by Karen Foxlee
“I am not afraid of you,” Ophelia whispered this time. She turned in a full circle, pointing at all the displays. “So you can stop it. Stop it right now. Anything you might do is all in my imagination.”
She marched up to the Spanish conquistadors and lifted up the plastic. They were nothing but mannequins holding on to swords. As soon as her back was turned, she heard the rustling of plastic again.
She had one more mannequin to look at, and she would be finished. She lifted the last piece of plastic. A Spanish conquistador was holding a very shiny silver cutlass. She looked up at his face just to make sure. The conquistador had a long, flowing black mustache but the same doll eyes as the rest. She was looking at his eyes when he grabbed her arm.
“Oh,” said Ophelia, and she tried to wrench herself free.
The conquistador gripped her arm so tightly that she could not break away.
“Ouch,” said Ophelia.
All around her was the terrible sound of plastic rustling.
“Please let me go!” she shouted as loud as she could.
The conquistador did not listen to her. She tried to prize his fingers from her arm.
“Please,” she whispered as he began to lift her from the ground. “Daddy,” she screamed. “Daddy!”
She heard the door to the exhibition hall being opened, and with that sound, she was released. She fell to the ground with a thump. Footsteps rushed toward her—high heels, the sharp sound of Miss Kaminski’s high heels.
“Adelia,” said Miss Kaminski. “What has happened?”
She knelt down beside Ophelia. Ophelia was enveloped in a soothing cloud of warm, sweet perfume.
“There, there,” said Miss Kaminski. “Have you had a fright?”
“I …,” Ophelia began, pointing at the Spanish conquistador. “He …”
The conquistador had gone back to being just a mannequin covered in plastic.
“Now, now,” said Miss Kaminski, with very kind eyes. “Don’t speak.”
Ophelia heard more feet, then saw her father’s concerned face looking down at her. “I heard shouting,” he said. “What happened?”
“There was …,” started Ophelia.
“Hush,” said Miss Kaminski, and she put her finger to her perfectly painted lips. “She has a very big imagination. She should not be left alone in such a room.” The museum curator helped Ophelia to her feet. “I will take her to the cafeteria, and she will have hot chocolate, Mr. Whittard. And I will show her the collection of dollhouses. There are too many swords in this room for a young girl.”
When they were outside the sword exhibition hall, a little of the kindness drained out of Miss Kaminski’s voice. “That is no place for a little girl,” she said. “You won’t go there again, will you?”
Miss Kaminski’s hand, on Ophelia’s cheek, was very cold.
“N-n-never again,” stammered Ophelia.
The hot chocolate was good. Miss Kaminski watched Ophelia drink it, and her bright blue eyes sparkled. Ophelia didn’t know which way to look or what to say; Miss Kaminski frightened her so. One minute kind, the next pinching her through her blue velvet coat. When Ophelia was finished, she took the museum curator’s hand reluctantly and followed her into an elevator. She was duly deposited in the Gallery of Dollhouses.
“I am going to see your charming sister now,” said Miss Kaminski. “Today I will have her portrait painted. What do you think of that, then, Nadia?”
“Ophelia,” said Ophelia.
“If you become bored, you must go straight down in the elevator to your father’s workroom. Nowhere else. But you will be here some time, I imagine. All little girls love dolls.”
“Yes,” said Ophelia. Even though she hated them. Even though she would have much rather looked at a fossil.
She didn’t like Miss Kaminski. She didn’t like her at all. Even if her perfume was nice, even if she looked like a fashion model. When she was near Miss Kaminski, she felt terrible and couldn’t breathe, and as soon as she was gone, she took a squirt on her puffer.
The guard watched her carefully after the museum curator left and showed no sign of going to sleep. Ophelia approached her and asked where the nearest toilets were. The guard laughed a toothless laugh and pulled a map from her large black handbag. She pointed to where the nearest rest-rooms were.
Out in the corridor Ophelia heard her mother whisper in her ear.
Will you help him? she said. Will you turn your back on him? Will you walk away and pretend he was never there at all?
“Shh,” said Ophelia.
You must help him, said her mother.
“I know,” said Ophelia. And she began to run.
7
In which Ophelia meets a misery bird
Ophelia pressed her eye to the keyhole, and there was the blue-green eye surrounded by dark lashes.
“I knew you’d come,” the boy said.
“I got the second key,” Ophelia said. “It was terrible. There were ghosts, horrible ghosts, in the loneliest place I’ve ever been. But one helped me. The bravest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Braver than you?” asked the boy, incredulous.
“Far braver,” said Ophelia. “And you didn’t tell me about the snow leopards. Look, one scratched my arm with its claw just as the elevator doors were closing, and it hasn’t stopped aching since.”
“Have you cleaned the wound? You must clean the wound. All sorts of things can happen with magical wounds.”
He held up his hand to the keyhole. Ophelia saw that his middle finger was missing. There was an ugly scar left behind. She looked quickly away.
“And just now I’ve been to the sword exhibition hall, because I was sure that the sword would be there. So many swords are there, but not yours. A conquistador grabbed me but then let me go when Miss Kaminski came.”
Ophelia took the plain old key from her pocket and held it in the palm of her hand. She knew it wouldn’t open the door. She had known it even before she entered the room. It was such a small key.
“I’m sorry,” said the boy. “You’ve been so brave, but now is the greatest challenge you’ll face.”
“You’d better not say the sixth or seventh floor,” said Ophelia.
So the boy didn’t say anything. Ophelia watched his eye watching the floor.
“Which?”
“The seventh. Room 707. I have been told by Mrs. V. and Mr. Pushkinova both. You must go soon, for the misery birds have just been fed and they’ll be drowsy.”
Ophelia looked at the windows, where the snow was falling and covering everything, all the rooftops and the cars in the streets and the spires of the great cathedrals and the small churches.
“I don’t know if I can.”
The seventh floor was so terrifying, even if there was nothing to see. Even though there were only doors.
“What if the Snow Queen comes?”
“I will teach you how to sense if she is coming,” said the boy. “It’s very simple and something you will need to know. Close your eyes.”
Ophelia, kneeling beside the door, closed her eyes reluctantly.
“First you must forget almost everything, and instead concentrate on the weather,” said the boy.
She opened her eyes and sighed.
“Close your eyes,” said the boy. “There is a certain sort of chill that comes before the Queen. It is a bit like the cool that rises up from the grass in the morning just after dawn breaks. Do you know this chill?”
“I suppose,” said Ophelia.
“Or perhaps the sudden drop in temperature just before snow. That cold that is almost like a metal, gray and frozen. Do you know this sensation?”
“I guess.”
It was the boy’s turn to sigh now. “Let’s try your ears,” he said. “Do you know the sound of snow falling through trees? It is a falling, sighing, lonely sort of sound.”
Ophelia shrugged.
“Or perhaps your nose,” said the boy. “She has two types of smell.”
“Like what?”
“First, when she is nearby, her smell is very empty. It’s like empty land, big sky, snow, and maybe a little bit like pinecones. Up close she is almost completely like … hot chocolate.”
“I know the smell of hot chocolate,” said Ophelia.
“That is usually the last thing you smell of her,” said the boy. “When she is right near you.”
“When it’s too late,” guessed Ophelia.
“When it’s too late.”
“Did the wizards teach you this?”
“Yes,” said the boy. “This was one of the things the wizards taught me.”
“What did they look like, those wizards?” she asked, and she couldn’t believe she was asking such a thing.
She imagined the other children at the Children’s Science Society of Greater London and what they’d think if she even mentioned wizards. Max Lowenstein, the cat expert, for instance. He wouldn’t even try to be kind. He’d say, “Ophelia. Magic is not real. It is the misguided belief that you can somehow alter physical events through supernatural or mysterious means. If you believe in such a thing, you probably shouldn’t come here again.”
“Well, as I’ve said, they were very tall and very kind,” said the boy, “except for Petal, who was short and plump. She was the one who made all their biscuits.”
“Biscuits,” said Ophelia, laughing, and she was going to ask what sort, but she noticed a look of terror in the boy’s blue-green eye.
“Quickly,” he said. “You must hide behind the curtain. I hear Mr. Pushkinova coming.”
“I don’t hear anything,” she said.
“Trust me,” said the boy. “Hide behind the curtains.”
Ophelia stood up. There was not a single sound. She was sure of it. But she did as the boy asked and slipped behind the dusty velvet window curtains. No sooner was she there than she heard keys jangling.
“Hello, my Marvellous Boy,” came an old man’s voice. “Shall I take away your morning tray?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Pushkinova,” said the boy. “How were the Queen’s birds this morning?”
“Oh, they were hungry as normal,” the old man replied. “And by tomorrow night they will be ravenous, of course, as they will not be fed again now until they are let free.”
The boy said something, but Ophelia could not catch it. She heard Mr. Pushkinova sigh.
“Now, now, my Marvellous Boy, you know I cannot do that. I am your keeper and you are my prisoner, and that is how it has always been for these last seventy-nine years.”
Ophelia heard the door being locked again.
“I will be back on the hour with your lunch,” the old man said.
When she was sure he had gone, Ophelia slid from behind the curtain and knelt before the door.
“What does he mean, the birds shall be freed?” she whispered.
“He means they will be set free when the clock chimes and the ending begins.”
“What will they do?”
“They will cause great misery,” said the boy. “They will eat … people.”
That left Ophelia unable to speak for some time.
“Maybe …,” she said finally, and then she stopped herself. Just the thought of the seventh floor made her weak at the knees.
“What?”
“Maybe I could find a way to stop their doors,” she said.
“Some kind of sticky tar?” asked the boy.
That made Ophelia laugh. It was the high, nervous laugh of someone who is thinking of people-eating birds and trying not to.
“Superglue, perhaps,” she said.
“I don’t know this substance,” said the boy. “But it sounds very strong.”
“Is there a misery bird in 707?”
The boy didn’t answer. Not at first. Ophelia pressed her ear against the keyhole, waited for his reply. She couldn’t bear to look at his eye.
“If anyone can do it, I know it will be you,” said the boy at last.
Which Ophelia took to mean yes. She took a squirt on her puffer. She would do it. She would do it, and that would be it. The boy would be free then, and he would able to look for the sword himself. He would be better at that. He knew, after all, what he was looking for.
She put the key back in her left-hand pocket with the other. She was still reluctant to go. She took off her glasses and cleaned them with her coat hem so that she could slow her breathing. She was scared. Couldn’t the boy see it? He waited, not speaking.
“Tell me a bit more,” she pleaded. She needed time to be braver, even just a little time. “Before I go. What happened with those owls that were chasing you?”
There were only three great magical owls. The wizards told me that. Then they told me what to do if I should meet one, but I wasn’t listening. There was a cloud, you see, in the shape of a bear, floating past the window and I watched it pass, and by the time it was gone, the advice had been given and I’d missed it.
There are Ibrom and Abram and Alder. I have learned that since, from Mr. Pushkinova, who not only keeps the keys but knows everything there is to know about the Queen’s army. He sometimes comes in the night and speaks through the keyhole, when he cannot sleep for his rheumatism, and he tells me such things.
Ibrom was the most magical of all, it is said. There are many minor magical owls, nearly always haunting houses and hospitals where people are about to die, but they are of no consequence, you see. When the spell coating me washed away with my tears, Ibrom smelt me. If it had been Alder or Abram, who are less magical but much more vicious, then perhaps I wouldn’t be here today.
The strangest thing I have learned is that it’s impossible to know what’s inside someone. The wizards didn’t teach me this, but I have learned it myself. Those who appear tall and straight and very good are sometimes rotten on the inside, and others, huge and clawed and apparently very bad, sometimes contain a pure and sweet form of goodness. The biggest trap is to judge a person by their outer casing. Their skin. Their hair. Their snow-white feathers.
Have you ever read about the great magical owls? Are they in your science books? Probably not. They are misunderstood and are horribly dangerous but also terribly sad. It is their sadness that gives them their magic. They find and keep the sorrows for the Queen. And the Queen needs the sorrows to exist. She needs them the way that others need air.
You see, Ibrom could hear someone crying in another land if he so chose. A boy, say, lost in a city or a woman wailing for that same child. He could sense all these things from high above. He could smell tears.
A great magical owl lives for many centuries, and Ibrom had lived for several. His magic allowed him to move freely between worlds and times. He had been witness to many sufferings: the sinkings of ships, swords, tanks, machine guns, torture, bombs, infernos, massacres. Untimely deaths, countless separations, endless grief. All these sufferings Ibrom related to the Snow Queen. They were recorded in ink on white paper. All the great tragedies and all the small tragedies, in columns neatly and exactly measured, town after town, city after city, hour after hour, day after day, year after year.
They were cross-referenced. Cataloged. Filed away. Kept.
And they are the Queen’s proof that the world is terrible, and they are her proof that all her arguments are right. That everything should remain frozen and that death should reign supreme. Each day she walks in her library and touches these memories, and they make her stronger.
And she likes above all to destroy good things, delicate morsels of innocence, which she puts in her machine. She extracts their souls and drinks the ruin of them in a cup. It was the three great magical owls who hunted her these things.
That day, when I left the kingdom, Ibrom was circling high in the sky. He could smell the huge cloud of fear that rose above the crowd on the road, grief too—the grief of hasty goodbyes—but this was not what he was looking for. He turned sharply, again and again, searching for me.
And there I was below, crying over har
d bread and cheese.
There were great spikes of sadness rising up into the sky.
He found me quite quickly, as you can imagine.
He looked down on me, crying like a baby, through the trees.
I didn’t know he was there. I had moved on in my thinking and was now lamenting the fact that I had forgotten which tree I was meant to use for making a strengthening tea. And there I was expected to remember many things and carry a magical sword, and I couldn’t even remember the simplest of things. It made me cry all the more. Ibrom circled just above the forest canopy.
What could he see? Me untying my laces to examine my blisters. The crown of my hair, my brown face. He kept quiet, that great magical owl, until he could keep quiet no more. He let out one long screech and plummeted down through the trees.
I looked up and saw him. He was coming straight toward me. He was as large as me, maybe larger, his wings—huge white, glittering sails—blotting out my vision. I rolled to the side and he barely missed me.
Now, what was it that the wizards had told me about the owls? There was something I was supposed to remember. If only I had listened to that lesson. The owl swooped steeply back up through the trees to take his position. I felt for the sword, dragged it from its scabbard, but it immediately nosed to the ground. It was so heavy, my hands shook just trying to hold the thing. And already Ibrom was descending and screeching again.
This time I somersaulted beneath him, and he held my ankle briefly in his great talons. I rose in the air with him before twisting free. The owl shot upward again toward the trees.
I pulled the one arrow from my quiver—yes, one arrow, another fact to lament—and drew my bow.
I stood the way the wizards had taught me. Felt the earth through my bare feet. I wished more than anything that the wizards had taught me something magical. Now I was going to be eaten by an owl and I was only a short way from the town.
Earth, bare feet. If you ever have to shoot a great magical owl with an arrow, you should remember this, Ophelia. Everything is connected. If you touch the ground, you touch the tops of the trees. If you touch the trees, you touch the wings of birds.
