by TJ Klune
Mr. Parnassus smiled tightly. “Of course. A slip of the tongue. It’s been a long day, and I expect tomorrow will bring much of the same. It’s worth it, though.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. I couldn’t see myself doing anything different. Can you?”
“We’re not here to talk about me, Mr. Parnassus,” Linus pointed out.
He spread his hands. “And why is that? You seem to know everything about us. And anything you don’t know can be read in what I’m sure is a meticulous file.”
“Not everything,” Linus said, closing his notebook. “For example, there doesn’t seem to be much information about you. In fact, your file was rather thin. Why is that?”
Mr. Parnassus looked amused again, and Linus wondered what he was missing. “Shouldn’t that be a question for Extremely Upper Management? They’re the ones who sent you here.”
He was right, of course. It was disconcerting how little information there was. Mr. Arthur Parnassus’s file told him nothing more than his age and education. There’d been an odd statement at the end: Mr. Parnassus will be exemplary for the more problematic of children given his capabilities. Linus hadn’t known what to make of that, and now, seeing him face to face only left him with more questions. “I have a feeling they won’t tell me much more than they already have.”
“In that, I suspect you’d be right.”
Linus stood. “I expect full transparency and your cooperation in this investigation.”
Mr. Parnassus laughed. “What happened to this being a visit?”
“That was your word, sir, not mine. We both know what this is. The only reason DICOMY would have sent me here was if there was cause for concern. And I can see why. You have a powder keg under your roof, one more powerful than should ever exist.”
“And he should be found at fault for existing? What choice did he have in the matter?”
That felt like a discussion for when Linus had his wits about him. Or possibly never. The implications alone made him feel faint again. “I am here to see if further action should be taken.”
“Further action,” Mr. Parnassus said, frustration slipping into his voice for the first time. “They have no one, Mr. Baker. No one but me. Do you really think DICOMY would allow someone like Lucy into one of their schools? Think hard before you answer.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Linus said stiffly.
Mr. Parnassus looked toward the ceiling. “Of course it’s not. Because that’s what happens after you’re done, and that’s none of your concern.” He shook his head. “If you only knew.”
“If there isn’t anything amiss, then you have nothing to worry about,” Linus said. “You may think me callous, Mr. Parnassus, but I assure you I do care. I wouldn’t be in this position if I didn’t.”
“I believe that you believe that.” He looked at Linus again. “My apologies, Mr. Baker. Yes, you will do your job, one way or another. But I think if you open your eyes, you’ll see what’s right in front of you rather than what’s listed in a file.”
Linus’s skin felt like it was crawling. He needed to get out of this office. It seemed as if the walls were closing in. “Thank you for your hospitality, even if you didn’t have a choice. I’m going to retire for the night. It’s been a rather eventful day, and I expect more of the same tomorrow.”
He turned and opened the door. Before he shut it behind him, he heard, “Good night, Mr. Baker.”
* * *
Calliope was waiting inside the door when he arrived back at the guest house. He hadn’t come across anyone else since leaving the office, though he heard voices echoing around him behind closed doors. He’d forced himself not to run out the front door.
Calliope spared him a glance before walking through the open door to do her business. The air was cold, and while he waited, he stared up at the main house. Lights shone through the second-floor windows, and he thought he saw movement behind closed curtains. If he remembered the layout of the upper floor correctly, it would be Sal’s room he was seeing.
“Twelve different orphanages,” he muttered to himself. “Something like that should have been in his file. Why on earth would he not have been enrolled in a school?”
Calliope came back inside, purring as she rubbed against his legs. He closed the door and locked it for good measure, though he figured if someone wanted to get in, they could.
Back in the bedroom, he remembered the warning from Mr. Parnassus about how Chauncey liked to hide under beds to scare people. He couldn’t quite see the dark space underneath as it was hidden by the quilt that hung nearly to the floor.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m overthinking things. Of course he’s not there. That’s ridiculous.”
He turned to go to the bathroom to perform his nightly routine.
He was in the middle of brushing his teeth, toothpaste in a glob on his generous chin, when he turned and marched back to the room. He fell to his knees, lifted up the quilt, and peered under the bed.
No monsters (children or otherwise) were hidden underneath.
“There,” he said through a mouthful of toothpaste. “See? It’s fine.”
He almost believed it.
By the time he’d donned his pajamas and crawled into bed, he was sure he was going to toss and turn for the remainder of the night. He didn’t sleep well in strange places, and learning everything he had today wouldn’t help. He tried to read RULES AND REGULATIONS (because no matter what Mr. Parnassus said, he absolutely did not have it memorized), but he found himself thinking of dark eyes above a quiet smile, and then there was nothing but white.
EIGHT
He blinked his eyes open slowly the next morning.
Warm sunlight filtered in through the window. He smelled salt in the air.
It felt like a lovely dream.
But then reality burst through, and he remembered where he was.
And what he’d seen.
“Oh dear,” he muttered roughly as he sat up in the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.
Calliope lay curled at the edge of the bed near his feet, tail swishing back and forth, eyes closed.
He yawned as he pulled the comforter back, putting his feet on the floor. He stretched, popping his back. Regardless of the situation he’d found himself in, he had to admit he hadn’t had such a good night’s sleep since he could remember. Between that, the morning sunlight, and the distant crash of the waves, he could almost pretend that this was nothing but a well-earned holiday, and that he was—
Something cold and wet wrapped around his ankle.
Linus screamed as he jerked his legs up. In his fear, he miscalculated his own strength, and his legs went up and over his head as he somersaulted backward and off the other side of the bed. He landed on the floor on his back with a jarring crash, breath leaving his lungs in a spectacular fashion.
He turned his head toward the underside of the bed.
“Hello,” Chauncey said, eyes dancing on the end of their stalks. “I’m not actually trying to scare you. It’s almost time for breakfast. We’re having eggs!”
Linus looked back up toward the ceiling and waited for his heartbeat to slow.
Department in Charge of Magical Youth
Case Report #1 Marsyas Orphanage
Linus Baker, Caseworker BY78941
* * *
I solemnly swear the contents of this report are accurate and true. I understand per DICOMY guidelines that any discoverable falsehoods will result in censure and could lead to termination.
This report, and the ones to follow, will contain the observations I’ve made throughout each week of my investigation.
Marsyas Island and the orphanage herein are not what I expected.
It should be noted that the files given to me for this assignment are woefully inadequate, leaving out pertinent facts that I believe could have prepared me for what this investigation will entail. Either parts of the files were missing or they have been redacted. If it�
��s the former, then this is a serious breach of conduct. If it’s the latter, my temporary classification level should have negated that. I would recommend a review of protocols for all classified level four assignments in the future, to make sure no other caseworker walks into a situation without the required knowledge.
My apologies if this comes across as demanding. I merely believe more should have been provided.
The Marsyas Orphanage isn’t what I thought it would be. The house itself is foreboding, though it appears to be well-maintained. It is large, and the interior is cluttered, although in a way that makes it feel like a lived-in home rather than the sanctuary of a hoarder. Aside, of course, from the actual hoard that belongs to the wyvern Theodore, but I have yet to see what that consists of, exactly.
The children each have their own rooms. In these first few days, I have seen the interiors of those belonging to the gnome Talia (the walls are adorned with more flowers than appear to be in the entirety of the garden), the sprite Phee (I do believe her bed is actually a tree growing through the floorboards, though for the life of me, I can’t figure how that’s possible), the … Chauncey (there is standing saltwater on the floor that I’m assured gets swabbed out once a week), and Theodore (he has built a nest in the attic that I was only allowed to see once I gave him another button; since I didn’t have a spare, I had to snip one from one of my dress shirts. I assume I will be compensated for this).
I have not seen the room belonging to Sal yet. He doesn’t trust me, and actually appears to be terrified of me, though through no fault of his own. He rarely says a word in my presence, but given his history, I can understand why. A history, I might add, I was not privy to as his file mostly discusses the abilities of his shift (leaving, of course, the most important part out). While this is certainly fascinating, I would suggest that it’s not enough. I’m told this is his twelfth orphanage. This information would have allowed me a better understanding upon my arrival.
I haven’t seen Lucy’s room. I haven’t asked. He has offered many times; once, he cornered me and whispered that I wouldn’t believe my eyes, but I don’t think I’m ready to see it yet. I will make sure to view it before I leave. If it is the last thing I do, my last will and testament has been filed with Human Resources. If enough of my remains exist, please see that they are cremated.
It should be noted that in addition to the children, there is an island sprite called Zoe Chapelwhite. The fact that I was not made aware of her presence until arrival is most unusual. Sprites, as I’m sure you’re aware, are highly territorial. I came to an island that is ostensibly hers without an invitation directly from her. It would have been well within her rights to deny me entrance, or worse. This suggests that either DICOMY wasn’t aware of her, or didn’t feel the need to make me aware of her existence.
Which brings me to Mr. Parnassus; his file consisted of a single page that told me nothing of the master of Marsyas Orphanage. This certainly will not do. I know that I can always ask him to tell me about himself, but I would prefer to read about him instead of engaging in conversation. I am here to observe and report. The fact that I must become a conversationalist in addition to my current duties is vexing.
There is something about him—Mr. Parnassus—that I can’t quite put my finger on. He certainly seems capable. The children appear to be happy, possibly even thriving. Mr. Parnassus has the uncanny ability to know where the children are at all times and what they’re doing, even if they’re out of sight. He’s unlike anyone else I’ve met before.
Perhaps speaking to him won’t be such a difficult task after all. And I will need to. Because regardless of how happy the children seem to be, the house appears to be on the verge of chaos. Upon my arrival, the children were roaming the grounds of the island. I’m told they are allowed to foster their own pursuits for a time each day, but it seems … unwise to allow these specific children to be unsupervised for any significant amount of time. It’s well documented that magical youth are not in complete control of whatever powers they possess, some less than others.
That being said, I understand the need for secrecy here, given who these children are. I must admit that it might be a bit overblown. Regardless of their backgrounds, they are just children, after all.
How problematic could they possibly be with the guidelines set forth in RULES AND REGULATIONS?
* * *
“Fire and ash!” Lucy bellowed as he paced back and forth. “Death and destruction! I, the harbinger of calamity, will bring pestilence and plague to the people of this world. The blood of the innocents will sustain me, and you will all fall to your knees in benediction as I am your god.”
He bowed.
The children and Mr. Parnassus clapped politely. Theodore chirped and spun in a circle.
Linus gaped.
“That was a lovely story, Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus said. “I especially liked your use of metaphors. Keep in mind that pestilence and plague are technically the same thing, so it did get a little repetitious at the end, but other than that, quite impressive. Well done.”
They were in the parlor of the main house, which had been converted into a classroom. There were six small desks lined up in front of a larger one. An old green chalkboard was set near the window, looking as if it’d recently been scrubbed clean. Thick pieces of chalk were set in a box near the floor. There was a map of the Earth on one wall, and a projector sitting on a metal stand in a corner. The walls were lined with books, much like Mr. Parnassus’s office was. There were encyclopedias and novels and nonfiction books about Greek gods and goddesses and the scientific names of flora and fauna and Linus thought he’d seen one with gold lettering on the spine that said The History of Gnomes: Cultural Relevance and Their Place in Society. It appeared to be at least a thousand pages long, and Linus was itching to get his hands on it.
Lucy took a seat at his desk, looking rather pleased with himself. He’d been the second to last to perform in what Mr. Parnassus indicated was a block in the curriculum known as Expressing Yourself. The children were invited to the front of the class in order to tell a story of their own creation, either true or made up. Talia had told a rather pointed tale of an intruder who came to an island and was never heard from again. Theodore (according to Mr. Parnassus) had spun a jaunty limerick that caused everyone (except for Linus) to laugh until they had tears in their eyes. Phee spoke of a specific tree in the woods that she was growing and her hopes for its roots. Chauncey regaled them with the history of bellhops (something, Linus gathered, that was an ongoing series).
And then there was Lucy.
Lucy who had stood atop Mr. Parnassus’s desk and basically threatened the entire planet with annihilation, his little fists above his head, eyes blazing.
Expressing Yourself was, according to Mr. Parnassus, an idea that would give the children confidence. Linus knew all too well the horrors of having to speak in front of an audience. Twice a week, the children were required to speak in front of the others about whatever topic they fancied. In addition to giving them an opportunity to practice public speaking, Mr. Parnassus said he believed it to be a creative outlet. “The minds of children are wondrous things,” he said to Linus as they followed the others toward the parlor. “Some of the things they come up with seem to defy the imagination.”
Linus understood that wholeheartedly. He absolutely believed that Lucy was capable of everything he’d shouted.
Linus sat in a chair at the back of the parlor. He’d been offered a seat much closer, but he’d shaken his head, saying it was best if he sat out of the way to observe. He had his notepad and pencil ready, set atop his copy of RULES AND REGULATIONS (something he’d thought to leave in his room, but decided against; one should always be prepared should the rules need to be reviewed) when the first child had stood in front, but it’d been quickly forgotten. He reminded himself that he needed to take copious notes so his reports weren’t lacking, especially since there was nothing in the RULES AND REGULATIONS about children ex
pressing themselves in such a manner.
And since Lucy was finished, that meant five children had expressed themselves.
Which left—
“Sal?” Mr. Parnassus said. “If you please.”
Sal slumped lower in his chair as if he were trying to make himself smaller. It was almost comical, given his size. He glanced back at Linus quickly before jerking his head forward again when he saw he was being watched. He muttered something that Linus couldn’t make out.
Mr. Parnassus stood in front of his desk. He reached down and tapped a finger on Sal’s shoulder. He said, “The things we fear the most are often the things we should fear the least. It’s irrational, but it’s what makes us human. And if we’re able to conquer those fears, then there is nothing we’re not capable of.”
Theodore chirped from the top of his desk, wings fluttering.
“Theodore’s right,” Phee said, chin in her hands. “You can do it, Sal.”
Chauncey’s eyes bounced. “Yeah! You got this!”
“You’re made of strong stuff on the inside,” Talia said. “And it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
Lucy tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “My insides are rotted and festering like an infected wound leaking pus.”
“See?” Mr. Parnassus said to Sal. “Everyone here believes in you. All it takes is you believing in yourself.”
Sal glanced back at Linus again, who tried to give what he hoped was an encouraging smile. It must not have gone over very well, as Sal grimaced, but either he had found the courage or resigned himself that he wasn’t getting out of it, because he opened the lid to his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. He stood slowly. He was stiff as he walked to the front of the class. Mr. Parnassus sat on the edge of his desk. His slacks were still too short and revealed socks that were a brightly offensive shade of orange.
