Orphans of Chaos tcc-1

by John C. Wright

  On the other hand, what in the world could he be trying to protect me from?

  As when I didn’t know what to answer in class, I decided merely to sit, look attentive, and keep my hands folded in my lap.

  Boggin pursed his lips, then said, “You are often annoyed, too, aren’t you, Miss Windrose? Like our wandering Odysseus here, eh? You want to see the wide-open spaces of the world, to walk where no white man has trod, to drink from untasted streams of unclimbed mountains. You are chafing at your bonds, like he is.” Now he pointed to the skulls and bones that the artist had placed around the feet of the Sirens. “What always puzzled me about the story is that he saw the remains of the other men, but was eager to throw himself on the rock at the feet of the Sirens nonetheless. Do you know why?”

  It was a direct question. “No, Headmaster.”

  “Because he was an optimist. At least, during the moments when the Sirens’ song was influencing his reasoning powers. He thought himself equal to the task.”

  Boggin was silent for a while, watching me. He had more practice at the staring and waiting game than I did. I began to squirm and fidget.

  “Very interesting, Headmaster. May I go now?”

  “Have you been well treated here, Miss Windrose?”

  That was unexpected. “W-what…? I mean… Sir…?”

  He repeated the question.

  “Well, I… I do want to leave here.”

  “Why, and so you shall, once you have reached the age of your majority.”

  “How old am I, Headmaster?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “That is odd. Because you told me I was sixteen four years ago. By that reckoning, I am at least twenty by now. If I was actually twenty when you said I was sixteen, I am now twenty-four.”

  “Your recollection must be in error, Miss Windrose.” The dismissal was curt.

  “But, four years ago, you said—”

  “I am sure we have exhausted this topic, Miss Windrose. Let us dwell on the main point. You appear to be unhappy here, and I am at a loss to understand why. Have you been beaten? Starved? Mistreated? No indeed. You have received a first-rate education, food, medicine, clothing—some would say very fine clothing—and have been sheltered in a mansion of singular historic import, and great beauty.

  “Why, Sir Francis Drake was said to have obtained his famous looking glass from the master of these lands, after throwing a pin made of gold into the well at Holywell. And Owen Glendower bivouacked in the haunted woods north of Penrice Castle yonder, to make attacks against Edward’s mighty fortress at Carreg-Cennen. Earlier myths say that the giant stone slab at Cefn Bryn, upon four upright standing stones (still called Arthur’s Table) marks the very spot to which King Arthur removed the head of the giant Bran, after the High King unearthed it from the Tower of London. The Head of Bran preserved the realm from foreign invasion, you see, and Arthur feared the forces from the Otherworld more than he feared those from France. You should deem yourself honored to dwell in such a setting, Miss Windrose. Honored!”

  I said, “My room is cold. At night.”

  “What?”

  “It is a fine mansion, Headmaster. The grounds are beautiful. But my room is ice-cold.”

  To my surprise he frowned, and said, “I’ll see to it.”

  “You mean—?”

  “I am sure you are not prone to the accidents, or the antics, which tempted our young Mr. mac FirBolg to abuse the privilege of having a fire in his room. I will see you are supplied with firewood and kindling. Unless you would prefer an electric space heater?”

  “May I have both?”

  “Why not? We are not your enemies, Miss Windrose, no matter what you may have been led to believe. We are your legal guardians—in loco parentis, so to speak. We shall be very much derelict in our duties if we do not do everything parents would do to see to the health and well-being of their children.”

  Greatly daring, I said, “If you did not lock us in at night, we could use the water closet on the second floor. Instead of a chamber pot.”

  “My, we are optimistic, aren’t we? Well, why not? If…”

  “If… what…?”

  “If you do not abuse the privilege. May I have your word?”

  I sat watching him, looking up. He sat watching me, looking down. He looked very satisfied with himself.

  I ventured to say, “I don’t believe I understand, Headmaster.”

  “But I believe you do, Miss Windrose. May I have your word?”

  “What exactly am I agreeing to, Headmaster?”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “No doubt you would like to have your legal counsel present before you answer. But that is a prerogative only adults may enjoy.”

  “Headmaster, I only want to know what I am agreeing to…”

  “Must you play games with me, Miss Windrose? That, I am afraid, is also a prerogative only adults enjoy, and few of them come off the better for it, I assure you.” He drew his eyes back down from the ceiling, and, at that moment, even though the doors and windows here were shut, a very heavy draft fluttered through the room. I shivered in the sudden cold. His loose hair rose up off his shoulders for a moment, swaying and reaching in the wind gust, and his robes rippled. He appeared not one whit disaccommodated by the sudden drop in temperature.

  He said, “In sum, you will agree not to do anything to make me regret my decision, Miss Windrose. No running off, no midnight escapades. We have a concern for proper morality here, and do not need to have young girls making visits to young men in the small hours before dawn.”

  He leaned back, and the wind gust stopped. I could not shake the feeling that the draft had come from his side of the room, despite that the door was behind me. I sat in the chair, hugging myself.

  Headmaster Boggin tapped his fingers on the tabletop, looking idly amused. “Well, do we have an agreement?”

  I looked up at him. I really, really hated that chamber pot. And the agreement would not go through if Vanity did not agree also. Nevertheless…

  “Why?” I said.

  “Why what, Miss Windrose? The question is very general in its application, and has caused puzzlement among philosophers for years.”

  “Why is it important to you? Now, I mean. It’s the meeting of the Board of Visitors and Governors, isn’t it?”

  “Very perceptive.”

  “Well, you did mention it at breakfast…”

  “Yes, but none of your brothers asked about it. Of course, this upcoming meeting is very important to us. To you, especially. The way we do things here may be changed. The school might close. Or it might stay open. You might be moved to another institution. Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or, if the Board of Visitors and Governors become convinced that we have made an error in estimating your age… your records were lost, you see… you might simply be released. Free. Off to see the world! Wouldn’t that be grand? It could happen tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  He paused to let that sink in.

  “But…”

  Another pause.

  He said, “But what do you think, Miss Windrose, would persuade the Board that you are, in fact, an adult and mature woman? Surely you make the strongest case by acting in the most adult fashion possible. The most, if I may say, responsible fashion possible.”

  I asked, “What is this meeting about? Why is it so important?”

  Now he smiled again, folded his arms, and leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, a fairly informal posture I do not think I had seen him take before. “The matter is complex. You may have noticed, over the years, certain tensions here among the staff. I, for example, am employed directly by Saint Dymphna’s School and College for Destitute Children. Dr. Fell, who looks after your health, is an employee of the Delphian Trust for Foundling Children. Both he and I, however, are paid out of trust funds, as are the teachers who are employed by the school. Mr. Glum, on the other hand, works directly for the Branshead Estate, and i
s paid out of the funds of the Talbot family, who owns the land. Mrs. Wren is not, in fact, under my direct authority, but was appointed by Her Majesty’s Commission on the Welfare of Unwanted Children. She is, in fact, a crown officer, who also serves as an inspector and compliance overseer for you children.”

  “Who pays Mr. ap Cymru?”

  “Mr. ap Cymru works for the Historical Institute, who lent a rather large sum of money to the Talbot family, in return for certain promises that historical features on the ground would be preserved. In effect, he is here to make sure Mr. Glum does not run over a cromlech with a tractor, or something. He would be something of a free agent were it not for the fact that the Institute also borrowed money from the Foundling Trust, and ceded some authority to them.

  “I should tell you, however, that the Foundling Trust recently lost its master. The property was supposed to pass to the heirs of the chief trustee, but the matter is being disputed in court as to which of two sons the new chief trustee should be. Both factions, quite frankly, are courting our favor, for neither wants us to file an amicus curiae brief—that is a type of legal document—saying we prefer one man over the other. The court may take our opinions quite seriously.

  “There you have the whole picture, Miss Windrose. Are you an adult, as you claim? Do you see the seriousness of your position, and mine? The new trustee might conclude that you have been living here in the lap of luxury, and should be sent to a state-run home, or even a workhouse. Or, he might conclude that you have been kept here too long, release the funds held in trust for you, and send you with Godspeed to wherever you wish to go. My position is similar. I might be discharged. Or my authority might be expanded. It is odd indeed to be a headmaster of a school that employs nine tutors and has only five students; I would like to see more faces here, myself. You would not believe the trash they learn in state schools these days. They do not even teach Greek and Latin any longer.”

  I looked at the painting of Odysseus. “They don’t read Homer?”

  “Students are lucky if they are assigned to read Page Three of the Royal London Yellow Journal of Gossip and Tripe, Miss Windrose. Students these days do not know Euclid, nor Lucretius, nor Descartes, nor Shakespeare, nor Milton. They cannot calculate a grocery bill, much less calculate the zodiacal anomaly for Venus in hexadecimals. Do you begin to see how lucky you are, Miss Windrose? How well you are treated at this place you think of as a prison camp?

  “The reason why you and I have not had this talk before is that there was no need before. If you wish to help Mr. Triumph in his extracurricular studies, I do not wish to impede you. I am frankly rather proud of him, and of you. Most teachers beg on their knees to the deaf and uncaring heavens for students as bright as you have shown yourselves to be. Can you imagine how pleased they would be to find someone who could understand the Michaelson-Morely experiment, much less reproduce it?

  “I am proud of you, Miss Windrose. You are bright and attractive. Maybe even a genius. But I am also deeply ashamed when I hear of certain late-night shenanigans and vandalism. Ashamed, because it becomes clear we have not done our duty in raising you properly. Please do me the favor, Miss Windrose, of allowing me to hear no more such rumors.”

  He sat there, looking friendly yet stern. I sat, feeling smaller and smaller with each passing moment.

  Finally I said, “May I go, Headmaster…?”

  “You may go, Miss Windrose.”

  I rose and was walking out, when his voice stopped me. “Oh, Miss Windrose…? One more thing…?”

  I turned. There he sat, between the doomed glory of Atlantis and the torments of Odysseus, his loose red hair piled around his shoulders.

  “Yes, Headmaster?”

  “Your word, Miss Windrose…?”

  “You have it, Headmaster. I promise.”

  “Then your door shall be unlocked tonight.”

  I closed the door behind me. In the waiting room again, I stood between the two clocks, ticking slightly out of synch, with their tick-tock now in my left ear, now in my right. I was shaking slightly.

  6.

  We got the chance to exchange talk after lunch. Colin pretended to throw an epileptic fit, and choke on his soup, and they rushed him off to the infirmary. It was quite natural that we were permitted to visit him, of course, since we all became so distraught that we could not attend our Home Economics lessons. Mrs. Wren let the four of us out early.

  We had tried the same thing a period earlier, with Miss Daw, but she had simply smiled a cool, dreamy smile, as if she were listening to distant music, and continued with her fingering instructions.

  “That’s great!” said Colin, when he heard what the Headmaster had said to me. “The door’s unlocked! You can get out any time!”

  He lay in the hospital bed, his hands folded behind his head, looking pleased as punch.

  “What did he say to you boys?” asked Vanity. Vanity was irked, because she had not been called in to see Headmaster Boggin.

  Quentin said, “Substantially the same thing. We should behave while the Board meeting is in progress. He didn’t tell us the details, though.” He looked at me sidelong, as if thinking that I was, after all, two or three years older than he was, and was privy to information denied him.

  Victor said, “We should not attempt our final escape until we discover more about who this guest of the Board is. This is our first hint that there is a power even the Headmaster fears. If we can enlist such a power to our aid, then we stand a chance of getting away from here. Otherwise, I do not see how we can get far enough away, fast enough. Even if we stole a boat from the village, Headmaster could have the police run us down.”

  Colin said, “What about merely heading into the forest? It gets deeper and darker the further in you go.”

  “The maps show the woods are only two miles wide,” said Quentin softly. “If you pass through them, you come to Oxwich Green.”

  “Maps of England,” said Colin, “On Earth. The real forest goes on for a trillion miles, and then leads to a forest darker than it is.”

  Quentin said in a mild voice, “I am not claiming this is Earth. But maps are powerful symbols, and may be influencing us in a subtle fashion. We should destroy or deface the maps here, to loosen their grip on us, and draw maps of our own portraying the true world beyond these walls.”

  I said, “You know, maybe we should listen to the Headmaster. I mean, what you guys are saying does sound a little, well, crazy, doesn’t it? He said that the Board might just release us. And he said there were funds waiting for us. Some sort of trust fund held for us when we reach eighteen. I mean, can’t we try to give him a chance? The Headmaster?”

  Victor looked puzzled, as if I had gotten the wrong answer on a math sum. Quentin looked pensive and slightly sad. Colin laughed at me, and stuck his hands under his own shirt, pushing them out as if he had breasts. “Let’s give the Headmaster a chance!” he said in a high falsetto, batting his eyelashes. “Oh, let’s listen to him! I want a good grade on my toad-eating class next week!”

  Vanity yanked the pillow out from under Colin’s head so that his head fell back sharply onto the wooden bed frame, and smote him in the face with it, before he could get his hands clear of his shirt to defend himself.

  She said, “Did you ask the Headmaster about the talking dog? Or Dr. Fell saying he wanted to cut us up for experiments? About me being a princess, and you being from before the fall of Adam?”

  Victor and Quentin stared. “What talking dog?” came Colin’s muffled voice from under the pillow.

  Fortunately, we had enough time to fill them in on the details before the nurse, Sister Twitchett, came back in.

  By the time we were done reciting the tales of our discoveries, my pleas to give the Headmaster a chance began to seem to be the crazy talk, not Quentin’s soft-voiced observation that the room we were in might have a peephole in it, and could we have Vanity look for the secret door?

  5

  To Walk with Owls

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nbsp; 1.

  That night Vanity climbed into bed with me, despite that we now had a roaring fire blazing in the hearth. After the lights were doused, all the shadows in the room pointed toward the fireplace, swaying and hopping to the music of the merry crackle of wood.

  Mrs. Wren had actually been more watchful than normal, and stared at Vanity while she swallowed her medicine. While Mrs. Wren was looking at Vanity, I put a few drops of the liquid on my lip, and threw the rest of the cup into the fire. When she turned to me at the noise, I only licked my lips and smiled. This puzzled her. Mrs. Wren could hardly be angry for me being too eager to drink my medication, since she apparently did not want to admit she was supposed to watch us quaff it.

  After she left, I tried to get Vanity to upchuck into the chamber pot, by putting her finger down her throat, but she was too squeamish to make a sincere attempt.

  Now, lying next to me, she whispered in my ear: “If there are peepholes in the rooms, they have been watching us this whole time. Our whole lives.”

  I did not bother to tell her my theory that she had created the secret passages, peepholes and all, out of her own thought, and that reality had shifted to accommodate her imagination. The word “reality,” by definition, referred to those things we cannot change by mere wishes. I had always thought the physical world was included in that set. Now, I wasn’t sure.

  I said, “They all believed you. About the talking dog. Victor’s question about whether we saw the dog talk was just, you know, for the peepholes. Why do you think we were left alone in the infirmary for so long? They all had to pretend not to believe us. Except that it took Colin forever to catch on. What an idiot.”

  “Do you think they were watching?”

  “Boggin knows about our codes. He knows about the time Victor and I snuck out to measure the moon years ago. I think he knows everything.”