The House in the Cerulean Sea(40)

I haven’t seen Lucy’s room. I haven’t asked. He has offered many times; once, he cornered me and whispered that I wouldn’t believe my eyes, but I don’t think I’m ready to see it yet. I will make sure to view it before I leave. If it is the last thing I do, my last will and testament has been filed with Human Resources. If enough of my remains exist, please see that they are cremated.

It should be noted that in addition to the children, there is an island sprite called Zoe Chapelwhite. The fact that I was not made aware of her presence until arrival is most unusual. Sprites, as I’m sure you’re aware, are highly territorial. I came to an island that is ostensibly hers without an invitation directly from her. It would have been well within her rights to deny me entrance, or worse. This suggests that either DICOMY wasn’t aware of her, or didn’t feel the need to make me aware of her existence.

Which brings me to Mr. Parnassus; his file consisted of a single page that told me nothing of the master of Marsyas Orphanage. This certainly will not do. I know that I can always ask him to tell me about himself, but I would prefer to read about him instead of engaging in conversation. I am here to observe and report. The fact that I must become a conversationalist in addition to my current duties is vexing.

There is something about him—Mr. Parnassus—that I can’t quite put my finger on. He certainly seems capable. The children appear to be happy, possibly even thriving. Mr. Parnassus has the uncanny ability to know where the children are at all times and what they’re doing, even if they’re out of sight. He’s unlike anyone else I’ve met before.

Perhaps speaking to him won’t be such a difficult task after all. And I will need to. Because regardless of how happy the children seem to be, the house appears to be on the verge of chaos. Upon my arrival, the children were roaming the grounds of the island. I’m told they are allowed to foster their own pursuits for a time each day, but it seems … unwise to allow these specific children to be unsupervised for any significant amount of time. It’s well documented that magical youth are not in complete control of whatever powers they possess, some less than others.

That being said, I understand the need for secrecy here, given who these children are. I must admit that it might be a bit overblown. Regardless of their backgrounds, they are just children, after all.

How problematic could they possibly be with the guidelines set forth in RULES AND REGULATIONS?





* * *



“Fire and ash!” Lucy bellowed as he paced back and forth. “Death and destruction! I, the harbinger of calamity, will bring pestilence and plague to the people of this world. The blood of the innocents will sustain me, and you will all fall to your knees in benediction as I am your god.”

He bowed.

The children and Mr. Parnassus clapped politely. Theodore chirped and spun in a circle.

Linus gaped.

“That was a lovely story, Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus said. “I especially liked your use of metaphors. Keep in mind that pestilence and plague are technically the same thing, so it did get a little repetitious at the end, but other than that, quite impressive. Well done.”

They were in the parlor of the main house, which had been converted into a classroom. There were six small desks lined up in front of a larger one. An old green chalkboard was set near the window, looking as if it’d recently been scrubbed clean. Thick pieces of chalk were set in a box near the floor. There was a map of the Earth on one wall, and a projector sitting on a metal stand in a corner. The walls were lined with books, much like Mr. Parnassus’s office was. There were encyclopedias and novels and nonfiction books about Greek gods and goddesses and the scientific names of flora and fauna and Linus thought he’d seen one with gold lettering on the spine that said The History of Gnomes: Cultural Relevance and Their Place in Society. It appeared to be at least a thousand pages long, and Linus was itching to get his hands on it.

Lucy took a seat at his desk, looking rather pleased with himself. He’d been the second to last to perform in what Mr. Parnassus indicated was a block in the curriculum known as Expressing Yourself. The children were invited to the front of the class in order to tell a story of their own creation, either true or made up. Talia had told a rather pointed tale of an intruder who came to an island and was never heard from again. Theodore (according to Mr. Parnassus) had spun a jaunty limerick that caused everyone (except for Linus) to laugh until they had tears in their eyes. Phee spoke of a specific tree in the woods that she was growing and her hopes for its roots. Chauncey regaled them with the history of bellhops (something, Linus gathered, that was an ongoing series).

And then there was Lucy.

Lucy who had stood atop Mr. Parnassus’s desk and basically threatened the entire planet with annihilation, his little fists above his head, eyes blazing.

Expressing Yourself was, according to Mr. Parnassus, an idea that would give the children confidence. Linus knew all too well the horrors of having to speak in front of an audience. Twice a week, the children were required to speak in front of the others about whatever topic they fancied. In addition to giving them an opportunity to practice public speaking, Mr. Parnassus said he believed it to be a creative outlet. “The minds of children are wondrous things,” he said to Linus as they followed the others toward the parlor. “Some of the things they come up with seem to defy the imagination.”