Ghosts I Have Known (I)

He first visited while I was drawing. There was something about pencils and paper that seemed to bring him downstairs, at any time of day; I never found out what it was.

I had felt him before he made his presence known as obviously as he later would - perhaps he was still just gauging who it was with whom he was sharing his home and seeing whether we were suitable. I was six at the time and living in an old boarding house that my parents were managing. They seemed as though they must be as old as the hills in those days, but were in fact only in their early twenties. My sister had come along and was developing into a fairly cheerful little thing.

As time went on and we settled in he grew a little more curious about us, beginning to visit more regularly. The first time I recall him deliberately incurring into our lives was when he began moving my tin of pencils across the table while I was drawing. Not one to let anyone get away with such a thing without good reason, I would reach over and bring them back to where they had started. So he would move them again, a little further than before. Again I would draw them back. Sometimes he would move them in a straight line, others he would describe a wide arc.

When he tired of this, he would wander off to the kitchen and have a play. The taps would turn on for a few seconds, then off again. Lights would go on even if it was still the middle of the day. Occasionally he would flick the switch on the electric kettle, sending it whistling until we went and turned it off.

We weren’t able to see him during any of this; he was quite shy that way. The only time anyone actually saw him downstairs was when my aunt went out of our rooms and into the boarding house foyer to find my young cousin talking to the bottom of the stairs. When she asked who he had been talking to he said the old man had asked him what his name was. She asked who he meant and he told her that he had disappeared as she opened the door.

Soon after his ventures downstairs began, I grew curious about where he must be the rest of the time. Apart from our modest corner, the house had around 25-odd rooms, converted into accommodation for a range of very different people. Staying there with us were railway workers, an extended family of always-smiling Tongans, assorted other lodgers and a couple of fairly lonely, elderly men who kept much to themselves.

Over the course of a few weeks I made my way around visiting the various rooms, either tagging along as my mother carried out cleaning or dropping by for a game of cards or chess and a chat… such were the ways of my six-year-old self.

No sign of him on any of these occasions. On a couple of trips I did hear the trick with the taps from one of the communal bathrooms, which I knew were not being used by anybody at the time as the doors were open. But there was never a sign of anybody when I would look in.

During this time, while dusting the banisters on the main spiralling staircase, I did catch a glimpse of a fairly elderly man in a grey suit peering from the second floor over the top of the railing. I only caught sight for a brief moment before he turned. I knew that the only elderly gents living with us at that stage were on the ground level and was sure that he didn’t look or dress like any of them.

There was only one place I hadn’t explored, somewhere I knew I had been avoiding. While his presence hadn’t caused me too much undue concern thus far – there was always a ‘gentle’ quality to his visits that meant there was really nothing to be too scared about – I had always had a funny feeling about the attic. I was quite happy roaming the rest of the property, but it was never an area I had really ventured into. The main reason, apart from the dust and spiderwebs and lack of anything of interest bring kept up there, was that my parents had warned me of the likelihood of falling through to the floor below… a long way down with such high ceilings.

But it had to be done. Summoning the requisite courage to venture ‘out of bounds’, I began the long journey up the main stairway to the second floor, around the landing and down the hall passageway to the very rear of the house. This is where the narrow staircase up to the attic was to be found, at the very end of the hall, past the last of the rooms. My stomach was full of butterflies but it’s hard to know if it was being worried at finding anything up there, or being caught out. But everything was quiet so I pressed on. Step by step I climbed, each creaking so loudly I’m sure the whole house could hear. I finally got to the top step and rattled the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Pushing the door open (yet more creaking), I had my first proper look at the attic. There was bright sunshine streaking through a tiny skylight, a rectangular block of light that hung like a column in the otherwise fairly dark space, a place where shadows were allowed to roam in relative peace and had settled into a comfortable existence together. The floor did indeed look very fragile, as well as being covered in a thick layer of dust, almost like a layer of carpet, but more the texture of underlay. Running the length of the attic were beams, criss-crossed occasionally with others running perpendicular. It seemed then that rather than really being a floor, it was simply the top of the ceiling below – therefore unlikely to hold much weight at all.

As my eyes adjusted to the relative gloom, I realised he was there - the man in the grey suit. He was standing in the back right hand corner, looking right back at me. I could see him clear as day, yet I could also see what lay behind him as well, making out the unbroken line of the beams that ran diagonally to the floor, parallel with the sloping roof line. He looked very old, drawn and a little sad.

My voice would not come. If I had seen him elsewhere in the house I would perhaps have managed it, but up here I felt I had invaded his space somehow and felt highly uncomfortable. I let him be.

Sea

By night, she is herself. Free to be what she was born to be. Their mutual yearning for each other hidden by day, her infinite depths now whisper to her lunar love. But, even by night, it is never truly consummated - despite their slow and silvery dance. Their distance draws them together yet keeps them apart.

You turn to her seeking... what?

Wind drops, birds nestle in, the sun's distracting glare has long since moved on to wake distant cousins. It's her turn.

You smell her. The salt of the ages, yet a fresh and freshening sense of surprise, of birth. A hint of her secret garden, pleasantly pungent seaweed set adrift, escaped from its bed and wandering a dance with its partners of tide and fate.

You hear her. Listen long enough and her language grows clearer. Untranslatable, yet she needs no translation. From white noise emerges her voice, a surging whoosh a crack a thwump as she rears breaks tumbles, spilling in a shock of sudden release. Then; a sucking slurp as she returns, coaxing with her the fine sand, the crushed shell, the rejected rock.

You see her. She is black, smooth, ebony silk, a thick, used oil; tar. You could walk on her as though down a road, following the moonlit trail to her outer horizon, then up up up the beam to the moon herself. Yet this is myth - she's no longer black, she's now white. She's writhing, prostrating herself at your feet.

You touch her. She's warm. She's cold. She's wet. She's gone. You step nearer, she slides away. You step nearer, she rushes back. A collision course. But she hasn't seen you, she runs on up the beach. She leaves you again, as though you had never met. You plunge in. Under. Through. You are of her. You cherish her weightless embrace, her power over you - she sweeps you off your feet. Away from her edges you are lifted, but know she shan't let you go.

You taste her. She is on your lips, a tang a tingle of salt's hunger. It's water but it burns, slowly, imperceptibly.

It is night, her night.

Vinyl Diaries VI: Blonde Redhead

photo by *surfer rosa*/deniz tavmen


Metro Theatre: July 24

I know a ghost, will walk through the wall
Yet I am just a man, still learning how to fall

Blonde Redhead walk a fine tightrope, mostly of their own making. On closer inspection it's not really just the one - often they'll leap from one rope to another, with nary a net in sight. For the most part, they pull this off adroitly and entertainingly, yet one wonders whether it might not be an idea to allow themselves to slip a little more - to follow their own admissions and learn how to fall.

Their well-honed command and polished self-control seems the only thing keeping them from truly soaring - what's flying other than falling without landing?

Recent albums have been drifting from the early, angular, art-rock stammerings that drew endless Sonic Youth comparisons towards the dense, swirling wash that seems to have brought them further into indie-consciousness. The driven, spiraling title track to recently released album 23 is the poster-child of this internal movement, and dropped into the third song slot tonight it set the tone for the pedal-driven, looping noise towers they were to build all set.

Kazu Makino dropped her guitar and only the microphone stood between her and the audience, her borderline screech weaving through Amedeo Pace's open chord attack. It thrummed quite gleefully and kicked them into their next gear quite enticingly.

This was followed by Amedeo's plaintive 'Falling Man', which, without the surety and sonic wash to hide behind, reminded of the jagged experimentalism that used to be their signature. The first few arpeggiated bars were deliciously warped and sounded almost as though they were being played inside out and back to front, while a noisy tumble in the middle section was a moment of raw honesty that was its own reward, a dropping of the guard and New York-cool facade that revealed something with which we mortals could relate.

If you start doubting me, Then I start to doubt myself
And never look through me, Cause I’ll keep close to myself

This fleeting glimpse of needle-sharp heart-on-the-sleevery was a reminder that Blonde Redhead still have the ability to penetrate the skin - a unique form of prickly rockupuncture.

For a three-piece they have a remarkably large sound, underpinned by the crisp, metronomic though never rigid drumwork of Simone Pace. It was always going to be interesting to see how such densely layered recordings would translate to the stage, and those looking to see the records brought to life would not have been disappointed.

One wonders, though, whether they could afford to leave some of the veracity behind in exchange for something a little more immediate, more dangerous. They have the musicality and intuition to pull it off, but seem to have traded a little of that surprise and edginess for a grander overall affect.

For the most part this works and the jittery, art-school baton is perhaps best passed on to younger upstarts like Art Brut. But the main issue with such a looping build-up and careful layering is that the three-piece line-up is ill-equipped for the crunch, the topple, the denouement of a Mogwai or a Godspeed.

So instead we're lifted to a certain point and left there awhile - enjoying the view no doubt - then gently lowered into the next song, and so on. There's no catharsis, no overwhelming of the senses to leave us deliciously drained. While these aren't expectations we should necessarily bring, Blonde Redhead kind of set them up by building such glorious castles in the sky - but who would dispute the most satisfying part of building such a castle is when it is reclaimed by the sea, tumbling under its own excess?

If we tilt our head a tad and look slightly askance, leave a little of this baggage to one side, then we can enjoy their studied command of the ropes that they do walk; a very New York highwire that joins the new wave/no wave dots between Blondie and Sonic Youth, with the odd hints of upstate Mercury Rev and across the Hudson River Yo La Tengo.

When they left the stage after a three-song encore, Amedeo's guitar was still ringing out, a four-chord echo as though a 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' 45 was being played at 33/1/3 - a delicate and timely reminder that such grand rock illusions are built upon such simple stones.

What tonight did reinforce, with its precision performances and clear song-cobbling craft, was the thought that as long as they keep challenging themselves there are some great moments still to look forward to in the Blonde Redhead story.

The Music Box takes a wee nap

With a few more extracurricular matters popping up than usual and nary a moment for indulgent tappings, The Music Box is entering a short hiatus... a few days, a couple of weeks, shouldn't be too long.

The Museum remains open in the meantime, but The Music Box wing will be fairly quiet.

Anyhoo, you've no doubt got Harry to keep you amused for a bit.

B

The Music Box: Chapter Forty-One

Emily looked imploringly to Minerva, her eyes growing glassy but adamant she would not let them spill this time. She had to be grown up, tough and ready for anything.

“It won’t be easy, but I think there is a way,” Minerva said, gripping Emily’s hand quite tightly now.

“When Crouch put you in here, he obviously underestimated your resourcefulness and quick thinking. You already seem to have realised that there are certain things you are able to make happen, if you concentrate hard enough. You did it with that rock you gave Topkins that he showed me last night and he also told me about the liquorice that appeared in his pocket.

“Everything here exists regardless of your presence, but it is the nature of this world that your own mind drives the particular way you have encountered it. You have shown that you have an ability to reach its very limits, but you’ve also found that is not enough, that you have not been able to break through beyond these. Crouch expects you will never find a way to escape the box he has made for you, but he has failed to credit your tenacity and willingness to sacrifice everything to get home.

“He was always able to come and go with the secrets he had learnt. He will expect that because you don’t know these, then you shan’t ever be able to get out. But there’s one thing he hadn’t thought of – the one thing that drew you here in the first place.”

Emily cast her mind back to Tabitha’s box, its carved outer beauty and the amazing scenes that awaited within when the lid opened. But as much as these caught her eye, they’re not what truly caught her heart and refused to let go.

“The music.”

“That’s right. Through music. There’s nothing that can take you into another world like music. That’s not even a secret – people living in any world, in any time, knew this. But Crouch was in such a hurry to pack you away and get on with his plan that he forgot all about leaving you this way out.”

Emily thought about this. If it was true, if Minerva’s music was able to lift her beyond this world and back into her own, she would be back where she had wanted to be ever since she got here. Yet her tummy was experiencing the most dreadful twisting sensation and she was feeling quite unwell.

“Minerva?”

“Yes my dear?”

“Will you be able to come?”

“I’m afraid not Emily. As much as I would like to, I am unable to leave. It’s the light. Any contact with natural light and I am fated to perish in an instant, turn completely to dust. I would love more than anything to be there with you when you go home, when Crouch is thwarted in his twisted plans, but, from here, you must show the strength and courage you have shown thus far and do this alone, as nobody but the one and only Emily Button can.

Now, there’s not a moment more to lose – are you ready?”

Emily looked steadily at Minerva and squeezed her hand back.

“I'm ready.”



***************

to be continued... one day.

The Music Box: Chapter Forty

Emily woke from a deep sleep, rising slowly from its inky depths. Although her body felt tired and heavy it seemed also to be floating, so soft and warm was this giant bed with its mountain of pillows and fresh soft sheets. A solitary lamp burned low and gently on a table across the room, spilling just enough light for Emily to slowly register where she was. This back-and-forth travelling was disconcerting, disappointing her each time she realised where she really was. But for some reason she trusted Minerva and knew she had Emily's best interests at heart, so wouldn't be putting her through this if it wasn't important.

Emily puzzled over what her dreams might mean - where they really just dreams, or was there more to it? What was she seeing in them - a guess at what was happening in her world, or a glimpse of events as they really were unfolding?

Having lost all track of time, she had no idea how much had already happened that she didn't know about. Her visions suggested that Crouch was still in the early stages of his plan, but she could not yet tell how long there was between what she was seeing and what was happening. While her mind turned all this over, a soft knock came at the door.

“I'm awake - you can come in.”

Was this Oscar or Bernard, coming to annoy her? Mind you, they had been far less annoying since Minerva came into the picture. Emily figured it must be the spell she had over them - not literally, of course, but no less powerful. There was something in their voices that spoke of their lovelorn lonesomeness when she was around. They had each other for company, but so exhaustingly silly were they both that being in such close proximity must surely wear thin at times.

The door slowly opened and she felt a moment of dread, half expecting to see Mr Crouch come through - either as himself or as her. But, instead, a female figure appeared, drifting in as though on a thin cushion of cloud. Minerva!

Emily saw her picture of her host was eerily accurate in almost every detail. Although the lamp offered only a feeble light, Minerva seemed to shine with an inner-glow that radiated from the inside out, emanating from her heart.

So in keeping with her picture of her host was this walking, breathing form made flesh before her that Emily doubted she had imagined her at all, deciding the image must have been projected by Minerva into her mind’s eye.

“Close,” Minerva said. “How you are seeing me is based on how you first imagined me to be. That's how everybody sees me. To Oscar I am far shorter and rounder, to Bernard my hair is bright red like it’s suddenly burst into flame. I become an ideal upon which many become fixated - it's not all it's cracked up to be. I could try explaining it to them, but I'm afraid they would be too busy soaking in this self-sketched picture of perfection to pay any attention at all.”

Emily thought about this, wondering what it must be like to live every day in such a way, for everyone to meet you to think you are someone entirely different to who you really are.

“So what do you really look like Minerva?”

“Well that's the thing. There is no real me that is any truer or more me than any other. Since I myself cannot see me, there's no reason anyone's ideal is any more accurate or closer to the truth than any other. I simply am what you see and I in turn see what you see, in my mind, and become that.”

Minerva sat gently on the edge of the bed and took Emily's hand. Her fingers rested under her palm and stroked the back of her gently with her thumb. Emily saw her fingernails were quite long and blood red - just as she had pictured of course.

“Now Emily, we should talk about what you saw during the night. I suppose you must be quite upset by it all and I think you are terribly brave going through with this. You must be wondering why it is I can't simply send you home straight away. The trouble is, with Crouch taking over your form, it is a highly delicate situation. We can't just send you back without working out how to get him out of there. You need your body back, but as long as Crouch is in your house, it's going to be very difficult.

“Now tell me - from what you have seen, have you had any ideas for how you might be able to return?”

Emily racked her brain. She hated to go back through it all, to feel the creepy way Crouch filled out her skin, a grown man in a child’s body. She was taken to the moment her front door swung upon, remembering how she had strained her ears to see if anyone was nearby, but woke up before she could find out. She worked her way backwards, back down the steps, down the lane, down into the High Street, back to Crouch’s shop where she had seen him walk out in her body, back to the moment that he had picked up the music box and tried his hat on, both taken from his slumped body –

“Mr Crouch!” Emily shouted, surprising herself with the force of her exclamation. She looked up at Minerva with large round eyes, her voice keeping its urgent edge.

“While he is off pretending to be me, his body is just sitting there. That’s where I have to go back isn’t it? That’s the only way I can have a form. I have to be Mr Crouch if I want to have any chance of ever being me.”

Minerva nodded, Emily seeing her beautiful face was drawn down sadly.

“It really seems to be your only shot,” Minerva said.

“By the time he has finished with being you, who knows what he will have done. When he returns to his body, he really doesn’t have any use for you anymore. I shudder to think what that could mean for you.

“As your dreams have shown, he has already begun. We don’t know how far he has gone, or anything that has happened since he arrived at your home. We could stay here and see where your dreams take us, but I fear that by the time we learn any more, it won’t be anything that we ever want to know.”

“Well that’s it then, I must go now. I have to return and I have to take over Mr Crouch. But that must be easier said than done - how on earth do I do it?”

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Nine

When Minerva had spoken of having had her eye on Aloysius Crouch, she was having one of her little jokes with herself. Minerva was and always had been completely blind, unable to see as others understood it. But she more than made up for this in countless other ways, not the least of which was her extraordinary command of sound. Furthermore, she could tell her guests what was happening in the world directly above where they now sat, purely by the vibrations she could detect passing though the earth and the air.

Add to this the ability to ‘see’ through the eyes of others, to pick up on their thoughts and deepest feelings, and Minerva was far from in need of any kind of pity over her blindness. When Emily found this out, she was unsure whether Minerva kept this area free of light simply because she didn’t need it, or to keep others from seeing her.

It was growing quite late and Emily knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer. Minerva called for servants to prepare beds for her guests, making sure that they would be comfortable, as they needed to be refreshed for the next day. Minerva asked Emily whether she would allow her to visit her dreams that night to see what more she could learn, in case there were things that could help that Emily may not have realised. Emily agreed, wanting to do everything she could. They all went their separate ways, agreeing to meet first thing next morning.

As she lay her head down on her pillow, the events of the day swam around Emily’s head. She dozed off with a kaleidoscope of adventure spinning around in her mind.

***

Emily walked back up the main street of the village towards home. She had just left Mr Crouch’s store and was bustling along, aware that the day was swiftly drawing to its conclusion. Across the sky the streaks of cloud had taken on the tones of a fruit stall, apricots and peaches that caught the last of the sun as it sank behind a bundle of cloud teetering on the horizon’s edge, threatening to slip over with the disappearing sun.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all, until she decided to cross the street. Despite having made the decision and tried to act on it, there was something keeping her on this side. And the speed fluctuations too – they seemed out of step with what she was expecting. Her feet were going a little faster than she might have expected, and when she tried to catch her reflection in the nearest window, her head would not turn as she told it to.

This wasn’t her! Emily understood that she had passed into her own body, but that it was Crouch who remained in control. She realised she was seeing through her own eyes, tracing her own journey, but that she was doing so remotely, in a dream from Minerva’s lair. Try as she might, she could gain no control over her actions. It took some time to let go, to be able to drift with Crouch’s intentions driving her movement. Once she was able to fall into the rhythm, Emily turned her mind to trying to see the world as Crouch was seeing it. An idea came to her, but she was unable to tap into Crouch’s thought stream. Although she could see what he saw, she wasn’t able to access his ideas or pre-guess his intentions.

Nearing the top of the street, Emily wondered if he knew how to find his way to her home. Well of course he did - he would have worked all that out earlier. He seemed to plan everything so carefully that Emily began to wonder what possible way there might be that he could slip up, reveal his true self without meaning to, shoot a hole in his entire plan and pave the way for his unmasking. She felt this would be part of the way to having her able to return home – if Crouch was unable to continue his charade as Emily, then she could come back. She wasn’t sure how that might be, but felt that it was at least something for which she could hold out hope.

Emily felt the chill in the air and knew it was getting quite late. She wondered what Crouch would say to her mother to explain her lateness – even if she had been at Tabitha’s house, as she had fibbed, she should have been well home by now.

Turning into their lane, Emily felt that Crouch was slowing. She realised he was following her same rules for passing up the lane, passing carefully from one stone to the next, studiously avoiding all the cracks. She wondered if it he shared the same superstition and aversion to being the instigator of bad luck, or if there really was a vestige of her own self in this body, a latent self that even Crouch was unable to circumvent or over-ride.

They weaved their way up the winding lane until they finally reached her house. He paused long enough for her to take in its familiar visage, though she now saw it as though afresh, like it was being seen for the very first time. She took in its cold, grey exterior, the roughly hewn stone blocks that had been raised one by one until they met the builder’s approval of what made a ‘home’. She wondered if the person who had built it had thought about the lives that would inhabit it, the stories that would grow to fill its spaces, slip into its nooks and crannies, pass through cracks in the floorboards and rise in other rooms, or settle into the very stone itself, soaking in the porous, microscopic holes and becoming part of the very essence of the house itself, such that nobody could ever banish them, no matter how they aired it or tried to sweep away the dust of the past.

The steps, although hewn from a stone even denser than the house, a cousin of that which lined the street, appeared to bow in the middle. This was where generations of footfall had worn them to a smooth, almost polished finished. The roundness of their edges glistened as though rubbed lovingly for good luck until you could see your reflection, but in reality it was unthinking boots and, to a lesser extent, bare feet passing up and down them, day in and day out, oblivious to their form in anything other than a utilitarian fulfilment of a need to breach the gap from home to street, secret life to public life, hoarded memory to collectible experience. Her own small feet, even with such a light step, had contributed in some small way, over time, to this gentle wear, helped shape its appearance – in so many respects as it had always been, yet changing every moment, submitting to time’s wearying command over the living and dead, the dynamic and inert. Time – the creator and destroyer, the enabler and the final word. It makes the rules, it wins every time.

Simple garden beds stood to each side of the steps, harbouring blooms of simple ambitions – paper daisies, orange and yellow gerberas and, to her mother’s eternal chagrin, dandelions that would appear overnight and declare themselves happily at home.

With no control over movement, Emily found her senses were heightened, free to roam without the requirement for cognitive coordination. She could smell the final perfume burst from the flowers as they prepared to close up for the night, the last of the day’s warmth having abandoned them to their own ends. Wafting down from their roof was a sweet woody scent, the smoking chimney offering up a hint of hickory. Her parents wouldn’t be burning it tonight, but they had placed a small stick in some time back and it was still offering traces of its ghostly essence.

At last she felt Crouch heading slowly up the stairs, smoothing out the dress and secreting the music box behind her back. She wondered what story he would concoct to explain the late arrival, how he would hide the music box before being confronted. Her hand reached out for the door handle and felt its cool touch. The door opened silently.

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Eight

For the rest of that day, Emily, Minerva and a far more subdued than normal pair of Topkinses discussed Emily’s predicament. Minerva made them break for dinner, insisting that despite Emily’s protestation that she wasn’t hungry, a little food would help them all think.

By now Emily was quite used to the darkness. It felt quite nice in fact, allowing her to focus on the difficult questions she had to answer and to wrack her brain for things that might help Minerva help her.

They relocated to a solid wooden table that felt very cool and smooth under Emily’s exploring hands, she felt a guilty pleasure as she rubbed her palms over them to drink in its slippery surface, the solidity quite reassuring after all the dizzying fleetingness of the recent past.

Silent servants swept in one by one – Emily gauged the arrival of each new dish by the delicious wafts that preceded them, her delicate nose sniffing out the aromatic spices and mouth-watering juices so expertly blended.

There was near-silence as they ate, Emily discovering she was far hungrier than she had realised and eating with such famished urgency she would have been ashamed if anyone could see her. She was again grateful for the darkness, although it did make eating a strange experience, not knowing what something was until it was in her mouth and guessing as she chewed based on its textures and the tastes it released.

Many she recognised – cheeses, a delicious celery heart stew, strawberries – but many left her guessing and she was to afraid to ask lest the answer prove not to her liking; she had seen too many strange plants and creatures thus far to think that they all avoided the dinner table.

The plates were cleared away as silently as they had arrived and they returned to their discussion on what the next step should be. Top of Emily’s agenda was getting home, but Minerva was concerned with what this would actually achieve without thinking through what she could possibly hope to achieve against Aloysius Crouch without more of a plan.

“Emily, you are clearly a bright girl, that much is quite apparent,” Minerva assured her.

“But we cannot let your impatience get the better of you, in such a dangerous situation. From what we know from your brief dreaming journey back to Crouch’s lab or store or whatever it is you want to call it, we know that he has taken your form and intends on using his appearance as you to his benefit.

“Now from what you tell us, he came to you here to show you why it is he has used you in this way in the first place. It is clearly part of a plan to get nearer your mother Isabelle, for whom he obviously has very strong feelings. He will be able to be nearer her as you, but from what I know of Aloysius that won’t be enough. His will is not to be known to her as ‘daughter’, but as an equal, as a partnership of his idea of love. This will have to happen in his own form, for he knows that’s the only thing that makes it real – your mother’s love for you is undoubtedly strong, but not the sort he will long endure.”

Following what Minerva was saying, Emily agreed that it all made a certain sense. Impatient as she was to do something and quit just talking about it, it was dawning on her that Minerva was right, they needed to know what it was that they could do.

“But if that’s the case, why has he bothered to pretend to be me in the first place?”

“Well, my guess would be that it at least gets him near her, which he would see as the first step to achieve his ends. You’re obviously very close to your mother, so he would be hoping to use that to pick up insight into how she ticks, what she likes and doesn’t like, how much she has changed since he knew her. He wants to know what makes her tick, then will no doubt try and recreate himself as the key to keep her ticking.”

“But my mother adores my father, there is no way in the world she would think even notice anybody else, let alone leave him.”

Minerva’s silence spoke volumes – Emily put the pieces together for herself, growing angry and distraught.

“He will try and do away with my father, won’t he? I imagine he would stop at nothing, the dreadful brute. How I hate him!”

Emily burst into tears, everything growing too much for her poor little shoulders to keep carrying. This was enough to be the undoing of the bravest soul – she was a mere child learning far too quickly about the world and wishing she could just wake up and have the whole thing done with.

Feeling a warm hand placed gently upon her back, Emily realised Minerva was right in front of her now. Too upset to worry about embarrassment, she threw her arms around what must have been Minerva’s waist. She bawled until there was nothing left, sobbing out the pain and frustration until she was utterly exhausted. Minerva began, almost imperceptibly at first, to hum just a handful of soothing notes that Emily felt vibrate through her body. To these she added a couple more, a soft arpeggiation with the most wonderful cadence. Note by note she built a haunting wash, bitterly sad yet with an underlying hope that slowly rose to the fore. Minerva slowly rocked Emily as the young girl listened with her ears, her heart and her soul, drawn in to the rhythm that spoke of the sea itself, of shattered shards of sunlight shimmering across the veil of its surface and verdigris depths that harboured an endless well of luminiferous life and wordless wishes.

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sitting down carefully on a richly padded chair, Emily was disappointed she couldn’t see this lady with the mesmerising voice - though she was most relieved not to have her own fruit-covered state require an explanation. She wasn’t sure she could keep up the ogre story (or was it trolls?); considering it a fairly weak cover-up and her heart would not be in it, particularly in light of what Mr Topkins had said about Minerva’s mind-reading capability. She was quite certain Minerva knew the story was fanciful – the idea Mr Topkins could account for a single ogre or troll or even elf let alone two dozen was simply too much to ask of anyone, let alone someone with the sophistication she guessed in Minerva.

Despite the unimpeachable darkness, such was the clarity and richness of Minerva’s lilting tone that Emily had already formed a very strong picture of their host. She saw a tall, willowy woman with raven hair, high cheekbones, alabaster skin, a long straight nose and cherry-red lips. She pictured her in flowing navy silk with a silvery shimmer, her elegantly bared arms ending in long slender fingers that would be always moving, dancing hypnotically as she spoke.

Without entirely getting over her initial apprehension, Emily couldn’t help but be mesmerised by this mellifluous voice, as soft as butterfly wings, smooth as glass, rich as honey. In fact she pictured fleetingly a woman preserved in amber, perfectly formed and captured for eternity in her prime, a specimen for future scientists to puzzle over where mankind could have begun its decline from such lofty heights.

She grew quite sleepy hearing its wonderful warmth wash over her, yet knew she must remain alert and be ready to act. But why? So comfortable was she in this chair, so reassuring was Minerva’s voice, the very reason for Emily’s visit began to seep away from her mind. She was growing so very sleepy, her lids resting lightly over her eyes growing heavier and heavier. If she just let them rest a moment, then she could refocus and be ready for anything. Just a moment was all she needed...

***

Watching from behind the banister on the stairway up to the next floor, where she had seen him disappear earlier, Emily watched as Aloysius Crouch placed an unconscious body into the chamber, picked up a tiny little box from alongside it and then sat down in the chair from which he had lifted the body.

Squinting through the gloom, Emily wondered why the girl he had just placed in the chamber seemed so familiar. Then it hit her – she was looking at herself! A shudder went through her whole body and she had to cover her mouth to stop a startled squeal from escaping. Emily watched Mr Crouch adjust the height of the helmet and place it upon his head, then strap himself in to the chair.

She watched as he fiddled around with the top of the helmet, trying to guess at what he was trying to do. When a bright flash lit up the chamber, Emily realised Mr Crouch had flicked a switch that rested on the top of the helmet. His body sat stock still in the chair, while a purplish smoke began to fill the chamber.

Soon Emily could not see the body – her body – anymore. Although highly curious, she did not dare leave her place on the stairs, fearing what might happen if she was discovered. The smoke began to swirl around the chamber, lit brightly though seemingly from within. Faster and faster it swirled, growing thicker as more and more passed through the top of the chamber, fed from the connection with Mr Crouch and his helmet.

The smoke now began to thin out. Bit by bit it wisped away, until all that was left in the chamber was her other self. Emily watched in disbelief as the body roused into consciousness. It raised slowly to its feet, looking out through the glass at Mr Crouch’s immobile form. A wicked smile danced on her face, one she recognised all too well. It was no smile of hers.

Emily pushed herself back against the wall, willing the shadows to swallow her up. She had toyed with the idea of calling out to the Emily she saw now crossing the room, but thought better of it. Whatever it was that was stopping her, she knew better than to ignore it. She watched as Emily crossed to Mr Crouch and examined him closely. Trying his hat on, she decided against it, placing it carefully back on Mr Crouch’s head. The box in his lap however, which she saw was a cerulean blue, glowing with its own inner promise, the other Emily did pick up. With one last look around the room, she headed for the door, the box under her arm.

***

“So that’s why you’re here?” Minerva gently asked. Emily, taking a moment to realise where she was, had for a moment thought it was her own mother talking to her. Her excitement faded quickly to an aching disappointment, as she rubbed her eyes to help her awaken.

“I knew from the very first time that Aloysius Crouch came here it would come to something like this. He has an amazing mind, quite brilliant in fact, but there was always something not quite right. He was always so hungry, and for what I don’t think anyone ever really knew. His thoughts were impenetrable, he guarded them as though his life depended upon it. After a while most just got used to his strange ways, his sudden appearances and disappearances, they barely batted an eyelid. He was the first of you to come from that side, the first to find the doorways that enabled you to come through. Many, of course, had passed from here to your side, but he was the first to make the journey the other way. I’ve had my eye on him ever since, and I’m afraid, my Emily, that you’ve become caught up in something that cannot have a happy ending for all.

“The question is - what are we going to do to get you home and keep Crouch from causing any further harm?"

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Six

The men led the grumbling Mr Topkinses and a downcast Emily through the door from which they had emerged, frogmarching them with a handful of the scruff of their collars. While this was less than pleasant for Emily, it was most uncomfortable for Bernard, as the back of Oscar’s collar was of course around his throat. When he indignantly tried to point this out he copped a clip across the ear for his trouble (which displeased Oscar no end, given it was his ear too), and that set them off abusing each other until the other ear was cuffed and they both got the message.

Emily was utterly despondent, convinced that she had blown her chance of receiving any help from Minerva. Not that she knew any help would have been forthcoming, but this surely put paid to even the faintest hope. She wondered what kind of person must live in such a place as this, with its hidden realms and secret doors and twisting passages that she was sure would be next to impossible to return along, so confusing was their criss-crossing and snaking turns.

They finally reached the end of the passage, only to find the way blocked by a gigantic boulder. Emily was sure they must have come the wrong way, but as she watched she saw it silently roll to one side, making no more noise than the door in the tree that they had passed through so far behind and above where they must now be. She suspected some form of enchantment was involved, for Emily could not see how else such an enormous object could move so smoothly and quietly otherwise.

The men pushed Emily and Mr Topkins and Mr Topkins roughly into the space beyond the boulder. It was black as can be and there was no telling where they were, especially once the boulder behind them rolled back into place. The guards who had brought them stayed carefully on the other side.

Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, Emily realised that the darkness was so complete there was no hope of seeing anything without some form of artificial light being produced. She could hear Mr Topkins or Mr Topkins breathing quite closely, but the darkness was so enveloping that she felt wary of speaking. They must have had a similar reaction for apart from the breathing, not a peep could be heard from them.

From across the cavernous space Emily’s ears began to pick up a trickling as of water flowing. It seemed some way off, but at least helped give the space a felling of depth, without which she was finding it both unpleasantly claustrophobic and unnervingly infinite – a spatial misrepresentation of its own essence no doubt intended to disarm in some manner.

Emily vowed that no matter how scared she found herself getting, she would not let it show, would not give that satisfaction.

“She’ll know,” Mr Topkins whispered, making Emily jump.

“What’s that?”

“She’ll know if you’re scared or not. I can read your thoughts remember, but Minerva can do far more than that. She can become you entirely – know what you are feeling, summon the thoughts you have deliberately obfuscated and even obliterated – she can dig and dig and dig until she excavates some doozies that you had long forgotten.”

“Oh.” Emily was unsure that this sounded very pleasant, wondering again why it was Mr Topkins had led her here.

“Well you didn’t exactly have any bright ideas now, did you?”

It was true, but Emily still didn’t think that was a very good excuse.

“Well you may as well at least find out now that you’re here. I wonder where she could be? Something about here does seem quite familiar; I doubt she’s far away.”

“You could be onto something there,” a voice purred from right in front of them. “I think you will find she is not far at all.”

“Minerva! How long have you been here?”

“Long enough Mr Topkins, long enough. Now before we go any further, what is this I hear about my welcome platter of fruit ending up all over the place – practically everywhere but where it should be?”

“Ah, that. We thought that might come up. Well you see, just as we came down the passage, we were over-run by a group of, ooh, at least two dozen trolls I would say. You have never seen anything like it, they raced on up to the table and started grabbing great handfuls of the stuff – the fruit – and flinging it all over the place. Mr Topkins here and I, oh and Emily of course, set to dispatching the uncouth varmints one after another, but as soon as we had dealt with one there was another one just asking for it. Just as we had taken care of the last one, kicking his sorry little butt up the passage and away, that’s um, when your bonehead twins came in and accused us – us! – of having something to do with it.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, with Emily wishing there was at least a trace of light by which she could see what was going on. She realised how much she relied on faces to communicate and understand, as well as merely what was said. She had no idea how this story was being received, quite dubious that it would be convincing anyybody.

“Mr Topkins?”

“Yes Minerva?”

“You were very brave, you know, trying to protect my fruit platter like that.”

“Oh, it was nothing. All in a day’s work really.”

“Still; imagine that. One man – I mean two men – standing up to all those wicked trolls! And all to defend me and my honour, and my fruit of course. Why I don’t know what to say.”

“Really Minerva, you don’t need to say anything. That’s just us, we do what we do.”

“You certainly do Mr Topkins, and can I say I shall never forget that. Trolls – to think they were running amuck in my own home. What is this world coming to?”

“I ask myself that every day, I truly do,” Mr Topkins said. “You just can’t go anywhere these days without some form of trouble erupting.”

“I dare say you can’t. Now, I’ll have more of a word to you later about this troublesome troll situation – perhaps you could be of assistance in a little ‘situation’ we have with some odious ogres. At this point I think it would be best if you were to introduce me to this charming guest of ours.”

“Certainly Minerva, how remiss of me. Allow me to present to you, Miss Eb- I mean Miss Emily Button.”

“How do you do Ma’m,” Emily chimed in, curtsying again despite the darkness.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Emily Button. If I’m not mistaken, we have never met. That’s quite unusual in these parts – I gather you have come from a long way away?”

“You could say that Ma'm, though to be entirely honest I don’t quite know exactly how far.”

“I see. Well I would love to hear more, but first, let us get comfortable. Please do allow me to apologise for the darkness, I don’t imagine you are used to it being quite so. I have my reasons, which we may or may not have time to go into, but I will at least show you to a seat where you can get more comfortable.”

And please – call me Minerva.”

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Five

The further they went along the passageway, the less Emily knew what she would do when they met Minerva. She had originally been excited to think that there was someone who might be able to help her – and someone she could talk to other than the strange old Mr Topkinses – but as time went on she was less and less sure what her next step should be. She hoped against hope that Minerva was going to treat her kindly, but the deeper down the tunnel passed the less sure she was that this had been a good idea after all. How did she know it was not some sort of trap?

She couldn’t know, but such was her desperation to get home she felt she had to try anything. So down she plunged, almost running now, with rolly old Mr Topkins struggling to keep up. It was, she noted, Bernard now who was trailing her, Oscar clearing finding it all a bit too much like hard work and electing to nap. Bernard was still yet to properly wake up, but quite unimpressed to find that he would have to jog along to keep up.

“Must we really be in such a rush?” he puffed, redder in the face than ever.

“Yes we must, in fact,” Emily shot back. “If you had wasted a little less time earlier in and been a little more helpful in the first place, then perhaps not. But as it is, I must find Minerva as soon as I can and find a way out of here before...”

She really didn’t want to think about what came next. Her mind had already turned over far too many horrible things, she felt it best to keep it on the tasks at hand and worry about things one at a time.

Past one bend after another they snaked, slowing sinking down as doorways appeared and shot off in other directions. She hoped against hope she hadn’t already taken the wrong one, knowing there was a chance you could get so lost in here you would never find your way back out. It felt right, however, and sure enough they soon emerged into a wide open room. This one was not a lot larger than the first one in which they had been, not all that wide but very long. In the centre was a large wooden table, big enough to sit at least 20 people. But there were no chairs, simply a deep golden dish with a vast variety of fruit resting in it.

“I wonder where we go to from here?” Emily asked aloud, noting the room had a number of doors leading from it. As she stood there, Emily couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. She spun a full circle but was unable to see anyone other than Mr Topkins, who had finally made it into the room, panting and wheezing and all but doubled over from the effort.

“Food!” he exclaimed, stumbling over to the fruit on the table. He was just reaching out to grab a bunch of purple grapes when they heard someone clearing their throat. Mr Topkins and Emily both turned around to see who or what had made this sound, but couldn’t see anything other than their shadows, strewn across the floor and wandering up the wall near the corner.

As they watched, Emily was sure her shadow was moving around more than she would have expected, given the light was being cast by a lantern hanging over the table and the flame seemed to be standing straight up. While she watched she was amazed to see it make its way higher up the wall. She looked down at her feet and saw the shadow had by now stepped a few strides away from her, completely detaching itself. Mr Topkins’ rather rounded shadow was doing the same, and to her amazement the two shadows had soon climbed as high on the walls as they were standing, moving quite independently of any movement they themselves made.

Emily was still coming to terms with this unexpected turn of events when she saw Mr Topkins’ shadow brusquely brush past Mr Topkins and help himself to the very grapes Mr Topkins had picked out as his own. She was dumbstruck as the shadow tilted its head back, watching as it dropped the grapes into its mouth and they disappeared swiftly from sight. It smacked its lips in appreciation and leant in for some more, an oblong, blue fruit that Emily didn’t recognise.

Her own shadow, meanwhile, had wandered around to the other side of the table. It was moving from door to door, seemingly listening at each for signs of life on the other side. It returned to the table and Emily almost fainted at hearing her own voice escape from it.

“Well Toppy, once you’ve finished stuffing your face how about we actually get a move on?”

Emily was shocked to hear the shadow speak to Mr Topkins’ in such a way – she could imagine thinking such a thing, but would never dare speak in such a fashion.

She was lost for words and, for once, so it seemed too that Mr Topkins was short of anything to say. The pair watched as their shadows bickered over how long things were taking and who was to blame and how annoying the other was. Before they knew it fruit was flying everywhere, projectiles that flew across the table and squashed wherever they hit. Emily was at first amused but then appalled once it occurred to her that she was likely to end up with the blame.

“Stop it you two!” The shadows turned to see who this upstart was who had so rudely shouted at them in the midst of their fruit war. Before she had any time to take shelter they began pelting her with the fruit, acting as one and clearly relishing every moment. She had to close her eyes as the juices ran down her face. Cringing against the onslaught, she blindly brushed what she could off her face and opened her eyes long enough to see that Mr Topkins had joined in – she had thought his fit of giggles suspicious but thought he must have been an amused observer, not an enthusiastic participant.

There was nothing left for it but to grab a handful herself and fling it back at her attackers. She had to admit it was actually a huge relief to have a moment of naughtiness, although it wasn’t long before she began worrying about what Minerva would say when she discovered what had happened in here. She was a complete mess and Mr Topkins wasn’t much better – she thought he must have accidentally got caught in some of the cross-fire, but realised he had simply been stuffing what he could into his mouth and was making a right old mess.

The fruit bowl was finally empty, with the combatants clearly tired out. Just then, Emily realised that there were two figures standing in the doorway at the end of the room. Their beards ran down their chest and she saw they had been looped around their waists and back up over their right shoulders. They wore outfits like something out of a book she had seen about King Arthur and his knights – she saw that they, too, were wearing swords on their hip.

“What on earth is this?” bellowed one, the sternest looking of the two.

Emily looked around just in time to see the shadows slink back into place, acting innocent as newborns. Mr Topkins, on the other hand, had nowhere to hide. Nor did Emily for that matter and the two just stood there, not knowing what to say.

“You better come with us – this simply shan’t do,” the second man said.

“We’re taking you to see the lady. She’ll sort you out good and proper, that’s for sure,” sneered the first. “I don’t fancy being in your shoes.”

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Four

A gigantic hardwood tree stood straight ahead of them; its rough red bark lifting and cracking in crooked lines that criss-crossed its wide body. As they stood looking at the tree, Mr Topkins explained that Minerva lived in a vast subterranean lair that spread right beneath where they were presently standing. He believed there were secret entryways and exits throughout the forest, with tunnels and passageways linking them all, but this was the main access point by which all guests must arrive if they wished to be considered for entry.

“But what if she won’t see us?”

“Then she won’t see us.”

“But what do we do then?”

“We do what we do. There’s no point in worrying about what might or might not happen, it’s not going to change a thing. Mind you, if I know Minerva, she won’t be able to resist meeting you. She likes meeting interesting new characters and while I’m loathe saying anything that will make your head grow too big, you do seem one of the more interesting things to have dropped by in a little while at least.”

“What should I say to her?”

“Anything you like. She does like compliments though, so it might be wise to start with something nice about her.”

At that, a section of the tree swung noiselessly out towards them, swinging on a silent hinge. There was nobody there to greet them, though as they moved closer and saw the stone stairs spiralling down they caught the shadow of a large pair of ears cast against the passageway by the candlelight dancing further down the stairs. Coolness stirred around them as they began their slow descent, spiralling their way down and down until they reached a wide, cavernous vestibule.

It was empty but for a hat stand, a candlestick with a solitary lit candle and an enormous blue pumpkin which puzzled Emily enough to see, but completely scared her stiff when it began talking to them.

“If it’s Madame Minerva whom you seek, your choice of doorway cannot be meek. One right of way will leave you weak, another stranded up the creek. A third ends in a manner bleak - only through one door is it safe to peek.”

Emily looked around to see that there were indeed four doors at the end of the chamber, opposite the entryway through which they had just come. She had no idea which door was best - lucky Mr Topkins was here. She threw a quizzical glance his way.

“Oh I can’t remember which one it is,” he said. “Last time I was here I had been into the puzzleberry nectar – I can’t recall a thing, other than the thumping headache I woke up with.”

Well that was just great. The way the pumpkin had put it, she really didn’t want to find herself wandering the wrong way – who knew what might be there? But there was little point standing around feeling sorry for herself or wasting precious time on deciding what to do, so Emily made up her mind that she was going to head through the second door from the left. She marched up to it and placed her hand on the knob, ready to open it and pass through.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Emily turned to see that it was the pumpkin addressing her again. “The one on the very left is even worse. The far right I would not wish upon my worst enemy – well maybe the very worst.”

He sighed quite audibly, as they the world was simply too much sometimes. “I really don’t know why people just charge on in like that and don’t ask me which door they should use. Do they think a silly little pumpkin isn’t going to know what the best way to go is? I sit here all day, it’s not like I have a lot else to remember, other than that explanatory rhyme. All they need to do after I rattle that off is to ask ‘so which should I take?’, but do they? Not on your life. Just as well for you that you seem an all right sort – I might not have thought to speak up otherwise. If it was just Topkins here for example, I’m not sure I would have said a thing.”

Emily didn’t know what to say. She had never encountered a talking pumpkin before, so it had not really occurred to her that she might ever offend one.

“Why thank you for your advice. I’m ever so grateful, you’ve been very kind to help me this way,” she said as sweetly as she could muster, even throwing in a small curtsey for good measure.

Mr Topkins, on the other hand, merely glared at the pumpkin, muttering under his breath something about soups and pies and scones while rudely rubbing his big round belly.

The Music Box: Chapter Thirty-Three

Mr Crouch had talked of reaching the edge of understood existence, then moving beyond. When she had tried earlier, taking the sprout through the clouds, she had merely let herself be taken according to its whim. She allowed it to be in charge and when it had reached the outer limits of what it knew, it simply returned to where it had begun. Emily had an inkling that if she took a bolder handle of what it was she wanted, only then would she regain the control she felt she had lost. She wanted to try something out before they reached this Minerva that Mr Topkins had mentioned, to be ready to take full advantage of what may be her only chance to go home.

“Mr Topkins?”

“Yes?”

“Could I pretty please have a piece of that liquorice you have in your pocket?”

“Liquorice? I don’t have any liquorice. I can’t abide the stuff you know - aniseed is the devil’s work.”

“Perhaps that is so, but I would appreciate if you would reach into your pocket, pull out that little blue bag twisted at the top into a knot, untie the knot and pass me one of the three pieces you have in there.”

“I think I would know if I had such a thing in my pocket. Look, see, nothing in this pocket. And nothing...”

Mr Topkins stopped in his tracks, pulling from his pocket the little blue bag around which his hand had closed. He untwisted the knot, peered in and saw three twists of liquorice, just as Emily had said.

“How...?”

“I don’t know. But I trust you will remember this next time you feel inclined to be mean to me.”

Mr Topkins went quite quiet. Although Emily felt a little guilty for being less than nice to him, she did feel a certain glow of satisfaction at finally getting one back on him. She was not typically vindictive, but given what he had put her through it did seem only fair to even up the ledger a little. Besides which, she was still quite uncertain what she had done and how she had pulled it off, or what it meant from here.

She was still dwelling on this when Mr Topkins stopped. He held up a hand to signal to Emily she should also stop, and she noticed his head cocked a little to the side, as though listening.

She strained to hear what it might be that he was hearing. At first nothing seemed any different, but bit by bit she picked up a low, rumbling sound.

“That’s just my stomach”, Mr Topkins said. “Listen harder.”

Now all sorts of noises were competing for her attention, leaving Emily baffled as to what he could hear that she was missing. Then it came to her. She was surprised she had missed it, but it was so high and pure that it had simply not registered. Now she couldn’t hear anything else, the hypnotic lilting angelic choir she had first heard in Tabitha’s music box, but if anything more austere, more beautiful – more hers.

She stood hushed, her soul stilled. Around her she watched as the budding green leaves on the giant trees unfurled, spread their faces to the sun, then burst into every shade of red orange and gold imaginable, before crinkling into a brown, papery crispness before falling to the forest floor. The bare silver branches sprouted fresh new buds which again unfurled, the cycle continuing over and over until they were waist deep in the fallen leaves.

All the while the angels still sang. Every now and then a shadow passed over as a particularly sweet note was heard so nearby it seemed to emanate from within her head, or even her heart, but she was unable to catch a glimpse of the source.

Finally it died away to a whisper, the echo of which danced around Emily’s ears in a glorious wrap that made her heart glow. Looking around to see if her travelling companion was still nearby, Emily was surprised to see tears streaming down his cheeks.

“That’s Minerva’s choir,” Mr Topkins said, with clear awe and respect.

“It means we are here.”