The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  Caroline’s face goes crimson as heat rises in my own cheeks. I agreed to let Jason come back with us as a gesture of goodwill, but that may have been a mistake. Still, though my standard policy is not to let any negative energy in the room when I’m working, it’s a necessary evil if I’m going to win Jason over to my side. He may refuse to be told anything he doesn’t want to hear, but perhaps he can be shown.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Jason.” A waft of licorice joins the burned popcorn. “Bear with me and I think you’ll see―”

  My words catch in my throat as the “Promenade” theme erupts in my mind. Before I can utter another sound, reality is washed away by a tsunami of prismatic light. I fall for what seems like forever, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the barrage of brilliance and holding my hands over my ears against the percussive strike of thirteen notes already scarred on my soul. The light and sound eventually taper to nothingness and I open my eyes to find myself again in the hallway of the Exhibition.

  The ceiling has changed again, filled with scenes of a rock concert from before my time and definitely before Anthony’s. Unlike the usual still frescoes, the ceiling’s images move, reminding me of the IMAX theater in DC where Isabella and I saw that movie about the penguins a few years back. Somewhere between ABBA and Pink Floyd, the trio of rock musicians include a bare-chested keyboardist dressed in a blue and silver jumpsuit, a bass player dressed in the finest paisley polyester of the early seventies, and a drummer decked out in what looks like purple velour pajamas.

  Their version of “Promenade,” played on organ, is easy on the ears, but as the music shifts into their rendition of the song from Tunny’s portrait, the volume shakes my teeth. Louder and louder it grows, and just when I can’t take another note, the music stops and the bassist breaks into song, his voice smooth and soothing even as his lyrics of tortured dreams and childhood tears threaten to break my heart.

  “Enough, Anthony,” I shout above the singer’s voice. “Stop it. Come out and talk to me.”

  The bassist’s vocals cut off mid-word even as the ceiling goes dark. As with my last trip to the Exhibition, the silence is somehow worse than the assault of sound.

  “Anthony?” My voice echoes in the stillness. “Are you there?”

  “You must be special,” says a familiar rough voice. “It’s been some time since The Sage and his minstrels entertained us from above.”

  From the alcove of The Old Castle, Tunny’s brown face peers out at me. The sound of a familiar saxophone fills the void left by the silenced Sage as somewhere the troubadour’s talented fingers and lips coax note after note from his silver horn.

  Tunny’s voice becomes a low whisper. “Modesto plays to cover your steps. Hurry and join us before she notices you.”

  I rush to the alcove to find Tunny already climbing into Modesto’s painting via a knotted rope no doubt hung there by the diminutive gnome.

  “I’ve been staying here since the witch destroyed my forest,” he says. “The stone floor of the castle sucks the warmth from my bones, but having a roof over my head and someone to talk to has been quite a nice change.”

  “Better than talking to yourself, I suppose.” I smile despite myself. “So, Modesto lets you stay in the castle with him?”

  “He was a bit sullen about it at first, but he’s actually quite decent once you get to know him.” Tunny gets both feet onto the ground on the other side of the frame and turns to give me a hand. “Come, Scheherazade. We’ve been quiet, but the Mistress, she is clever.”

  I perk my ears for the telltale crash and thud of the witch’s mortar and pestle but no sound other than the slow melody of Modesto’s realm fills the air. I take my time and with as much grace as a woman can muster in a full-length sarong, climb into the painting. I’m almost through when the scabbard hanging from my belt catches on the frame and sends me sprawling. A quick grab at Tunny’s rope saves me and the only thing hurt when my butt hits the ground is my pride. I stand and brush the dirt from the green cloth draped about my legs.

  “Where is Modesto?” The notes of his horn filter through the space, but the troubadour is nowhere to be seen.

  “Up there.” Tunny points to the castle’s highest parapet and there, one foot propped up on a crumbling stone, stands the blue and white clad troubadour.

  “Greetings, Lady Scheherazade.”

  “Greetings, Modesto.” Even more dashing than I remember, the troubadour clearly represents an idealized version of Anthony’s older brother. This smiling fellow, however, represents a side of Jason Faircloth I haven’t seen.

  “Come up,” he shouts. “We have much to discuss, and I would hear a tale if you are willing.”

  “Very well.” I take Tunny’s hand, a gesture that sends a shiver through the gnome’s brown body, and step toward the castle. The repaired drawbridge stands half-closed, the dark moat hiding God knows what beneath its turbid surface. “Perhaps it will be easier if you lower the bridge.”

  The strains of music cease as Modesto disappears from view. A few moments later, the sound of a loud crank fills the air and the rattle of chains rings out as the bridge lowers, revealing Modesto standing at the castle’s mouth.

  “Welcome, Scheherazade. I have prepared a table.” He shoots Tunny a glance. “Even brought out the high chair.”

  “Hmmph.” Tunny strides past the gaily-dressed troubadour, brushing Modesto’s white and blue striped pants with his dirty arm and leaving a smear of brown. “High chair, indeed.”

  We sit at the table and sup on the humble fare of Modesto’s home. The troubadour busies himself seeing to our needs as Tunny informs me of the situation back at the Gnomus forest. With every tree charred, if not burned to the blackened forest floor, the wildlife has fled and nothing of import remains. The plant life surrounding the castle, conversely, has grown more lush and full since my last visit here.

  “It seems Tunny has brought a bit of the forest with him.” The flash of pride on Tunny’s face lasts but a second.

  “Indeed.” Modesto sneers in Tunny’s direction. “The little gnome leaves so much ripe filth everywhere he sits, the plants have no choice but to grow.”

  Tunny’s initial snarl at the caustic remark fades into a chuckle that shakes his round belly. “A little green was exactly what this place needed.”

  I laugh as well. “You’ve enacted some repairs since my last visit, Modesto.”

  He sets a glass of water before me and offers a slight bow. “The bridge is functional once again. After the mishap with our friend from the end of the hall, I thought having a defensible space would be preferable.”

  “Can’t say I disagree.” I glance back down the hall and mentally retrace our steps back to the giant door. “But can it hold against… her?”

  “If the bridge with all the reinforcements I have added cannot withstand her pestle, then nothing will.”

  “A toast, then.” Tunny seizes his glass and raises it above his head. “To Modesto.”

  We raise our glasses and drink. Though a part of me understands the entire scenario is merely a series of images flashing across a boy’s mind, it doesn’t change the sensations or the experience. The cool spring water coursing down my throat. The smooth glass on my fingers. The plush cushion beneath me. As real as the place where Caroline, Jason, and Archer no doubt look over Anthony and me with matched trepidation and wonder, this dream world borne from a catatonic boy’s imagination is truly a marvel.

  “Both of you.” I lower my glass. “I have a favor to ask.”

  Tunny lowers his head, staring at me through bushy eyebrows as Modesto cocks his head to one side.

  “And what would that be, fair Scheherazade?” Modesto asks.

  “The boy, Anthony. I saw him before on my first visit to your gallery. I was wondering if you would help me.”

  Tunny and Modesto share a concerned glance.

  “Are you certain you wish to pursue this child further?” Modesto peers at me askew, his eye
brow raised. “I believe the witch will be quite cross if you continue in this matter.”

  “I don’t know.” I glance around the room unconcerned. “She hasn’t bothered us yet today.”

  “She burned my forest to the ground.” Tunny rises from the table and paces the floor. “And destroyed the drawbridge of this very castle on your last visit. Would you bring destruction on all of us?” He comes to a stop at my feet and looks up at me pathetically. “More importantly, aren’t we enough for you?”

  My hand goes to my mouth. “I’m sorry, Tunny. I didn’t mean to insinuate you weren’t important. However, I’ve come here with one purpose and one purpose only. To bring Anthony Faircloth home.”

  At the mention of Anthony’s full name, both Tunny and Modesto look away. The troubadour’s contrite gaze returns first, followed a moment later by the gnome’s brown eyes.

  “We’ll do as you ask Scheherazade.” Modesto smiles.

  Tunny tugs at my sarong. “But first, a story.”

  stand before another painting. The fine script on the placard above the frame marks this canvas as Tuileries. The ink forming the letters runs as if still wet. All the children within the painting, save Anthony, have moved since my previous viewing and the once lovely French garden, beautifully portrayed in watercolor, now lies trampled beneath their many feet. There, at the center of it all stands Anthony, staring out of the painting at me as before, his body still beneath his starched white shirt, his pale face emotionless. As before, his glasses sit askew. My every instinct screams to leap into the painting and straighten them, muss his hair, and show him he isn’t alone in the ocean of children, but one simple fact keeps me on this side of the canvas.

  He and the other children are no longer alone.

  Near the right edge of the painting stands a woman in a full-length dress the color of a pale buttercup and decorated with translucent blue and pink flowers in chains. Her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun and away from her stern face, she is every bit the schoolmarm of this piece. She tries not to let on she’s noticed me, but I’ve caught more than one sidelong glance from her position against a gnarled fruit tree. Unlike my initial encounters with Tunny and Modesto, she’s made no overtures for me to enter her space or communicated in any way. I steel myself for what I fear will be more a confrontation than an introduction.

  But first, as promised, a story.

  I turn to face my two companions. Truly an odd couple, both Tunny and Modesto stare unmoving at the boy in the painting. Their expressions shift from reverence to trepidation as the children within resume their destructive dance.

  “All right, you two. Time for your story.” At my words, a harmonious woodwind melody fills the space, followed by a violin solo. The first note, pure and high, remains for a breathtaking moment before the unseen instrument arpeggiates down and up the scale before returning to the original note. It’s not from Mussorgsky’s piece, but I recognize it nonetheless.

  It’s Scheherazade’s theme, from the Rimsky-Korsakov piece. In his composition, the violin signifies when the Sultan’s wife is spinning a tale. My cue to begin.

  “Once upon a time…” I stumble, uncertain whether the rapt attention of gnome and troubadour is helping or hurting my concentration. “I’m sorry. Let me start again. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Anthony―”

  Tunny grunts and points at the Tuileries painting in disgust. “The story is about the Anthony kid? I want to hear about knights and damsels and monsters, not some stupid boy.” The gnome crosses his mud-covered arms and looks away, focusing his attention anywhere but on me or the painting before him.

  “Quiet, gnome,” Modesto says. “Do not interrupt the greatest storyteller in history.” He turns to me and offers a regretful shrug. “Accept my apologies for my rude little friend, fair lady. Please, continue.”

  “Thank you, Modesto.” I have to remind myself that behind the troubadour’s handsome eyes lies the mind of an addled thirteen-year-old boy. “Okay. Story time. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Anthony. Anthony was special, like no other boy in the world.”

  “Special,” Tunny snorts. “That’s the word kids use when all the grownups are around.”

  Modesto raps him on the skull. “Quiet, I said.”

  “Please, don’t hit him.” I stoop before Tunny and lift his chin until he meets my gaze. “It’s all right, Tunny. I’m not trying to upset you. It’s just a story, and there is a point. Is that all right?”

  Abashed, Tunny nods and looks up at Modesto. “Sorry.”

  At Modesto’s brisk nod, I continue. “Anthony lived in faraway place known as Charlotte, the largest city in a land called the Carolinas. The people there built glowing buildings that scraped the sky and great roads that led into and out of the city’s heart like concrete veins and arteries. The pulse of the city was its people, and there were plenty of them―rich, poor, black, white, good, evil, and everything in-between. Anthony, however, was different from all of them, for he knew something the others didn’t.”

  I pause, waiting to see which of them will speak first.

  “Well?” Tunny asks after a few seconds. “What was it? What did he know?”

  “Something Modesto already understands. The power of music.”

  Modesto puffs up his chest and clutches his horn tight even as Tunny crosses his arms and lets out another “Hmmph.”

  I turn and gesture to the painting. “See how he stands there. All the other children run and cavort around him, but he just stands there. Watching. Waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” Tunny asks.

  “Waiting for someone who understands him.” I kneel before the gnome. “Have you ever felt alone? Ignored? Like no one cared to even look at you?”

  Tunny stares down at the dirt beneath his dark fingernails. “What do you think?” A single tear, yellow like pine sap, courses down his mud-encrusted cheek. “Look at me.”

  “And you, Modesto. As a troubadour, an artist beyond reproach, you understand the power inherent in the right song played at the right moment.”

  Modesto puffs up. “Seems a fair assessment.”

  “Not everyone appreciates music like you do. The way love can be captured in the correct lyric or joy with just the right melding of melody, harmony, and rhythm. Such a gift, in the presence of those without such understanding, could leave you horribly alone, don’t you think?”

  Modesto nods. “More than you know.”

  I gesture again at the painting. “Then help me rescue the boy. He stands alone in a garden filled with children who can’t understand him like we three can.”

  “But he stands right there. What help could you possibly require?”

  “I agree. My task would appear to be, pardon the expression, child’s play. Do you believe for a moment, however, that it will be easy for me to retrieve him?”

  “Perhaps not,” Modesto says, the usual swagger in his voice absent. “What would you have us do?”

  “For starters, do you remember the music that played when we strolled down the hall?”

  His eyes narrow in concentration. “I do.”

  “Can you replicate it?”

  The troubadour sits on a wooden stool and brings the horn to his lips. The “Promenade” theme echoes in the small space, the smooth tones of Modesto’s silver saxophone far removed from the blaring brass from before. A glance back at the painting reveals Anthony is closer.

  No more than a step, but closer.

  He hears us.

  “Keep playing, Modesto. I’m going to go get him.” I turn to Tunny. “Any sign of the witch, come and get me.”

  “Of course.” He steps to the mouth of the Tuileries alcove and sets his feet shoulder-width apart. “She won’t get past me.”

  I pat his split leather hat and turn back to face the painting. The children have continued to circulate like a slow hurricane with Anthony at the eye of the storm. His mouth agape, the boy appears for all the world like the figure from The Scream. Th
e buttercup-garbed schoolmarm still leans against the tree, though she no longer hides behind any pretense and watches me warily.

  “Here goes nothing.” I touch the surface of the picture and the style of the art shifts from near transparent washes of watercolor pigment to brilliant photorealism. Every bent blade of grass, broken flower, and cracked branch suggested before by the stroke of an unseen brush now appears as real as the park back home where I take Isabella on weekends.

  The children have destroyed this place.

  I grasp both sides of the frame and prepare to step through, only to be pulled headfirst into the painting and flooded with every emotion conceivable. The innermost feelings of the mob of children hits me like a tidal wave and in seconds, I’m drowning in sensation. Fear. Isolation. Frustration. Each child suffers more than the one before. Out in the regular world, this sense is a boon, helping me understand the world in ways only a few people on the planet can. Its absence here in the Exhibition has presented a challenge, though its overpowering resurgence may well now be the end of me.

  Without warning, stabbing pain clenches my stomach. I double over and retch as agony rips through my body. Between waves of nausea, a simple truth dawns on me.

  All of these children and their tumultuous emotions are, in fact, extensions of one consciousness. The suffering of a single child. Magnified a thousand times.

  “Anthony,” I shout as the crippling pain in my midsection eases. “Anthony Faircloth.”

  As bad in its own way as the kaleidoscope of light that hits me with each sojourn into Anthony’s mind, the emotional maelstrom only intensifies at my words and brings me to my knees. The children continue their circling of the garden, though I have replaced Anthony as the focus of their bizarre dance. Within seconds, I’m surrounded.

  “Anthony Faircloth,” I shout again. “Stop this and come to me. Your mother has sent me to find you.”