Sharing the Magic
A Fraggle Rock U.K. fanfic
By Auburn Red
Author's Note: Let Me Be Your Song is by Dennis Lee and Phil Balsam
Chapter Four: Everything Seems To Sing
B.J. followed the nurse inside the immaculate sterilized hallway. She walked so fast that B.J. struggled to keep up with her. In fact they were practically breaking into a run as she spoke. "We tried to call you several times but you weren't available," she was too polite to make any judgements but B.J. could just hear the disappointment in her voice. She faced B.J. with a kind but authoritarian demeanor. Her name tag read "Pamela."
"I was at a funeral for a friend," B.J. answered. His heart skipped as he realized that there would only be one reason why the care facility staff would be that frantic to reach him. He had returned to the castle to several calls from the facility about his father. He left right away. Neither the Fraggles nor Sprocket were with him. The Fraggles had returned to the Rock and B.J. left Sprocket back at the castle when they returned, so this sudden news made B.J. feel more alone than ever. "When?"
Pamela stopped. "Yesterday morning." Upon B.J.'s stricken pallid expression, she shook her head. "Oh no, your father's not dead thank God." B.J. sighed with relief. "But he well he had another-accident."
The two of them stopped in front of a hospital room. Through the window, B.J. could see his father, Brian Birtwhistle Sr., seated on a bed in his private room.
His head was bent over some papers that he was frantically scribbling. The older man once hearty and robust was now puffy and flaccid from hospitalization. B.J. could see the tell-tale bandages around his father's wrists. B.J. winced. "How did it happen?"
Pamela shook her head disapprovingly. "One of our orderlies-and don't you worry a thing about it, he's been discharged-slipped him a bottle of whiskey. He drank it down to the drop and it shattered to the ground. We cleaned it up but he must have kept some of the pieces in his hand. Later, well he had a few nasty cuts."
B.J. inwardly grimaced at the nurse's words. It was never a "suicide attempt" with them. It was always an "accident." They never intentionally tried to "slit their wrists" or "fell to their death," it was "a nasty cut" or "they slipped." Maybe it was their way of protecting their hospital from lawsuits. Maybe it was denial that despite all of their therapy and medicine, someone could still be despondent and look at death as the only way out. "May I see him?" B.J. asked hoarse.
Pamela looked around in concern. "Well technically, we can't admit visitors at this time. It upsets the patients so soon after-"
B.J. glared at her doing his best impression of his father at his haughtiest most business-like. The way he was before all of this."I pay for his care and find that he is like this. The least you could do is let me see him!"
B.J. entered the room keeping his eyes on his father. He entered so quietly that the old man did not look up from his writing. B.J. opened his mouth trying to find the words, but they wouldn't come. He tried again. "Dad?"
Brian Birtwhistle Sr. looked up at his son, the smile on his face was bright and welcoming. "Ahh B.J. my boy," he said and motioned him forward. "Come here, lad!" B.J. walked towards his father's bed, pulled up a nearby chair, and sat next to him. His father spoke. "You should be a part of this. Its your legacy my boy, your future!" He pointed at the paper. B.J. looked at the words. In one column lay the names of his father's properties and on the other column were nothing but zeros and lines drawn over the zeros. Birtwhistle held up a finger. "You see I'm trying to make these numbers fit," he said as he scribbled several lines onto the paper. "They think that its not mine anymore, but I'll make them fit."
B.J. held his father's hand and traced down to the wrist that was expertly bandaged. "Dad what happened to you?"
Birtwhistle looked down at the wrists as if seeing them for the first time. He seemed lost in thought for a minute as if he couldn't remember. "Oh I just hurt myself," he said matter-of-factly. "That's all. I decided to take it to the doctor because I didn't want your mother to find out. You know how she fusses so. Best not tell her. Best to keep it a secret between us men, eh?"
"Mum?" B.J. asked confused.
"Of course your mother," Birtwhistle said. He looked confused. "Does she seem thinner to you and more tired lately? I hope she's not ill. No matter she's as lovely as a girl." B.J. put his hands to his mouth rather than give into emotion. The elder Birtwhistle's voice caught as if another thought had entered, but he shook his head and returned to his writing and indicating the wrists. "But we don't want to worry her about this, so mum's the word eh?"
B.J. leaned closer to his father and put his hands gently around his shoulders. "Dad do you know where you are?"
Birtwhistle laughed. "Well of course I do. Really son how are you ever going to inherit anything if you ask such daft questions? I am in my study in our home that I purchased and had built myself on Fraggle Rock Island! Where else would I be?" He looked around the room confused. "Where else am I?"
The paper dropped from his lap as Birtwhistle looked at the room in a panic. "B.J., where am I?" His eyes fell on Pamela who pushed a button on the wall. "Who is this woman? What is she doing here in my house?" He charged towards the nurse. "What are you doing here, you brazen hussy?"
B.J. held onto his father by the shoulders trying to lower him down. "Dad, stop this! She's not going to hurt you!" As he spoke, three male orderlies entered the room behind Pamela and approached the irate patient.
"Get out all of you!" Birtwhistle shouted. "You are disturbing my wife! She is a sick woman trying to rest! You heard me, I said get out!" Two of the orderlies grabbed Birtwhistle by the arms and another by the legs. "B.J., get rid of them!" He commanded his son.
B.J. held his father by the shoulders as Pamela prepared the sedative. "Now Dad, they're trying to help you," he said. "Let them help you!" Pamela pushed the needle in the businessman's arm as he continued to struggle and order them to get out. One by one the orderlies released their hold on the patient. B.J. continued to hold onto his father wrapping his arms around him in a loving and protective embrace until he finally settled into sleep.
B.J. sat in the office of Dr. Adam Metcalfe, the facility administrator, a balding man with a pinched face. Metcalfe showed the young man a copy of the Financial Times. "Apparently this is what set off his latest attempt," he pointed to an article.
B.J. read the headline "Whitson Indicted for Embezzlement Charges!" He recognized the face on the picture, a gray haired man dressed in a typically fashionable suit. "Edward Whitson," B.J. said without having to read the article. "He was my father's financial advisor. I warned Dad not to trust him." He read that Whitson stood accused of absconding funds from various companies and creating his own dummy corporation which then pocketed the money. He was willing to plead guilty for a lesser charge if he could name others who assisted in his scheme.
"I don't presume that your father will be one of the names," Metcalfe asked. "A convicted criminal cannot have a place here, even if he has been acquitted."
B.J. grimaced. "I love my father truly but he isn't bright enough to do something like this. Anyone who would talk to him for even a few minutes would know that. Metcalfe just wants to name him because Dad's not in any condition to defend himself."
"I thought as much," Metcalfe replied. "I am sure it is nothing more than that. But I do wish to discuss with you about your father's placement in this facility." B.J. listened. Already he didn't like where this was going. "When he was admitted here, you paid for a year's placement. However, that year will soon be up. If you wish for your father to receive our care, we must receive payment for him. We can work out either a lump sum payment of £1800 for the year or £150 per month."
"It used to be £1200 for the year," B.J. objected.
"Prices have gone up," Metcalfe answered.
B.J. rubbed his forehead. "And the alternatives?" he asked.
Metcalfe shrugged. "Not too many private facilities will willingly take responsibility for a new patient with your father's history of self-inflicted harm. The only other alternative would be for him to be admitted to a state run hospital."
B.J. shook his head. "No, in a place like that surrounded by people in worse condition than he is, with their senses gone? You might as well kill him now. Plus, they could only treat him for a time and then he would be back outside doing God knows what to his mind and body-probably drinking himself into oblivion or sitting inside a garage with the car running. I just can't do that to him, I can't." B.J. sighed. "I'll pay for him for the next year, probably in installments."
"Will you-?" Metcalfe began.
"I'll find a way to come up with the money," B.J. said. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.
B.J. waited until he had left the administrator's office. He stood outside the facility doors and sank down on one of the benches. The tears that he tried to hide or hold back finally came in full force. He wept for his father, for the Fraggles, for P.K, for the Captain, and for himself. For all of them who had to live in a world where everything that could be depended upon was now slipping away and may never return.
B.J. knocked on the door of Arthur Pettijohn, the estate manager of the castle/hotel. The austere and domineering employer was not one of B.J's favorite people. He often pushed the young caretaker extremely hard at work. B.J. didn't know why but ever since he began working at the castle, the estate manager seemed to make his life's mission to make B.J's life miserable. He often gave him impossible tasks to complete, and he had to work harder and faster than the rest of the staff and had to get everything accomplished perfectly. No matter how hard B.J. worked, Pettijohn always found some reason to find fault with him.
B.J. was particularly confused that Pettijohn didn't seem to treat the other employees so high handed. Perhaps, because B.J.'s status as an outdoor servant got him signaled out for austerity. Maybe he said or did something that rubbed the older man the wrong way. It didn't matter. If B.J. had any thought of resigning before, he certainly couldn't now. He would just have to swallow and take whatever Mr. Pettijohn demanded of him.
He entered upon hearing the estate manager tell him to come in. Mr. Pettijohn looked up from the ledger. "Ah Birtwhistle, in fact I was about prepared to send for you."
"Yes sir?" B.J. asked confused on what it could be. He received permission to leave for the Captain's funeral. He couldn't remember any transgressions that he made. What could he want from him? Perhaps it was some task that he needed to accomplish.
"How is your father these days?" Mr. Pettijohn inquired.
"Doing as well as he can sir," B.J. answered somewhat suspicious. "May I ask why you wish to know?"
"I just wonder how he can be doing after such a traumatic blow." He held up a newspaper, the same Financial Times that Dr. Metcalfe showed him.
"My father is an innocent man, sir," B.J. said determined.
"I'm sure that you think so," Pettijohn mocked. "However, it would not look good for one of our staff to come from such a background. We have a proud reputation of success to achieve. The very fact that one of our employees, even one who is a lowly caretaker, has a criminal past or has a family member who does could not possibly enhance that reputation, now can it?"
B.J. felt like he had been stabbed. "Are you discharging me sir?" How was he going to take care of his father and everyone else now?
Pettijohn put his fingers together under his chin. He looked at the young man slyly. "I would if I had to. However, I am willing to admit that we cannot always be held to blame for what our relations do, so I don't think it will have to go that far."
B.J. shook his head. "I hope not sir. In fact if you are so willing, I would like to work perhaps an extra shift or more hours. You see I have had some bad news lately-"
"-Yes, yes Birtwhistle, I am not interested," Pettijohn argued. His face lightened up as though he suddenly thought of an idea. "You wish to work more hours?"
"Absolutely," B.J. answered surprised that his employer was willing to give in.
"It is very fortuitous that you would come to me this way because I have a bit of a dilemma," Pettijohn sighed doing a perfect impression of a caring boss. "Unfortunately, we have had to let go of a few members of our staff and we are rather short handed.
Budget cuts you understand. You could fill in for them on a temporary basis until we find permanent replacements."
"Sure," B.J. answered. "Which ones?"
Pettijohn ticked numbers off his fingers. "Well there's that Lucy Guttridge, the chambermaid, Tobias Sydney, the bellman, oh and that girl who works in the kitchen staff, you know the one who washes dishes and cleans the floor-"
"-Molly Carruthers," B.J. guessed. That was too bad. He liked them. Molly and Lucy were really sweet and Toby was a lot of laughs. He wondered what any of them did to get sacked.
"Yes, you can take on their duties along with your traditional caretaking responsibilities," Pettijohn inquired.
B.J. thought of what a schedule like that would be-collecting and returning guests' baggages to and from their room, assisting guests with carrying objects to their appointments, starting fires, cleaning and vaccuuming the rooms and bathrooms, and making beds, scrubbing the kitchen floor and washing dishes along with any other kitchen chores, such as chopping salads or peeling potatoes, along with his usual tending the castle garden and ground, doing any major plumbing and repairs, and keeping the lobby and the outside clean and functioning.
"It sounds like an awful lot of work for one person to do, sir," B.J. began tactfully. "How would it be if myself and some of the other staff members contributed to the extra assignments and divided the responsibilities?"
Pettijohn scoffed and returned to his paperwork. "Well Birtwhistle if you really don't want to do any of it I will understand. I don't suppose your next employer will be pleased to learn that you turned down a very generous offer-"
B.J. held up one hand. "Wait, sir," he said. "I said that I would do extra work and I will."
"Very good, Birtwhistle," Pettijohn said. "You are no doubt aware that these extra chores will be a third of your regular salary."
"But, sir," Birtwhistle said. "I'm barely making ends meet now and there are added expenses-"
"-If you wish to take it up with someone then do so," Pettijohn commanded. "I'm sure that your father will understand if you can no longer afford his hospice care."
B.J. felt trapped. Arthur Pettijohn knew all the right buttons to press. He knew that he would have to take the offer and he knew that he would hate it. He sighed at least maybe the extra work would help pay for the financial difficulties that he was under. Any rate, if he didn't take it he would be letting everyone down. B.J. just couldn't do that. His shoulders drooped and his back sagged. He suddenly felt very tired as though he were already carrying a huge weight. "Alright, I'll take it."
"Good," Pettijohn said as he looked at his watch. "Go to the kitchen to talk to Mrs. O'Connor. She will give you your new responsibilities." He returned to the ledger as if to indicate that the conversation was over.
P.K. stood inside Zeke's Pawn Shop as the owner peered at the guitar almost like a mouse investigating a piece of cheese on a trap. In fact Zeke looked very rodential in his appearance with his large nose, jug ears, and pointed features. "Looks like its seen better days," he said after several minutes of silence. He plucked at the strings carelessly. "Not in tune."
"There's a tuner with it," P.K. said holding up the small device.
"Quite a few dents in the finish," Zeke continued. He looked up. "I'll give you 50p for it."
P.K. started. "But it cost £200 when my uncle bought it."
"When 20 years ago?" Zeke said sarcastically. "Final deal mate, take it or leave it." P.K. gently touched the photograph hidden inside the case. The photo was of himself at age 13 with the Captain after his first performance at an amateur concert. It wasn't a big deal, but the Captain was proud of the boy knowing that he could do it. P.K. always placed the photograph in the case almost as a talisman, a bit of encouragement from his uncle. He held the photograph tightly almost wrinkling it in his fists remembering when his uncle gave the guitar to him:
It was P.K.'s 13th birthday and he was spending it alone for now. The Captain was off on one of his sailing voyages and wasn't going to be back for some time. P.K. danced to The Clash's "Rock the Casbah" inside his uncle's seaside shack-home, smoking a cigarette and swallowing a lager. He was going to meet some of the lads that he had befriended at school. They were going to hijack a boat and go pub crawling on the Mainland far from any adult rules and restrictions. P.K. couldn't wait. The Captain's mixed breed dog, Spanner covered her ears irritated by the music even letting out an annoyed howl or bark. P.K. ignored her so wrapped up in the music and the upcoming fun he would have.
Suddenly the music stopped. Instead of hearing Joey Strummer singing about Sharif not liking it, P.K. heard the sound of a throat clearing. Spanner ran up to her master as delighted to see a familiar face as her future son, Sprocket, would be. She accepted the Captain's pets and head scratches. She barked in the direction of the young teenager almost as though she were tattling on him. P.K. turned around and saw his uncle looking up from the dog and glaring at him with his arms folded. "I thought you were gone," P.K. said.
"For some odd reason, I thought that I would end this voyage early," the Captain replied brusquely. "Something about a birthday or some such." He looked around the house investigating the smoky air and alcohol. "Though I'm not sure you deserve it poisoning my ears with that noise as well as your body with all that." He held up a stubbed cigarette that still smoldered on the table.
P.K. snorted. "So what, I've seen you smoke pipes and drink. You're a fine one to talk."
"Aye, I do," the Captain answered. "That's why I know they are bad things to get into and very hard to get out of. I'm sure those supposed mates of yours from school have anchored themselves here while I was gone." He looked around the messy room as well as the various beer bottles and cans that had obviously been consumed by more than one person.
P.K. rolled his eyes. " We were just having some fun."
"Yes I can see that," the Captain wryly said. "Fun destroying my house with your rowdiness."
"Don't worry, we won't be at this house any longer" P.K. argued.
"Where are you going and what are you doing with them," The Captain ordered.
"I don't know just around," P.K. answered. "Like its any business of yours!"
"It is en I have to pay your bail or worse have to identify the body," the Captain sarcastically replied. P.K.'s eyes blazed but he didn't say anything as his uncle continued. "Those boys are not but trouble!"
"They're the only thing that passes for life around here," P.K. countered.
"Life like that you don't need," the Captain argued. "They are headed for a bad end and so will you be, en you don't watch yourself."
P.K. growled. "You aren't the only one to say that to me." After all many other foster parents predicted the same thing for him. P.K. Barnacle coming to a bad end was one of those certainties like the sun rising in the east or that on any given day the skies over Edinburgh would pour rain.
"I grant you that," the Captain replied. "But I'm probably the only one who is daft enough to prevent it from happening."
"Why?" P.K. scoffed.
"Because I can see that there's more than you are willing to see in yourself," the Captain said. "Maybe its about time you saw it too."
P.K. didn't want to show it, but his uncle's words startled and confused him. In his strange awkward way, the older man admitted that he was concerned for the boy. P.K. was taken enough aback by the Captain's words that he dropped his defensive posturing."Like what?"
The Captain reached into the hallway as he spoke. "Way I see it, you spend enough time here with very little to do and too much time on your hands. You're bound to use up that time to stir up trouble." He set a large package wrapped in plain brown paper on the settee next to the teen. "You may as well use that time to learn something useful."
P.K. opened the package to reveal an acoustic guitar inside a black guitar case. "I don't know how to play," P.K. said.
"You can learn can't you," the Captain challenged. "I bought that ratty old thing at some junk shop. I figured you might as well make some use of it before it goes so I'se can get some peace and quiet around here instead of listening to that noise that sounds like several cats yowling over their last meal."
P.K. investigated the guitar carefully. The body was smooth and shiny. He could smell the plush interior and the leather exterior. He gently put his hands on the strings and they felt smooth like they hadn't been plucked. He looked at one of the pockets to see a small box which he assumed contained extra strings, tuner, pick, and other items. The seal was not yet broken on the box. This wasn't a used guitar from a junk shop. His uncle purchased the guitar brand new.
"Thank you," P.K. said moved by the gift.
"That's alright then," the Captain replied modestly accepting the young man's gratitude.
P.K. stood in silence as Zeke divvied up the amount in his cash register. P.K. looked closely at the photograph.
Zeke was about to hand the money to P.K. when the young man stopped him. "You know what never mind," he said as he moved the guitar from the table. "Forget about it." He placed the guitar and photo back in his case and left the pawn shop. The bell jingled as he shut the door behind him.
P.K. staggered inside a pub and ordered a whiskey bottle. He had just been back from walking from one place to another job searching. Most of the employers said the same things, "Sorry we're full up," "There is a list of a hundred men before you," etc.
P.K. felt drained, spent, and just wanted a drink. He had already drank one, alright two, of the whiskey bottles that B.J. left for him in the shack and was pretty close to running low. He had very little money and now that sentiment got the better of him, he was not going to spend the night inside a hotel like he had planned. He was going to have to sleep on the streets. Well it wasn't the first time. When one of his foster fathers chucked him out after a drunken fight, P.K. spent the better part of three months moving from derelict buildings to street corners. It was just a matter of being aware of everyone and everything around you, making yourself hidden from authority, and living with and depnding on almost nothing.
He felt inside for the bills in his wallet. Maybe at least for the night it wouldn't come to that. Perhaps if he offered to work at the pub overnight they may have a spare bed that he could rest his head on. He swallowed the drink and ordered another one. Maybe there were enough drinks in the U.K. that could drown out his feelings to the point of complete numbness.
Through the mirror, he could see a few images staring back at him. A couple of familiar creatures looked at him with disappointment, pleading, and friendship that P.K. did not deserve.
"Will you just leave me the fuck alone?" P.K. demanded to the Fraggles in the bar. He periodically saw them follow him on the road. Sometimes it was Red and Gobo, sometimes all five. At first P.K. just ignored them, but when that didn't work he figured that anger would. "Just get the hell away from me!"
P.K. then heard an "oof" from behind and saw a very large man get up from the ground. The Scotsman looked down to see his foot jutting out, obviously he had accidentally tripped him. He gamely moved his foot backward, but the man grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"You want to say that to me again, you scouse git?" he asked. P.K. felt glass shatter and realized that the man had caused his glass to break.
P.K. was about to apologize, but he was just as angry and just as ready for a fight as this man was. Besides if the Fraggles were watching, maybe it would convince him that he was not and should never be a friend to them. "Well you are obviously deaf as well as stupid, I said get the hell away from me!"
The other man said nothing but pounded P.K. with his fist. P.K. drew back clutching the bar and punched back. The two continued to brawl until the bar tender and a couple of other lads pulled them off each other. "Alright get out you," he yelled at P.K. "Out and don't ever come back in here!"
P.K. glared at the man but realizing that there was little that he could do, he went outside in the chilly night. Gobo and Red stood outside the pub running up to him. "P.K. are you alright?"
P.K. rolled his eyes. "Ach, do I have to make a sign? I can't seem to get it through to you, any of you! I can't help you! I can't help anyone, not even myself! Go back to B.J.! He's a good friend to you, he's probably worried about you!"
"But what about what the Trash Heap said?" Gobo asked.
"I don't care what your Trash Compacter said," P.K. answered. "This time, she's wrong! You'll just have to tell her that!"
"But we need you," Gobo said.
P.K. stopped and turned around. "Then you're a complete fool to do so." He then picked up his guitar and rucksack and left the Fraggles behind.
Gobo was about to follow the Silly Creature behind when Red held him back. "Forget it, Gobo. He's just a Silly Creature. He won't listen to us. He probably doesn't even care about us."
"Well I don't believe that," Gobo said. "The magic chose him to meet us. There's a reason. He wants to be our friend."
"Well he sure has a funny way of showing it," Red reminded him. " Gobo forget it. He's not going to want to talk to you or me. He won't listen to us."
"Well who will he listen to then?" Gobo asked.
Red didn't have the slightest idea, but a familiar sound carried over the city evening. It sounded hypnotic, welcoming. Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to her. "Gobo, listen."
"Red, I don't hear anything except those Metal Animals that Silly Creatures ride, and the other noises around here. I wonder how Uncle Traveling Matt put up with it." Before Gobo could go off on another tangent about Uncle Traveling Matt's stories, Red pushed on her friend's face wanting him to listen closer. After a few seconds, Gobo heard it too. They had an idea over who might be able to get through to P.K.
P.K. felt the wind slice through him and held the guitar case close to him as he walked. Since his temper got the better of him, he certainly wasn't going to be spending the night in a pub. Looks like it was going to be a night in the streets after all. P.K. slowly staggered under a nearby bridge where various people had gathered for the night.
P.K. could see other homeless people gathering around huddling near make-shift fires for what little warmth or security that they had. P.K. sat down towards one of the fires inconspicuous not really wanting to make conversation, so he remained as far from anyone else as possible but still retained some of the warmth from the fires. He rubbed his hands together willing them to be warm and stamped his feet a bit. He sat down on the ground and opened his rucksack. He opened one of the whiskey bottles and drank it feeling the warmth from the alcohol as well as the promised relief from pain that it provided. He pulled out a very thin blanket and wrapped it around his body. Then he held his guitar closely almost like a security blanket and lay his head on the rucksack for a makeshift pillow. He hugged himself for warmth, for protection, and to will himself to sleep.
He didn't know how long he had slept, but a strange sound woke him up. He was used to the sounds of cars, drunken voices, and other city noises. But this sound seemed to rise higher than them. It had a soft lilting melody like a strange pipe that played in the wind. P.K. raised his head to some of the people gathered by the fire. "Oi, any of you hear those pipes?" he asked. The other derelicts ignored him as they returned to the fire. P.K. shrugged, it was probably his imagination. He was about to fall asleep when he felt something or rather didn't feel something. His arms were empty. He was no longer holding his guitar. He sat up straight realizing that his guitar was missing. He looked around the bridge going from one homeless person to another but couldn't see any signs of the guitar. He cursed under his breath. Whoever stole it probably ran off and may have even pawned it already. So now he had no guitar and no money, what else could go wrong? Suddenly rain poured from the sky. The homeless people ran for any shelter that they could find. Some groaned at the fires that were put out. P.K. glowered, but gathered his rucksack and moved on to find some place to hide out the rain if he could.
The young Scotsman continued to walk in the rain feeling the cold downpour sear into his clothes. This was the second time in less than a week, he ended up soaking wet. It must have been some kind of record making P.K. Barnacle a prime candidate for pneumonia before he reached 30. He tried to look for some shelter that he could crawl into to wait out the storm, an awning that he could stand under, an old building with minimal security, a pub, even a homeless shelter. Somewhere he could go for a few hours. He didn't want to think beyond that. He couldn't afford to think beyond the next few minutes or hours. He couldn't lose himself in any grief for his uncle, or regrets over the things that he said to B.J. and the Fraggles, or any type of longing for anything other than mere survival. He just had to live day to day, that's all he had to do. He tried to remember if he had any whiskey bottles left inside his rucksack. He felt around inside glad that at least there was one. P.K. leaned against a building and held the bottle to his chest as he opened it. It was the only thing that he had now.
He was about to drink the bottle when he heard the music of the pipes again. Once again, they played over the sounds around him as though they were trying to grab P.K.'s attention. P.K. looked at the building confused. The music seemed to come from inside, but that was odd. If it came from here, he wouldn't have heard it under the bridge earlier. It was too far away from the bridge. P.K. stepped back and looked closely at the building.
While the building had seen better days, the art deco style in front as well as the double doors revealed it to be an abandoned theatre. P.K. could hear the music coming from inside the theatre as though it were calling to him. He put his hand on the door latch expecting it not to open, but surprisingly it did. Relieved, P.K. entered the door and stood in the lobby. He allowed himself a few minutes to get dry and slightly warm as he looked around. The theatre looked like it had once been very grand and ornate with classical statues and columns, but it was clearly no longer in service. The carpeting had a strong mildew smell. Posters of previous performances had long peeled making it difficult to read any of the names. Cobwebs and dust filled the walls. The whole building seemed to be one of death and decay. P.K. leaned against one of the walls ready to listen for the rain to recede, so he could move on once more when he heard the pipe music again. Now that he was closer, he could hear strings and drums accompany the pipe. Curious but very wary, P.K. entered the auditorium feeling almost hypnotized by the music that surrounded him.
The music stopped as soon as P.K. entered the auditorium. He rubbed his head feeling exhausted. He did not want to go any further, figuring that he could curl up somewhere in the auditorium and sleep for the night. Perhaps one of the seats could be in use for that purpose. P.K. felt around the old seats, most of them broken or falling apart. He kept walking until he approached the front seats. The seats were intact, but something was on one of them. P.K. warily approached the black case on the seat. After close inspection, he gasped in surprise and opened the familiar case. His guitar lay inside unharmed. Just to be sure, the photograph of P.K. and his uncle still lay in the compartment. The young man sank to the seat confused, but moved that his property had been returned to him.
Suddenly, he heard the music again. He looked up to see a small band of five creatures playing instruments on the stage. The leader, an orange creature removed the pipe from his lips and looked directly at the lone audience member.
"It seems that you are in the right place and the right time," the odd creature said. "It is a good thing that the Song brought you here."
P.K. shook his head. "I just came in to get warm and dry."
"Well you are warm and you are dry and you are still here," the creature said.
P.K. glanced at the strange band. "You are all Fraggles aren't you?" he said.
"Oh he's a sharp one," the purple guitarist said sarcastically.
The orange leader did not acknowledge his bandmate's comment. "I am Cantus and these are the Minstrels."
P.K. rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt as angry as he did earlier with Gobo and Red, but something about Cantus made him want to control himself. "Listen, I already told Gobo and Red that-"
"-Yes you told them," Cantus added. "But did you tell yourself?"
P.K. felt his head spin. "Well yeah, I don't know," he said. He gathered his things and was about to turn around. "If you don't mind, I think I'll be going."
"Where are you running from?" Cantus asked.
P.K. shrugged. "I don't know. Look for work I suppose."
"No, I did not ask where you were running to. I know where you are running to,"
Cantus patiently corrected. "I asked where you were running from?"
"What's the difference as long as I get somewhere," P.K. asked.
"Well the difference is in the shoes," Cantus replied.
The Scotsman felt like he had somehow slipped through a rabbit hole and was talking to one of the characters from Wonderland. " There is just too much going on right now."
"It must be exhausting to have so little to run to and so much to run from," Cantus replied.
"Terribly," P.K. answered wearily. He started when he realized that he was agreeing with the strange being. "Don't you travel?"
Cantus and the Minstrels nodded. "That we do, but we always know where we are headed and we know where we came from. Do you know either?"
"The only thing that I know is I just want to be left alone," P.K. answered trying to find a reasonable explanation that this odd creature would accept and wanting once again to leave.
Cantus nodded at the guitar case. "Music is not meant to be alone and a guitar is not meant to unplayed. If Music is not shared, it finds its home elsewhere."
P.K. gaped in surprise at the Fraggle's meaning. "So it was you that took my guitar?"
"It was you who did not take it," Cantus answered. "But you found it again and it found you, so you can play it once more."
P.K. shook his head. The longing for a drink was returning. "I can't play anymore."
"The Song will be played whether you pluck the strings or not, but something keeps you from hearing it," Cantus said.
"Maybe it doesn't want me to hear it," P.K. replied. "Maybe I don't deserve to hear it."
"The Song does not base its listeners on whether they deserve it or not," Cantus said. "Only the Listener does." He was about to put the pipe to his lips to play another song, but then added as an afterthought."You are keeping yourself running and not listening. You drink so you do not run and you run so you do not let what you are drinking block what you should be listening."
P.K. wanted to deny it wanted to shout that this creature did not know anything but he couldn't. He couldn't deny a word. "It keeps me from hurting and feeling pain," P.K. said.
"And have you stopped hurting and feeling pain?" Cantus asked.
P.K. looked downward. "No," he said feeling like a child who needed to confess his sins. "All I feel is numb. If I'm not hurting, I'm not feeling anything else."
"Then you fill it with something else. You fill it with your Song. You fill it with yourself," Cantus replied.
"But what if they don't want me to," P.K. said. "What if what I have isn't worth filling?"
"How can it be if you don't even try to,"Cantus asked as if saying something that was so simple to him and should have been to P.K. He put the pipe to his lips as the Minstrels played again and sang:
Music grows in the rose
Rock and rain and the blowin' snowstorm
Everything seems to sing
Everywhere I go
I say 1, 2, play me do
Let me sound as sweet as you
Play me wide
Play me long
Let me be your song
Play me down on the ground
Song comes singing from the midnight places
Raise me high in the sky
Song comes drifting through
I say 1, 2, play me do
Let me sound as sweet as you
Play me wide
Play me long
Let me be your song
Play me high
Play me low
Play me where the wild winds blowing
Play me wide
Play me long
Play me for your song
I say 1, 2 , play me do
Let me sound as sweet as you
Play me wide
Play me long
Let me be your song
Listening to the minstrels play gave P.K. a sense of euphoria and peace that he hadn't felt in a long time since his uncle became sick. Somehow without planning for it or waiting for an invitation to join, P.K. absently opened the guitar case and played along with them. He felt his fingers dance along the strings. He felt that enjoyable connection that he always felt when he played in front of people whether it was just his uncle or Sprocket or a pub full of listeners. He forgot how good it felt to play his guitar and how wonderful it was to share his music with the people around him. In the course of the song, P.K. allowed all of the anger, frustration, despair, and depression just disappear from him.
When the Minstrels and P.K. stopped, P.K. applauded. "Thank you, I forgot how much I missed playing," he said. He owed Gobo an apology for stopping when they sang together. Actually he owed him and the other Fraggles an apology for a lot of things.
"It is our gift to you a reminder that you are not alone," Cantus said. "Now you share your Song, share the magic with others."
"You mean B.J. and the other Fraggles," P.K. translated.
"No, you know who you meant," Cantus answered. He and the other Minstrels lined up and then danced off the auditorium in perfect unison playing their instruments as they moved.
P.K. waited until he was alone. He opened his rucksack and took out the final whiskey bottle. He popped the cork and put the bottle to his lips. He stopped then tipped the bottle over so the whiskey poured onto the ground. He then slung the bottle to a nearby wall sending it shattering. P.K. sighed happily as he took out the photograph from the guitar case. "Well I'm ready to look ahead if you are," he said to the spirit of his uncle.