The music halts for the briefest of moments, as if awaiting my next words.
“I hear you… Anthony.”
o sooner do the words leave my lips than the barrage of light and sound stops. The sudden silence is somehow worse. Before I can take a breath, a burst of brilliance like a thousand flashbulbs firing at once blinds me. With ears still ringing from the auditory onslaught, I rub at my eyes as my vision adjusts to the muted luminescence of another place entirely.
An enormous hallway stretches out before me, the sheer opulence of the space reminding me of pictures from the Louvre. The way before me is clear, though the passage to my rear is blocked by a pair of ten-foot high doors fashioned of dark oak. A lock the size of my head hangs between them. Won’t be leaving that way.
“Dios mío,” I mutter, channeling my mother.
If even God can hear me in this place.
Its walls alabaster white with mahogany trim, the hall’s hardwood floor is laid in an intricate herringbone parquet pattern of alternating oak and rosewood. Above my head, the vaulted ceiling is decorated with a fresco reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel’s, though the style of the painter appears far more Dalí than Michelangelo. Also, where David’s sculptor found his inspiration in the many stories of the Bible, the tortured images that fill the ceiling of this place are all stolen from classical mythology, the entire surface an anthropologist’s acid dream.
Directly above me, Leda’s rape by the Zeus-swan fills my vision. Just adjacent, the three Fates continue their eternal task of spinning, measuring and cutting the thread of life, the product of their work resolving into a misshapen infant’s umbilical cord. Prometheus, chained to the rock with the eagle’s head buried in his flayed abdomen, lies in agony above the gigantic door that blocks my escape. The Titan’s gaze follows me as I venture farther down the hallway and an additional picture comes into view. Persephone rests on one knee in the darkness, her fist clutched around the crimson pomegranate that remands her to Hades for half the year.
Guess that minor in Classics isn’t looking like such a waste of time and money anymore, now is it, Mom?
If my theory about this place is right, two things are very clear.
Anthony Faircloth has an intimate knowledge of world mythology.
And he’s not too big on subtlety.
As I proceed down the hallway, the images above me grow more and more bizarre, even as the scenes they depict become less and less familiar. In one, a spider climbs into the sky with a bound python caught between its front legs. In another, a bearded man wears a black T-shirt with a white lightning bolt like the Gatorade logo and holds aloft what appears to be a glowing baseball bat. The largest portrays a half-dead Norse warrior standing atop a fractured rainbow. A multitude of slain enemies lie at his feet. The scantily clad women that graced the covers of my brother’s old Heavy Metal collection would look right at home next to Odin or Thor or whoever the hell Leif Erikson on steroids is supposed to be.
“Have you come to weave me a tale?” The whispered voice seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Of lovers and dangers and unrequited passion?”
“Anthony?” I work to keep the tremor from my voice. I fail.
“I know your secret,” the voice continues. “You hope to lull me with your honeyed words and clever plots.”
I’ve spoken with others mind-to-mind on numerous occasions in the past, a unique experience each time, to be sure. I’ve never been addressed this way before.
“Who said that?” There’s no sign of anyone else along the great hall. “Show yourself.”
“In due time, Scheherazade.” A low chuckle fills the hall. “We will meet soon enough, I fear.”
“Wait.” My pulse begins to race. “Where am I? What is this place?”
The voice doesn’t speak again, the only answer a quiet titter that echoes down from the vaulted ceiling. I hold my breath, hoping for any clue that might help me escape this place, but an oppressive silence, unnatural in its fullness, fills the air.
Neither masculine nor feminine, the whispered voice could represent an ally, but my money’s on adversary.
“Won’t figure it out standing here,” I mutter. “Time to move.”
As I continue my slow progress down the vast hallway, a name echoes across my psyche.
Scheherazade.
The voice called me Scheherazade.
Above my head, a fresco of the gorgon Medusa swirls into a blob of muted colors that eventually resolves into a more familiar image. A woman in white lies prone among ornate silk pillows at the feet of a man dressed in royal robes and a turban. Her eyes wide and arms raised, she appears to be telling him something of great importance. Though he looks on her with stern eyes, his hand resting on an intricately jeweled dagger, the man hangs on her every word. A familiar scene.
My father, the right-brained one in my parent’s marriage, insisted I get a firm grounding in classic literature. As a result, we spent my eleventh winter reading Scheherazade’s tales. A bad case of pneumonia kept me in bed for a month and a half, but Papi’s baritone voice reading One Thousand and One Arabian Nights helped pass those particular forty-nine Brooklyn nights without pre-teen Mira having a nervous breakdown.
God, I miss him.
My addled mind sifts through the story. Stung by the infidelity of his latest wife, the sultan marries a new virgin each day, only to execute her the following morning and marry again. This continues for years until he meets the beguiling Scheherazade who staves off her execution each night with one compelling story after another. Never finishing a tale the same day she starts nor completing one story without starting another, she postpones her fate for one thousand and one nights and eventually the changed Sultan grants her a pardon and she becomes his favored wife.
“I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I am no Scheherazade.” My shouts echo in the empty space. “Release me from this place.”
Answered again with silence, I jump as an ornate mirror materializes on the wall to my right. The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Me, and yet not me. So focused was I on my bizarre surroundings, it hadn’t occurred to me I might have changed as well.
Taller and darker than me, her raven hair extends well past her waist and hangs in loose, yet intricate, braids. Statuesque and classically beautiful, the woman stands wrapped in a green sarong, the same color as a coat hanging in an office a million miles from here. From the blood-red ruby adorning her forehead to the gold bracelets encircling her wrists to the bejeweled dagger hanging at her side, she is clothed in opulence. Her eyes, lined with thick strokes of dark pencil, study me with fear and awe.
“Scheherazade, eh?” A glance down reveals the selfsame clothes and jewelry draped across a body I barely recognize. So entranced am I by my strange new frame, I almost miss the flicker of movement in the mirror.
Behind me. A flash of brown.
I spin around, the dagger in my hand before I can form another thought, only to face an empty alcove.
An alcove that wasn’t there before.
The painting hung at the rear of the space wobbles as if it’s been hit by a passing runner. I rush inside to confront whomever or whatever is responsible, but there’s no one there.
And that’s not the only oddity.
Taller than it is wide, the full-length painting portrays a forest scene. Well rendered in oil, the picture contains nothing of particular interest. Clearly a portrait, it would appear the subject of the piece is missing. My gaze drifts above the frame and comes to rest on an elegant placard bearing a single word inscribed in plain block letters.
GNOMUS
Like a gnome? Mom used to have that coffee table book with all the little bearded men in their blue coats and red cone hats. At one point I had the entire thing memorized, it’s pages filled with pictures of tiny bearded men with their plump wives and small children, frolicking with rabbits and squirrels and avoiding the nasty trolls with their matted hair and dripping noses.
My ears pick up the sound of small feet running in the hall. I poke my head out of the alcove and spot another flash of brown. And something strange. The hallway has changed, the long straight space now interspersed with an alternating series of alcoves like the one in which I stand. Each opens beneath a curved arch and is lit from within.
The music returns, a symphonic arrangement of the same melody from before. The piano replaced by the smooth tones of a trumpet, a full orchestral accompaniment kicks in as the piece finally gets past those initial thirteen notes. The music swells till it fills the space, though compared to the high-decibel assault from before, the sound is barely a whisper.
I creep down the hallway, the bejeweled blade hidden in the folds of the green sarong, and step into the next alcove. Another oil, the painting depicts a decrepit old castle. Its battlements lay in various states of ruin and its massive drawbridge hangs loose like a broken jaw. Before the castle stands a brightly colored troubadour playing an instrument resembling a short silver saxophone. The placard above the painting contains three words in Italian, each written in tall block letters.
IL VECCHIO CASTELLO
The Old Castle. Not a real stretch there, though what “Medieval Kenny G” and his castle have to do with a woodland scene and a disappearing gnome is lost on me. Far different from the Edith Hamilton revue from the ceiling, these paintings likely represent the first real clues to where the hell I am and more importantly, what makes Anthony tick.
I steel myself before stepping back into the hall to head for the next alcove. My little friend in brown doesn’t make a third appearance, though the melody returns yet again, almost as if it’s the tour guide for this strange museum. My ears still ringing from their previous onslaught, the notes are strangely comforting this time.
The next space, not surprisingly, holds a third painting. This one’s motif different from the others, the watercolor piece depicts an avenue in what appears to be a French garden. The yard swarms with children. Running, quarreling, playing. I’m about to turn and leave when I spot him.
At the far right edge of the painting, a diminutive Anthony stands alone and watches as the world passes him by. Oblivious to all the other children, he stares off into space. Above a starched white button-down shirt, a pair of archaic spectacles sits askew on his face much like the glasses of the comatose boy lying in Archer’s office.
Above this painting, the placard displays a single word inscribed in elegant script.
TUILERIES
My gaze drifts back to the painting before me and locks with the forlorn eyes of the Anthony within. Staring out at me in desperation, he appears every bit the prisoner. We stand, neither of us moving an inch for what seems an eternity until his attention shifts to something across my shoulder. His expression descends into something like disgust.
I whirl about and find I’m not alone.
A misshapen man no more than two feet tall peers at me from the arched doorway. His skin appears brown, though it’s unclear if from dirt, pigment, or both. On his head rests a forked cone of animal hide with bells at either end. His worn leather boots are covered in mud while his rough clothing is replete with buckles of all shapes and sizes. He twirls his mossy beard absently, his thickened fingernails like tree bark.
“Who are you?” His voice the groan of trees bowing in a hurricane, the gnome drags a grimy sleeve across his runny nose. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not sure.” I shift my body, ensuring the dagger remains hidden from view, and offer him a pleasant smile. The gesture isn’t reciprocated.
“You don’t belong here. I know the Exhibition inside and out. You aren’t part of it.”
“I’m a visitor.”
“We don’t get visitors here.”
“I beg to differ.” I perform a subtle curtsy. “Unless you believe me a figment of your imagination.”
The gnome snorts. “All right. We have a visitor. What is it you want?”
“You’re from the painting, aren’t you? The one down the hall.”
A quizzical look crosses his face. “Why do you ask such things?”
“It is my nature to ask such questions.” I search for any way to connect with this strange creature, and then, in a flash, it comes to me. “I am called Scheherazade.”
The gnome stares at me in awe. “The Scheherazade?”
I work to keep any hint of confusion from my features. “The same.”
He scratches the side of his head. Dried bits of mud fall from his scalp to the hardwood floor, a scalp that has a grain not unlike the wood that frames his picture.
“Tunny.”
“Pardon?”
“My name. Tunny.”
“You’re from the painting. The sign said Gnomus.”
He squints at me. His nose crinkles as if he smells something foul. “Perhaps.”
“What are you doing out here then, among the… Exhibition, I believe you called it?”
“We are the Exhibition, and don’t you forget it.” He huffs and shoots up the hallway toward his alcove. “You’re the intruder here.”
I slip the dagger into its scabbard and give chase. Catching the gnome, however, is harder than anticipated. How can a creature with such short legs move so quickly?
“I’m sorry, Tunny. I meant no offense.”
“No one ever means offense,” he shouts as he scrambles away. “Yet that’s all they ever do. Offend, offend, offend.”
He steps into the alcove with the woodland scene and a scuffing sound fills the air. I sprint up the hallway and arrive at his alcove in time to find him halfway into his painting, struggling to get his other foot up and over the bottom of the frame.
“Wait.” I rush to his side. “I need your help.”
“My help?” He lets out something between a snort and a laugh. “You, fair Scheherazade, an angel among swine, desire my help?”
“I didn’t come here of my own free will and I can’t leave. Did you not see the door?”
“The door with the enormous lock?” He lets out another phlegm-laden chuckle as he finishes hoisting himself into the woodland scene. “What do you think keeps us all here?”
“You can’t leave?”
“Of course not. We are the Exhibition.” He snorts. “And people say gnomes are thick.”
I try a different tack. “What if others wanted to visit the Exhibition? You know, see the art? Why would you put all of this behind a locked door?”
“You would have to ask her.”
Jackpot. “And who might that be, Tunny?”
“Silence, gnome.” The voice from before echoes throughout the space from nowhere in particular. Its grating tone sends my skin crawling. “You have already said far too much.”
The exasperation on Tunny’s face evaporates, replaced by wide-eyed terror.
“My apologies, Mistress.”
“Be warned. Speak out of turn again, and you will face the consequences.” The voice grows quiet. “And as for you, weaver of tales, I know who you are and what you have come to do.”
“Who are you?” I shout. “What have you done to Anthony?”
“Ah, fair Scheherazade. I recommend you silence your questions and leave now, lest you become another of our fine exhibits.”
“You really should listen to her.” Tunny trembles within his mahogany frame. “She rarely speaks in jest.”
“I’ll leave as soon as she shows me the way, though I’m not sure why I should fear anyone who won’t show their face.”
A screeching cackle fills the room. “You don’t want to see my face, Scheherazade.”
The sound of tumblers falling into place echoes from the main hall. I crane my head out of Tunny’s alcove and catch my breath as the lock holding closed the massive oak doors falls to the floor with a thunderous crash. The door to the left creaks open and before I can so much as summon a thought, the hallway fills with a forceful wind.
“Fare thee well, Scheherazade,” comes the strange voic
e as the gale rips at my hair and sarong. “Do not return here, or you may encounter more than barred doors and whipping winds.”
“I’m truly sorry about this.” Offering an apologetic shrug, Tunny goes still in the foreground of the beautiful landscape, his wooden form effectively invisible against the forest backdrop.
The blasting wind steals my answer even as it flings me up the hall. I fly at the doorway like a piece of straw in a cyclone, the massive oak doors open just wide enough for me to fly through and into the kaleidoscope of light and sound. The last thing I see before I lose consciousness is the enormous door, surrounded in a nimbus of light, slamming shut behind me.
hank God,” whispers a woman’s voice. “She’s coming around.”
My eyes open on a damp washcloth draped across my face and any attempt to raise my hand and pull away the cool rag meets with utter failure. My limbs have apparently gone on strike. I inhale to speak and the effort nearly sends me back to dreamland.
A place I’m no longer certain I wish to visit.
“Mira? Can you hear me?” A man’s voice. Familiar.
“Dr. Archer?” My voice comes out like a toad’s. That is if said toad had just been punched in the throat.
“Welcome back.” The skeptical sarcasm in his tone gone, the good doctor’s baritone soothes the static in my mind. “Are you all right?”
My second try at pulling the washcloth from my face meets with more success. I blink a few times but the drop ceiling above my head remains a distant white blur. Archer hovers over me while Agnes and Caroline move in and out of the edge of my vision. My hand trails to my side. They’ve moved me to the couch while Anthony sits on a high-back chair across the room, continuing to bob to a song I now know all too well.
“What happened?”
“We were going to ask you the same thing,” Archer says. “One second you were talking to us and the next you cut off mid-sentence and slumped to the floor.”
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 3
