Mary Reed: Three for a Letter

As he stepped down from the stage, most of the lamps illuminating it were extinguished. The eerie trill of flutes filled the air but could not hide the shrill squeal and clank of machinery.

“Now you’ll see a real wonder,” Anatolius whispered. “Uncle’s been telling me all about it, and if it can do half of what he says…”

The curtains parted and although there was no sign of pulleys or any other device, a large, shadowy shape, taller than a man, rolled forward.

It was a great whale. The room’s remaining light limned its broad, gray back and enormous flukes and gleamed off the huge glassy eyes set on either side of its head.

An admiring murmur rose from the audience as the beast’s tail, moving slowly from side to side, emerged from the curtains. It was apparent that no agent propelled the leviathan from behind. Indeed, it continued forward on its own as if truly alive. There were gasps, and John tensed as the great head moved out over the edge of the stage. However, just as it appeared the whale would swim straight into the diners, it came to an abrupt halt.

There was a hissing noise. The whale spouted. To the startled exclamations of the audience, a jet of water burst up from the contraption’s head and descended in a cloud of droplets that caught the dim light and glittered like stars over the sea. John, sitting near the end of the table, felt mist against his face.

The flutes keened more urgently, underscored by a new sound, a clanking and ratcheting.

Slowly and majestically, the whale’s mouth opened a crack. Through a fence of huge bronze teeth brilliant light poured out across the banquet table to flash and coruscate along gold and silver bowls.

Anatolius could not contain his enthusiasm. “The beast’s lit up inside like the Hagia Sophia,” he declared with delight. “Uncle’s really outdone himself this time.”

The whale’s maw opened yet further, spilling more brightness into the room. Laughs and shouts filled the air. No one doubted what the climax would be-Barnabas would leap forth, freeing himself from the creature’s belly with a huge bound.

The jaws stopped moving.

Barnabas did not appear.

John squinted into the fierce light inside the whale. “He’s waiting, for better dramatic effect when he finally appears,” he heard Anatolius say knowledgeably.

A small shape was visible in the cramped interior of the whale amid blazing oil lamps set in the floor and the walls of the beast’s head. The shape lay motionless, crumpled on the stuffed red linen tongue.

John jumped from his couch and strode to the stage. The clatter of armor and weapons accompanied him as guards moved forward quickly.

As he neared the whale he could see the face of the small, limp figure with the horribly mangled neck.

It was not Barnabas.

“It is the boy, Gadaric,” John said into the quiet that had descended upon the room.

Then, before he could attempt to reach between the jaws to retrieve the child’s body, the huge mouth began to close irresistibly, cutting off its lamplight. Semi-darkness descended as the mechanical leviathan, insensitive to the tragedy, rolled smoothly backwards and vanished behind the painted curtains.

***

“Barnabas! What’s happened to Barnabas?”

John turned in the direction of the agitated voice. The distraught speaker, amazingly, was the usually controlled Theodora. Next to her John recognized Anatolius’ elderly uncle, Zeno, a slight man, bird-like. His hair, still dark, hung down his back. John noticed, to his horror, that the scholarly old dreamer was trying to calm the empress by gently patting her arm as if she were some young servant. John moved forward quickly, diverting her attention to himself.

“Lord Chamberlain!” Theodora said. “Perhaps you have an explanation for this strange exhibition?” The cold expression in her hooded eyes suggested it would be best if he did.

“It is the boy Gadaric who is dead, Empress,” he replied with a slight bow. “Not Barnabas.”

“Gadaric? Then explain to me, where is Barnabas?”

“Highness,” Zeno offered her a sweet, vague smile, “perhaps he has had to return suddenly to the city?”

Theodora regarded him with incredulity. “Do you think,” she began, pointing a slender finger at the elderly man, “that I am merely a foolish woman, to be patronized as if I understand nothing?” Her face reddened under its cosmetic chalk and her eyes glittered with anger. John had rarely seen her in such a rage.

Anatolius advanced to the group.

“Highness,” the young man began, doubtless fearful for the safety of his uncle, under whose roof this outrage had occurred. “May I…”

The empress ignored him. “Lord Chamberlain, you will find Barnabas, and you will find him quickly. Furthermore, when Barnabas reappears, he’d be wise to have a very convincing explanation as to why he has so sorely disappointed me by departing from this festive occasion without my permission.”

The room had fallen so silent that John could hear the rustle of Theodora’s stiff robes as she stepped closer.

“But if you are unable to locate him,” she went on with a smile that was more a snarl, “you’d best have an excellent reason as to why you failed in your search. A child has died in my presence. Not only is it a gross insult to me, it is of course-” she turned and laid her hand on Zeno’s shoulder, visibly startling him, “an equally intolerable slur on my dear host’s hospitality.”

“Indeed, highness,” John agreed. “But if I may inquire, is it possible that you can reveal anything concerning Barnabas that may-”

“You may not inquire, Lord Chamberlain.” Theodora’s voice was very low. “I do not concern myself with the private affairs of mimes.”

John looked away from her cold glare. Zeno’s guests were standing in clusters near the painted walls, silent or speaking in whispers, afraid to approach the furious empress and equally frightened to leave without her permission. The guards who had failed to prevent the tragedy stood with swords drawn but without an enemy to confront. Then he thought of one who was not present, forgotten momentarily as everyone kept their attention fixed on the enraged empress and her missing mime.

“Sunilda!” John shouted to the guard commander. “Find her immediately!”

Greetings, dear Aunt Matasuntha.

I have amazing news for you! Not only has the whale kept his promise but he did it so well that even the empress has been deceived! Now she’s in a foul mood although I gather that some of her dark humor is because her favorite mime is missing. Bertrada (my nursemaid, you’ll recall) says the mime did something really terrible but wouldn’t say what and when I get near to people they stop talking so I don’t know what she means, but I shall find out and tell you when I do.

Theodora has been here three days now. We’ve had lots and lots of entertainments to honor Gadaric and myself but with all the bustle everyone has been cross and hardly had time to talk to us at all. Even Zeno’s cook got bad-tempered and wouldn’t let us stay in the kitchen. Usually he doesn’t mind if we watch him at work. We like to visit because he gives us fruit or sweet dates or something nice like that and tells us wild tales about when he was young. Perhaps it was because the kitchen has been very crowded with all the boxes and baskets of food for the banquet.

I took a peek in some of the baskets as the porters brought them in and before the cook chased us out. One had a lovely pair of plump ducks in it. Their feathers were so pretty I felt sorry they would be eaten. The birds, I mean, not the feathers. There were two or three baskets full of nuts but Gadaric reminded me we’re not allowed to eat them and I didn’t want to get sick so I took some peaches instead. They were very nice and juicy. Most of the food for the banquet was different sorts of fishy stuff. Then the cook saw us poking about and said we had to leave. But I suppose cooking for the empress must be very hard. What if she doesn’t like your sauce or says the wine is vinegary and orders your head chopped off?