phoenix3c2

When the Phoenix Sings ~ 3

          A golden haze hung over Mouse's   chamber,   illuminating   a bewildering assortment of tools, machinery, priceless antiques, and unexplained treasures which Mouse had scavenged from the world Above.
     Mouse and his young visitor were in quiet concentration at the worktable, surrounded by glass tubes, decanters, and colorful vials.
        "What's that, Mouse?" Paul stood peering over Mouse's shoulder watching the young man pour a yellow substance from one glass tube to another.
          "Stuff."
          "What kinda' stuff?"   The boy had come hoping for a game of toss, but his ball and glove were being ignored.
          "Mouse's stuff."
          Paul persisted, "What's it for?"
          With an exaggerated sigh, Mouse glanced over his shoulder, his face a curious blend of annoyance and anticipation. "Father thinks nobody can fix Father's father's book." He paused significantly, pointing at a dark stain on the wooden surface of his worktable. "See that?"
          Paul moved closer, examining the stain and nodding.
          "Won't wash off. Been there a long time...maybe forever. Now watch." He poured a bit of his solution onto the stain, forming a small puddle. Suddenly a thin wisp of gas formed, rising slowly and emitting a strange odor.
          Paul pulled back coughing, blinking away stinging tears. "Mouse,
     that stuff's awful."
          Mouse blew several times in the direction of the puddle, waving his hands until the air was clear. At last he leaned forward victoriously, pointing to a slight indentation in the wood where the
     stain had been. "Spot gone."
          Paul had to agree. The spot was gone, but so was a fair amount of the wood. He frowned, "You're not going to use that stuff on Father's book, are you?" He looked up at Mouse, "It'll melt a hole right through it."
          Mouse shrugged.   "A little strong now...no problem.   Dilute it...not so strong, and Mouse will have more stuff. Clean lots of things."
          The boy shook his head, "I don't know, Mouse. Father really likes that book. If anything happens to it, he'll be really mad."
          Mouse pursed his lips,   disgusted with his young   friend's pessimism. "Gripe, gripe. You'll see. Mouse surprise Father...book good as new." He smiled,   contemplating   his   rewards.   "Father glad...gladder than glad." His smile widened as he added, "Maybe so glad, Father will want Mouse to write in book, too."

          Mouse had full confidence in his cleaning solution, but he was equally confident that Father would never consent to its use on one of his books. Besides, if Father knew about it, it wouldn't be a surprise.
          That evening, the pipes announced that Father could be reached in the hospital chamber, and Mouse took the opportunity to enter Father's study alone. The book was exactly where he had seen Father put it, in the box in the bottom drawer. When he pulled it out, it was in even worse condition than he had realized. The back cover was loose, held on by only a few threads, but that was not Mouse's concern...he was here to clean the stains. Carefully spreading the dropcloth he had
     brought with him, he laid the book on Father's desk and pulled his special solution from one of his pockets. He took a deep breath, opened its lid, and hesitated briefly. Speaking to the walls, he
     murmured, "Okay...better be good," and he tipped the bottle, sending a thin flow to spread itself on the book's stained cover.

          As Father limped toward the study he wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and huddle under the heavy pile of blankets. He frequently wondered how the winter air made its way down into the tunnels. All the passages seemed unusually chilly tonight, and the hospital chamber had been even colder.
          Rounding the last corner outside his study, he became aware that he had a visitor inside. Well, he was entirely too tired for visiting. Whoever it was would have to save their chat for tomorrow. He emerged from the entrance and let his eyes sweep the room.
          Mouse was there, huddled over something at his desk.
          Suddenly Father froze at the top of the short flight of steps, staring at the boy who was bent in concentration. Mouse had some sort of flask in his hand, and in front of him, on the desk, lay Rudyard Kipling's personal copy of "Captains Courageous".
          "Mouse! Here now...what are you doing?" His shout filled the chamber, echoing, astonishing even himself with its intensity.
          The young man's head came up as he gasped in startled surprise.
          As if in slow motion, Father watched in horror while the bottle slipped from Mouse's hand, plunged to the desk top, and shattered, sending its contents splashing across the pages of his priceless book.
          Father heard himself shout again, "No, Mouse. No," while he lunged in a futile move toward the plummeting bottle, throwing his arms forward, forgetting his stance at the top of the stairs. Suddenly he lost all sense of up and down; the steps beneath his feet at first seemed to slant precariously, then they vanished.
          Again, time slowed. He watched in disbelief as the floor leaped upward until he felt a sickening thud at his hip. Then something impacted with his head, sending bright lights and dizzying sounds slamming around inside his skull as he collapsed, powerless, at the base of the steps.
          Staring at the upside-down chamber, he was aware of a pain so great that he sensed it as nausea rather than pain. He needed to breathe, but couldn't. Time continued to slow, turning in on itself while the lights of the chamber faded. Then he gratefully surrendered the pain to nothingness.

          Catherine peered through the threshold opening as she called down, "Vincent?"
          "I'm here." His voice pierced the darkness as he waited for her in the world Below.
          She had known he was there, but his answer still warmed her with a pleasant reassurance. "Good, wait just a minute. I have something I want to bring down." Lifting the large box at her side, she lowered it into Vincent's arms.
          He set the carton on the floor and helped her climb down, greeting her with a brief hug. Seconds later he pulled back, gazing at her, one arm still at her waist. For a moment Catherine wondered what he was thinking, but then he turned his attention to the box. She was pleased that his hand remained in place, still touching her.
          "What is this, Catherine?"
          "It's something for the children."
          "A gift?" He bent to pick it up.
          She nodded with a smile.
          "Is there a special occasion?" He tested its weight.
          "No." She pulled back the lid, revealing an assortment of crayons, watercolors, colored chalk, oil paints, canvas and paper. "It's been so cold these last few days that the children haven't been able to come up to the park to play. I thought they'd like something to do, so I brought them a box of art supplies."
          "That's very considerate of you, Catherine."
          She watched as he examined the contents, lifting out some of the paints with his free hand.
          "The children have never had such fine materials to work with. This will give them hours of pleasure." He smiled, carefully repacking the box.
          "I can remember how I felt when my parents wouldn't let me go out in the weather." Helping him tuck the lid back into place, she added, "However, they probably will need some supervision."
          "I'm certain it can be arranged." He put the box under his arm and took her hand. Together, they moved into the tunnels as he continued softly,   "I taught an art class a year ago...I'm not quite sure why we stopped. Perhaps it is time to resume the lessons." Vincent paused as an idea occurred to him. "Rebecca told me that a friend of ours who is an artist in California will be returning for Winterfest. Perhaps he could help me set up a workshop."
          "A helper?"
          "Mmmm," Vincent nodded. "He used to be. It's been about five years since he left New York, but he's stayed in touch with us. Royce has a remarkable talent. It'll be good to..."
          Vincent suddenly stiffened, lifting his chin as if he were listening to something beyond the stone walls.
          "Vincent, what is it?" Dimly aware that the gentle clasp on her hand had become a painfully crushing grip, she tugged at his sleeve, "Vincent?"
          He stood frozen. "Listen."
          "I don't hear anything." To Catherine the tunnels were completely quiet, but Vincent seemed to hear something in the silence.
          "Father." Releasing her hand, his eyes darted toward hers, and he gasped, "Father's been hurt!"
          And then he was gone, the pounding of his racing footsteps fading into the distance as Catherine stared after him.
          The only remaining sound was the clicking of the plastic markers as they spun across the stone floor from the broken box which lay where Vincent had dropped it.
          When Vincent reached the lower entrance to Father's study he could no longer sense Father's distress. The only sound from within the chamber was a distinctive whimpering which he remembered from the days of Mouse's childhood.
          "Father." Vincent stopped, taking in the scene. Mouse was there just a few feet away, bent at the bottom of the steps, hovering in terror over a still form.
           The whimpering became louder, and the boy looked up with eyes widened in panic. There was an anguish in those eyes which had not been there since Mouse had been a wild creature of the streets.
          Father lay unconscious, crumpled on his side, and both of Mouse's hands had a firm grip on the old man's right arm. The boy seemed about to flee, and Vincent had the frightening impression that Mouse was going to try to take Father with him.
          Suppressing his own anxieties, Vincent stood at the top of the steps, lifting one hand slowly in a gesture of reassurance.
          "Mouse. Let him go."
          The boy's arm came up as if to ward off a blow, but he maintained his hold.
          Vincent slowly bent his knees, sinking to sit on his heels, extending his hand. Father hadn't moved, and Vincent wasn't even certain he was breathing. But nothing could be done for Father as long as Mouse endangered him. "Mouse, I'll take care of him now." He added firmly. "Let him go."
          Vincent was uncertain that his words were being understood. The feral sounds from the young throat came from beneath Mouse's thin veneer of civilized behavior, noises reminiscent of times when Mouse was without a vocabulary.
          Aware that the boy was beyond reason, Vincent was about to make a move forward when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
          "Mouse." It was Catherine. She came around Vincent, touching his shoulder as she moved down the steps to the boy. Approaching Mouse quietly, she took his face tenderly between her hands and willed him to look into her eyes. "Mouse," she soothed, "it's all right. Vincent will take care of him." She tugged gently at his arm, and to Vincent's amazement, the boy stood up, allowing Catherine to guide him to a chair a few feet away. She stood there with him, holding him in the chair,
rubbing his shoulder.
          Vincent was instantly at his father's side, his fingers seeking a pulse. It was there, rapid and irregular.
          Catherine's voice was little more than a whisper. "Is he alive?"
          "Yes." Vincent released his breath as his fingers went to a darkening bruise at Father's temple where a jagged cut was bleeding.
     Bending low, he asked softly, "Father, can you hear me?"
          There was no answer.
          Loosening the top ties of his father's shirt, Vincent ran his fingers carefully over the aging body, seeking broken bones, avoiding any movement. He feared the possibility of internal injuries, but without medical help there was nothing he could do except treat Father for shock.
          "Catherine, I need the blankets from Father's bed."
          Moments later, she was there with the bedding and Father's black medical bag. "I found the bag beside his bed."
          "Good." Vincent found a gauze bandage and pressed it against the cut on Father's head while Catherine spread the blankets, tucking them between Father and the cold stone floor. As they worked, Vincent stole a glance at the boy in the chair and asked Catherine softly, "How is Mouse?"
          "He's scared to death. Do you think he had something to do with this?"
          He nodded. "Something. I know that Father shouted at him before he fell."
          "You heard him? We were so far away."
          Vincent nodded once, offering no other explanation.
          Father moaned softly, and Vincent frowned, shaking his head. "We can't move him. We can stop the bleeding and keep him warm, but..."
          "We need a doctor,...Peter."
          "Yes. And Mary."
          Catherine stood. "I'll get them. I'll be back as fast as I can."
          Hurrying up the steps, she paused just long enough to glance behind her at the boy who still sat in stunned silence. She couldn't imagine what role Mouse had played in this, but right now nothing mattered but Father.