John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

“The painting here on the right shows Odysseus being tormented by the Sirens. Their song is so beautiful, you see, that anyone who hears it is enchanted. Fortunately, he had the wisdom to have his men lash him to the mast, since he knew he would not be able, just by his own effort, to exercise the self-control he would need. No doubt he was terrifically annoyed at those bonds at the time. No doubt he was glad of them later, once he had wits about him enough to see the danger of the Sirens’ song. They were cannibals, you see, and ate the flesh from the men they lured onto their reefs.

“Or so the story goes. One must remember that, according to Homer, it was Nausicaa who found the shipwrecked Odysseus on the shores of the magical isle of the Phaeacians. The whole tale we think of as the travels of Odysseus, was nothing more than his report to Nausicaa’s father, the king of Phaeacia. Since he was the only survivor of his journey, there was no one to contradict him, was there? He may have learned more from the Sirens’ song than he admitted.”

He folded his hands on the desk before him, and leaned his back against the carven back of his tall, tall chair.

I was beginning to learn that when grown-ups drone on and on about something, they are driving at a point they don’t want to admit they are driving at.

It was with a sense of wonder that I realized that such indirectness might be meant to spare my feelings. In other words, it was a sign of kindness, not cowardice. What cause could the Headmaster have to fear me? His expression was a friendly one.

On the other hand, what in the world could he be trying to protect me from?

As when I didn’t know what to answer in class, I decided merely to sit, look attentive, and keep my hands folded in my lap.

Boggin pursed his lips, then said, “You are often annoyed, too, aren’t you, Miss Windrose? Like our wandering Odysseus here, eh? You want to see the wide-open spaces of the world, to walk where no white man has trod, to drink from untasted streams of unclimbed mountains. You are chafing at your bonds, like he is.” Now he pointed to the skulls and bones that the artist had placed around the feet of the Sirens. “What always puzzled me about the story is that he saw the remains of the other men, but was eager to throw himself on the rock at the feet of the Sirens nonetheless. Do you know why?”

It was a direct question. “No, Headmaster.”

“Because he was an optimist. At least, during the moments when the Sirens’ song was influencing his reasoning powers. He thought himself equal to the task.”

Boggin was silent for a while, watching me. He had more practice at the staring and waiting game than I did. I began to squirm and fidget.

“Very interesting, Headmaster. May I go now?”

“Have you been well treated here, Miss Windrose?”

That was unexpected. “W-what…? I mean… Sir…?”

He repeated the question.

“Well, I… I do want to leave here.”

“Why, and so you shall, once you have reached the age of your majority.”

“How old am I, Headmaster?”

“Sixteen.”

“That is odd. Because you told me I was sixteen four years ago. By that reckoning, I am at least twenty by now. If I was actually twenty when you said I was sixteen, I am now twenty-four.”

“Your recollection must be in error, Miss Windrose.” The dismissal was curt.

“But, four years ago, you said—”

“I am sure we have exhausted this topic, Miss Windrose. Let us dwell on the main point. You appear to be unhappy here, and I am at a loss to understand why. Have you been beaten? Starved? Mistreated? No indeed. You have received a first-rate education, food, medicine, clothing—some would say very fine clothing—and have been sheltered in a mansion of singular historic import, and great beauty.

“Why, Sir Francis Drake was said to have obtained his famous looking glass from the master of these lands, after throwing a pin made of gold into the well at Holywell. And Owen Glendower bivouacked in the haunted woods north of Penrice Castle yonder, to make attacks against Edward’s mighty fortress at Carreg-Cennen. Earlier myths say that the giant stone slab at Cefn Bryn, upon four upright standing stones (still called Arthur’s Table) marks the very spot to which King Arthur removed the head of the giant Bran, after the High King unearthed it from the Tower of London. The Head of Bran preserved the realm from foreign invasion, you see, and Arthur feared the forces from the Otherworld more than he feared those from France. You should deem yourself honored to dwell in such a setting, Miss Windrose. Honored!”

I said, “My room is cold. At night.”

“What?”

“It is a fine mansion, Headmaster. The grounds are beautiful. But my room is ice-cold.”

To my surprise he frowned, and said, “I’ll see to it.”

“You mean—?”

“I am sure you are not prone to the accidents, or the antics, which tempted our young Mr. mac FirBolg to abuse the privilege of having a fire in his room. I will see you are supplied with firewood and kindling. Unless you would prefer an electric space heater?”

“May I have both?”

“Why not? We are not your enemies, Miss Windrose, no matter what you may have been led to believe. We are your legal guardians—in loco parentis, so to speak. We shall be very much derelict in our duties if we do not do everything parents would do to see to the health and well-being of their children.”

Greatly daring, I said, “If you did not lock us in at night, we could use the water closet on the second floor. Instead of a chamber pot.”

“My, we are optimistic, aren’t we? Well, why not? If…”

“If… what…?”

“If you do not abuse the privilege. May I have your word?”

I sat watching him, looking up. He sat watching me, looking down. He looked very satisfied with himself.

I ventured to say, “I don’t believe I understand, Headmaster.”

“But I believe you do, Miss Windrose. May I have your word?”

“What exactly am I agreeing to, Headmaster?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “No doubt you would like to have your legal counsel present before you answer. But that is a prerogative only adults may enjoy.”

“Headmaster, I only want to know what I am agreeing to…”

“Must you play games with me, Miss Windrose? That, I am afraid, is also a prerogative only adults enjoy, and few of them come off the better for it, I assure you.” He drew his eyes back down from the ceiling, and, at that moment, even though the doors and windows here were shut, a very heavy draft fluttered through the room. I shivered in the sudden cold. His loose hair rose up off his shoulders for a moment, swaying and reaching in the wind gust, and his robes rippled. He appeared not one whit disaccommodated by the sudden drop in temperature.

He said, “In sum, you will agree not to do anything to make me regret my decision, Miss Windrose. No running off, no midnight escapades. We have a concern for proper morality here, and do not need to have young girls making visits to young men in the small hours before dawn.”

He leaned back, and the wind gust stopped. I could not shake the feeling that the draft had come from his side of the room, despite that the door was behind me. I sat in the chair, hugging myself.

Headmaster Boggin tapped his fingers on the tabletop, looking idly amused. “Well, do we have an agreement?”

I looked up at him. I really, really hated that chamber pot. And the agreement would not go through if Vanity did not agree also. Nevertheless…

“Why?” I said.

“Why what, Miss Windrose? The question is very general in its application, and has caused puzzlement among philosophers for years.”