Theodore is a wyvern, yes, and when we typically think of one such as him, while considering he is rare, we (yes, we) tend to think them nothing but animals. I can assure Extremely Upper Management that isn’t the case. Theodore is capable of complex thought and feelings, just as any human. He is intelligent and resourceful. Yesterday, after I’d recovered from a bout of food poisoning brought upon by ingesting raw fish, he came alone to the guest house where I reside and asked if he could show me part of his hoard. Notice my use of the word ask. Because he does have language, though it might not be what we’re used to hearing. And even in my short time here, I’ve been able to pick up on the cadences of his chirps.
Talia is a rather grumpy child, but I have attributed that to her being a gnome. At least initially, given that’s what I was taught about her species. I find our perception is colored by what we’re taught. Even as children, we’re told the world is a certain way, and these are the rules. This is the way things are, and one of those things is that gnomes are bad-tempered and will brain you upside the head with a shovel as much as look at you. And while this might describe Talia on a surface level, one could argue that would be the case with most preteen girls. It’s not a species trait. It’s hormones. One only needs to spend the time with her to dive beneath the surface of those waves of bravado to see that she is fiercely protective of those she cares about. Gnomes, as we know, live in what’s referred to as a donsy. At least they did when their numbers were greater. Talia has made her donsy here.
Chauncey is here simply because of what he is. And given that we don’t know what that is exactly, DICOMY needed a place to put him. I believe—and this is not editorializing as much as it is based upon experience—he is considered classified level four simply because of the way he looks. He was told repeatedly he was a monster—by children, by masters, by people in positions who should have known better. The more you beat down on a dog, the more it cowers when a hand is raised. And yet, even though Chauncey had been beaten verbally before Marsyas (I don’t think physically, though words can deliver just as much of a lashing), he is a bright and loving child. He dreams. Is that understood, I wonder? He dreams of a future that he may never have. And while his dreams may seem small, they are still his and his alone.
Sal is the most reticent of the group. He had been physically abused before his arrival on the island. That much has been clearly documented, though it wasn’t provided in the files I was given. Mr. Parnassus showed me the incident reports signed off by DICOMY on the specific instances. The fact that this happened at all was a travesty. The fact that it happened to a boy who is shy and demure is unacceptable. Sal has been here the shortest amount of time and still has a long way to go before I believe he will be fully recovered. But I think he will, because even though he’s sure to be startled at the smallest of sounds, he is blossoming right before my very eyes. He loves to write, and I’ve been fortunate enough to read some of his work. I expect we’ll see great things from him, given the opportunity. Though it brings me no joy to make the comparison again, a dog will cower until they can cower no more. He needs to be encouraged, not feared.
You might be wondering, as I’m sure you are, what this has to do with Mr. Parnassus. It has nothing to do with him. It is because of him that these things are possible. This isn’t simply an orphanage. It is a house of healing, and one that I think is necessary. There was a poet, Emma Lazarus, who wrote, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
You’ll notice, I’m sure, that I haven’t yet mentioned Lucy.
It’s been two days since I started this report. I have taken my time, given that finding the right words seems to be of the utmost importance. Last night, there was an event. I was awoken from a deep slumber by the strangest of incidents.…
* * *
That might have been an understatement.
Linus gasped awake, shooting up in his bed, hand clutched to his chest, his heart beating rapidly. He was disoriented, unsure of what was happening. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing.
The house appeared to be shrinking.
The ceiling overhead was much closer than it’d been when he’d gone to sleep.
“What on earth?” he exclaimed.
He heard a meow come from somewhere below him. He looked over the side of the bed, only to see that it wasn’t the house that was shrinking. No, the reason the ceiling looked so much closer was because the bed was floating five feet off the ground.
“Oh dear,” Linus said, clutching the comforter as Calliope stared up at him, eyes bright in the dark, tail twitching.
Linus had never been in a floating bed before. He pinched himself quite hard to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
He wasn’t.
“Oh dear,” he said again.
And then he heard a low, rumbling roar come from outside the house.
He pulled the comforter up to his chin as the bed swayed gently. It seemed like the safest option.
Calliope called up to him again.
“I know,” he managed to say, voice muffled by the heavy blanket. “It’s probably nothing, right? I should just go back to sleep. That would be best thing for everyone. For all I know, this is something that happens all the time.”
The bed tilted sharply to the right, and Linus barely managed to shout before he hit the floor, pillows and blankets raining down around him.
He groaned as he rolled over onto his back.
Calliope licked his thinning hair. He never understood why cats did that.
“Well, obviously I’m up now,” he said, staring up at the bed above him. “Might as well see what this is all about. Perhaps it’s just … an earthquake. Yes. An earthquake, and it’s almost over.”
He pushed himself up from the floor, knocking his head against the bottom of the bed. He rubbed his forehead as he muttered to himself. He managed to find his shoes, which thankfully still appeared to be anchored to the floor. He slipped them on and exited the bedroom, Calliope following close behind him.
The chair in the living room was floating, spinning lazily in the air. The portable record player flipped on and off. The lights flickered.
“I can deal with most things,” he whispered to Calliope. “But I believe I’ll draw the line at ghosts. I don’t think I much like the idea of being haunted.”
That rumbling sound happened again, and he felt it vibrate up through the floors. But it appeared to be coming from outside the house, and though he was loath to do so, he opened the front door.
The lights were flashing in the main house. He was reminded of the bright orange light he’d seen after Mr. Parnassus had left a few nights before, but it wasn’t the same. It looked as if something was happening inside the main house. And though he wanted nothing more than to shut the door against it and pretend none of this was happening, he stepped off the porch onto the grass.
And promptly screamed when a hand fell on his shoulder.
He whirled around to see Zoe standing behind him, a worried look on her face.
“Why would you do that?” he growled at her. “Are you trying to send me to an early grave? It’s like you get enjoyment out of frightening me!”