There is a man who was part of our noble organization, and he was much better at writing than I will ever be. Some people seem to play with words- make them dance on the page, and this man was one of those people. He created metaphors like you might craft a sentence in your head, and his words seemed to spring off the page. I was lucky enough to read the reports of his time in Stain'd-by-the-Sea, and although the topic matter was most regrettable, it was compelling enough to keep me reading for hours into the night, even when my slowly flickering flashlight finally broke and I had to finish reading the first volume by the dim light of the arson occurring outside my hiding place.
I have attempted many times to compile the story of what occurred after the news of Lemony Snicket's death reached us, in many formats. I have attempted to assemble a set of correspondences between my associates and I in a linear fashion. I have tried to write it up as Mr Snicket would have. I have collected codes and ciphers and playbills and in all occasions I have failed to make any sort of coherent narrative out of all of them. As a final resort, I have taken all information that I have collected and received, and pieced them together as best as I could. There will no doubt be discrepancies and confusion here or there, but with any luck future volunteers will understand what has happened.
I do not know if I will ever be able to complete this account. I do not know if anybody will read this. All I have is a bag full of my favorite books and a dim hope that things might be better, someday.
With all due respect,
-A
[A postcard addressed to the Stain'd Lighthouse.]
F-
I am very sorry to have to bother you today, but it appears that the bell on your door is the only one I can currently ring. Under the circumstances, this message's arrival may seem quite surprising, but no distance between us can stop our correspondence. Alas, the same circumstances that are keeping us apart have limited my time and should continue to do so. It would be really great if you could pick up a package in care of me and go out of town and to the old lighthouse in order to deliver to our mutual friend. This would have to be the last thing I'd ask. I know our relationship is a forest of regrets, but I'd hate for our friend to be alone.
Anxiously wringing my hands,
-A
[A message with a stampmark from Stain'd-By-The-Sea.]
A-
What a fine time to set off an alarm! Why, I can practically hear it ring! I will accomplish this task, no fear. Please remember, though, I have other commitments, so I will need to do it quickly. No time for being playful, I fear, although I suppose the choice to do that sort of thing is mine. You think I have all the time in the world, my friend! I will try my best to meet up soon, although it may be somewhat delayed. I trust in your nature and hope you're fine with that.
Ringing bells of alarm for such a simple task was uncalled for, my friend.
~F
[The opening draft of a book I will never write]
There was a school, and there was a woman, and there was a clue. I was enrolled at the school at the time, and I thought that if I followed the clue and the clues that came after it I might have been able to track down the woman. I was almost sixteen at the time, and I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it. I should have asked the question 'who would have the time and resources to plan something on this scale?' Instead, I asked the wrong questions - all of them, too many to count. This is not the account of all of them, but it is certainly the account of the first, which is always the best place to start.
(
This is plagiarism. –G
I'm sure Mr Snicket wouldn't mind. -A
Who are we to say what Lemony Snicket would or would not do, my dear? –G
With all due respect, I asked you to be my editor, not my literary critic. -A
With all due respect, aren't they precisely the same thing? –G
)
I was in a small room, surrounded by people with small minds, with my legs crammed awkwardly below the surface of an even smaller desk. I was facing a teacher who was not particularly short, not particularly thin, and not particularly friendly. I had long suspected that her short temper had something to do the fact that she always appeared to be juggling several tasks at once and seemed to be the only person who taught us, despite her occupation only being one of a relief teacher, a term which here means 'one who attempts to regain control of a classroom while all the students rebel with great enthusiasm'. I have long suspected that the phrase 'relief teacher' came about from the fact that everyone is quite relieved when the teacher finally leaves, not least of those people being the teacher.
(
Heh, that's very good. –G
Thank you. I thought so. –A
It's still plagiarism, my friend, no matter how many pretty words you use to cover it up. -G
Think of it as a tribute of sorts, if it makes you feel better. –A
)
Fortunately for me (or perhaps unfortunately for my slowly failing grades), it was at that point that I noticed a glint from outside the window. I turned my head to follow its path through the heavy rain outside, and glanced downwards, following it across the oval and from where it was emanating- behind a tree.
"Excuse me," I said, sticking up my hand.
The relief teacher stopped, mid-lecture, and glared.
"I really do need to leave, right this instant," I said. "It's important."
"More important than Identity, Culture, And Organisation As Applied To The Social And Economic World?" she asked, glaring at me over spectacles that I suspected were more for show than any sort of practical function.
The answer to this question, of course, was yes. This was also the completely wrong thing to say.
"You cannot leave this room for no good reason," she said. "It is my responsibility as a teacher to look after the welfare of my students, and anything could happen to you outside of these walls."
She had left a rather convenient loophole in her wording, which I immediately saw and exploited. "I'm not leaving for no good reason," I said.
"I am very glad to hear it."
"I have a perfectly sensible reason for leaving." I stood up, pushing my chair back enough for me to slip out from behind the desk. "Music lesson," I offered with my brightest smile, waving my diary in her direction.
She glanced down at the student register. "It says here that you've had several music lessons already this week."
I had attended a precise total of one music lesson that week, but it probably wasn't best to tell her that the rest of them were actually impromptu meetings with my friends and associates.
"I'm very enthusiastic about music," I said vaguely, in the hopes that it would placate her.
"Aren't you a little too young to be skipping class so often?" she asked with a frown.
I scooped up my bag, and began the arduous task of navigating between the closely arranged desks in order to get to the door. "I'm a little too young to be doing quite a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I'm not doing them anyway."
She didn't move to stop me, which meant that I was free to go.
It was raining outside, which meant that only the very wet or very stupid were out of the cover of indoors. I was not particularly stupid, but I was in the process of getting very wet, which meant that I needed to get to where I was expected quickly.
The place in question was only a short walk away, though, so I picked up my pace and made it through the storm by use of sheer brute force and my jacket, held haphazardly across my head in order to ward off the rain.
Next to one of the buildings in the school is a moderately high, slightly curved brick wall that has no apparent purpose. Nobody really knows why it is there, like most vaguely interesting things you will see in your life. It does, however, block you off from view if you sit against it in a certain position - which makes it an appropriate meeting place when you do not wish to be seen.
"Hello there," I said, ducking quickly behind it and out of sight. "I got your message."
(
Ah, this is where I came in, correct? –G
Yes. –A
And this also happens to be where the document stops, I see. –G
Writer's block. It's a curse. I'll finish this later. –A
)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the islands of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Won't frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Blesst the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
[The conclusion to a story I will never write.]
It was a wonderful party, if slightly impromptu- but then again, all the best parties are. Writing this now, I could tell you of the party that I and several of my associates attended- a word which here means 'gatecrashed very stealthily' – during which there were several interesting incidents involving a basket of apples, an overly dramatic swordfight held while balancing on top of two candlelit chandeliers, and some very excellent cake. I could tell you the full extent of these events, which cumulated in what looked like a pretty great party becoming absolutely nightmarish, despite the fact that it had been planned out in great detail. It is quite the thrilling tale, I assure you. But at the time that this story is taking place, these events had not happened yet, so I will not.
At this party, there were no impromptu swordfights and no candlelit chandeliers, which was a shame, since all the best parties have those. However, a lot of really excellent parties tend to have really excellent music as well.
It is- if not a little-known fact- a little-acknowledged one that; as soon as one stops anticipating the arrival of bad news, said bad news will shortly arrive- usually in the most disruptive manner possible.
The bad news in question arrived in the form of an associate of mine appearing just as soon as I was about to tell my admittedly rather tiresome joke about not being able to bring my piano along to the party. Maybe that was fortunate, or maybe it wasn't- I can't tell.
The girl standing outside made the universal gesture for I need to talk to you, which is mouthing I need to talk to you.
I made the universal gesture for why? which is mouthing why?
She made the universal gesture for it's urgent, which is pretty much exactly what you'd expect.
I promptly made the universal gesture for swearing loudly and obscenely, which is also pretty much exactly what you'd expect, but not as silent as the rest of the signals we had both just put into action.
I made some quick excuses, both for my outburst and my departure, and crossed the garden, making my way to the wall where she was standing. She adjusted her glasses nervously and gave me a half-nod. "Hi."
"Hello," I said, and waited for the inevitable.
"I have a message," said T, "on behalf of somebody who will never be able to make it here in time."
I drew in a quick breath. "Who sent it?"
"That's the wrong question," said T. "The real question here is- who is it about?"
My lips tightened, and I felt that particular sinking feeling that you only get just before you are about to receive some of the worst news in your life. I somehow knew, instinctively, what this was about, even before T began to tell me. I did not want to hear it. I did not want to hear it. I wanted to run away, move back to the warm feeling of the party I had been at moments before, forget about this completely. But here I was, and here was bad news, confronting me with all the tact and regret of a forgotten pint of milk which has been left in the back of your fridge for far too long.
"It's F," she said, and even though I was expecting it, I flinched. "The person who sent this message wants you to know that she entered the Clusterous Forest on her own, since you weren't there to back her up, and she hasn't been seen since. Does this make any sense to you?"
I didn't react for a moment, and she tapped me on the arm.
"Yes," I said. "It makes sense. It makes plenty of sense. It makes sense in the way that the destruction of Pompeii or World War 2 makes sense. I understand why it happened, but I wish it hadn't."
"She did warn you," T said.
"I know," I said. "It's my fault."
"It's not. She volunteered for this. We all did."
I glared at nothing. "Nobody chooses to be a volunteer, T. They come in the middle of the night and drag us away by our ankles and we're never seen again, unless we come back- and when does that ever happen? How old were you again?"
Her mouth snapped shut and went tight in the way that your face tends to go when you're trying to not do something that you will greatly regret later.
"They chose," she said instead, gesturing back in the direction of the garden, where chatter and laughter could still be heard. Music, lively and cheerful, could be heard too, pouring out into the morning air like a sunrise.
"They don't know any better," I said.
T shrugged and turned away. "If there's any new news, I'll let you know."
"Thank you," I said, although I did not feel particularly thankful at that moment, and I watched her go, retreating into the school like the tide washing back out into ocean. Inevitable, I thought, and for a brief moment, entertained the thought of having left the school as soon as I received R's message. I continued entertaining the thought when it became clear that it would not go away, and saw myself waiting at the lighthouse for F to come down- saw her, in her red dress with her black bag slung carelessly across her shoulder, descending the steps to meet me, saw us linking arms and entering the Clusterous Forest together while talking about books.
I smiled briefly. I continued entertaining the thought.
I saw us walking down the path and into dark tangles of what could be either trees or seaweed, and too dark and twisted to really tell. I saw us getting hopelessly lost. I saw R's black bag being ripped from her shoulder by a tangle or a thorn, and landing in a sea of impossibility, lost forever. All of a sudden, I was no longer present in this world, and I was no longer entertaining a thought or a fantasy, but considering what could be really happening to her, right at this moment.
This was no longer pleasant.
"She will be fine," I told myself, with as much conviction as I could muster, a phrase which here means 'not much'. I frowned, mustered a bit more conviction, and then repeated it again- "-she will be fine. She has everything she needs to survive in her bag, and she would never lose that."
I turned, with some difficulty, in the direction of the party, and looked over at my friends, and listened to the music. It was still beautiful, but in the same way that a sunset is – extremely so, but you wouldn't ever want to touch it for fear of either breaking it or burning yourself.
It really was a wonderful party.
I sighed, brushed my hair back, and made my way back into the party, trying not to think about forests, or labyrinths, or sugar bowls, and most definitely not thinking about all of my questions, which were all terribly, awfully wrong.
[Transcript of conversation caught by hidden microphones.]
A: [far away from the microphone] F? Is that you?
K: [very clearly] Not quite.
A: [expletive deleted] - what- K-? [getting closer] We thought you were in hiding!
K: I was. I had heard that this headquarters had been destroyed as well, so I thought-
A: -is there any sign of F?
K: Not that I've heard. Didn't she enter the Forest?
A: She- [trailing off] – yes. I thought, maybe… well. It doesn't matter.
K: If there's any sign of her, I'll make sure you're the first to know.
A: Thank you.
[A brief pause, a distant thud.]
A: The roof seems to be caving in. Is there anything left worth saving?
K: [regretfully] The library was completely destroyed when I got to it, and everything else was removed already. [pause] I haven't checked the fridge.
A: Then we should do that now. Where is it?
K: Ah- over by that clock, I think-
[The two of them appear to be moving across the room, and the creak of rusty hinges can be heard.]
A: It's still intact, thank god. Okay, what do we have?
[Bottles and jars clink together.]
K: The Very Fresh Dill's here, excellent.
A: Here's the jams. There's strawberry, raspberry- oh, here's blueberry. That's my favorite.
[Pause.]
K: Who is it for?
A: F. It's for F.
K: She's not here to accept it. We'll have to decode it in her place.
A: Okay. So- ah, what's next? It's been a while since I had to use Fridge Dialogue, and-
K: [sighs] There's four olives in the jar, which means that whatever is happening is scheduled for a Wednesday. That's in four days. Are there any spice-based condiments?
A: Er, no, unless-? I mean, I'm moderately sure that ketchup has various spices in it-
K: That'll have to do. Pass it here. [pause, and then reading aloud:] distilled vinegar, high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, salt, spice, the final two lines of the sixth quatrain of Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
A: I know that poem, but not well enough to recite it.
K: I think I've copied it down in my commonplace book.
A: Really? That's wonderful!
K: But I don't have my commonplace book with me. A man with two hooks in place of his hands took it from me, and I've been having some difficulty getting it back.
[A makes a noise of vague frustration.]
A: What do we do now?
K: We go back to doing what we do best- getting in the way of people who are less than noble. From what I've heard, you're quite good at it.
A: [soft laugh] Yeah. I'd like to think so. [pause] Hey- look, I heard about your brother.
K: Yes. So did I.
A: If it's any consolation-
K: It's not.
A: -I admired his writing very much.
[A very long silence.]
K: He'd be pleased to hear you say that, I think, although he wouldn't say it out loud. Instead, he'd make a self-deprecating comment that somehow managed to be incredibly poignant at the same time.
A: That sounds like him.
K: I miss him terribly.
A: I didn't realize this was a sad occasion.
[K laughs, and after a moment there's the sound of boots crunching on the ground.]
K: [distant] Good luck finding F.
A: Thank you. I think I'll need it.
[Message sent from an undisclosed location to a disclosed one]
dear honey you have sparkled long enough
in the delft blue basket shift out and come
go away cried her new companions
~G