CHAPTER 11
Ma il mio mistero e chiuso in me,
Il nome mio nessun sapra!
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo diro'
Quando la luce splendera'!
Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio
Che ti fa mia!
(translation)
But my secret lies hidden within me,
No one shall discover my name!
Oh no, I will reveal it only on your lips,
When daylight shines forth
And my kiss shall break
The silence which makes you mine.
— Nessun Dorma
From the opera "Turandot" by Giacomo Puccini
Stephanie sat cross-legged upon her bed, watching the gathering clouds outside and languidly toying with a lock of her hair. It was growing steadily longer, and the girl was reluctant about the next time Bessie would come around to trim it.
Two images had been running through her head all afternoon. The fate that awaited the garden of Deverhill Manor still plagued her, and she couldn't help but frown at the idea of an empty space replacing its macabre atmosphere and depth of history. A lot of horrible things had happened upon that plot of land, but she felt it was downright unhealthy to just to wipe away the past like that. Something was wanting, something needed preservation.
Her mind's eye also focused on an item she had seen in Robbie's lair on the night of the impromtu 'party'. Perched on the table next to his big cozy chair had been a potted flower bush—probably something like violets or forget-me-nots. The graceful shape the drooping stems made was sweet and haunting. Stephanie fondly imagined Robbie tending to those deep purple blossoms, doting on them with a tenderness he seldom showed to other living beings.
Stephanie decided she would decline Bessie's hairdressing services from now on, letting her thick tresses grow and drape her shoulders like Robbie's flowers.
"Here we are, my dear," Milford greeted as he entered the bedroom. Struggling a little, he deposited a big, dusty carboard box on the carpet. "This was squirreled away in a corner of the attic. I knew I hadn't gotten rid of it."
"Oh, wow, thanks Uncle!" The girl leapt up and instantly started digging into the old carton, pulling out piles of paper.
"Some of the the stuff in there will be pretty boring, like bank statements and such," Milford told her, "but if you sift through enough you'll find plenty of goodies."
After hearing of Robbie's discoveries in his father's diaries, Stephanie had been inspired. The very next morning she had asked Milford if there were any similar artefacts or documents left by her own family. He was all too willing to provide her with any and all Meanswell paraphenalia he could find.
"Some of your mother's certificates are in there, as well as a few more photo albums, older than the ones on our bookshelf."
Stephanie dug out a fat, leather-bound tome that looked very familiar. "Hey, this is a copy of the town history book." She felt a flourish of warmth in her heart for the stories of centuries-old piracy and swordplay.
"Oh yes, you'll find the Meanswell name repeated many times in that book," Milford stated with a swell of pride. We've been here since the town's beginnings."
As the girl flipped through the contents, she saw that her uncle wasn't exaggerating. The word 'Meanswell' seemed to pop up with regularity on every second or third page. She came to rest upon a photo inset somewhere towards the end of the book. Though the image was in tones of sepia, there seemed to be something exceptionally colourful about it. In a garden, surrounded by a dense ring of flowers of every describable shape and texture, was a prim but benevolent-looking woman. Her carriage was proper and self-assured. There was something in the nature of her face that suggested a playful child still frolicked within her. Her straight flaxen hair was set in a neat bun, but for two long bangs that draped gracefully upon her shoulders.
"Hey Stephanie!" Came a lively voice from the window.
"Why, good afternoon, Sportacus," Milford twittered.
The elf was leaning in from the sill, his eyes bright but his smile non-existant.
"I need your help with something."
**
"To work, miei scalpelli!"
Robbie pulled the mask over his face. The smooth swings of his tools across raw material sent him into a pacifying sway. While his hand-eye coordination was in such demand, his mind couldn't wander into melancholy.
This invention had started as a labour of love. It had also become an escape from his problems. Not only was it a truly beauteous object, but it would, Robbie insisted to himself, fix everything. As he glided amongst the pearly contours of this icon, he flew free.
Sometime soon he would have to face the staggering task of destroying the garden. He would have to lacerate the weeds, sow the salt, and probably have the manor itself demolished. His ingrained laziness madly protested the whole gruelling burden. Nevertheless, it had to be done. The safety of the town and his own dubious sanity were at stake.
But for the time being, he entreatied the Fates to let him stay hidden, to finish off his silky white creation. Perhaps after it had worked its magic, and the spectre of Sportacus was no longer dogging the poor villain's steps, he would be able to rally the strength for it all.
That cruel banging noise from the hatch door interrupted him once again.
His curiousity almost surpassed his frustration. After that (mostly) unpleasant night, he would have though that Sportacus would be fearfully avoiding him, keeping a wide berth between himself and the old billboard. At least until his short attention span betrayed him.
Lethargically making it up the ladder, he opened the hatch and glowered as best he could at the twinkly blue eyes that awaited him.
"I…"
An agile foot fluttered backwards slightly. This could take all day. He looked more feeble than a lovesick English governess.
Robbie shook his head. "I'm going back inside now, Sportawimp."
"Robbie, I'm so sorry for everything I said that night. I really am. I had no right to get angry at you and be so disrespectful."
Damn that pleading tone of voice. Damn him for being so sincere. Ignoring the warning bells in his head, the villain acknowledged the apology. He cast a wary, yet obliging eye on the elf.
"And?"
"Well… I was thinking how I could make it up to you."
"Easy, get out of town," Robbie sneered.
Sportacus would not be thrown off so easily. "It must have been hard for you to decide that you'd clear your father's property, but I think it's very mature of you. It will be a lot of work to even get started. The job will be very tough by yourself. While my father is here to look after the town, I will offer you my help."
A chill went up Robbie's spine. The idea of Sportacus extending the hand of partnership rattled every one of his nerves. He collected himself, and scoffed at the hero.
"And what makes you think I even want your help?"
To his surprise, Sportacus did not crumble at this rejection. Instead, he grinned placidly. "I want to show you," he announced, "something that Stephanie and Ziggy spent all day on yesterday."
He promptly turned, and let out a sharp, beckoning whistle. Only now did Robbie realise that both of the children had been watching from the road nearby. The girl cradled a box in her arms, festooned with a pink ribbon.
"Ta-da," she sing-songed, lifting the lid to reveal a home-made cake topped with lashings of icing. It was a little wonky in places, but it seemed to fit the bill.
Sportacus crossed his arms. "They made this just for you. Not only did they want to thank you for letting us into your house, but they were worried. About how all this must be getting to you. Both of them spent hours in Stephanie's kitchen, with the sole purpose of cheering you up."
There was a glimmer in Robbie's eyes, and his lip twitched. Sportacus recognised the familiar emotional tug-of-war, and felt heartened.
"Wait a minute."
The man reached down and tore a chunk out of the dessert. He sniffed it carefully, and then stared at it hard. After a small taste test, he lifted his head.
A dangerous laugh rasped out of his throat. "You cretins must think I'm enormously stupid."
Stephanie's eyes widened. "What's wrong, Robbie?"
"First of all," he began calmly, examining the icing on his long fingers, "I recognise emotional blackmail when I see it. Sorry, but you won't being enjoying my guilt today."
Sportacus shook his head. "I'm sorry you feel that way—"
"Second of all, this is carrot cake!" His voice gained heat quickly. "I'm not some dirty deliquent whose lifestyle needs 'fixing'! Enjoying sweets doesn't make someone evil, you know!"
"That's not what we—"
"I'll bet this thing is full of aspartame, to boot! You can keep your low-calorie deceit!"
The defences were well and truly up.
He grabbed an even bigger chunk of the cake and hurled it at the stalwart, infuriatingly saintly cause of all his torment. The sweet, fluffy gift splattered right across Sportacus' face with a wet thud. Before he could even cry out in surprise, he keeled over, hitting his head on the steel ladder.
His graceful form lay still and heavy upon the metal platform.
"That cake," Stephanie said with quiet sorrow, as Ziggy hid his face against her, "was made with sugar."
**
The anxious silence was only interrupted by the soft padding of Stephanie's feet across the carpet. Níu refused the fresh apple she held out to him.
"If we shoved that into his mouth now, my dear, he'd probably pass out again from the shock to his system. That was a lot of sugar he absorbed. We'll keep him sipping this water for now, until all the glucose has dispersed."
Sportacus was out of danger, but he was still inert. He dozed on the sofa in the Meanswell living room, with his father perched upon the armrest by his head. Ziggy knelt in Milford's easy chair, decidedly uneasy, as the Mayor himself bustled about in the kitchen, preparing hot drinks. In the far corner of the living room, hunched over by the window, a downcast Robbie Rotten stared out at the light, silvery rainfall.
The moment he realised what he had done to the elf, he had leapt out of the hatch to his victim's side, utterly distraught. He'd ripped his own vest to clean the cake off of Sportacus' face, and slapped him softly in an effort to wake him. He had caused the hero to meltdown before, but this time, it had been an honest-to-god accident.
Níu's own crystal had alerted the elder hero to the emergency, and the moment he approached, Robbie fell by the wayside. Stephanie and Ziggy earnestly followed Níu's instructions, assisting with what little strength they had, as Robbie lamely followed behind. The villain considered it miraculous that the Meanswell front door had not been angrily slammed in his face.
"Has Sportacus ever had a meltdown in Lazytown before?" Níu asked, graciously accepting a mug of cocoa from Milford.
"A few times, but they were always minor episodes, and we managed," Milford answered.
Stephanie watched Níu savouring the chocolate drink curiously. "It's not something that happens with all elves?"
Níu grinned weakly, shaking his head. "It's not a common condition, but some of us are cursed with it."
The girl frowned. "Do you think it's diabetes or something?"
"I don't think it's something that humans could suffer from," Níu responded. "And it's not really about sweet things. He gobbles up mountains of fructose, the glutton. Something like organic honey or fresh sugar cane would likewise be okay. But your species' powdery sweeteners are very processed. Sportacus' body cannot tolerate anything too synthetic or polluted."
The televison was on, the sound muted. Níu watched the frenetic commercials absently. "I remember once, when he was a teenager, Sportacus went missing for a whole day. We found him passed out on the side of a freeway. He couldn't take all those fumes—he was bedridden for a week. That's why I'm so glad he has such a green country town to take care of. He wouldn't be able to watch over children amongst factories and rivers of sewerage."
The old elf fell silent again, watching his little boy's peaceful face. His weathered, gnarled hands lovingly stroked a stray golden curl peeking out from under his cloth hat.
"It's hard sometimes…"
Stephanie felt her eyes begin to prickle warmly with the beginnings of teardrops. "I always thought of him as being so strong…"
She slowly sunk into the cushion at Sportacus' feet, clutching her steaming cocoa.
"It would take an enormous dose of anything to actually threaten the boy's life," Níu reassured her. "But it is still something you should all remain aware of. He is more fragile than other huldufólk… most of them thought me mad to have given him the station of the tenth Íþróttaálfur."
"Because of his sugar meltdowns?" Milford asked, resting his arms on the kitchen countertop.
"Actually, many felt there shouldn't even have been a tenth heir," Níu stated. "We elves place enormous importance on the meaning of names and titles. The number nine is all about completeness. The final single numeral… nine planets in the solar system, nine months between conception and birth, the Christian Trinity repeated thrice… Many said I was to be the last of the line, the last to shun a hidden life and protect human children."
Níu hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Choosing Sportacus to be Íþróttaálfurinn Tíu confirmed this prophecy for them."
"Why?" Stephanie asked.
"Because… as well as being sensitive to toxins, Sportacus' condition makes it impossible for him to father any children."
A cry escaped the little girl's mouth before she could catch it. "No!... that's horrible!"
Níu bowed his head. "It is the real tragedy of his weakness. Having to accept this fact broke his heart. He adores children… the love he has for you youngsters is all the more precious because of it. He will need your friendship even more as you all grow older."
"We'll ALWAYS be friends," Ziggy blurted out.
"So there will be no Number Eleven?" Stephanie inquired worriedly.
This caused Níu to pause again. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "There are certain possibilites… Sportacus already has a young niece and nephew. And also…" he trailed off, gazing into the little girl's face.
"What?" She begged of him.
He grinned again. "Perhaps the outcome lies with my Tíu's own destiny."
The rain outside began to fall a little heavier.
"Ten is said to be the number of balance. The direct, singular number one, united with the ever-circling, mysterious zero. Two absolute opposites marrying to create something that symbolises perfection and equilibrium."
The body on the sofa began to stir. Sportacus' eyelids slowly quivered as the soft, hazy daylight hit his eyes and the tranquil hiss of the rain registered in his ears. Looking directly across from him, he recognised a dark figure floating in the cool whitish haze, and managed a smile.
"Hey Robbie…" he breathed weakly. "What're you doin' here?"
A/N: I feel sooooo dirty for using Nessun Dorma, but it fit the end of the chapter so well. Ew, I almost feel on par with Andre Rieu in terms of tacky classical music. _ (Not that Puccini or Turandot are tacky at all, but that particular aria is done to death.)
D'you spot the (obvious) Jane Eyre reference, Kitty? :3