by TJ Klune
Lucy looked around, the light fading from his eyes. “It’s the best. I like having my own room. Arthur says that it’s important to have independence.” He glanced at Linus before looking away, and Linus could have sworn he looked almost nervous. “Just as long as he doesn’t go too far away.” His eyes widened. “But I’m not a baby! I can be fine by myself! In fact, I’m by myself all the time!”
Linus arched an eyebrow. “All the time? Oh, no. No, no, no. That won’t do. I’ll need to have a word with Mr. Parnassus, if that’s the case. A child of your age should never be by himself all the time—”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lucy cried. “What I meant was is that I’m never by myself! Ever! Everywhere I go, he’s there! He’s like a shadow. It’s so annoying.”
“Well, if you say so.”
Lucy nodded furiously. “I do. That’s exactly what I said. So, no need to talk to Arthur about it or put it in reports and say bad things about me.” His smile was positively angelic. “I swear I’m a good person.” The smile faded. “And you don’t need to worry about looking under my bed. And if you do, the bird skeleton under it isn’t mine, and I don’t know who put it there, but they should be punished because that’s wrong.” He smiled again.
Linus stared at him.
“Okay!” he said, stepping forward and grabbing Linus by the hand. “That’s it! That’s my room! No need to see anything else!” He pulled Linus toward the door and flung it open. “Arthur! He saw my room and said everything looks good and there’s nothing bad in it at all and that I’m a good person. And he likes the same music as me! Dead people music.”
Mr. Parnassus looked up from the book in his lap. “Is that right? Dead people music?”
Lucy lifted his head up to look at Linus, still holding his hand tightly. “We like dead things, don’t we, Mr. Baker?”
Linus sputtered.
Lucy let him go and collapsed on the floor at Mr. Parnassus’s feet where he’d been when Linus had arrived. He folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. “My brain is filled with spiders burrowing their eggs in the gray matter. Soon they’ll hatch and consume me.”
Linus had no idea what to do with that.
Thankfully, it appeared Mr. Parnassus did. He closed the book in his lap and set it on the small table next to the chairs. He tapped one of his wing tip shoes against Lucy’s shoulder. “How descriptive. We’ll discuss that more in detail in just a moment. First, Mr. Baker would like to observe. Would that be all right with you?”
Lucy glanced at Linus before looking back toward the ceiling. “That’s fine. He likes dead things almost as much as I do.”
That wasn’t even remotely true.
“Indeed,” Mr. Parnassus said, motioning for Linus to sit in the vacant chair. “How fortuitous. Where did we leave off before Mr. Baker arrived?”
Linus sat. He pulled his notepad out, along with his pencil. He didn’t know why his fingers were shaking.
“Categorical Imperative,” Lucy said. “Kant.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Mr. Parnassus said. “Thank you for reminding me.” Linus got the idea that he didn’t need to be reminded at all. “And what did Kant say about the Categorical Imperative?”
Lucy sighed. “That it’s the supreme principle of morality. It’s an objective. A rationally necessary and unconditional principle that we must always follow despite any natural desires or inclinations to the contrary.”
“And was Kant right?”
“That to be immoral is to be irrational?”
“Yes.”
Lucy scrunched up his face. “No?”
“And why not?”
“Because people aren’t black and white. No matter how hard you try, you can’t stay on one path without diversions. And that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”
Mr. Parnassus nodded. “Even if you have spiders in your brain?”
Lucy shrugged. “Maybe. But Kant was talking about normal people. I’m not normal.”
“Why is that?”
He tapped his stomach. “Because of where I came from.”
“Where did you come from?”
“A vagina after it was penetrated by a penis.”
“Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus admonished, as Linus choked.
Lucy rolled his eyes. He shifted as if he were uncomfortable. “I came from a place where things weren’t so good.”
“Are they better now?”
“Mostly.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Lucy squinted up at Linus before turning his head toward Mr. Parnassus. “Because I have my own room here. And my records. And you and the others, even though Theodore won’t let me see his hoard.”
“And the spiders?”
“Still there.”
“But?”
“But I can have spiders in my head as long as I don’t let them consume me and then destroy the world as we know it.”
Linus could barely breathe.
Mr. Parnassus didn’t seem to have that problem. He was smiling. “Exactly. To err is to be human, irrational or not. And while some mistakes are bigger than others, if we learn from them, we become better people. Even if we have spiders in our brains.”
“I’m unholy.”
“So some people say.”
Lucy’s face scrunched up as if he was thinking hard. “Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“Did you know your name is a mountain?”
Mr. Parnassus blinked, as if he’d been caught off guard. “I did. How did you know that?”
Lucy shrugged. “I know a lot of things, but I don’t always know how I know them. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of.”
“Mount Parnassus was sacred to Apollo.”
“I know.”
“And do you know Linus of Thrace?”
Mr. Parnassus shifted in his seat. “I … don’t think so.”
“Oh! Well, Apollo killed Linus with his arrows because of a musical contest. Are you going to kill Mr. Baker?” Lucy turned his head slowly to look at Linus. “If you do, can you make sure to use arrows? I don’t want him to be un-holey too.”
He began to cackle.
Mr. Parnassus sighed as Linus’s chest hitched. “Did you just tell that entire story to be able to make a joke?”
“Yes,” Lucy said, wiping his eyes. “Because you told me once that if we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’re doing it wrong.” He frowned. “Am I doing it wrong? Nobody seems to be laughing.”
“Humor is subjective, I’m afraid,” Mr. Parnassus said.
“That’s unfortunate,” Lucy said, staring back up at the ceiling. “Humanity is so weird. If we’re not laughing, we’re crying or running for our lives because monsters are trying to eat us. And they don’t even have to be real monsters. They could be the ones we make up in our heads. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“I suppose. But I’d rather be that way than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Not feeling anything at all.”
Linus looked away.
* * *
Lucy was delighted when Mr. Parnassus ended the session early at a quarter after six. He was told he could head to the kitchen to see if Ms. Chapelwhite needed his help. He jumped up and spun in a little circle as he stomped his feet before heading toward the door, bellowing over his shoulder that he hoped Linus found their time together illuminating.
Linus wasn’t sure illuminating was the right word.
They sat in silence as Lucy descended the stairs, making far too much noise for a boy his size. It sounded as if he bounced off every surface he could find on his way to the first floor.
Linus knew Mr. Parnassus was waiting on him, and he took the opportunity to gather his thoughts as best he could. His notepad was distressingly blank. He’d forgotten to take down a single observation. That wasn’t good for someone in his position, but he thought he was owed a little leeway with all he’d seen and heard since arriv
ing on the island.
“He’s not what I expected,” Linus finally said, staring off into nothing.
“No?”
He shook his head. “There’s … connotations behind the name. Antichrist.” He looked apologetically at Mr. Parnassus. “If I’m being honest.”
“Is there?” Mr. Parnassus asked dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m not sorry for that.”
“And I don’t expect you to be.” Mr. Parnassus looked down at his hands. “Can I tell you a secret?”
That startled Linus. He’d gathered that the master of Marsyas didn’t dispense his secrets often. It was infuriating, but understandable. “Yes? Of course.”
“I worried too, when I heard he was being sent to the island.”
Linus stared at him. “You worried?”
Mr. Parnassus arched an eyebrow. Linus found that he had to remind himself that according to his file, this man was five years older than he. He looked oddly young. Linus didn’t know why, but he sat a little straighter, and if he sucked in his stomach slightly, it was no one’s business but his own. “Why do you sound so offended?”
“I worry when the bus is late. I worry when I sleep through my alarm. I worry when I go to the store on the weekends, and avocados are so expensive. Those are worries, Mr. Parnassus.”
“Those are mundane,” he corrected gently. “The trappings of a normal life. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I say worried because it’s the best way I know how to express my feelings. I worried because he was alone, but I feel that way with all these children. I worried how he would fit in with the others who were already here. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to provide him what he needed.”
“And him being what he is?” Linus asked. “Did you worry about that too? It seems to me that should have been at the forefront of all your worries.”
He shrugged. “Of course, but it didn’t outweigh anything else. I understood the severity of the situation, Mr. Baker. But I couldn’t let that become the focus. That’s all he’s ever known, people worrying about what he is, what he’s capable of. Because their worry was only a thin cover for fear and revulsion. And children are far more observant than we give them credit for. If he saw the same thing in me as everyone else, what hope would there be?”
“Hope?” Linus said stupidly.
“Hope,” Mr. Parnassus repeated. “Because that is what we must give him, what we must give all of them. Hope and guidance and a place to call their own, a home where they can be who they are without fear of repercussion.”
“Forgive me, but I think to equate Lucy to the others is a bit shortsighted. He’s not like anyone else.”
“Neither is Talia,” Mr. Parnassus snapped. “Or Theodore. Or Phee or Sal or Chauncey. They’re here because they aren’t like everyone else. But that doesn’t mean that’s the way it needs to stay.”
“You sound naïve.”
“I’m frustrated,” Mr. Parnassus said. “These children are faced with nothing but preconceived notions about who they are. And they grow up to be adults who know only the same. You said it yourself: Lucy wasn’t who you expected him to be, which means you already had decided in your head what he was. How can we fight prejudice if we do nothing to change it? If we allow it to fester, what’s the point?”
“And yet you stay here on the island,” Linus said defensively. “You don’t leave. You don’t let them leave.”
“I am protecting them from a world that doesn’t understand. One day at a time, Mr. Baker. If I can instill confidence in them, a sense of self, then hopefully it will give them the tools they need to face the real world, especially since it will be just as hard for them. It doesn’t help when DICOMY sends someone like you to interfere.”
“Someone like me?” Linus asked. “What’s that supposed—”
Mr. Parnassus huffed out a breath. “I apologize. That was unfair. I know you’re only doing your job.” His smile was brittle. “Regardless of your employer, I think you are capable of seeing beyond a file or a particular nomenclature.”
Linus wasn’t sure if he’d been insulted or complimented. “Have there been others? Before me? Caseworkers.”
Mr. Parnassus nodded slowly. “Once. I only had Talia and Phee then, although Zoe—Ms. Chapelwhite—had already offered her assistance. There were rumors of the others, nothing concrete. But I made this house a home for those I had, and in preparation in case more came. Your predecessor, he … changed. He was lovely, and I thought he was going to stay. But then he changed.”
Linus heard all the things that weren’t being said. He understood now why Ms. Chapelwhite had laughed at him when he’d awkwardly asked if she and Mr. Parnassus were involved. And though it was surely none of his business, he asked, “What happened to him?”
“He was promoted,” Mr. Parnassus said quietly. “First to Supervision. And then, last I heard, to Extremely Upper Management. Just like he always wanted. I learned a very harsh lesson then: Sometimes wishes should never be spoken aloud as they won’t come true.”
Linus blinked. Surely he couldn’t mean— “Not the man with jowls.”
Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “No.”
“Or the bespectacled man.”
“No, Mr. Baker. Not the bespectacled man.”
That left the handsome man with wavy hair. Mr. Werner. The one who had told Linus there were concerns about the capabilities of Arthur Parnassus. Linus was scandalized, though he couldn’t quite be sure why. “But he is so … so…”
“So?” Mr. Parnassus asked.
Linus latched onto the only thing he could think of. “He serves dried-out ham at the holiday parties! It’s terrible.”
Mr. Parnassus stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing. Linus was startled by how warm and crackly the sound was, like waves crashing over smooth rocks. “Oh, my dear Mr. Baker. I do truly marvel at you.”
Linus felt oddly proud. “I try.”
“So you do,” he said, wiping his eyes.
They sat in silence again, and it was the most comfortable Linus had felt since arriving on the island. He didn’t dare examine it much, for fear it would show him things he wasn’t ready to see, but he knew it was there. But, like all things, it was temporary. His time here, much like his time in this world, was finite. It wouldn’t do to think otherwise.
Then, without even thinking, he said, “Kant, Arthur? Seriously? Of all the things.”
Mr. Parnassus’s eyes sparkled in the failing sunlight. “He had his fallacies.”
“Oh, that’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Schopenhauer said—”
“Schopenhauer? I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you, Linus. You are banished from the island. Leave immediately.”
“He had some very pointed critiques! And he did so only to further validate Kant’s work!”
Mr. Parnassus scoffed. “Validation wasn’t something Kant—”
“My good man, that’s where you are surely wrong.”
And on and on it went.
TEN
The ferry was waiting at the docks when Ms. Chapelwhite stopped her car. Linus could see Merle moving about on deck. He waved at them irritably, a scowl on his face. “Quite the impatient fellow, isn’t he?” Linus mused as the gate lowered from the ferry.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Ms. Chapelwhite muttered. “Man acts like he has business elsewhere. Mr. Parnassus is the only one who pays him for use of that rickety old boat, and he knows it. We don’t even need to use it, but we do to keep the peace.”
“How would you— You know what? I don’t want to know. Shall we, then?”
She sighed. “If we must.”
“I fear we must,” Linus said wisely.
She glanced at him as she put the car in drive and pulled forward slowly. He thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t speak. He wondered if he was projecting.
The ferry listed slightly as the car boarded, and though Linus felt queasy, it wasn�
�t as it’d been when he’d first arrived a week ago. That gave him pause. Had it really only been a week? He’d arrived on a Saturday, and … yes. It’d been exactly a week. He didn’t know why that surprised him. He was homesick still, but it was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.
That probably wasn’t a good sign.
Ms. Chapelwhite turned off the car as the gate rose again behind them. The horn blew from somewhere above them, and they were off. Linus stuck his hand out of the car, letting the sea breeze blow between his fingers.
They had only been aboard a few minutes when Merle appeared. “You have my money?” he demanded. “And remember, the fee has doubled.”
Ms. Chapelwhite snorted. “I do, you old codger.” She leaned over to reach into the glove compartment.
Linus panicked. “Who’s piloting the ferry?”
Merle frowned at him. “These things can mostly handle themselves. Computers, wouldn’t you know.”
“Oh,” Linus said without thinking. “What’s the point of you, then?”
Merle glared. “What did you say?”
“Your fee,” Ms. Chapelwhite said sweetly, thrusting an envelope into his hands. “And Mr. Parnassus asked that I relay a message to you. He hopes the fee doesn’t double yet again in the foreseeable future.”
Merle’s hand was shaking as he snatched the envelope from her hand. “I bet he does. Price of doing business, I’m afraid. It’s a tough economy.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Merle’s smile was cruel. “Of course you hadn’t. Your kind thinks it’s better than all the rest of us—”
“You would do well to stand down,” Linus advised. “And be careful not to drink that fee away. I’d hate to think how you’d survive this tough economy if you did.”
Merle glared at him before spinning on his heels and stomping back to the wheelhouse.
“Bastard,” Linus muttered. He glanced over at Ms. Chapelwhite, only to find her staring at him. “What?”
She shook her head. “You— It doesn’t matter.”
“Out with it, Ms. Chapelwhite.”
“Call me Zoe, would you? This Ms. Chapelwhite business is getting old.”