When the Phoenix Sings ~ 16

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          Mouse struggled beneath the weight of his burden as he dragged  it into  Father's  study.
          Several  people were gathered there,  including Sandra and Robert, who  had  come  to  share  breakfast  with Father.  They had just given Father the official news of her pregnancy.  As Sandra had expected,  he had reacted with pleasure, but more important to her was the warm pride in Robert's eyes.
          Vincent sat in his big chair near Father with  Catherine  hovering above him.  He seemed to be feeling much better,  but she still heard a low wheeze with his every breath.  She had allowed  him  to  come  only with  the  promise that he would return to bed as soon as his curiosity had been satisfied.
          Father seemed to be feeling much better this morning,  although he had  been so preoccupied with Sandra's news that he had not yet noticed that his son was in less that perfect condition.
          Mouse complained,  mumbling under his breath,  "Rebecca said empty boxes."  He  released  the  carton and came to its other side,  leaning against it and  pushing  as  he  grimaced.  Finally  it  rested  beside Father's  cot.  "Told  Mouse,  no problem.  Easy job.  Just pick up and go." He frowned at the young blond woman who stood nearby. "Other boxes coming...here soon."
          Rebecca shook her head,  coming to Mouse and testing the weight of the box. "I don't understand.  I was sure they were empty...I know they were." Her fingers ran over the white label which was glued across  the seam at the top.  There was no sign that it had been disturbed.
          Father leaned forward to read the inscription.  "To be opened only by Father on the day after Winterfest." He looked up as two  young  men arrived  with the other boxes.  It was evident that these boxes were as heavy as the first.  "You say these have been in  the  storage  chamber since before the holidays?"
          "Even  longer,"  Rebecca  nodded.  "I  found  them  when  I did my inventory before I started the Winterfest candles."
          The old man frowned.  "Who could have put them there?"
          "I have no idea."
          "Well,"  he  leaned  back.  "I  suppose  there's  little  point in speculating.  If someone will please hand me  something  with  a  sharp edge, I'll open one and perhaps we will have our answers."
          Robert  handed  Father  a letter opener,  and Father ran its point along the seam, slicing the label in two.
          The flaps of the carton  parted,  and  Father  folded  them  back. There  was  a  moment  of expectancy,  then he reached into the box and withdrew an object from inside.
          It was a book.  Father looked at its cover and lifted his brows in surprise  as  he  opened  it.  "This  is  a first edition collection of Yeats." He removed two more books...a leather bound Dickens novel and a beautifully engraved white leather copy of Scott's, Lady of the Lake.
          Vincent leaned closer, peering into the box.  Reaching into it, he brought out several more books, looking at their titles,  then bringing his startled eyes up to meet Catherine's.
          "Catherine,  these are the books from Smyth's Bookstore...the ones I put into my cloak."
          She returned his look with a skeptical stare. "They can't be." She stepped forward and peered into the  box.  "Those  books  burned.  They were destroyed in the fire."
          Father  glanced  up  in  concern.  "Fire?"  For the first time, he lifted his gaze from the books and saw Vincent's hand, realizing it had been bandaged. "What fire was that?"
          Vincent shook his  head.  "There  was  a  fire  Above,  Father.  A bookstore burned."
          His  father  frowned  in  alarm.  "You  were  there?"  He  touched Vincent's hand. "You were hurt."
          Vincent waved away his concern. "Mary took care of it, Father.  It was nothing."  He reached again into the box,  looking  at  the titles. "Catherine, they're the same...just as they were on the shelves."
          He looked up at the other boxes.  "Mouse, open the others." As the boy began to slit the next seal,  Vincent rested back in his  chair  in bewilderment. "Catherine, I think they're all here...Everything I tried to save...and more."
          Catherine watched  as Mouse opened the second box and  pulled  out more volumes, every one a collector's piece.
          Then  Mouse  opened  the  third  box  and  presented it to Father. Immediately after pulling back the flaps,  Father gazed into the carton and froze.  He sat in stunned silence,  with an almost frightening look of astonishment on his face.
          "What is it, Father?"  It was Rebecca who asked.
          Slowly,  Father's  hand went into the box,  and he withdrew a book that appeared to be in mint condition.  Its binding  glowed  softly  in the light of the study.  On its spine,  in gold gilt,  was engraved the title -- "Captains Courageous".
          Father's voice trembled as he murmured,  "It's exactly  like  mine except  that  the cover is in perfect condition."  He looked at his son through misted eyes. "Vincent, how can this be?  This book is extremely rare."
          Vincent had no answer.
          Then Father opened the book's cover and stared  in  dumb  silence. His face contorted and sudden tears fell unheeded down his worn cheeks.
          "Father."  Vincent leaned forward.  "Father, are you all right?"
          "It's  my  book...it's  the  same book," the aging voice muttered. "It's inscribed to  my  father...with  the  same  words...in  Kipling's hand." He stopped for a moment, losing the words. At last he whispered," But it's new...  It looks just as it must have when Kipling gave it to my father."  He sat absolutely still,  clutching the  book between  his hands. "But this is impossible. I saw it destroyed...with my own eyes."
          "Father," Vincent murmured as he touched the inscription,  "who is to say what is impossible?"
          Mouse had stood by in silence, watching as his redemption unfolded before  him.  His  expression  was not one of surprise...he looked more like a person who  had  finally  been  granted  a  promise.  His  voice came, cautiously asking Father, "Father happy now?"
          There was no reply as Father sat staring at the book in silence.
          "Mouse," Catherine assured the boy, "Father is very happy."
          "Good."  The  blond  head bobbed.  Then he leaned forward,  gazing down into the depths of the third box. "Something for Mouse in there."
          Vincent's  eyes  darted  to  his young friend.  "What do you mean, Mouse?"
          "Like Mouse said.  Something in there for Mouse."
          Rebecca came then,  reaching inside  and lifting out a paper sack.
     "He's right, Vincent.  This has Mouse's name on it."  She gave the  bag to the boy.
          As they all watched, Mouse ripped the sack in half and pulled  out an old and somewhat tattered...blue Mets cap.
 

          Slowly all three boxes were unpacked, the books stacked in careful piles as each new title was read.  Then finally the cartons  were empty -- except for one last package in the  bottom  of  the  third box.  The parcel was wrapped in a scrap of black wool, very similar to the fabric of  Vincent's  cloak.  And Vincent's name was pinned to it,  written in large block letters on a small piece of yellowed paper.
 
                                   * * *
 
          Several hours had  passed  since  the  boxes  had  revealed  their astonishing contents.  The precious books had been sorted and placed in safe places.  Father had refused to let his book leave his hands.
          Word of the miraculous find had swept through the tunnels, and the only  person who seemed unaffected was Mouse.  He had been seen proudly wearing the Mets cap just before he vanished  into  the  lower  tunnels with several of the children.

* * *

          Catherine sat at Vincent's side as he leaned against  the  pillows of his bed,  peering at the parcel in his hands.  It was still wrapped, unopened, in its layers of black wool.
          "Why have  you waited to open it?"   Catherine's voice was low and warm in the still silence.  The only other sound was  the  ever-present tapping on the pipes.
          The blue eyes which met hers were sparkling  with  secret  wonder. He reached to take her hand in his.  "I'm not certain."  His other hand held the package,  his thumb gently stroking the soft fabric.  "Somehow it  seems to me that this must be a private thing.  Something not meant to be shared."
          She looked at him through downcast lashes.  "Would you rather  I'd leave so you can open it?"
          "Catherine," he chided her gently, "you know you are a part of me. There is nothing that I would not share with you."
          She smiled, ducking her head slightly.
          Vincent  looked  down  at  his  package,  then  extended it toward Catherine.  "Would you open it for me, please?"
          "But it has your name on it."
          "I know.  I still would rather you'd open it."
          She looked into his face, then nodded, convinced of his sincerity. Her fingers trembled slightly as she handled the parcel.  She  unpinned the  paper  which  bore  Vincent's name,  then turned the bundle in her hands,  loosening the fabric.  Slowly the layers  of  black  wool  fell away, revealing a sheet of tissue paper.
          Within the paper,  she found a large old  book,  musty  with  age. Looking up to meet Vincent's eyes, she turned it in the light, allowing him to read the title... Art of the Masters -- A Gallery.
          She responded to his look of  surprise.  "It's  a  book  of  art." Opening the first page, she found a list of titles.  The next few pages included  full  color  plates by several of the old masters.  Catherine
     tilted her head.  "It's lovely...but why would anyone single it out for you?"  Then  the  pages  flipped,  falling  open  to  a plate which was instantly familiar.  "Vincent." She frowned in wonder, lifting the page for him to see.  "It's the tapestry the children painted...the mural of the Phoenix."
          Vincent  came  up  on  his  elbow.  There  in  the  book  was  the children's  painting...possibly  a little finer,  more refined,  but no more powerful than the  work  accomplished  by  the  children.  He  met Catherine's eyes as he supported a corner of the book,  "They must have seen this picture somehow...used it as an inspiration."
          Catherine sighed,  relieved that one mystery,  at least,  had been explained.  "Who's the artist?"
          He shook his head.  "It's listed as unknown." His eyes lingered on the work. "It's beautiful.  The children copied it with great skill and sensitivity.  Thanks to them,  the legend of the Phoenix will be  alive on the walls of the Great Hall for always."
          She  smiled.  "Another  magic  window  for  little  boys  to  pass through."
          His own smile answered hers as he reached again for her hand. "And little girls.  We all need our enchanted kingdoms."
          As their hands met,  there was an instant when the book fell  free and the pages fell open again to a new and different picture.
          Simultaneously their eyes caught the sight...and together they sat frozen  by  the  astonishing  impossibility that lay in the book before them.
          It  was  an oil portrait of a woman.  A woman dressed in a flowing robe which fell from her right shoulder,  draping her body in its  soft folds.  Her  left  shoulder  was  bare,  as were her breasts.  Her only adornments, a single ring and a delicate chain in her hair.
          In  her hand she held a crystal pendant identical to the one which Catherine wore at her own throat.  The fingertips  of  her  other  hand were raised to her bare bosom, caressing her nipple with the whisper of a touch.
          But the source of their amazement was the woman's face.  She stood in  silence,  a half-smile lighting her eyes,  her expression radiating peace and quiet joy.  And the woman's face was unmistakably the face of Catherine Chandler.
          "Vincent." Catherine stared at the picture,  words eluding her  as her mind reeled.  At last she whispered,  "It's the picture Royce meant to paint...the picture which was never begun."
          A  glance  at  the  plate  below the print revealed its name.  The Marriage of Persephone.
          Vincent gazed at the work in silence, his eyes shining.
          At last Catherine found the words and  she whispered,  "She is  in the  same  pose  as  the picture that Royce drew...but my face is older than it was in Royce's drawing.  The picture he drew was of a nineteen- year-old  girl.  This is the face of a woman,  and she's smiling.  It's just like Amanda and Royce said.  Persephone  came  to  her  bridegroom with joy." Her eyes came up to seek Vincent's.  "It's the picture Royce always wanted to paint."
          Finally  Vincent moved,  his head shaking slowly.  "Royce couldn't have painted this,  Catherine.  He and I are the  same  age...and  this picture  is  bound  into a book that was printed years ago."
          Taking her eyes from the picture,  Catherine flipped the pages  to the  book's  title page and discovered that the book had no publication date.
          "Catherine."  Vincent shook his head slowly as Catherine's fingers returned to the portrait. "She has your face, but this book was printed years before your birth...probably even before Father was born."
          "But then, who...?"
          Together their eyes moved to the lower corner of the painting,  to the place where portraits are usually signed.
          There was no name.  There was only a finely sketched outline of  a blossom, rendered in blue oil, the color of Vincent's eyes.
          Vincent touched the blossom as Catherine asked softly, "There's no other signature."
          "No."
          "But what does it mean?"   She leaned against him,  suddenly  very cold.  "Do you recognize the flower?"
          He  nodded  slowly,  then  whispered,  "I've  seen  it in Father's books."
          Catherine  was strangely hesitant to ask.  "What kind of flower is it?"
          His  eyes  lifted,  capturing  hers.  In the quietest of voices he answered, "It's a Blue Gentian."

* * *

          They  sat  together  on  his bed,  Catherine leaning with her back against  Vincent's  chest.   The  portrait  of  Persephone  rested   on Catherine's  lap,  Vincent's  hands enclosing hers as she held the open book.
          If  Vincent  had been uncomfortable with the partial nudity of the portrait, he accepted it now...as part of the magic.
          Magic.
          Catherine  sighed,  finally  making  an  admission  that  she  had resisted  from the very first time she had met the strange young artist in Smyth's Bookstore.
          For  a  moment  she took some comfort from a thought which she had once entertained...magic was not as impossible in Vincent's world as it was in her own.
          Suddenly a marvelous calm surrounded them -- a veil gathering them in and shutting out the rest of the world.
          Feeling Vincent's eyes on the  portrait  as  he  peered  over  her shoulder, Catherine murmured, "Vincent."
          He breathed against her ear.  "Mmmmmm?"
          "Do you believe in magic?"
          His answer came slowly.  "I believe in you  and  me...and  in  our bond."  After another pause, he continued.  "Yes,  I think I believe in magic."  He  hesitated,  "But  I  don't  think  you  can  force  it  to happen...It's  something  that happens when you surrender yourself.  If you try too hard,  you smother the magic by forcing it to fit into  the logical corners of the world."
          She  nodded.  "That's  what  I've  been  doing.  I've been pushing against your barriers,  trying to force my way through.  When  all  the time,  there  was magic at work in the tunnels,  opening the way before us...I wasn't willing to surrender my doubts.  The magic was there  all along, calling to us both, but I couldn't hear it."
          He nuzzled her ear gently and murmured,  "It's like Father said in his story about the Phoenix, some songs are so sweet that almost no one can hear them."
          "Except  lovers.  He  said  that  perfect  love comes to those who hear."  She waited through his long  silence,  then  she  added softly.
     "Vincent, do you remember our first Winterfest?"
          She felt his slow nod as he rested his chin on her hair.
          Quietly she continued. "When the celebration was over, and we were alone  in  the  Great  Hall..."  She pulled his hands from the book and secured  them  around  her  waist.  "I  asked  you  if  you  heard  the music...and  you did.  We both heard it so clearly that we danced to it together." She paused, pulling his arms tighter.  "I thought it was the wind...but  I wonder..." Turning within his embrace,  she faced him and gazed into the brilliant blue of his eyes. "What if it wasn't the wind?
     What if it was...the magic?"
          Pressing his lips to her cheek, he murmured, "You believe we heard the song of the Phoenix...even then, so long ago?"
          "I  don't  know.   I  don't  think  it  really  matters  what   we believe...as  long  as we  believe in each other."  She smiled,  "But I think I could hear the song now...if you helped me."  Her lips moved to his,  and she kissed him tenderly.  "I think, Vincent, that if you were to hold me...very tight...that maybe then we could hear it together."
          Vincent tightened his embrace and returned her gentle  kiss,  then he  lifted the book and laid it on the shelf at the base of his stained glass window, never taking his eyes from hers.
          Then...finally accepting the reality of their  dream...he  brought his arms around her,
          And Vincent claimed that which had always been meant to be his.
 
 
 

"And  from  the  ashes  he  claimed the life that had   always been meant to be his.  That is why the Phoenix   will live forever.  And it is also the  reason  that,   to  this  very  day,  children of all ages everywhere   must be  silent  and  listen  very  closely...because  perfect love has been promised to anyone who can hear            ...when the Phoenix sings."