The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  “Are we all right?” Mr. Meister said.

  “Super,” said Chloe. She nudged Horace.

  Horace pulled his eyes away from the Laithe. Now that Horace knew Brian had made Mr. Meister’s red vest, he recognized it as Tan’ji, but it was a strange kind of recognition, like a faint reflection on the surface of rippling water. Once again he wondered how it was possible to have two Tan’ji at once. He watched Mr. Meister roll up the parchment and noticed his Möbius-strip ring. Was that yet another Tan’ji? Somehow the very question—maybe being reminded of everything that had been kept from him, and all the things he still didn’t know—made Horace’s outrage flare up again. The silver sun. Sil’falo Teneves. His mother.

  “I was just talking to Neptune,” Mr. Meister said, “and she thinks she knows of a place where we can—”

  “I can’t do that right now,” Horace said.

  Mr. Meister blinked. A little black bird flitted by overhead, from one compartment to another. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I need you to tell me about the silver sun.”

  Mr. Meister’s thoughtful gaze lit across the box, then back up to Horace’s face. He took a deep breath. “No.”

  Neptune drifted slowly to the floor, her wide, innocent eyes stretching even wider. “You’ll want some privacy, of course,” she said, nodding her way out of the room. She and Chloe murmured terse, polite good-byes to each other. Chloe apparently had no intention of leaving.

  “I need to know,” Horace demanded. “Brian already told me the silver sun does something.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. You knew he would. You wanted me to open the box in front of him.”

  “I made no mention of the box.”

  Horace couldn’t remember if that was true or not, but the old man’s flat, reasonable tone aggravated him even further. “I wish you wouldn’t pretend. You wanted Brian to see me use the box.”

  Mr. Meister spread his hands, conceding the point. “I admit I thought it would be informative, yes.”

  “So that he would tell me I’ve been using the box wrong.”

  Mr. Meister leaned forward abruptly, bushy eyebrows working hard. “You are a brilliant Keeper, a prodigy. You have astonished us all. Never once have I said or thought you were using the box in the wrong way.” He held Horace’s gaze steadily.

  “But?”

  Mr. Meister sat back in his seat, tugging at his red vest. He fiddled with the Möbius-strip ring on his finger. “But,” he said at last, “if you are asking me if untapped potential still remains within the Fel’Daera, the answer is yes.” He spread his hands wide. “A month ago we sat in this very room and I practically told you as much.”

  “And what is that untapped potential?”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  “Cannot?”

  “Will not.”

  Horace began pacing, fuming inside. He felt like he was in the Find all over again, sick and lost and desperate for answers. The Fel’Daera buzzed in his hand, as if sensing his frustration. He glanced up at the Laithe of Teneves, and for a moment almost spilled everything he knew about his mother. But no. Not now. He kept his anger in focus. “You have all these rules about not teaching us how our instruments work. About letting us figure it out on our own. But you break those rules all the time, whenever it suits you.”

  “For example?”

  “For example, you told me how the very act of opening the box changes the future I see. You told me all that stuff about free will. Why did you tell me that? Why didn’t you let me find that out for myself?”

  “I confess I have walked a thin line. But those were refinements of ideas you had already begun to explore yourself. It was you who figured out that the box could send objects into the future. It was you who realized the box allowed you to actually witness the future firsthand.”

  “But you gave me help even before that. The very first day I found the Fel’Daera—remember? You told me I can’t keep anything inside the box. You told me not to open the box without reason.”

  “Mere hints whose true meanings you had to come to on your own. They were distant beacons, not explicit instructions.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You think I am toying with you. I assure you I am not.”

  “I think you don’t even know what your own rules are.”

  Mr. Meister clenched his jaw. “I freely admit that sometimes I do not. But once again, Keeper, you have fallen victim to your own tendency to underestimate both me and the dangers we face. Yes, every Keeper should navigate his own path through the Find. Yes, I took risks with the hints I gave you the day you claimed the Fel’Daera—hazy though those hints were. Yes, every time I talk to you about the function of the box, I risk tainting the bond.” His voice grew stern, and one of his bony hands balled into a trembling fist. “But the times are desperate, and as you say, the caution is mine to exercise or ignore as I see fit.”

  “Why? Because you’re the Chief Taxonomer?”

  Mr. Meister looked startled. For a moment Horace could almost have sworn that a flicker of sadness swept across the old man’s face. “If you like, yes,” Mr. Meister said. “What I say and do weighs heavy on you all.”

  Chloe spoke for the first time. Horace had almost forgotten she was even there. “A month ago—in this very room—you told us you weren’t the chief of anything.”

  “Titles are irrelevant. Only our abilities matter. But because of my abilities, my word carries weight—with you, Chloe, and with Gabriel, with Neptune. With all the Tan’ji gathered in this place. And particularly with you, Horace. I cannot allow my word to fall too heavily, to influence you too much. You must trust me on this.”

  “Why particularly with me?”

  “Because as others influence you, so in turn do you influence the Fel’Daera. And this can lead to disaster, because what the Fel’Daera reveals affects us all. Have you forgotten the message you left in your toolshed, the night of the fire? How Chloe’s determination to leave compelled you to see a future in which you felt safe allowing her to do so?”

  Just being reminded of that mistake, a mistake that had almost cost Chloe her life, made Horace’s anger flare higher. “So you won’t tell me about the silver sun.”

  “I will not.”

  “Then I need time to figure it out—on my own, apparently.”

  “We do not have time. The Keeper of the crippled Tan’ji approaches even as we speak, drawn by the daktan. We do not know what to expect. We need the Fel’Daera’s help. Your help.”

  “I can’t help you right now. I can’t even think straight. Maybe you should have thought of that before you got Brian to tell me how little I actually know about my own Tan’ji.”

  “Apparently I should have. And had I known you would pout like a child when you discovered you still had more to learn, I never would have opened that door. Your pride does you no credit, Keeper.”

  That was more than Horace could take. Horace whirled to face Chloe. He thrust out his hand. “The daktan. Give it to me.”

  Chloe’s eyes narrowed curiously, but she dug out the little flower without a word, dropping it into Horace’s hand. It felt clammy, slightly electric—revolting and dismal. He spun back to Mr. Meister’s desk and laid down the Fel’Daera, twisting the lid open with his free hand.

  “What are you doing?” the old man said, his great left eye shining behind the oraculum.

  Horace dropped the daktan into the open box. It clattered tinnily against the blue bottom. “You say the Keeper of the daktan is on his way here. You say he’s following the call of this missing piece. Well, I can fix that.”

  “Horace—” Chloe began, but he cut her off.

  “Everyone wants me to be the Keeper of the Fel’Daera. Fine. That’s what I’m being.”

  He looked Mr. Meister straight in the eye, and then he flicked the box closed. He felt a shivery tingle roll through his hands, and it was done. The daktan was gone. It would be nowhere on this ea
rth until it reappeared in this exact location in twenty-four hours. Let the lost Keeper try to track it down now.

  The old man took off his glasses and squinted at Horace, as if barely recognizing him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Horace shrugged. He picked up the now-empty Fel’Daera and slid it into its pouch. “I told you,” he said. “I need more time.”

  PART THREE

  Little Bo Peep

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Adrift

  APRIL BOLTED UPRIGHT IN THE SPEEDING VAN, HER BREATH seizing in her chest. She swayed, disoriented—as if the only star in a moonless sky had winked out, leaving her dark and directionless.

  The missing piece was gone.

  For a moment, she couldn’t even remember what that meant. A numb spot burned in her mind, and the snipped memory struggled to re-form. April tried to remain calm, reaching out through the vine, her thoughts spilling out of the broken stem, but she still couldn’t sense anything, finding only cold silence where before there had been a warm summons.

  The missing piece. Gone.

  “Stop,” she said weakly.

  Ethel, bent over the steering wheel, gave no sign that she’d heard. Arthur stirred, but seemed untroubled. But Isabel turned around to look. “What’s wrong?” she said. She studied the air all around April’s head, and her curious face wrinkled into consternation. “Why are you doing that?”

  April pushed out harder through the vine, desperate to find the signal again. She unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. “Stop,” April muttered again, and then again, louder: “I said stop!”

  Morla lifted her bony head, a small blip of interest crossing through her sluggish misery. Ethel, meanwhile, glanced back in the rearview mirror but didn’t slow.

  Isabel lifted a hand to Ethel and said softly, “The girl told you to stop.”

  Though they were on the expressway, Ethel hit the brakes at once and swung smoothly onto the shoulder. April grasped the seat to keep from toppling over. Joshua, who had been snoozing fitfully, woke with a sleepy, “Are we there?”

  They rolled to a halt along the guardrail. Cars continued to whiz by on the left, rocking the van where it stood. Ethel turned and glared at the three of them suspiciously. April ignored her, pulling her hair back, not caring that she was exposing the vine’s wound.

  Ethel caught sight of it and inhaled sharply. “This is no shopping trip for the boy, is it?” she said.

  April pressed her fingers hard against the vine. The missing piece—what had happened to it? Had it been destroyed? “It’s gone,” she told Isabel. “I can’t feel it.”

  “You just lost it for a moment,” Isabel said, but her face was wrinkled with worry.

  “No. It’s just . . . gone.”

  “They know,” Ethel said abruptly. Her squinty eyes were locked on to the vine’s broken stem. “They’ve got your daktan and they know you’re coming.”

  April skipped right over the unfamiliar word, understanding Ethel at once. “The Wardens, you mean,” she said, not bothering to pretend anymore.

  “The Do-Rights, yes.”

  Isabel rounded on Ethel. “Hush!” she said sharply.

  But Ethel paid her no mind. “They don’t want to be found. They’ve destroyed what you need. It’s too late for you now.”

  “Quiet!” Isabel bellowed, rising to her feet. “You don’t know anything.” Morla cowered into her shell, her wretched presence shriveling into an icy tremble.

  And then, abruptly, Morla was gone. Arthur was gone. The vine itself vanished from April’s mind. A single look at Ethel’s stunned face confirmed that she too had lost contact with her Tan’ji.

  Isabel had severed them all.

  Isabel yanked the van door open, letting in the sounds of roaring traffic and the smells of exhaust. “Out,” she commanded, staring down at April. Arthur was out the door before April could even react, his wings blurring past April’s face. Gone. She tried to make herself stand, to make herself leave. But it was as if she’d forgotten even how to stand. Gone. And then she felt a small hand in hers, pulling her forward. “Come on,” said a voice, simple and sweet.

  She stumbled out into open air. She lost her balance, lost the small hand she was holding. Sharp pain flashed through her knees. And then suddenly, miraculously, she was warm again. The vine opened once more in her thoughts. She could breathe. She reached out through it, felt Arthur down over the edge of the highway, on a grassy slope whose low murmur she could also sense—but still she could not feel the missing piece.

  “You can go now,” someone said imperiously, and she looked up to see Isabel looming overhead. But the woman wasn’t talking to April—she was talking to Ethel. April locked eyes with the driver and knew that the mixture of dismay and confusion and relief she saw on Ethel’s face must be echoed on her own.

  Morla, meanwhile, had entirely disappeared into her shell, and from her April felt a painful waking from a deathlike sleep, a torturous unlimbering from the void. Ethel was in the tortoise’s mind again, rousing her and testing the bond after the brief severing, as if Morla were a great rusted machine whose parts could be hammered senselessly into motion. And April realized that that’s what Morla was—a machine. A machine with an animal’s soul beaten thin and trapped alive inside. She wondered how old Morla really was, and whether she would ever—could ever—die. Maybe death would be a relief.

  April threw up, still on her knees there on the shoulder. Her stomach emptied itself in two convulsive heaves. It was all too much, all of it, everything that was happening—too sad, too sick, too hopeless. Joshua backed squeamishly away. Isabel seemed not to notice, still facing the van.

  “Go,” Isabel said again.

  “Ask her to tell you the truth, love!” Ethel called out. “Ask old Isabel what she really is. She’s no Keeper.”

  April wiped her mouth and looked back at Ethel. “What?”

  “Go now,” Isabel said, taking a step toward the van.

  “She says she’s Tan’ji, but she’s not one of us!” cried Ethel. “And she never will be!”

  Isabel took another step forward. And now, on the fringes of Morla’s mind, April felt a new presence, thunderous, coming down hard along the line of thought that burned between Ethel and the tortoise. This new presence began to push—so heavy, so sharp—and Morla made a sound that April heard through the vine, a sound of bone-deep anguish, the sound a person might make while being torn in two.

  Suddenly the van roared to life and sprinted away, the door still open. Bits of gravel kicked up, spraying them. Horns blared. Tires screeched. Within seconds the van’s taillights were distant swerving dots in traffic. Ethel and Morla had escaped whatever Isabel had been doing to them.

  Isabel bent over April, fists on her hips. The wicker sphere dangled above April’s head. “Don’t listen to Ethel. She lies.”

  “I felt you inside Morla,” April said. “You were tearing them apart. Not just severing—more than that.”

  “Severing’s too good for her,” Isabel said, but explained no more. “Come on. Let’s get off the road.”

  April got to her feet, avoiding the pool of sick there on the shoulder. As she bent to wipe bits of grit from her bloodied knees, she saw Joshua was holding her backpack. She took it from him gratefully.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Not really. But I’m not going to barf again, if that’s what you mean.”

  Joshua made a face but reached out and placed his hand on April’s arm in a comradely sort of way. “I barfed once,” he said earnestly, and the gesture broke April’s weary heart just a little.

  They climbed over the guardrail and down the grassy slope. The sun was fully below the horizon now, but barely—a peachy glow still crouched low across the sky. April veered away from Isabel, heading instead for Arthur, who sat all but invisible in the darkening grass. She opened herself to the bird, wanting to cleanse herself of Morla’s wretched presence.

  Arthur was still calm af
ter what Ethel had done to him—tamer than April had ever felt him—but his playful curiosity was beginning to surface again. She walked up to him and sat in the grass a few feet away. He hopped right over and plucked at the hem of her dress. When she held out a piece of dog food for him, he snatched it out of her hand.

  Joshua came and joined them, sitting a respectful distance away. Isabel followed behind but didn’t sit. Behind her, back up the slope, the interstate traffic continued to thunder by.

  April had no idea what to say to the woman, no idea what to even think. The missing piece was gone. Everything they’d done was all for nothing. There was no hope in the world anymore. The trip had been nothing but uncertainty and fear and danger, and now . . . what was she supposed to do? Go back home? She could barely even muster up the idea of a future.

  Joshua scooted closer, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Can I feed Arthur?” he said.

  April managed to smile. “Go ahead. He likes you.”

  Joshua took some food tentatively. Arthur saw the exchange and hopped toward the boy expectantly. When Joshua just sat there, Arthur let out a low, rattling warble that April thought of as his purr. Joshua startled and hurriedly tossed the food. Arthur caught it out of the air nimbly and squawked in gratitude, rustling his wings. Joshua’s face lit up with wonder.

  Isabel, however, did not seem impressed. “Where are we, Joshua?” she said impatiently.

  “Northbrook,” the boy said at once, still watching Arthur.

  “How far to downtown?”

  “Eighteen miles, in a straight line.”

  “As the crow flies,” April told him. “That means in a straight line—it’s a saying.”

  “Eighteen miles as the crow flies,” he said. “Or maybe the raven.”

  Isabel sighed. “But we won’t be able to walk in a straight line. It’d take us all night to walk that far, and it’s already quarter til nine.”