by TJ Klune
She frowned as she picked it up. “This is it?”
“It is.”
“Hold one moment.”
The metal grate slammed back down.
“You can do this, old boy,” he whispered.
* * *
It took longer this time for Ms. Bubblegum to return. So long, in fact, that Linus was sure he’d been forgotten about. He wondered if he should leave, but couldn’t figure out how to make his feet move. They seemed rooted in place.
Minutes went by. At least twenty of them.
He was about to give in to temptation and peek inside his briefcase at the photograph when the metal gate rattled open.
Ms. Bubblegum was frowning. “They’re ready to see you now.”
Linus nodded.
“They’re … not happy.”
“No, I don’t expect they would be.”
She blew a bubble. It popped loudly. “You’re a strange, strange man.”
A buzzer sounded, and the wooden doors opened.
* * *
Ms. Bubblegum didn’t speak as she led him past the fountain toward the black door with the gold plate on it. She opened it and stepped aside.
He didn’t look at her as he walked through the door. It shut behind him. The lights lit up on the floor, showing him the way. He followed them until they spread into a circle. There was a podium in the center of the circle. On it sat his report. He swallowed thickly.
Lights burst to life above him.
And there, staring down from atop the stone wall, was Extremely Upper Management.
The woman. Jowls. The bespectacled man.
And Charles Werner.
“Mr. Baker,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Linus said, shifting nervously.
“Your reports have been … well. They’ve been quite the topic of conversation.”
“Have they?”
Jowls coughed wetly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You know how I feel about euphemisms,” the bespectacled man said with a frown.
“Mr. Baker,” the woman said. “Is what you see before you the final report?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
She sat back in her chair. “Baffling. I find it to be lacking, compared to your other reports. Very lacking, indeed.”
“I believe I got straight to the point,” Linus countered. “Which is, after all, what you asked of me. I made my recommendation after a month of observation. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
“Careful, Mr. Baker,” Jowls said, squinting down at him. “I don’t like your tone.”
Linus bit back a retort, something even a couple of weeks ago he would never have had to do. “My apologies. I simply—I believe I’ve done what was required of me.”
Charles leaned forward. “Why don’t you read it for us? Perhaps hearing it spoken aloud will impress upon us any meaning lost in translation.”
Fine. He would play their games. He’d done it for years, ever the obedient employee. He opened the folder and looked down. “I solemnly swear the contents of this report are accurate and—”
“We know that, Mr. Baker,” the bespectacled man said rather impatiently. “All the reports start the same. It never changes for anyone. It’s the next part we’re most interested in.”
He looked up at them. “You know what it says.”
Charles grinned at him. “Read it, Mr. Baker.”
Linus did. “It is my recommendation that the Marsyas Orphanage remain open, and that the children therein continue under the tutelage of Arthur Parnassus.”
That was it. That was all he’d written.
He closed the folder.
“Hmm,” Charles said. “I didn’t get anything new from that. Anyone else have further insights?”
Jowls shook his head.
The bespectacled man sat back in his chair.
The woman folded her hands in front of her.
“I thought not,” Charles said. “Mr. Baker, perhaps you could expound. What is it that brought you to this conclusion?”
“My observation of the children and the way they interacted with each other and Arthur Parnassus.”
“Vague,” Jowls said. “I demand more.”
“Why?” Linus asked. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“We aren’t here to answer your questions, Mr. Baker,” the woman said sharply. “You are here to answer ours. Do not forget your—”
“My place?” Linus shook his head. “How can I, when I’m reminded of it constantly? I have done this job for seventeen years. I have never asked for more. I have never wished for more. I have done everything that has been asked of me without complaint. And here I stand before you, and you are demanding more from me. What more could I possibly have to give?”
“The truth,” the bespectacled man said. “The truth about what you—”
He slammed his hands on the podium. The sound was sharp and flat as it echoed through the room. “I have given you the truth. In each of my weekly reports, you’ve read nothing but the truth. With every assignment I’ve been sent on, I’ve only ever been honest, even if it hurt me to do so.”
“Objectivity,” Jowls said. “As written in the RULES AND REGULATIONS, a caseworker must be object—”
“I know that. And I have been. I remember them. All of them. All of their names. The hundreds of them that I’ve observed. And I’ve maintained my distance. I’ve put up that wall. Can you say the same? What are the names of the children on the island? Without looking down at whatever notes you have, what are their names?”
Jowls coughed. “This is ridiculous. Of course we know their names. There’s the Antichrist child—”
“Don’t call him that,” Linus growled. “That’s not who he is.”
Charles had a smug grin on his face. “It’s Lucy. A rather ridiculous nickname for what he is.”
“And?” Linus asked. “The other five?”
Silence.
“Talia,” Linus spat. “A gnome who loves to garden. She is fierce and funny and brave. She is prickly, but once you get past it, there is a loyalty underneath that will take your breath away. And after all that she has been through, after all that was taken from her, she still finds joy in the smallest of things.”
The woman said, “Mr. Baker, you should—”
“Phee! The forest sprite. She acts tough and distant, but all she ever wanted was a home. She was found in squalor because her kind had been sectioned off without aid. Did you know that? Did you even read her report? Because I did. Her mother starved to death in front of her. And Phee herself nearly died, and yet when men came to the camp to try and take her from her mother’s body, she managed to turn them into trees with the last of her strength. The forests on the island are thick because of her, and she would do anything to protect those she loves. She taught me about roots, and how they can be hidden away, waiting for the right moment to burst through the earth and change the landscape.”
Extremely Upper Management remained silent as Linus began to pace.
“Theodore! A wyvern, one of the few that remain. Did you know he can talk? Do any of you know that? Because I didn’t. I’d never been told. None of us had. But he can. Oh, he doesn’t speak in English, but he talks just the same. And if you listen long enough, if you give him the time, you will begin to understand him. He is not an animal. He is not a predator. He has complex thoughts and feelings and buttons. So many buttons!” Linus reached down to his coat pocket and felt the brass button inside, indented from sharp teeth.
“Chauncey! A … well, no one knows what he is, but it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter because he might be more human than any of us. He’s been told his whole life that he is a monster. That he is the thing that hides under beds. That he is a nightmare. That can’t be further from the truth. He is a curious little boy who has a dream. And my God, how simple it is. How breathtakingly lovely. He wants to be a bel
lhop. He wants to work at a hotel and greet people and carry their luggage. That is it. But would any of you allow it? Would any of you give him the opportunity?”
They didn’t respond.
“Sal,” Linus growled. “Abused and neglected. Shuffled around without a care for his well-being because of what he is capable of. He bit a woman, yes, and turned her, but she hit him. She struck a child. If you raise your hand enough, they will cower. But every now and then, they will strike back because that’s all they have left. He is shy. And quiet. And worries about everyone more than he worries about himself. And he writes. Oh Lord, he writes the most beautiful words. They are poetry. They are a symphony. They moved me more than anything else I’ve ever heard.”
“And what of the Anti—what of the last child?” the woman asked quietly.
“Lucy,” Linus said. “His name is Lucy. And he has spiders in his brain. He dreams of death and fire and destruction, and it tears at him. But do you know what I found? I found a boy, a six-year-old boy who loves going on adventures. Who has the wildest imagination. He dances. He sings. He lives for music, and it moves through him like the blood in his veins.”
“Regardless of whether or not you like to hear it,” Jowls said, “he is still what he is. That can never change.”
“It can’t?” Linus retorted. “I refuse to believe that. We are who we are not because of our birthright, but because of what we choose to do in this life. It cannot be boiled down to black and white. Not when there is so much in between. You cannot say something is moral or immoral without understanding the nuances behind it.”
“He’s immoral,” the bespectacled man said. “Maybe he never asked for it, but it is what he is. His lineage demands it. There is a wickedness in him. That is the very definition of immorality.”
“And who are you to decide that?” Linus asked through gritted teeth. “Who are you? You’ve never met him. Morality is relative. Just because you find something abhorrent, doesn’t mean it actually is.”
The woman frowned. “Many things are widely accepted as abhorrent. What was it you said he dreams of? Death and fire and destruction? If I recall from your last report, his nightmares were capable of manifesting themselves. Someone could have been hurt.”
“They could have,” Linus agreed. “But they weren’t. And it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt anyone. He’s a child who came from darkness. That doesn’t have to be who he becomes. And it won’t be. Not with who he has around him.”
“Would you leave the other children with him?” Jowls asked. “In a locked room with no supervision.”
“Yes,” Linus said immediately. “Without hesitation. I would stay in a locked room with him. Because I trust him. Because I know that no matter where he came from, he is more than a title you’ve given him.”
“And what happens when he grows up?” Charles asked. “What happens when he becomes a man? What if he decides this world isn’t what he wants it to be? You know who his father is.”
“I do,” Linus said. “His father is Arthur Parnassus. And he’s the best damn father Lucy has, and as far as I’m concerned, the only one.”
Extremely Upper Management gasped in unison.
Linus ignored them. He was just getting started. “And what of Arthur? Because I think that’s why I’m really here, isn’t it? Because of what he is. You have classified these children as a level four threat when by all rights they are just like every other child in the world, magical or not. But it was never about them, was it? It was always about Arthur.”
“Careful, Mr. Baker,” Charles warned. “I told you once I don’t like being disappointed, and you are very close to disappointing me.”
“No,” Linus said. “I will not be careful. It may not have been by your hand that he suffered, but it was by your ideals. The ideals of DICOMY. Of a registration. Of the prejudice against them. You allow it to fester, you and all the people before you who sat where you do now. You keep them segregated from everyone else because they’re different than the rest of us. People fear them because they’re taught to. See something, say something. It inspires hatred.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared up at Charles Werner. “You think you can control them. You think you can control him. To use him to get what you want. To keep him hidden away with your other dirty little secrets. But you are wrong. All of you are wrong.”
“That’s quite enough,” the bespectacled man snapped. “You are treading on very thin ice, Mr. Baker, and you don’t seem to hear it cracking beneath your feet.”
“Indeed,” the woman said. “And it certainly doesn’t help that we received a report from a concerned citizen about a confrontation between Arthur Parnassus and—”
Linus ground his teeth together. “Oh, concerned, were they? Tell me. In relaying their concern, did they explain what exactly they were doing at the dock to begin with? What their plans were? Because from what I could see, they were the aggressors. If Arthur Parnassus hadn’t intervened, I don’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened. Regardless of what he and the children are or what they can do, no one has the right to bring harm upon them. Unless anyone here thinks otherwise?”
He was met with silence.
“That’s what I thought,” Linus said, putting a hand on top of his final report. “My recommendation stands. The orphanage must remain open. For their sakes. And for yours. I promise you that I will do everything within my power to ensure this happens. You can fire me. You can try and have me censured. But I will not stop. Change starts with the voices of the few. I will be one of those few because they taught me how. And I know that I’m not alone.” He paused, sucking in a breath. Then, “Also, speaking of euphemisms, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling them orphanages. That implies something that has never been the case. These are homes. They have always been homes. And some of them haven’t been good, which is why I recommended they be closed. But not this one. Never this one. These children don’t need a home, because they already have one, whether you like it or not.”
“Ah,” Charles said. “There it is. The disappointment. How sharp. How profound.”
Linus shook his head. “You told me once you had a vested interest in what I would find. I believed you, then, though I expect it was out of fear more than anything else. I don’t believe you now, because you only want to hear what you think you want to hear. Anything else is unsatisfactory in your eyes. I cannot help that. The only thing I can do is show you that the path you’ve helped set this world upon has gone off course, and hope that you one day come around to seeing it for what it truly is.” He stared defiantly up at Charles. “Just because it’s not what you expected doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Things have changed, Mr. Werner, and I know it’s for the better. I’ve changed. And it has nothing to do with you. Whatever you hoped to find in the rubble you left behind on that island makes no difference to me. I know what they’ve become. I’ve seen the heart of all of them, and it beats tremendously despite everything they’ve gone through, either by your hand, or others.” He was panting by the time he finished, but his head was clear.
“I think we’re done here, Mr. Baker,” Charles said coolly. “I believe we have a clear understanding of where you stand. You were right; your report said it all.”
Linus felt cold, though he was sweating profusely. All the fight seemed to rush out of him, and all that remained was exhaustion. “I—I just—”
“No more,” the woman said. “You’ve … no more. We will consider your recommendation and have a final decision in the coming weeks. Leave, Mr. Baker. Now.”
He picked up his briefcase. He heard the picture frame rattle inside. He glanced back up at Extremely Upper Management before he turned and fled.
* * *
Ms. Bubblegum was waiting for him outside the chambers. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open.
“What?” Linus asked irritably.
“Nothing,” she managed to say. “Absolutely nothing at all. You were very … um. Loud.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, well, sometimes volume is needed to get through thick skulls.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “I need to go call—never mind who I need to call. You can find your way out, can’t you?”
She hurried away and disappeared behind the door that led to her booth.
He walked slowly away. As he passed out of the offices of Extremely Upper Management, he heard her talking excitedly, but he couldn’t make out the words.
* * *
He thought about leaving. About just … leaving it all behind.
He didn’t.
He went back down to his desk.
Furious whispers ceased as soon as he walked into the room.
Everyone stared at him.
He ignored them, making his way to Row L, Desk Seven. He didn’t even apologize when his wide hips bumped into things.
He felt the gazes of dozens of people tracking every step he took, but he kept his head held high. After all he’d been through, after everything he’d seen and done, what his colleagues thought of him didn’t matter in the slightest.
When he made it to his desk, he sat down and opened his briefcase. He took out the photograph and propped it up on his desk.
No one said a word.
Ms. Jenkins stood in front of her office, scowling at him. Gunther scribbled furiously on his clipboard. Linus thought he could shove his demerits up his ass.
He took a folder off the top of a pile and got back to work.
NINETEEN
Three weeks later, nothing much had changed.
Oh, yes, he dreamed of the ocean, of an island with white sandy beaches. He dreamed of a garden and a copse of trees that hid a little house. He dreamed of a burnt cellar door, and the day the music died, and of the way Lucy laughed. The way Talia muttered in Gnomish. The way Sal could be so big but felt so little in his arms. The way Chauncey stood in front of his mirror, saying Hello, sir, welcome, welcome, welcome, as he tipped his bellhop cap. The way Phee’s wings sparkled in the sunlight. Of buttons, and wyverns named Theodore. Of Zoe, her hair bouncing in the wind as she tore down sandy roads in her car.