A Magical Trio

by Alex Flinn

  The wall was made of stone, unlike my tower. At different, odd places, bits of rock stuck out. Could these be footholds? They would have to be. It was the only way. Some were very small, though, and my shoes are worn and wet. Still, I would have to try. I had lived seventeen years as a captive, a prisoner, feeling that my life had no purpose. Now, I could show that it had.

  But where was Wyatt? Selfishly, I wanted to save him too. I wanted him with me. If he were here, he could help me. Yet, he had not answered. I could not find him anywhere.

  There was no rope to grasp on to, to steady me. If I fell, I would be hurt, possibly killed, and all would be lost. I saw the first outcropping of rock, above my waist, nearer my shoulders. I stepped upon it, then reached up with my right arm, finding something else to hold.

  I was able to pull myself up, but the next outcropping was even higher. Also, my full skirt obscured it somewhat, and my hair. Still, I stepped up on it with my other foot. A gasp went up from the crowd, then a cry.

  “Can they stand below me?” I asked the woman. “In case I fall.”

  She looked disappointed and I thought, perhaps, this was not the right thing to say. Still, I was not their mother. I was not here to comfort them. I needed help.

  The third set of rocks was a bit less of a stretch. I was able to advance a bit, then to the fourth. But on the fifth, I felt a scrape against my hand, then saw blood. Tears sprung to my eyes, but I could not wipe them, could not heal myself, at least without risking a fall. My arms ached from holding on already. I stepped on the next stone, almost slipped. Another gasp from below. I looked down to see them all moving backward. So they would be no help if I fell! I was high, nearly a quarter of the way there, and the world swam beneath me. The smell of the flowers, the rhapsody, comforted me, but it also made me tired, so tired, like Dorothy and her friends in Oz, when they fell asleep in the poppy field. I wanted to fall, simply fall down and go to sleep, immerse myself in it, forget about them.

  “Eat it!” a voice in my head said, and again, I wondered if I should. But I knew that would be wrong. I had to keep climbing. I must stop this. It was the only way to buy my freedom, my real freedom to be a normal girl, not one trapped in a tower. I had been hiding all my life. Now was the time to reveal myself, or die trying. It struck me that these workers had also been trapped, like I had, only worse. How horrible not to see the sunlight for what may have been years. No, I had to help them, even the ones who fought against me.

  I resolved not to look down, except just far enough to find a foothold.

  With my bleeding hand, I held on. With my right foot, I stepped up, then my left, then pulled myself higher. Below, I could hear them breathing, rhythmically, all as one, the same as when they did their jobs. This spurred me to try harder, climb higher. I found a foothold, then another and another. I was doing this. I didn’t need a rope, didn’t need anyone. I was strong, the strength from my beautiful hair. I climbed higher, higher, more than halfway up now. I did not want to think of how I would get down. There would be time for that later.

  Then, suddenly, I heard a voice.

  “Rachel!”

  Mama’s voice.

  “Rachel!” Wyatt’s.

  Were they both there now, both below me? I looked down again, a mistake. I could not see them. The scent of the rhapsody seemed, if anything, even stronger up here, and my head swam with it. I could not see either Mama or Wyatt below. Yet, they cried for me.

  Aloud, I said, “Wyatt, where are you?”

  “Down here!” a voice said below me. Strangely, I heard it not in my head as I had in the car, or on the road, but in the room. Was I hallucinating? Was it the rhapsody? “Come down and help me! They’re going to kill me!”

  “Wyatt?”

  “No, Rachel.” This time, the voice was in my head like before. “Don’t come down. It’s a trick, a trick to get you . . .” Suddenly, the voice became muffled, and the other voice resumed.

  “Please, Rachel, come help me!”

  I didn’t know what to do. I decided to say it, very softly, to him alone. Meanwhile, my arms were tired, so tired. “Wyatt,” I whispered, “What should I do?”

  I heard his voice, something like his voice, but I couldn’t understand what he said.

  Then, the other voice, the Wyatt voice from the ground. “Aren’t you going to help me, Rachel?”

  “No,” the voice in my ear said. “Keep going!”

  I looked down, though I should not have. I should not have looked, not only because it made the world swim below me, my head spin, but also because I saw a man. He was one of the strong ones, one who had stood behind his master. Now he had broken free of the others and was coming toward me. He was climbing the wall to get me. He had a knife.

  “Rachel, help me!” Wyatt’s voice said.

  But I knew it was not Wyatt. I knew it was not Wyatt because, at that moment, I finally saw him. The workers had let him in, let him through. He seemed injured, one of his arms hanging strangely at his side. He started toward the man who was after me. He was going to climb the wall too. But how, with his arm so damaged?

  “Keep going!” his voice said in my ear. “Keep going, and don’t look back.”

  I obeyed. I knew I had to. The man was gaining on me. He was within inches of my long hair. He was slower than me. The drugs, perhaps, made him weak, but I was cornered, and he would eventually catch me. I saw Wyatt start to climb up behind him. Below, I heard a commotion as several others broke from the pack. They, too, started after Wyatt, but the others tried to fight them.

  I could look no more. I also could not hold on to the rocks anymore. I needed to move, to shift. My arms and shoulders ached. Still, I found another foothold and lifted myself up.

  “Where are you going, Rachel?” Wyatt’s voice said. “I need you to help me.”

  “No,” I yelled to whoever it was. “You are not Wyatt. Wyatt does not want my help.” My arms ached, but I took another step up.

  “That may be true,” the man said, “but if you don’t come down, we will kill him.”

  My heart was racing so fast it hurt. My hands ached, my head spun, and I wanted nothing more than to go down, But would they let us go, even if I came down? Impossible.

  As if hearing my thoughts, the man said, “If you come down, we will let you go. All of you. You only need to cut your hair.”

  In my head, I heard Wyatt’s voice. “No, Rachel, don’t do it! It’s a trick!”

  Then, a groan as he tried to climb higher.

  I did not look down to see if he had his knife poised at Wyatt’s neck. I did not know what he would do if I kept climbing, my aching hands being ripped by the rocks. But even as I did, I whispered, “Should I come down?”

  Wyatt’s real voice, the one in my head, said, “Rachel, don’t. Don’t you understand? We have to do this. I have to help you. If it is a choice between being a dead coward or a live hero . . .” His voice was stopped.

  I remembered the story he had told me, about his friend Tyler. It was true. He regretted doing nothing there. He would not wish to do nothing again.

  I looked down to see what had stopped him speaking.

  Despite his broken arm, he had nearly caught up with the man. Now, they struggled below me. But not far enough below me. The man had been, it seemed, about to overtake me. He was only inches away, struggling with Wyatt. If they fell, Wyatt would surely die.

  As would I, if I fell.

  The rhapsody smell was so sweet, so strong in my nose, my lungs. I wanted to go back, to help Wyatt. Yet, I knew this would be the wrong thing to do.

  I made my decision. I climbed higher.

  And suddenly, with this resolve, my strength was greater. I could keep going, I could climb forever. From below, I heard struggling, a scream, a crash as first one, then the other, fell to the ground.

  I could not look down. I felt the world go black.

  I wanted nothing more than to let go, to tumble to the ground. I knew I couldn’t. I found a fo
othold and climbed higher, even as I said, “Wyatt? I love you, Wyatt.”

  But he did not answer. For all I knew, he might never answer again. Was he was dead? Finally, I found a last foothold. I reached up and pulled myself up onto the balcony.

  My arms and hands were throbbing now, but I looked around.

  I heard Wyatt’s voice, small and weak, say, “I love you too.”

  There was, as they had said, a keyhole. It was old and rusted. I reached into my pocket and took out the key, the key that Wyatt had found for me.

  I chanced a look down at him, at my beloved.

  Both had fallen. My beloved was crumpled on the ground below. He was bleeding. He did not move. The workers surged around him, and their opponents, the ones who had fought against me, surged toward the wall.

  I plunged the key into the rock.

  56

  Rachel

  At first, nothing happened. Then, I jiggled the key in the lock. The door opened to reveal . . .

  A length of pipe?

  Pipe? I did not understand. It was old, rusted. I released the key with my throbbing hands. At first, it stuck in the door. Then, it fell, down, down so far. It landed on the floor without a sound, right next to Wyatt.

  Below, the water kept rushing, just as it had before. The rhapsody still bloomed. The dissenters came closer. Nothing had changed, nothing. Nothing except that my beloved was dead, and it was all for naught. I had done nothing. I knew that, soon, the men would have their hands upon me, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care.

  I looked at the old, rusted pipe below me, and I began to weep, weep for my lost love, my lost life, my lost everything.

  And with that weeping, I remembered the blonde woman’s words. There is something else, something only you can do.

  And, with that, I began to weep harder. But now, I fixed my weeping eyes right over that old, rusted pipe so that the tears fell directly inside.

  And then, I was crying harder, so much harder, like my tears had become a sudden rain shower, and they fell inside that pipe.

  A cry went up from the mob.

  I looked down below me. The men who had been climbing toward me stopped their pursuit. Indeed, everyone below me seemed silent, frozen, all staring at one thing, at the rhapsody plants.

  The flowers drooped, turning from blue to brown before my eyes. The rhapsody was wilting. It was as if my healing tears had sealed up its ability to accept water. It was dying.

  And so was my Wyatt. If he was not dead already.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Now that the job had been done, the mobs of people were moving away, streaming away to the stairs. The rhapsody dead, they were leaving. The man who had been climbing the wall stopped in his tracks, knowing now it was useless. But I could not watch what happened. I knew what I had to do. I knew they would not help. I wanted scissors, but I only had a key. A key with a sharp side. I grabbed a big section of my hair and began to saw upon it with all my might, using the key. I could see below me that it reached nearly to the ground. I sawed and sawed, and as I did, I was crying, weeping for Wyatt. Little bits, then, finally, the whole braid of hair gave way under pressure from the key. It detached itself from my head. I pulled it up beside me. Part of it was still braided, from the car. The rest was not. From where it ended, I began to braid.

  Below me, I heard a voice, Mama’s voice. “Rachel!”

  I looked down. It was her. It was really her!

  I kept braiding, but I shouted, “Is he alive?”

  She heard what I said and rushed over to Wyatt. She touched his neck.

  A moment later, she said, “Just barely.”

  It was enough. But I had to go, had to go now.

  I looped the hair around the railing that held the platform in place, then knotted it. It was not completely braided, but it hung to the bottom, beginning to unravel. It would have to do.

  I tested the strength of the knot. I could not help Wyatt if I fell myself. When I was certain it would hold me, I grabbed the rope, first with one hand, then the other.

  Then, as I had the first day we had met, I slid down it, to Wyatt.

  Once down, I rushed toward him. I felt weak, spent. I knew that my strength was gone and I hoped that my other gift, the one gift I still needed, was not. I had counted on it.

  I reached Wyatt. He was bleeding in so many places. Yet, I could tell that he was barely alive, and even though I had used so many tears, I found more.

  My tears touched his flesh.

  57

  Wyatt

  I was floating, first just above my body, then high above, like the snow angels we had made that time only real. I saw Rachel turn the key in the lock. I saw the rhapsody wilt.

  And then, I saw Rachel begin to climb down.

  I was dying. And yet, it didn’t matter, for I had fought. This time I had fought. I had done the right thing, the good thing. I hadn’t let fear or even inertia stop me. I had done what I was meant to do. I closed my eyes. Even though I was bleeding, nothing hurt. I felt relaxed, at peace.

  Then, there were hands on my body, on my face. Something wet. Tears.

  I opened my eyes.

  Rachel was there.

  “My darling,” she said. “My Wyatt, it’s not too late.”

  “You came back. I didn’t expect you to. I didn’t know if you’d still be able to heal me. I was willing to sacrifice, for you, for them.”

  She kissed me and said, “Yes, but I’m so glad you didn’t have to.”

  The room was empty. The rushing water had stopped, and the rhapsody, just wilted, was melting away. All the workers had streamed up the stairways and out the door, the Fox brothers behind them. It was as if the rhapsody had never been there. I held out my hand to Rachel. “Hey, your hair looks cute short,” I said. “And you’re pretty strong. Mind giving me a hand?”

  She took mine. “Gladly.”

  She helped me up and gestured to Mrs. Greenwood, who was standing nearby. “Mama, I think you’ve met Wyatt.”

  She nodded. “Lovely boy . . . if a bit of trouble!” She reached for my arm. “I think you’re going to have to help me a bit with these stairs. The trip down was bad enough.”

  We rearranged ourselves, one on each side of her, and started toward one of the staircases. “This one goes outside,” Rachel said.

  But when we reached it, there was a girl standing halfway up. A woman, actually, about my mother’s age, with light blond hair.

  “I thought . . . ,” she said, “I thought someone should come back to thank you . . . and to explain. You see I’m—”

  “Suzie!” Mrs. Greenwood said. “Suzie Mills!”

  “Suzie?” That had been the name of the old man’s daughter, the one who was missing.

  “Of course I remember you, Suzie. You’re the one who brought my Rachel to me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I brought her to you, because, even though I was crazy, addicted, I knew it was wrong. They told me to kill the baby, and I couldn’t kill a baby. I just couldn’t. And, then, they told me this wasn’t just any baby . . .”

  She started to cry.

  “You did the right thing,” Mrs. Greenwood said. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

  “But there is. I had a chance to escape then, but I didn’t. I could have gone home, but the drug, it had such a hold over me that I went back to it, back to them, instead of going home to—”

  “Your father,” I said. She was so skinny, maybe eighty pounds, and she was much older. I wondered if he would even recognize her.

  “Yeah,” she said. “My dad. We fought all the time when I was a teenager, but I know he was right. I was doing crazy things back then, and it made me an easy target. That’s what they did, chose kids who were easy targets, runaways, or kids like me who were already in trouble. And I made myself one with a lot of partying, but it was nothing like the rhapsody.”

  “Won’t it be hard without it, even now?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah. It’ll
be hard, really hard. That’s why some of the workers there fought against you. They wanted it to stay the way it was, even if they had to be prisoners.”

  “But you didn’t?” I said.

  “No. I’ve seen how it is. People have been getting sick, they’ve been dying. The younger ones don’t know, but I do.” She sniffed.

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Greenwood said.

  “I know. I’ll have to find the strength. We all will.”

  “You will.” Mrs. Greenwood stroked her hair.

  “I was just wondering . . . ?” Suzie said between sniffles.

  “If we knew where your dad was?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Is he alive still?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I saw him, just yesterday.”

  “Really?” she said. “So you can bring me there, to him?”

  “I can. Or we can,” I said, starting up the stairs again. I turned back to Mrs. Greenwood and put my arm around her. “And, after that, we can go home and play Battleship and watch Star Trek—all three of us.”

  All of us, Suzie first, then me and Mrs. Greenwood, with Rachel behind us, started up the stairs. It was a long walk, but considering what had been going on up until then, it wasn’t that difficult. When we reached the top of the stairs, we saw that it was daylight. I escorted Mrs. Greenwood to her own car, then, after I ascertained that she was okay to drive it, I took Rachel and Suzie to Josh’s old truck.

  We drove east, into the sunrise.

  Epilogue

  Wyatt

  In the week since Rachel destroyed the rhapsody and released the workers, a lot happened. That first day, we reunited Suzie and her father, with a lot of tears of happiness.

  And then, the police brought charges against Carl and Henry. They weren’t able to bring drug charges against them, because there was no evidence at all that the rhapsody had ever existed or that it was a drug, but they brought over a hundred kidnapping and false imprisonment charges against them, including mine.