a lot about love matters, but I think that lovers shouldn’t hide anything from each other. You know what they say: love conquers everything.”
“Medea is right.” Electra sat behind Cassandra and began combing her hair. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m glad to have you. What would I do without you?”
“You’d get married at seventeen and have a boring life of a houseduchess all your life.”
“A houseduchess!” Electra cracked up.
“I think thousands of girls would dream about being a houseduchess.” Cassandra giggled.
“Maybe. But don’t forget that we’re special,” Medea said slyly.
“Special? Rather damned,” Electra muttered, braiding Cassandra’s hair.
Cassandra pouted. “Don’t say that. We’re not damned.”
“Then why do I hear ‘damned creature’ whispered behind my back all the time?”
All three sighed.
“Do you think this will ever end?”
“I don’t know, Medea. I’m not sure it will.”
“Why can’t they leave us alone?” Cassandra said. “What have we done to them? Why are they so mean?”
“Forget about them, and think about the upcoming conversation with Raymond.” Medea glanced at Cassandra’s long braid. “I want one, too!”
Cassandra gave up her place to Medea, and Electra began combing her hair.
“Yes, you’re right. I need to think about my conversation with Raymond. I only hope that none of us will be left disappointed.”
“I promise you that everything will be alright,” Medea said, stretching her arms to her sister and hugging her tightly.
Cassandra kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “Thank you for the encouragement, sweetheart.”
She thought about Raymond all night. She hardly slept, got out of bed at the crack of dawn, and without waiting for the breakfast went to the hospital earlier than usual. At the hospital’s door she saw Dr. Robinson scrubbing mud off the windows.
“Why is so much mud splashed over the windows?” she asked.
“Cassie?” Dr. Robinson started. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to see this.”
Cassandra stared at the dirty windows. “Dr. Robinson, does this happen every day?”
“It doesn’t matter. Go inside, I will finish in a moment.”
Cassandra took the cloth from his hands. “I’ll do that myself. After all, it’s been done becau
se of me.”
Dr. Robinson let out a heavy sigh. “One day this will end, and they will leave you and your family alone.”
“And until then I will clean the windows.” She smiled mirthlessly and began scrubbing the glass.
Cassandra met Raymond in the evening. She expected him to get angry and leave her on the bank of the river, but Raymond listened to her in silence.
“I see,” he said when she told him she didn’t want to marry yet. “And when do you think you’ll be ready?”
“I don’t know,” she said sincerely.
“Maybe next year?”
“I… I don’t know. Well, maybe, yes.”
Raymond took her in his arms. “Cassie, my love,” he exclaimed. “I’m so happy. What about next summer? But no, that’s too long. Next spring. What do you think?”
Cassandra was scared to raise her eyes at him. The look of bewilderment on her face might upset Raymond once again. And this time he’d get angry, she was sure of it.
Spring. She wouldn’t even be eighteen.
“Say yes, Cassie,” he urged her, hugging her tighter. “Come to live with us in Ornshire. Grandmother, Bonnie, me and you.”
She made a sound between yes, oh, and well. Raymond pressed his lips to hers and kissed her fervently.
“I’ll take you to Ornshire during the annual ball, and you’ll meet Grandmother at last. She’ll give us her blessing and we will never have to part again. What do you think?”
I think I need to talk to my sisters, she thought.
24. The Lonely Widower
Eric and Electra were sitting under an oak tree named Lonely Widower, near one of the streams of the Sirtalion that cut across a beautiful glen. The name of the tree moved Eric’s curiosity, and he heard a touching story about two oaks growing side by side for decades, and how one of them became infected with oak wilt, and Woodcutter Acks had to cut it down. From then on, the three witches gave the surviving tree the name Lonely Widower, as it lost a lot of foliage and looked broken and depressed the way that only trees could look.
While telling the story, Electra was painting the landscape. Then for some time Eric amused her by playing his guitar. Getting tired of playing, he put the guitar on the grass and approached Electra’s easel. She had painted the scenery of Hollow: the grey rocks with trees around them, the mist at their base, the trail of yellow clouds swimming above the glen, and the lonely oak tree on the foreground. Eric climbed up the Lonely Widower and settled on the bough.
“Is there anything interesting up there?” Electra asked him, touching the canvas with the brush.
“I thought that this way I would appear in your painting.”
“Your wit sometimes bewilders me.”
“Is it a mirage or is there really a castle behind Mysterious Forest?”
“It’s an old, abandoned castle.”
“It surely has a story, right? Tell me about it. Why is it abandoned?”
“The castle has been abandoned because no one really knows how to reach it. There is no road. I’ve heard that only the river leads to the castle through the woods, but that part of the forest is said to be the most dangerous. It was there that Morgaine fooled the wanderers and webbed them in her nets.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Ostband.”
Eric gazed at the bits of the castle that were peeping through the thicket of the forest. It was far away, but a sudden chill passed through his body, as if he was there, inside the cold walls of that abandoned fortress. He looked away and for a while stared at his beloved. She was engrossed in the painting, and Eric was absorbed in her calm face and precise movements. The grass she was sitting on resembled the throne of a nymph harmonious with the beautiful surroundings she was painting. From time to time she put the brush down and looked into the distance. Sometimes she stared too long, and Eric wondered what she was thinking about. She was thoughtful. Even from a distance he could see the sorrow in her eyes. He wished her happiness; he wanted to always see her cheerful. She was happy when she was with him, but sometimes that shade of sadness clouded her pretty face. She was constantly in fear and doubt. She never knew what tomorrow would bring. While there was so much hate towards her and her family, every day could be her last. Eric bit his lips with anger. She shouldn’t live in fear, he thought, that’s not right. He wished he could take her away with him. He would protect her and no one would harm her. With all its beauty and splendor, Hollow was a dangerous place for his beloved witch.
Painting tired her. Electra stretched her hands, took a deep breath, then lay down on the grass and closed her eyes. Eric reclined on the bough and continued staring. So many colors, he thought, looking at the carpet of green grass, the deep blue of her dress, and the burning flames of her hair scattered around her face. He could sit on the tree and stare at her all day long. The glen was quiet. The wind was cool, the grass and flowers were rocking from side to side, and the nightingales were warbling on the branches—an absolute idyll.
A witch, Eric thought. Of all the girls in the world, he loved a witch. That word sounded malicious. It was so far from what she really was. To him she wasn’t wicked, but a beautiful and gentle creature, and everyone who wished her harm was an enemy to him.
“Are you going to stay in the tree till night?” Electra’s voice cut short his thoughts.
“I can’t take my eyes off you,” Eric said. “And from this angle, I’m not missing anything.”
A sudden wind gusted and stirred the branches of the tree where Eric was sitting. The leaves tickled his face and the twigs swayed from side to side.
“Did you do this?” Eric asked, noticing that she was smiling.
“I can’t tell you. You live on the East Bank.”
“I won’t betray your secret, my witch.”
“You know we’re not supposed to perform witchcraft around the Easterners,” Electra said, playing with a blackbird that had perched on her bosom. “That’s why that will be the last trick you witness.”
“Please don’t do that to me.” Eric turned over the bough and landed on the ground. He reclined beside her and stroke her silky hair. “You can't be so cruel. I love your tricks of witchcraft.”
“Ah, naive boy. You call them tricks. I wonder what you’d say if you faced the real witchcraft: a mighty power, a potent wave that can sweep away the trees, raise the sea, and whirl the wind.”
“Tell me more,” Eric said.
“I will not, but if you want, I shall sing for you.”
Eric saw she regretted talking about witchcraft and wanted to change the subject. He didn’t mind, especially when she was going to distract him with her singing. By her request, he handed her the guitar. She told him she had been practicing during his absence and was eager to show him how much she had learnt. She settled between his knees and put the guitar on her lap, then strummed the strings while the blackbirds leaped in the grass.
“I am a young sailor5,
My story is sad,
Though once I was carefree
And a brave sailor lad,
I courted a lassie
By night and by day,
Oh but now she has left me,
And sailed far away.
“Oh, if I was a blackbird
Could whistle and sing,
I'd follow the vessel
My true love sails in,
And in the top riggin'
I would there build my nest,
And I'd flutter my wings
O’er her lilly white breast.
“Or if I was a scholar
And could handle the pen
Once secret love letter
To my true love I'd send
And tell of my sorrow,
My grief and my pain
Since she's gone and left me
In yon flowery glen.
“I sailed o'er the ocean,
My fortune to seek.
Though I missed her caress
And her kiss on my cheek
<
br /> I returned and I told her
My love was still warm
But she turned away lightly
And great was her scorn.
“I offered to take her
To Donnybrook Fair.
And to buy her fine ribbons
To tie up her hair.
I offered to marry
And to stay by her side.
But she says in the morning
She sails with the tide.
“My parents, they chide me,
Oh they will not agree.
Saying that me and my false love,
Married should never be.
Oh, let them deprive me,
Or let them do what they will.
While there's breath in my body,
She's the one I love still.”
When Electra finished her song, Eric pressed her to his chest. She buried her face in his neck, and so they sat in stillness, watching the sky grow darker, and the clouds take over the waning sun. The shadow of twilight covered the glen, and a thunderclap warned about the upcoming storm.
“Someone is arguing again,” Electra said.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Eric told her, pressing her tighter to his chest.
“I know.”
While the rain was pouring, they hid in the treehouse, sitting on the pillows in front of the window and watching the trees under the torrent.
“I know what you’re thinking about,” Eric said. “I wish I could keep these thoughts away from your head.”
“I wish that too,” she whispered, her head on his chest.
“It breaks my heart to see you like this. You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Electra was silent.
“You think these are just words, right? You think I can’t protect you from them. But I swear I’ll do anything for you. The moment I sense real trouble I’ll take you away.”
Electra smiled mirthlessly. “To where?”
“To my home. You and the girls. I’ll take you all to my place, where nothing will happen to you.”
Electra let out a bitter laugh, then kissed him on the cheek. “We shall not leave Hollow.”
“But why? Why won’t you at least go to Walachia to live with your grandparents? You’d be safe there.”
“We shall not leave Hollow,” she repeated. “We never will. That’s what we told Uncle and Aunt when they were debating on sending us to Grandpa Grindewald’s castle. We shall not leave Hollow. That’s what they want—to banish us from the town. But this is our home, and no one can force us to leave Hollow.”
For a while the rain and the forest were the only ones making a noise: an incomprehensible conversation between two old friends, consisting of the sounds of gushing water and the rustling of leaves. Then she said, “Tell me, those diaries… Do they tell about my parents?”
Eric didn’t speak.
“Please, tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them. What were they like? Aunt and Uncle rarely talk about them. Whenever the girls and I asked Aunt Meda about our mothers, she became so tearful that in the end we stopped asking her questions. Maybe you could tell me more than just their names and looks.”
“They were wonderful people. Your mother was a nurse. She brew potions that soothed pain and healed wounds. She’d stay in the hospital till morning, nursing her patients. Everyone loved her, because she was sweet and caring, and she had a soothing voice and a calm touch. She was Dr. Pill’s favorite nurse; he trusted her with the hopeless patients.”
“Then… why did they kill her?” she sobbed.
“I don’t know.” Eric wrapped his arms around her shaking body. “I wish I could explain people’s strange behavior. Sometimes we do inexplicable things. Sometimes we see evil when there is none, or we’re blinded by jealousy, ruled by fear, led by envy. Maybe because we can’t accept anything unordinary, or because we need to blame others for our problems instead of taking the responsibility ourselves. I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Do you know how they died?”
Eric didn’t know what to say.
“Please, tell me how they died.”
Silence.
“Were they tortured to death?”
Silence.
“Drowned?”
No word.
“Burnt?”
To distract her Eric tried to kiss her, but she drew her head back and looked him in the eyes. “I want to know.”
“Why are you torturing yourself? Let those thoughts go.”
“Tell me,” she said, and the tears crawled down her face. “Tell me now. Sooner or later I will know. Why not now?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about the witch hunt. It’s breaking your heart. And mine, too. Those diaries, they are the worst things I’ve ever read.”
“What if they do the same to me and my sisters?”
She put her head back on his chest and took a deep breath. Eric buried his face in her fiery mane, closed his eyes for only a second, but had a vision that lasted an eternity. He saw a woman tied to a log, with burning brushwood around her. The black smoke was swallowing her and she was moaning in agony. He knew her, it was her—Electra, tied to the log, inside the flames, and there was a man with her…
Eric winced when the hot iron scalded his palms. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands—the skin was white and untouched.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He cupped her face and looked into her tearful eyes. “Whatever is coming, I will go through it with you.”
25. The Woman by the Fountain
Hector and Jack examined every fountain on the West Bank, and Eric searched those on the East Bank, but there were still no results. The fountain riddle remained unsolved.
It was an August evening, when Eric was sitting alone in the Old Curiosity shop, glancing out into the Craftsman’s Alley. He was thinking about the creature and how to warn others about her. Since he had been locking his bedroom window, the bites on his chest had healed. He had no doubt that whatever creature it was—a lamia or any other evil thing—it had been coming into his room and drinking his blood. He shuddered from the thought that a lamia had been digging her fangs into his chest. He could try to warn the townsfolk, but would anyone even believe him?
No one came to the shop for the whole day. Bored, Eric began sorting the books and manuscripts. He found photo albums and thumbed through them. There were the old photographs he had once been looking at, but there were also older ones, taken in Hollow decades ago. Women were in long gowns, and men were wearing tuxedos. The faces were indiscernible, but Eric didn’t care for the faces, as in one of the photos he spotted the bronze fountain in the center of the square. He turned the photo and looked at its back. It was dated 1895. Eric pulled out other photos from the albums. Some of them were almost the same photos taken in different angles. He remembered about a device that Mr. Pickering used sometimes. He opened the cabinet in the corner and took out a big stereoscope, then placed two similar photographs under the glass and began examining them. In some of the photos the fountain was full of water. Eric scattered the photos on the table, took a magnifying glass, and squinted at them. Something was different. He again placed the photographs under the stereoscope glass and studied them for so long that his eyes began aching. There was one photo with a woman standing by the fountain, pointing the edge of her parasol at the bronze statues. And suddenly it dawned upon him that the statues were grouped together. Eric could swear that the figures of the fountain on the square were far from each other. He thought it over. Yes, they were away from each other: the lady was on the left, the whistler on the right, and the boy in the middle.
They can move, Eric thought. That might be the answer to the riddle. The figures move. Now, how could they move the bronze statues?
Eric put the photographs back in their places except for the one of the woman with the parasol. He went to the square and examined the fountain, the
n began feeling up the statues and looking for any possible button or lever that could make them move.
Nothing.
He spent half an hour by the fountain, pushed the statues, tried to move them across the pool, but only managed to pique the curiosity of the passersby, who stared in bewilderment at the fellow pulling the statues and trying to drag them from their places. The next morning, Eric called his friends to the fountain and told them about his discovery. Then he showed them the photo.
“Look at the whistler,” Medea said. “He has a flute, and the water is flowing out of it.”
“The flute is gone now,” Eric said, looking at the whistler’s figure.
“It has always been gone. At least, ever since I can remember,” Electra said.
“Someone has taken it,” Eric suggested.
“Who? Or rather, why? Why would someone steal the statue’s flute?” Cassandra asked.
Jack groped the bronze hands that were grabbing the empty air where the flute was supposed to be, while the witches examined the lady’s statue, looking at the folds of her dress, at the fan in her hand, and at her hairdo.
“Look here. Something is missing from her hair.” Electra pointed to a small hole inside the bronze hairdo. “What can it be?”
“A brooch?” Medea suggested.
“I doubt it,” Cassandra said. “It’s not a good place for a brooch. If her hair were real, then the brooch would be totally lost in it. You don’t wear a brooch to hide it.”
The girls looked at Jack and Eric, but they spread their hands. “You know about women's accessories better than us,” Eric said.
The girls began making suggestions: a ribbon, a gem, a hairpin. They looked at the lady from head to feet. Her dress reminded them of those from the 19th century, with long hems, corsets, and laces, and they began discussing what women would have carried in their hair two hundred years ago: a vial with poison, a key from a secret door, or maybe…
“I know what it is!” Electra exclaimed. “It’s a flea box.”
“Huh?” the boys said simultaneously.
“A flea box. That’s what the ladies used to carry in their hair back in the day. In those times everyone had fleas. Flea boxes were designed to catch the fleas inside their hair. They were small and had a tiny hole. A tissue sprinkled with blood or honey was placed in the box, and the fleas would get inside and get stuck.”
“I always suspected that behind all that glamor and gold, lousy reality was hidden.” Eric smirked, examining the hole in the bronze hair.
They turned their attention to the statue of the boy in a nightgown, wearing slippers and a nightcap. In the end they all came to the same conclusion—the only thing that was missing from the statue was the candle in the candlestick.
“So, what do we have? A whistler without a flute, a lady without a flea box, and a boy without a candle. We need to get these items, put them on the statues, and maybe”—Jack looked around—“maybe the fountain will give us the key.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go get those things,” Eric said.
“Where do you think you can get them from? The market?”
“Why not? Does it matter where we get them from?”
Jack smirked. “Look at the statues, my dear boy, and tell me what you see.”
Eric did as Jack said, thought for a moment, and said, “A woman, a little boy, and a whistler.”
“It’s not just a woman. She seems to be from the 19th century.”
“So what?”
“Are you ready to go back in time and get a flea box for her?”
“You have to be kidding.”
“And that boy. He needs a candle. I think I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“Yes, this statue reminds me of something too,” Hector said. “I’ve seen him before. Come now, think—remember.”
“Small figure, nightcap, slippers. Oh, I’m sure I have seen him too,” Cassandra said. “For some reason obscurity comes to mind. Coldness. Stones. Stairs. Oh, something is coming to mind, something that I will remember soon.” She sat down on the fountain’s edge and lowered her head. “Stairs. Stairs. Why am I thinking about stairs?”
“Where do we have stairs?” Medea tried to help her. “Think. Where do we have stairs?”
“At home,” Electra said.
“In the restaurant,” Jack added.
“At school,” Hector said.
“In the library,” Ariadne thought out loud.
“Yes! The public library. The museum. It’s a painting in the museum!”
“Oh, right,” Electra said. “Right, ‘The Boy in the Nightgown.’ The painting from the museum.”
“How could we have been so blind?” Medea exclaimed. “Of course it’s the boy from the painting. He’s standing on the stone stairs that are supposedly leading to the top of the tower. He is wearing those same slippers and the nightcap, and he has a candlestick in his hand. I know that painting.”
“That’s good news,” Hector said. “The museum and the library are in the same building. We’ll get inside the same way we did once and find the candle.”
“At least we don’t have to go back in time to get a candle,” Eric said.
“Maybe, but it doesn’t mean that getting the candle will be easier than the flea box. And yet, none of them will be as hard as the flute,” Jack said.
“Why?” Eric asked.
“Because this is no ordinary man. This is the Pied Piper.”