by TJ Klune
Linus nodded slowly. “I see.”
“Do you?” Phee asked. “Because even if you wiped out the grove, if you tear down all the trees, unless you get to the roots, they’ll just be reborn again, and grow as they had before. Maybe not quite the same, but eventually, their trunks will be white, and their leaves will turn gold. I would like to see them one day. I think they’d have much to tell me.”
“They would,” Zoe said. “More than you can even possibly know. They have a long, long memory.”
“Have you seen them?” Linus asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Sprites,” Linus muttered to himself. Then, “If they’re all the same, how can you tell them apart?”
“You have to see what’s underneath it all,” Phee said. She dug her hands into the earth. “You have to put in the time to learn what the differences are. It’s slow going, but that’s what patience is for. The roots can go on forever, waiting for the right time.” She frowned at the ground. “I wonder if I can…”
Linus took a step forward when she grunted as if wounded. Zoe shook her head in warning, and he stopped in his tracks. There was a subtle shift in the air, as if it’d become slightly heavier. Phee’s wings began to flutter rapidly, light refracting off them in little rainbows. She pushed her hands into the soil until they were covered completely. Sweat dripped from the tip of her nose onto the ground. Her brow furrowed. She sighed as she pulled her hands from the ground.
Linus was speechless when a green stalk grew from the earth. Leaves unfurled, long and thin. The stalk swayed back and forth underneath Phee’s palms, her fingers twitching. He was stunned when a yellow flower bloomed, the petals bright. It grew a few more inches before Phee lowered her hands.
“It’s not a sunflower,” she said quietly. “I don’t think they’d survive here for long, even with the best of intentions. It’s called a bush daisy.”
Linus struggled to find his voice. “Did you … was that … did you just grow that?”
She shuffled her bare feet. “It isn’t much, I know. Talia is better with the flowers. I prefer trees. They live longer.”
“Isn’t much?” Linus said incredulously. “Phee, it’s wonderful.”
She looked startled as she glanced between Linus and Zoe. “It is?”
He rushed forward, crouching down near the flower. His hand was shaking when he reached out to touch it gently, half convinced it wasn’t real, just a trick of the eye. He gasped quietly when he rubbed the silky smooth petal between his fingers. It was such a little thing, yet it was there when only moments before there had been nothing at all. He looked up at Phee, who was staring down at him, gnawing on her bottom lip. “It is,” he said firmly. “Absolutely wonderful. I’ve never seen such a thing. Why, I’d even say it’s better than the sunflowers.”
“Let’s not go that far,” Phee grumbled, though it looked as if she were fighting a smile.
“How did you do it?” he asked, the petal still between his fingers.
She shrugged. “I listened to the earth. It sings. Most people don’t realize that. You have to listen for it with all your might. Some will never hear it, no matter how hard they try. But I can hear it as well as I can hear you. It sang to me, and I promised it in return that I would care for it if it should give me what I asked for.” She glanced down at the flower. “Do you really like it?”
“Yes,” Linus whispered. “Very much.”
She grinned at him. “Good. You should know I’ve named it Linus. You should feel honored.”
“I am,” Linus said, absurdly touched.
“It’s a perfect name for it,” she continued. “It’s a little flimsy, and honestly isn’t much to look at and will probably die if someone doesn’t take care of it regularly.”
Linus sighed. “Ah. I see.”
“Good,” she said, her smile widening. She sobered slightly as she looked down at the flower. “But it’s still nice, if you think about it. It wasn’t there, and now it is. That’s all that really matters in the long run.”
“You can make something out of nothing,” Linus said. “That’s impressive.”
“Not something out of nothing,” she said, not unkindly. “It was just … hidden away. I knew what to look for because I listened for it. As long as you listen, you can hear all manner of things you never thought were there to begin with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put so much pie in my mouth, I’ll probably choke. And then I’ll eat some more. I swear, if Lucy didn’t leave any for me, I’m going to grow a tree out of his ears.”
And with that, she headed toward the small house, wings fluttering behind her.
Linus stared after her. “That … was an effective threat.”
Zoe laughed. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“She’s capable.”
“They all are, if only one can see past the flourish above to the roots beneath.”
“A little on the nose, that,” he said.
“I suppose it is,” Zoe said. “But something tells me that subtlety is lost on you.” She turned toward the house, stepping into Phee’s footprints in the soil. “Coming, Linus? I do believe you deserve another piece of pie after your lesson.”
“In a moment,” he said. He looked to the flower again as Zoe went inside. He pressed a finger against the center as lightly as he could. He pulled it away, the tip yellowed with pollen. Without thinking, he stuck his finger against his tongue. The pollen was wild and bitter and oh so alive.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
ELEVEN
Department in Charge of Magical Youth
Case Report #2 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.
My second week at the Marsyas Orphanage has brought new insights into its inhabitants. Where once there seemed to be chaos, I now see a strange yet definitive order. It has nothing to do with hastily brought changes at my arrival (of which I assume there were a few; such things usually occur before a caseworker walks through the door), but more so with me growing accustomed to how things are run.
Ms. Chapelwhite, though she isn’t on any kind of DICOMY payroll, cares for these children as if they were her own. Given that she’s a sprite, it’s a little surprising, as her kind are known for their solitary existences and being extraordinarily protective of the lands that they tend to. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever met a sprite who wasn’t fiercely protective of their privacy. And while Ms. Chapelwhite isn’t exactly forthcoming, she does work in tandem with the master of the house to ensure the children are well provided for. She is often found in the kitchen preparing meals, and even takes to handling study groups for the lessons Mr. Parnassus has taught. She is well-versed on a variety of subjects, and her tutelage enhances what the children have learned. It appears to be free of any sort of propaganda, though that might be for my benefit.
I’ve now seen Lucy’s room, and sat in on one of his sessions with Mr. Parnassus. If you take away what is known about the boy—who he is supposed to be—you are left with an inquisitive youth who tends to say things for shock value rather than with any sincerity. He is intelligent, almost frighteningly so, and well-spoken. If DICOMY weren’t sure he was the Antichrist—a word that’s not to be uttered at the Marsyas Orphanage—I would think he was nothing more than a boy capable of conjuring images meant to scare. However, I expect this is what he wants me to think. I would do well to keep my guard up. Just because he appears as a child doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of great calamity.
His room is small, converted from a walk-in closet in Mr. Parnassus’s own room. He was somewhat shy in showing me where he resides, but his love for music allowed me to form a connection with him. I believe—under proper guidance—that he will be capable of becoming a productive member of society. So lo
ng, that is, as he doesn’t give in to his true nature. It does beg the question of nature versus nurture, if there is inherent evil in the world that can be overcome by a normalized upbringing. Can he be rehabilitated? Assimilated? That remains to be seen.
I haven’t seen Sal’s room, though I think I am slowly gaining his trust. I have to be careful with him. He reminds me of a skittish foal. That being said, I have heard him speak more in the last day than I have in the entirety of my stay on the island thus far. Granted, he wasn’t speaking to me but around me, but I don’t know that it matters. He’s like a sunflower, I think. He needs to be coaxed with proper care to show his true colors.
Theodore—the wyvern—has a hoard that I haven’t seen yet, though it has to be filled with at least a dozen of my buttons. I may not ever see it, but as of yet, it doesn’t cause me any great concern. They’re only buttons, after all. I plan on keeping a sharp eye out in case there are hints at anything more nefarious.
The biggest issue I see to date is what appears to be isolation. The children don’t leave the island, large as it is. There is a reason for it, and one I am bothered by. It would have been helpful to know before my arrival that the villagers are paid by the government for their silence. Little details like this are important, and the fact that I was unaware makes me look unprofessional. It does raise the question, too, of the source of these payments. Do they come from the funding that’s earmarked for this specific orphanage? I would expect an auditor would take issue if that’s the case.
The village nearby seems to be somewhat hostile to the inhabitants of the orphanage. I believe DICOMY isn’t doing itself any favors with its campaigns in conjunction with the Department in Charge of Registration. There are signs of SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING in every corner of the village, and it’s reminiscent of those in the city, though they seem more cluttered here. If the children don’t feel welcome in the real world, how can we ever hope to integrate them into society?
I’m thinking of a day trip, perhaps. To test the waters. I’ll need to bring it up to Mr. Parnassus, of course. I think it would do the children good, and hopefully allow the villagers to see their fears are unfounded. If Arthur says no, I suppose I’ll have to abide by it.
Such a strange fellow Arthur is. He cares for the children. That much is clear. While he doesn’t follow RULES AND REGULATIONS to the letter (possibly not at all), I think there is merit to what he does. The children all care about each other immensely, and I believe that is in no small part due to Arthur.
Still, he is an enigma. For all that I’ve learned about this place, I feel as if I know him the least. I will need to rectify that, I think.
For the children, of course.
Talia showed me more of her garden today. Gnomes are quite proficient in horticulture, but she seems to outshine even the very best and …
* * *
It was a Tuesday in Linus’s second week at on Marsyas when Calliope decided she needed to be chased, after committing theft.
It certainly wasn’t something Linus wanted to do; it was after lunch and he was sitting on the porch in the sun, dozing quite peacefully. He still had a few moments before he needed to return to the main house to sit in on the children’s studies, and he was using that time wisely.
And then there was the idea of chasing a cat at all. Linus, for all that he was capable of, didn’t like to chase anything. Chasing implied running, and Linus had decided long ago that running wasn’t something he liked very much. He never understood those who woke up even before the sun had risen, donned their fancy expensive sneakers, and went running on purpose. It was most unusual.
But then Calliope burst out of the guest house, hackles raised and eyes wide, as felines sometimes did for mysterious reasons. She looked at him wildly, tail up in a rigid line, claws digging into the floorboards.
And she had one of his ties in her mouth.
Linus frowned. “What are you—”
Calliope bolted off the porch toward the garden.
Linus almost toppled over as he stood from his chair, managing to stay upright by the grace of God. He watched as Calliope ran, the black tie trailing behind her. “Hey!” he shouted. “Damn cat, what are you doing? Stop this instant!”
She didn’t stop. She disappeared behind a hedge.
For a moment, Linus thought about letting her go. It was just a tie, after all. He actually hadn’t worn a tie this week. It was much too warm, and Phee had asked why he always wore one. When he told her it was proper for someone in his position to wear a tie, she’d stared at him before walking away, shaking her head.
But it absolutely wasn’t because of Phee that he’d forgone his tie on Sunday for the first time. And then when Monday had come around again, he’d decided it certainly wasn’t necessary, at least for the time being. Once he returned to the city, he’d have to wear one, of course, but now?
It wasn’t like he was being supervised.
Who would know?
(Phee did, apparently, if her smirk was any indication.)
But still. That tie had cost him more than he cared to think about, and just because he wasn’t wearing it now didn’t give Calliope the right to take it from him. He’d need it when he went back home.
And so he chased after his cat.
He was sweating by the time he made it to the garden. A man of his size and shape meeting with wind resistance made running that much more difficult. And sure, maybe he wasn’t running exactly, but jogging was just as bad.
He entered the garden, calling after Calliope, demanding that she show herself. She didn’t, of course, because she was a cat and therefore didn’t listen to anything anyone told her. He looked under hedges and in flowerbeds, sure he’d find her crouching, tail twitching as she gnawed on his tie.
“I don’t know why island life has made you this way,” he said loudly as he pushed himself up from the ground, “but I promise you things will change when we get back home. This is unacceptable.”
He made his way farther into the garden, reaching a part he hadn’t yet seen before. It wrapped around the side of the house and was much denser than what Talia had shown him so far. Here, the flowers looked wilder, their blooms bright, almost shocking. The sun was on the other side of the house, and the shadows were plentiful. There were many places for a cat to hide.
He stepped around an old tree, the limbs gnarled, the leaves folded and saw—
“There you are,” he said with a sigh. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
Calliope sat on her haunches, tie lying on the ground at her feet. She looked up at him with knowing eyes. She meowed again, a sound he still wasn’t used to.
“I don’t care,” he replied. “You can’t steal my things. It’s impolite, and I don’t like having to chase … after … you…”
He blinked.
There, behind Calliope, was what appeared to be a cellar door at the base of the house. The foundation was made of stone, and the doors were thick and wooden. He stepped forward with a frown, seeing what appeared to be scorch marks upon the doors, as if there had been a fire behind them once upon a time. He thought for a moment, trying to remember if he’d ever been told there was a basement to the house. He didn’t think he had, and aside from Sal’s room, he’d seen what he thought was almost every inch of the house. If this was a basement, there was no entrance to it inside.
There was a rusted padlock on the door. Whatever was down there—if anything at all—would remain hidden. For a moment, Linus thought about getting one of Talia’s shovels and using it to pry open the door, but dismissed it immediately. It was locked for a reason. Most likely to keep the children out. If there had once been a fire down there, it was unsafe. Arthur had probably put the padlock there himself. It didn’t look as if anyone had been here in ages; the path to the cellar door was overgrown with weeds, which seemed at odds with the rest of Talia’s garden.
“Most likely a coal cellar,” Linus muttered. “Would explain the scorching. And since co
al isn’t used as much anymore, better to be safe than sorry.”
He bent over and scooped up his tie.
Calliope watched him with bright eyes.
“This is mine,” he told her. “Stealing is wrong.”
She licked her paw and rubbed it over her face.
“Yes, well, regardless.”
He glanced once more at the cellar door before turning back the way he’d come.
He would have to remember to ask Arthur about the cellar door when they had a moment alone.
* * *
Which, much to his growing consternation, didn’t happen. Why he would feel any sort of consternation over such a thing was beyond him, but there it was. Linus was learning that whatever feelings Arthur Parnassus evoked in him were temporary and the result of proximity. Linus didn’t have many friends (perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, none at all), and considering Arthur Parnassus a friend was a nice idea, however impractical it might be. They couldn’t be friends. Linus was here as a caseworker for DICOMY. Arthur was a master of an orphanage. This was an investigation, and getting too familiar with one of the subjects of said investigation wasn’t proper. The RULES AND REGULATIONS were clear on that: A caseworker, it read, must remain objective. Objectivity is of the utmost importance for the health and well-being of the magical youth. They cannot look to depend upon a caseworker, as the caseworker is NOT THEIR FRIEND.
Linus had a job to do, which meant he couldn’t sit around hoping to speak to Arthur without little ears around. And while Linus believed the sessions between Arthur and Lucy were fascinating, his time couldn’t be spent with just them. There were five other children to consider, and he needed to make sure it didn’t look as if he were playing any favorites.
