The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories

by Christopher Bunn

  March 20. Bizarre. Guy in tights, wearing a sword, strode into office. Shouting something about rescuing the sleeping beauty. Drew sword and killed copy machine. I dialed security, but they said they were busy. Recommended I hide under desk or in file cabinet. Guy in tights approached me and called me undeserved names, such as varlet and poltroon. Sleeping drool girl caught his attention (thank God) by sudden snore. Promptly kissed her. She woke up and they waltzed off together. Good riddance. She never did any work. Who’s going to clean up all the drool?

  March 23. Think I’m in wrong profession. If I ever get my hands on Mr. Jack, he’ll regret it. Huge man came in this morning. Huge. Said Mr. Jack told him I allowed beanstalk to remain. I told him not true, but he would not listen. Said he’d grind my bones to make his muffins or popovers, or something equally disturbing like that. Told him he needs to address concerns to head of department, Mr. Stanley. He stomped off to Mr. Stanley’s office. Spent rest of day hiding under desk. This job would be better if it did not involve public.

  March 24. Wrote resignation letter. Slipped it under Mr. Stanley’s door.

  ICE AND FIRE

  Once upon a time, a baby girl was born. Her name was Matilda, and she was a princess. Matilda was the only child of the King and Queen of Lune. If you have done well in geography class, you’ll know Lune was a small kingdom. You’ll also know the main source of income for the country was the rubies mined there. They were a lovely shade of red and brought excellent prices. The mine also produced emeralds and amethysts, but these were of little value in comparison to the rubies and were used as doorstops, paperweights, or children’s toys.

  Matilda had many such toys, but she ignored them in favor of other pursuits. She was fond of gurgling and staring at stray bits of sunlight. She enjoyed flinging oatmeal from her high chair. She delighted in chewing on furniture or the Queen’s best lace or the ears of the King’s long-suffering hounds. But, as babies do, Matilda grew up into a little girl.

  She became good friends with the hounds, after they forgave her, and best friends with Peter, the only son of Jim Snow, the chief miner.

  “I wish she’d play with other children,” said the Queen. “More suitable children.”

  “You really are a snob, my dear,” said the King.

  “Perhaps if we made Jim Snow an earl.”

  “If that’ll make you happy,” said the King.

  The Queen conferred on Jim Snow the rank of earl. She gave him a purple silk sash that he was to wear to dinners at the castle. He trudged home for his lunch of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut. He neglected to tell his wife about their recent social elevation, stuffed the silk sash into his sock drawer, and promptly forgot about it.

  Matilda did not care about such things. She was more interested in catching frogs in the castle moat with Peter. The frogs were bright green, and none of them wanted to be caught. It was a splendid occupation. The castle hounds puttered along the moat’s edge and occasionally jumped into the water. They gulped at the frogs with their slobbery mouths, but they only succeeded in swallowing water. To the hounds, the frogs looked good to eat. What the frogs thought is appallingly unprintable.

  Hunting frogs is hard work, and it made the children hungry. They always ended up in the castle kitchen after an afternoon in the moat. The cook gave them bread and cheese, and a slice of sausage if she was in good temper. She was older than anyone else in the kingdom, and as such, was wiser than anyone else. The children, however, were more concerned with bread and cheese than wisdom.

  As little girls do, Matilda grew up into a taller, older girl. By the time she neared her seventeenth birthday, she was almost a young lady. Almost, I say, because Matilda had a hot temper. Young ladies, of course, do not have hot tempers. They are pleasant, play the piano well, and do admirable needlework. Matilda inherited her hot temper from a great-grandfather who had been fond of invading neighboring countries.

  It was to be expected, then, that Matilda got into many arguments with Peter. At least, she did the arguing. Peter was a miner’s son, as you know, and miners always have a good amount of stone in them. This makes for sturdy, peaceable types.

  “Well, if you won’t take me down into the mine,” she said, “I’ll go myself!”

  “I don’t think that’d be wise,” said Peter.

  “And why’s that?”

  They were standing in the front hall of the castle. Matilda picked up a boot from beside the coat rack and hefted it thoughtfully.

  “Because,” said Peter. “The mine’s dark and dangerous and is no place for a girl.”

  “Oh, it isn’t, is it?”

  “No.”

  Matilda threw the boot at him. Peter ducked and the boot hit the chamberlain who was passing by.

  “Speaking of which,” said Peter. “I’ve got to get there myself. We’ve opened up a new vein in the lower gallery, and Dad needs a hand.”

  By the time Matilda grabbed another boot, Peter was out the door.

  The miners had never gone so deep into the mountain before. It was hot and stifling. The torchlight seemed subdued and diminished—weighed down, perhaps, by the awful mass of the mountain looming above them in the darkness. Pickaxes bit into stone. The air smelled of iron and fire.

  “Look here, son,” said Jim Snow. In the old miner’s hand was a misshapen stone. The stone glowed a deep, fiery red.

  “Never seen a ruby like that before, eh?” said Jim. “Found it in the new vein. Here, go show it to the King.”

  Peter hiked back down the mountain. The castle hounds came galloping out as he neared the drawbridge, hallooing and yipping. They slobbered on Peter and ignored the ruby in his pocket. To them it was inedible and, therefore, of no importance. The King was picking apples in the garden. That is, a dozen gardeners were picking apples and the King was supervising.

  “Hi, you there!” called the King. “Get the one right above your—no, not that one, the other one! Well, then climb higher. Higher, I say! I don’t care if the branch is breaking. Ah, Peter. Cook’s promised apple pie for dinner. My favorite.”

  “Sir, if you would care to take a look at this.” Peter dug the stone out of his pocket.

  The King looked. Then he blinked. Then he stared.

  “Are there any more of these?” said the King.

  “Yes,” said Peter.

  The vein proved to be chock-full of the new rubies. The deeper the miners dug, the bigger the rubies became. The king was enthralled with them and converted the north tower of the castle into a dedicated treasury for the new gems. The castle carpenter built shelves and cabinets and display cases.

  “Aren’t you going to sell these?” said the Queen, squinting at one of the rubies. It looked as if a flame glowed inside the stone. For some reason, that made her uneasy.

  “Of course not!” snapped the King.

  “They look like they’re on fire,” said the Queen.

  The Queen wasn’t far from the truth. Down in the mine, down in the deepest tunnel, Jim Snow stared at the sight before him.

  “See here, sir,” said one of the miners. “We broke through the wall this morning. Opened up into this here natural cave. Only, it ain’t too natural.”

  Through the break in the tunnel wall, light gleamed. Jim could see into a vast space. An enormous cave, bright with scarlet light. Hundreds upon thousands of rubies embedded in the cave walls. They sparkled like candle flames. But only a fraction of the light came from them. The real source of the light came from the center of the cave. Jim’s eyes widened.

  The King, of course, was admiring his rubies in the north tower when Jim Snow arrived.

  “Gorgeous, aren’t they?” said the King. “Lovely things. I almost wish I could eat them. Maybe squeeze ‘em for my morning juice.”

  “Rubies aren’t for eating,” said Jim, who didn’t have much of an imagination. “Hard on the stomach. I prefer potatoes. Boiled or fried, I don't mind.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the King. “Potatoes. Now, what do y
ou want, Snow? A dukedom? Your son knighted? It’s yours. Whatever you want. You haven’t, er, brought me more rubies, have you?”

  “No, sir. I couldn’t bring the one I just seen. You’ll need to come to the mine.”

  The King went. He had never been to the mine before. He had always intended to, but something had always come up. A ham sandwich. An unexpected visit from his Aunt Gertrude. Gophers pillaging the royal garden.

  “Good heavens, but it’s hot in here,” said the King.

  “Wait until we get down to the lower levels,” said Jim Snow.

  It took them two hours to reach the deepest tunnel of the mine. By that time the King was sweating badly but still trudging gamely along.

  “How—how much farther?” puffed the King.

  Jim Snow didn’t say anything. He just pointed in front of them. Light bloomed in the darkness. The air sizzled with heat. A great globe of scarlet fire burned there in that endless night beneath the mountain. The King stumbled forward into the cave.

  “Is that—is that?” He was unable to finish.

  “Yes,” said Jim Snow. “That’s a ruby. Big one.”

  The King gazed in shock and delight. He crept forward and touched the stone. He snatched his hand back. The ruby was as hot as a stovetop.

  “I want it, Snow!” he exclaimed. “I must have it!”

  “Ain’t gonna be so easy,” said Jim Snow gloomily. “You see how it’s growing out of the stone pillar? Appears to me that ruby’s holding up the ceiling. Might be holding up the whole mountain, far as I know.”

  “I don’t care,” said the King. “I want it!”

  “But it isn’t yours.”

  The voice came from the shadows. It was a whispery, crackling sort of voice. It sounded like the noise of flame devouring wood.

  “Who’s there?” said the King, stepping back. “Who are you?”

  “We’re there. We’re here. We are the keepers of the mountain. We grow the rubies.”

  “The rubies are mine,” said the King sharply. “I own ‘em. This mountain’s mine.”

  The shadows rustled. “Foolish king. Yours is the outside. The skin of things. We let you take the cold rubies, for they are dead. But now your servants take the warm ones. The delicious, crunchy ones. Seventy-three, to be precise.”

  “He’s right,” muttered Jim Snow. “Seventy-three, as of this morning.”

  “And now you dare steal the very heart of our mountain?” The voice rose in agitation. “It shall not be!”

  “But I must have it!” cried the King. “I must. I’ll give you anything!”

  “Anything?” said the voice in wonder. The shadows rustled again as if conferring together. They whispered and mumbled and then giggled. Or perhaps it was only the sound of rocks grinding together. “Very well, king. You may take the heart of the mountain. In return, the next human to enter this cave shall be our servant for forever or a day. Whichever is longest.”

  “Fair enough,” said the King. “Done! Er, Snow, would you mind calling in one of your miners? Not your son, of course, there’s a good fellow.”

  “What?” said Jim Snow, aghast.

  “Hello, Father!” called a voice from behind them. Both men turned. The King’s face went white. Matilda stood at the entrance to the cave, a torch in her hand.

  She grinned at them both. “Don’t look so shocked. I’ve always wanted to see the mine. Certainly runs deep. I don’t know how long it took me to make it down here.”

  “And down here you shall stay,” hissed the voice in the shadows. The darkness rose up. The flaming lights of the rubies in the cave dimmed. Shadow engulfed the princess. The King and Jim Snow caught a glimpse of her frightened eyes, and then she was gone.

  “Fair enough,” whispered the voice in the shadows. “This is a good trade. A heart for a heart.”

  “Stop!” shouted the King. “You can’t! You’re monsters! She’ll die down here!”

  “Don’t worry,” said the voice. “We’re monsters, true, but even monsters can be reasonable. We shall teach her to breathe fire.”

  And with that, the voice was gone, no matter how the King raged and pounded his fists against the cave walls until they bled. At his last blow, the enormous ruby dislodged and tumbled down at his feet. The King stared at it.

  “I’ve been swindled,” he groaned. “Ruined.”

  “Come,” said Jim Snow. “We’ll find her.”

  He wrapped the ruby in his coat, for it was still painfully hot to the touch. He put his arm around the King’s shoulders and helped him from the cave.

  But they did not find the Princess. Every miner in the kingdom hunted through the mine for the next seven days. They crept through galleries and tunnels. They climbed down into ore holes twisting through the darkness. They knocked on walls and turned over stones. But there was no Princess. There was only the darkness and the heat and the mocking echo of their footsteps.

  Peter Snow hunted along with the rest of them. He did not leave the mine for any of those seven days, but carried along with him a sack of bread and water, as well as a blanket to wrap himself in for naps. If truth be told, he was more than fond of his old playmate, even though she was a Princess and he was only a miner’s son.

  The Queen did not take the news well. Her hair went white and she retired to her rooms. The King spent his days pacing up and down. Sometimes he would hike up the mountain to confer with Jim Snow. Other days, he would stand at the window in the north tower, staring at the snowy peak of the mountain.

  At the end of the seventh day, Jim Snow found his son standing in an abandoned tunnel, torch in hand.

  “I don’t think she’s anywhere,” said Peter sadly.

  “There’re more places than anywhere,” said his father. “But not today. Go tell the King I’m calling off the search for now. The men are dog-tired.”

  Peter trudged down the mountain. The first snow of winter lay thick on the ground. He shivered. After seven days in the heat of the mine, the frigid temperature outside was almost unbearable. Down in the valley, the castle stood shrouded in snow and the moat was iced over. A fire smoked on the hearth in the castle hall. Peter tried to warm his hands while he waited for the King, but the flames were of little help.

  “Ah, Peter.” The King shuffled forward. He looked alarmingly old. “Have you…? That is to say—rather, is there any news? News of Matilda?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” said Peter. “My father is stopping the search for now. The men are tired. Seven days, sir, as you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said the King. He tried to smile, but could not. “Thank you,” he said softly, and then he wandered away.

  Peter made his way to the castle kitchen and poked his head through the door.

  “Come in,” said the cook. “Nobody’s gotten a full stomach standing in doorways. Here, hot soup. That might warm you up.”

  It almost did. Peter ate two bowls while sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Catching princesses is not like catching frogs,” said the cook. “Especially this one.”

  “What do you mean?” said Peter.

  The cook ladled him a third bowl. “Frogs are easy. You give them what they want. Delicious bugs. Now, what can you give those creatures under the mountain? What do they want?”

  “They obviously wanted a princess,” said Peter gloomily. “I can’t imagine wanting anything more than that.”

  “They’re not you, though I daresay there’s as much stone in their noggins as yours. Think!” She rapped him on the head with her ladle. “They live under a mountain, a mountain forever reaching up into the sky. But does the sky belong to them? No.”

  “Is that what they want?” said Peter. “The sky?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t know.”

  “Then who knows?”

  “The wind,” said the cook. “You’ll have to ask the wind.”

  And so Peter went to ask the wind. He buttoned up his coat, pulled his hat down around his ears, an
d wound his scarf around his neck. The cook gave him baked potatoes, one for each pocket, to keep his hands warm. He trudged up the steps of the north tower. The King was wandering about his ruby room, sighing over the gems. Peter tiptoed by, and the King did not see him. A ladder stood in the corner of the room at the top of the tower. Peter climbed up, pushed open the trapdoor, and found himself on the roof. It was dreadfully cold up there. The world stretched out white around him. The wind whistled past, flinging snow into his face and whisking the roof bare.

  “Hello?” he said, turning around as if he somehow might see the wind. “Excuse me. I was wondering if. . .”

  The wind chuckled and hurried on by. Peter subsided into silence and tried to listen. He could hear the wind whistling past the battlements below. He could hear it shaking the icy branches of the apple trees down in the garden. He could hear it rattling the tower windows. There were no words in the wind’s voice, only a rushing liquid voice.

  But Peter was patient, if nothing else. After all, he was a miner’s son, and there was good stone in him. He stood and waited. The cold crept into him. He could not feel his nose or his feet or his ears. The potatoes in his pockets turned to ice. His hands froze. Icicles dripped from his nose. He was not sure if only an hour had passed or if he had been standing there for days. His eyes were frozen shut. The cold worked its way through him until he felt nothing except cold. His heart froze fast in the middle of a beat. He could feel the wind blowing right through him as if he had simply become a piece of sky.

  The wind laughed.

  “Very well,” said the wind. “Very well. You’ll do.” And the wind told him what to do.

  Peter levered up the trap door and made his way down the ladder. The castle was silent around him. Perhaps it was night? Perhaps his frozen ears did not work anymore? Ice crackled on the floor where he stepped. The hounds drowsing by the hearth in the hall whined and cringed away at his approach. The fire had died to ashes. He stepped outside.