Falcon Quinn and the Black Mirror (13 page)

“Can I ask a question?”

“No,” shouted Mr. Shale. “Shaddap.”

“But Mr. Shale,” said Mortia. “How are we supposed to learn if we don't ask questions?”

“You learn,” said Mr. Shale, “when you—
shaddap
!”

“Mr. Shale?” said Merideath.

“I said
shaddap
!” said Mr. Shale.

“Yes, I understand that. It's just that you aren't teaching us anything.”

Mr. Shale sighed. “What do you want to know?” he asked. “What's so important that you won't shaddap?”

Now there was silence. Mr. Shale seemed to have frightened their questions right out of them.

“Could you tell us about our classes, sir?” asked Mortia. “What are we studying? Please?”

Mr. Shale sighed. “The day starts here. With Guidance. Then Human Behaviors, with Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff. Then Language and Fabrications. Teacher's Willow Wordswaste-Phinney. Numberology, with Mr. Pupae. Then Mad Science. Monster Ed. And lunch. After lunch, Shame. Then Band. And Mutant Sports. Any questions? Good.”

“I have a question,” said a minotaur.

“Whaat?”

“Where are we, anyway? How did we get here?”

“You're in the Academy for Monsters. In Guidance class.”

“I know, sir, but—where's the Academy? It feels like we're on some kind of island or something—”

“Shadow Island,” said Mr. Shale. “Bermuda Triangle. Sea of Dragons. Islands of enemies all around us. Full of islands, full of things that are hidden, that must remain hidden. Other things on other islands. The Island of Nightmares. The Island of the Watcher. The Island of Guardians.”

“How did we get here?”

“Bus comes for you on spring equinox,” said Mr. Shale. “Thirteenth year. Enough answers now? Enough?”

For a moment it seemed as if it might, indeed, be enough. Then Merideath raised her hand.

“How long do we stay here?” asked Merideath.

“Six years,” said Mr. Shale. “Until your training is complete. When you graduate, we send you back, to the world. With all that you've learned here, you may still blend in with the human population, and they'll never be the wiser. Look at the monsters we trained, and returned. Teddy Roosevelt. Beethoven. No one ever suspected that they were—otherwise.”

Falcon felt his heart sink. Six years of this? The problem wasn't going to be fitting in with humans when he left. The problem was going to be fitting in with monsters in the meantime.

“Who are these—
guardians
?” asked Megan.

“The enemy,” said Mr. Shale, and sighed. He rubbed a rough, red hand across his face. “Monster
destroyers
. On the Island of Guardians. Once we waged war upon them. Endless. Many dead. Now there is truce, at least here in the Triangle. We remain in our place, and they in theirs. But back in the world, the war continues. When you leave here, you must be on your guard. They will seek you, back in the world. Seek you and destroy. That is why you must learn to disguise yourself. To hide.”

“Hey, Mr. Shale, my turn!” said Max. “I got a question.”

“Now whaat?” He rubbed the palm of his hand across his face. “Buncha chatterboxes.”

“What's the point of everything if we just have to hide our whole lives? I mean, like—is it really so
bad
to be a monster? Why are you teaching us to disguise ourselves? Wouldn't it make more sense to teach us how to
fight
these guardians, with, like, grenades and bazookas and junk?”

To the students it sounded like a pretty good question. But Mr. Shale was tired of the class, tired of talking, tired of everything.

“Shaddap,”
he said.

 

The second class of the day was Human Behaviors. The teacher was a Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff, whom they found standing at the front of a lecture hall with its seats mounted on
risers. Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff had a gray goatee, two curving horns, and a long, white lab coat. Of additional interest were the man's legs, which were covered with a coarse, gray fur. He had cloven hooves.

“Gute mornink,” said Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff, pacing back and forth before them. “Zees is zee class in vich ve examine ze behaviors of ze humans you soon shall be amonk. Zome of you, I zee, have spent some time amonk ze humans; others have never been exposed, never! To zee vays and votnots of zee human beenk.”

There was some laughter toward the back of the class.

“Vat so fonny?” said Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff, pacing up the risers to the place where the laughter had come from—a group that included Merideath and the other vampire girls. “Vot? Vot?”

No one said anything. He cleared his throat. “Now zen, for ze first lesson ve vill demonstrate ze proper operation of zee human—
toilet-machine!
Ja! Ja!
Das toilet-machine!
”

There was open laughter now. “Vot?” shouted Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff. “Vot is so funny about das vord—‘human toilet-machine'?”

Again the class convulsed with laughter, more violently than before.

“I do not understand,” said the teacher. “Vy it is so funny venn I say zee vord—ven I say zee vord—”

There was a long, agonizing pause.

“‘Human toilet-machine'!”

Some of the monsters were laughing so hard now that they were falling out of their chairs and rolling on the floor. Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff stomped his cloven hoof. “Nein!” he bleated. “Bad!
Ba-aaaa-aaad!
”

Max, who was sitting next to Falcon, smiled happily. “Dude,” he said. “I just figured out what my favorite class is going to be.”

At the front of the room, Dr. Ziegfield-Gruff was still shouting. “
Nein! Baaa—aaaa—aaa—aad!
”

“You like this class?” said Falcon.

“Are you kidding?” said Max. “I'm gonna
major
in this.”

 

Miss Wordswaste-Phinney, who had requested that the students call her by her first name, Willow, had them all seated in a circle facing each other. She was a thin, seven-foot-tall woman with a long, pointed nose like a woodpecker's.

“Welcome to Language and Fabrications,” she said, “a class in the art of literature. Here you will study stories and poems, and learn to write your own original work. As monsters, you all know what it is like to suffer. Yes, to suffer! But you cannot allow that suffering to remain trapped in your heart. You must get it out of your heart and onto the page, so that you may turn your darkness into light. Virtually all of the world's great writers have
been monsters. Shakespeare! Byron! Norman Mailer! Here we will teach you an important strategy for survival—by changing your blood to ink!”

“Rrrr,” said Sparkbolt.

“Yes, Timothy. Would you read the first stanza of the poem I've handed out? Please?”

“Poem bad,” said Sparkbolt.

“Bad, yes—okay, good. But now could you read the first stanza? In a nice clear voice so we all can hear.”

“RRRR,” said Sparkbolt. “Heart—aches! Drowsy! Numbness! PAIN! PAIN!
HEMLOCK!!
”

“Okay, good,” said the teacher. “Very nice. I want you all to note how much emotion Timothy is putting into his reading. And his reading is just as valid as anyone else's! But now I'll read the same lines, and see if it sounds the same.”

Willow closed her eyes.

Sparkbolt murmured. The teacher read several more lines.

“Envy,” muttered Sparkbolt.

“Shadows,” said Sparkbolt.

She looked up at the class. “‘Ode to a Nightingale,' by John Keats,” she said. “A classic of British Romantic poetry. What's going on here, in this opening stanza? Anyone?”

The class was silent. Falcon, Pearl, Max, Jonny, and Megan were sitting near each other in the circle. Merideath and the vampires were seated directly opposite them.

“Sad,” said Sparkbolt.

“Timothy, excellent,” said Willow. She got up out of her chair and began to pace around the room. “Why is the speaker sad?”

Falcon sighed inwardly. It didn't seem like anyone needed a special reason to be sad.

There was an extended silence again. Then Sparkbolt said, “Envy. Shadows!”

“He's envious, good, Timothy. Who is he envious of?”

There was more silence. This was one of those silences
in which it was not clear whether no one was speaking because no one knew the answer, or because everyone knew it and was embarrassed to speak the obvious.

“Well, who is the poem addressed to?”

“The nightingale,” said Merideath, and then added,
“obviously.
”

“Good, Merideath,” said the tall, slender woman. “But wait—I'm confused! Why would Mr. Keats be envious of a bird?”

The class fell silent again.

“Because the bird is really excellent?” said Max.

“Okay, tell me more about ‘excellent,'” said Willow. “What's excellent about a bird?”

“It sings,” said Ankh-hoptet.

“Good,” said Willow. “What else?”

There was another extended silence.

“It can fly,” said Megan.

“It can fly, Megan, yes,” said Willow. She looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “You're the girl who lost her sisters, aren't you?”

Megan's eyes opened wide. “How did you—? That's not what I—”

“It's okay, Megan,” said Willow. “Everyone in this room has a sorrow like that. Someplace inside where they're all broken.” Willow's voice fell. “Even me.”

Incredibly, Willow's eyes appeared to be filling with
tears now as well.
Yikes
, Falcon thought.
This is going to be some class.
He wouldn't be surprised if they came in here every day and wept their brains out.

“Raise your hand,” said Willow, “if you have ever wished that you could fly.”

A number of hands shot up immediately. After a few moments more students raised their hands. As Falcon sat there thinking about it, he remembered the moment Pearl had flown with him and Megan, out of the high window of the Tower of Aberrations and around the castle, on their first night at the Academy. He realized, with a shock, that while he was flying he'd felt something he'd never felt before. While he'd been soaring through the air with her, for the first time he'd found a place that felt like home.

Willow seemed to be reading his thoughts. She was staring at him now, nodding gently. He felt a pang in his heart, knowing that as the years went by, it'd be unlikely for him to feel that sense of wonder again.

“It seems like such a small thing,” said Willow, “the wish to fly. And then there are other wishes, of course. The dream of being understood. The dream of being loved.”

Sparkbolt murmured to himself.

“So what do we do when we cannot have the thing for which we dream?” said Willow. She ran her long, twiglike fingers through her very long, blond hair. “What becomes of us?”

“We bite people!” said Scout, snarling.

“We bite them again, and again!” said Ranger. He looked at Falcon menacingly.

“Biting, okay, good. Who else? Anyone? Anyone?”

“We STING them,” said Pearl. “With the big black stinger!”

“Stinging,” said Willow. “Good. Stinging and biting. Anyone else?”

“Destroy,” said Sparkbolt. “DESTROY!”

“Suck out their blood,” said Merideath. “Make them pay!”

“Make them like us,” said Mortia.

“Destroying, blood-sucking, good. Taking our revenge. But there is another form of revenge, isn't there? There is the revenge of horror. And then there is the revenge of love.”

The students seemed unsure of this. Sparkbolt moaned.

“Sometimes, when you are filled with sadness and death, you can try to make other people suffer. But then there is the revenge of love, when you respond to the horrors of the world with a completely unexplainable, irrational kindness or compassion. And in this way, instead of bringing others down to the level of darkness, you raise yourself to the level of light. It is this paradox that I want you all to consider. That the wisest among us take our revenge on the world—through love. And the greatest
form of love is this: the poem.”

“Then Sparkbolt,” said a voice, “LOVE ALL THINGS! DESTROY! THROUGH LOVE! DEATH WITH INK!”

Willow smiled, her day's work apparently complete. “Well, then,” she said. “For tomorrow, I'd like you all to try to write a poem of your own. Bring it in to class, and be ready to share.”

“What are we supposed to write about?” asked Megan.

“Your pain, of course,” said Willow matter-of-factly. “The horror.”

“Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr,” said Sparkbolt.

“And we're supposed to—share these?” said Megan.

“Oh yes,” said Willow. “Be prepared to share.” She looked at her watch. “Okay, I see we're just about out of time. By the way, I want to give everyone in the class two happiness stars for their good work today. And Timothy, I'm giving you
three
happiness stars. You have the soul of a poet!”

The bell rang and everyone stood up.

“Whoa, Sparkbolt,” said Mortia. “The soul of a poet! Who knew?”

Sparkbolt sighed. “Pain, good,” he said. “Poetry—
bad.
”