The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “He is known as the Kalendar Prince, and as his name would connote, he visits the Exhibition every week like clockwork. Twice, if things are amiss.”

  “And you’ve seen this… Kalendar Prince?”

  The troubadour scratches his chin and looks off into space. “Not in so many glances, but all of us know him, his deep voice, his soothing words.”

  “He speaks to us from the sky, like the Mistress.” Tunny’s gaze drops. “But he’s nothing like her.”

  I peer at Modesto. “This man visits you each week, but you haven’t seen him.”

  “He is a good man and I understand his skill with the bow is without compare. Still, there is nothing he can do to help us now.”

  “Why?” Neither of them answers. “Why can’t he help you? What is different?”

  “Juliet,” Tunny whispers. “Since she vanished, the Mistress has―”

  “Quiet, gnome.” Modesto’s affable tone turns harsh. “Do not speak that name here.”

  “Juliet?” I ask. “Who is she?”

  “And now you as well.” Modesto’s eyes grow wide with rage and fear. “Foolish woman. Would you bring the witch? Do not repeat that name again or―”

  Another crash rends the air, followed by a thud that shakes the ground beneath us. Back and forth, the two sounds repeat again and again from the portal leading back to the Exhibition.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Modesto snarls. “Quickly. To the castle.”

  “We’re invited to the castle?” Tunny’s face turns up in an expression of disbelief.

  Modesto groans and inclines his head toward the drawbridge in the distance. “You’d best move those stumps you call legs before she catches you and plants you outside her hut.”

  The three of us flee up the stony path to the castle. Modesto negotiates the dilapidated drawbridge with ease, leaving Tunny and me to fend for ourselves. I offer to carry Tunny across, but at Modesto’s quiet snicker, he refuses and sets off on his own with me close behind. We’re nearly across when Tunny’s stump-like legs send him plunging toward the murky depths below. I dive forward, catch him by his mossy beard, and haul him back up.

  “Careful.” I pull him close and leap across the gap in the bridge. “I need you alive.”

  “You… need me?”

  “Come along, stubby,” Modesto says. “There will be plenty of time to let your heart go pitter-patter once we’re safe inside.”

  I rush inside and set Tunny on a stone outcropping as Modesto grabs a rusted old crank.

  “The bridge,” he cries. “It won’t budge.”

  I sprint to his side and together we somehow get the crank to turn. The alternating crash and thud from the hallway grows more earsplitting with each repetition. The top of the bridge crosses my line of sight as our pursuer arrives at the portal. I catch a glimpse of an enormous club striking the ground and the tip of what must be a long, hooked nose before the battered wood blocks my view and slams shut.

  Modesto lies prostrate on the floor, panting as if he’d run a marathon. My pumping lungs ache to join him, but I remain standing, mostly for Tunny’s sake.

  “Safe for the moment,” Modesto says once he reclaims his breath. “That is, if we can all agree to avoid invoking certain names.” He glances at Tunny, though he reserves the majority of his glare for me.

  “A different topic, then.” I motion to the frightened gnome across the room. “Tunny lives alone in a wooded paradise, or at least he did before his home was destroyed, while you live here alone in an old castle. Does any of this make sense to either of you?”

  The gnome and the troubadour stare at each other, my question apparently far beyond anything they’ve ever considered before.

  “Of course I live in the forest,” Tunny says, yellow tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Or, I suppose, lived.”

  “And yet here you stand in this grand castle, the guest of our new friend here, the two of you separated only by a few steps in an art gallery. Haven’t the two of you ever gotten lonely? Perhaps dropped by the other’s home for a visit?”

  “We are discouraged from speaking to each other,” Modesto says, “or venturing beyond our own individual realms, though the gnome has been known to skirt up and down the main hall from time to time.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m guessing if the two of you sat down and talked, you might find you have a lot in common.”

  Tunny beams at Modesto, his hopeful gaze answered with a disgusted sneer.

  “Befriend the little freak of nature, you say? Your words are powerful indeed, fair Scheherazade, but surely you jest.”

  Tunny’s expression descends into a disgruntled pout. “Same goes for me.”

  I let out a sigh. “Then at least pretend you like each other as long as I’m here.”

  “Very well.” Modesto nods in Tunny’s direction.

  “Agreed.” The gnome shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Modesto, this is your castle?”

  “Every stone.”

  “And are we safe here?” I peer back at the closed drawbridge. “Will that door keep out your so-called Mistress?”

  “But of course.” He surveys the interior of the structure, a proud smile breaking upon his face. “This old castle may not look like much, but she’s solid.”

  A monstrous force strikes the raised drawbridge and buckles one of the central beams. Tunny leaps to one side and narrowly avoids being crushed by a hail of stones.

  “Solid as a block of Swiss cheese.” Tunny sprints away as fast as his short legs will carry him.

  Crestfallen, Modesto grips me by the arm. “Come, Scheherazade. She will be upon us in no time.” As he leads me toward the rear of the castle, we pass a stone stairwell leading downward into darkness.

  “Where does that lead?” I ask as we rush past.

  “The Catacombs, but no one goes there. It’s―”

  A shriek erupts from beyond the drawbridge door. A second strike bows the bridge leaving two of the three timbers just shy of splintered.

  Tunny spins around and points a stubby finger at Modesto. “You berate us for saying names and then invoke the Catacombs in the presence of the Exhibition’s mistress. Now who is the fool?”

  “Quiet, gnome,” Modesto shouts as he drags me deeper into the castle.

  “Where are we going?” Before either can answer, the drawbridge shatters inward as if struck by a bomb. Through the dust, a figure emerges. At the apex of the arched doorway, a roughly human form sits atop a tapering cylinder, a giant cudgel in one hand and a gnarled branch terminating in broom bristles in the other. I have but a moment to take in the sight before Modesto drags me around a corner.

  “You dare try to look the witch in the eye?” he shouts. “Are you trying to die today?”

  We sprint down a hallway decorated with rich tapestries all in a various states of disrepair. Tunny leads us by several lengths, though his short strides allow us to catch up to him as the alternating crash and thud begins again in earnest.

  “This way,” Tunny says as he darts down a hallway to the left.

  “Like you know your way around my home.” Modesto sneers and heads the opposite way.

  Tunny stops in his tracks and looks back at me. One shared glance is all it takes to convince us to follow the brightly clothed troubadour. We catch up to Modesto at a double door at the far end of a long, narrow passage, all of us winded.

  “This doorway better not be locked,” Tunny shouts above the crashes echoing down the hall behind us. “I can hear her grinding ever closer.”

  “Of course it’s not locked.” Modesto draws the door open, his face an unabashed sneer.

  “No,” Tunny squeaks. “It’s not.”

  My heart sinks as Modesto turns to face the doorway. His smug air evaporates like a snowflake over an open flame as he discovers what Tunny and I already know.

  The massive double doorway opens onto a stone wall.

  Tunny moans. “Now look what you�
�ve led us to.”

  “It’s not me,” Modesto shouts. “It’s her.” We all turn to our rear. There, so close her rancid breath turns my stomach, our pursuer awaits.

  More wrinkled and bent than any living person I’ve seen, the ancient hag sits perched atop a tall stone cup. In one hand, she carries an enormous wooden club with a rounded tip that rests on the granite floor. The combination reminiscent of the old mortar and pestle Mom would drag out for all her “from scratch” recipes, my mind recoils at the thought of what ‘ingredients’ the hag would be grinding to need implements of such size. In her opposite hand, the witch carries a broom that swishes back and forth behind her as if of its own accord. Her clothing ramshackle at best, the tattered gray housedress has been repaired over and over until it is more patch than original cloth. The mop atop her head seems as much grime and dirt as hair.

  “You were warned, Scheherazade.” She stares down her long crooked nose. Spittle flies from between her sharp iron teeth. “You are not welcome here.”

  “What have you done with Anthony?” I cross my arms before me in an attempt to control the tremor in my hands.

  The witch smiles, as horrid an expression as I’ve ever seen. “I’m the one that asks the questions in this place, storyteller.” The mortar tilts forward and the old hag drags it closer, using the pestle like a paddle on a stone lake. Behind her, the broom in her opposite hand sweeps back and forth like a dog’s wagging tail, erasing any evidence of her passing.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I thought that quite obvious. I want you gone from here.”

  “But they need me.” I gesture toward Tunny and Modesto. “Hell, all of you need me.”

  Tunny gasps at my words, but puts up his little fists in a gesture of defiance. Modesto pulls his foil from his sheath and assumes a defensive stance. I rest my fingers on the jewel-encrusted hilt of the dagger at my side and wait to see who makes the first move.

  The witch laughs as she reaches into a bag tied at her side. “Children, children. This fight is over before it even begins.” She brings a gnarled hand to her foul mouth and blows a cloud of silver-gray dust into Modesto’s face.

  “Sleep, troubadour.” The music that filled the space when I first arrived in Modesto’s picture swells back to life. The weapon drops from Modesto’s fingers, his eyes growing heavier with each passing second.

  “Scheherazade,” he whispers as he falls to the floor, his skull nearly colliding with Tunny’s on the way down. Before anyone can say another word, he begins to snore.

  “And you, little gnome.” She stares down her hawk like nose at Tunny. “Dance.”

  Tunny stares at her defiantly, but within seconds, his foot begins to tap. The song that played throughout his forest home begins to echo through the hall, and soon he is moving and cavorting in time with the strange undulating tune. He goggles at me frantically, unable to control his own limbs or even speak, moving in place as if on strings.

  “Leave us.” The witch waves a wizened hand and Tunny twirls up the hall and around the corner, leaving me alone with the Modesto’s sleeping form and the cackling crone.

  “They weren’t much to begin with, but it appears your friends have left you quite stranded, Lady Scheherazade. Whatever shall you do now?”

  “I’m not afraid of you, witch.”

  “Of course you are, dear. A lone woman, armed with only a tiny blade, facing an old witch in an abandoned castle, and her two defenders, such as they are, incapacitated. You’re brave, but you’re no fool.”

  She’s right. I tell myself a thousand times everything in this place is nothing but a figment of Anthony’s imagination, but it doesn’t stop me from trembling.

  “Perhaps,” I say, “but I know something you don’t.”

  “And what would that be, dear?”

  “No matter what you might do to me, you won’t hurt them.”

  “Perhaps, Scheherazade, and perhaps not. Regardless, your half-chewed morsel of supposition won’t save you.”

  “Who said I needed saving?” I chance one last glance at Modesto’s sleeping form and utter the safe word Archer drilled into my head with a bit of hypnosis just before this most recent jaunt into Anthony’s mind.

  “Coda.”

  The witch dives at me, her clawed hand snatching only air as we fade from each other’s perception. The castle dissolves around me into flashes of prismatic light, the witch an oddly shaped shadow quickly swallowed by the surrounding light.

  “No…” Her screams fade into nothingness as the maelstrom of light slowly dims.

  Chilled to the bone, I awake clammy and disoriented.

  “Mira?” Caroline Faircloth’s concerned voice, as if from across a crowded room.

  “She’s coming to.” Archer’s rich baritone. Thank God. I’m back.

  A hand at my throat. Choking me.

  No. Just checking my pulse.

  “Still beating?” My voice little better than a whisper, I work again to focus my eyes. A sweep with my fingers reveals they’ve left me resting on the shag carpet this time. Archer and Caroline look down on me, her gaze relieved while his is filled with concern.

  And something else.

  The faint scent of hyacinths fills my mind.

  “Mira.” Archer runs the back of his fingers down my cheek. “Can you hear me?”

  “Why, Dr. Archer, I didn’t know you cared.” I do my best to sit up. Not happening.

  “Take it easy, Ms. Tejedor. You’re still coming to.”

  “Aw, don’t back down now, Doc. If we’re going to get all touchy-feely, Mira’s fine.”

  He clears his throat. “Fine, Mira. Now, hold still and give yourself a minute.”

  Archer tries to sound tough, but the heady aroma of flowers that continues to grow in my mind tells a different story. This sudden resurgence of my olfactory “emotion detector” draws attention to something I hadn’t noticed before. When I travel Anthony’s mind, the sixth sense I’ve possessed since puberty apparently takes a back seat. I have yet to miss it there, but out here in the real world, such a loss would be akin to losing an arm or going deaf.

  Neither of which I’m particularly eager to experience.

  I peer around for a clock. “How long was I gone?”

  “Over an hour,” Caroline says. “Much longer than before. We were beginning to worry you might not wake up.” She helps me sit up and props me against the couch.

  “It’s not as bad this time,” I croak, “though I won’t be running any races tomorrow.” I catch a glimpse of Anthony’s bobbing head out of the corner of my eye. “How’s Anthony?”

  “No change from before,” Archer says, “though for a while there, you both acted like you were having the mother of all nightmares.”

  “That would make more sense than you know.” I cover my mouth and let out something between a yawn and a cough. “One thing is clear, though. I’ve got a lot more research to do before I go in there again.” My eyes slide shut. “I need you both to tell me everything you know about this Pictures at an Exhibition.”

  t doesn’t take a psychic to pick up on the fog of despair hanging over the Faircloth home. The lawn is well above ankle length, the plants are all wilted from lack of water, and dust-laden spider webs decorate the windows on the front porch. One of the door numbers is broken, leaving their 574 address a simple 5/4. The doorbell doesn’t make a sound so I grasp the brass knocker and give it a couple taps. Caroline doesn’t keep me waiting long.

  “Good morning, Mira.” The weariness in Caroline’s voice mirrors my own exhaustion. “Have you eaten?”

  “I grabbed some breakfast on the way over, but thanks.” Her offer is polite, but there’s an edge there. Definitely picking up on some manure among the roses today.

  “I was expecting you hours ago.”

  “I was expecting to be awake hours ago. My second sojourn through your son’s mental playground took a lot more out of me than I expected. Slept right through the alarm an
d three phone calls from home. If it weren’t for the housekeeping staff at the Blake, I might still be out.”

  “I can only imagine.” The irritation wafting off Caroline ebbs a bit. “Can I at least offer you something to drink?”

  “Anything with double the recommended dose of caffeine should do the trick.”

  “I have just the thing.” Caroline gives me a knowing smile and heads for the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

  I step into the living room and catch a pair of eyes beneath red curls ducking behind a doorway at the far end of the room.

  “It’s all right, Rachel.” I sit on the couch. “I don’t bite.”

  The girl pops her head around the corner. “You’re Miss Mira. The one who’s trying to help Anthony.”

  “That’s me.” I pat the cushion next to me. “You want to sit down?”

  She glances in the direction her mother went before stealing over to join me by the couch. “Mama told me to stay in my room.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think she’ll mind you talking to me.” An odd combination of scents filters through my mind. The usual twin tangs of trepidation and curiosity flirt with my senses, but under it all, something subtler vies for my attention. The same subtle something I sensed when I first laid eyes on Rachel Faircloth in Archer’s office.

  “You miss your brother, don’t you?”

  She sits next to me and looks up at me with an innocence I had already left behind by the time I reached her age. “Can you really help him? Bring him back so we can play?”

  “I’ll do my best.” My bottom lip trembles. “Promise.”

  Rachel looks me up and down as if taking my measure. ‘Shake on it?” She smiles and holds out her right hand.

  I let out a chuckle. “I’ll even pinky swear if it makes you feel better.”

  “Rachel?” Caroline stands in the kitchen doorway holding a tray with a pair of coffee mugs. “I thought I told you to stay in your room.”

  “But, Mama, I just wanted to talk to Miss Mira.”

  “Well, now you’ve talked to her. Back to your room.”

  “Don’t worry, Caroline.” I pat Rachel’s knee. “She’s not bothering me.”