Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 18)

I looked at the classroom from somewhere far away and slightly above, and around me grew a coniferous forest. Huge, mighty, centuries-old firs and pines hid me with their "paws." Fresh air hit my face – clean and cool. I heard the murmur of crystal waters through which the silty bottom could be seen. I didn't understand where I was, but I no longer wanted to breathe. Now Mr. Black and I were separated not only by two rows of desks. There were thousands of miles between us, and with each new heartbeat, with each new sound of the violin trembling in the restless wind, I flew somewhere further and further…

The sound of applause knocked me out of my trance. The beautiful pictures disappeared, scattered into gray dull fragments.

"Alas, I cannot respond in kind," a deep haughty voice drowned out the harmonious clapping. "There are thirty-two students in the hall, and only nine connections. Not much. Miss Foreteller, let's start with you. Tell us what you managed to read?"

"The person who composed this melody," the chips lover began uncertainly, rising, "is already dead."

"You don't need to be a fortune teller to know that," Mr. Black snorted, putting aside the violin. "The piece is classical, written three centuries ago. I'm interested in the emotions put in by the composer. Who is this person, what was he thinking about, what was happening in his life?.. Mr. Healer, help your neighbor."

"Well… he was an extraordinary creative personality," the classmate blurted out, carefully hitting the bull's-eye, "and he was depressed because his genius remained misunderstood by the secular world."

"Yeah," Mr. Black demonstratively rolled his eyes and, sitting down in the teacher's chair, leaned back. "And you did connect, Mr. Healer, even twice, I felt it. Miss Witchley, you try?"

"The composer was gay," she blurted out.

"This is not Tchaikovsky17!" Mr. Black growled, reaching for the red pen. "Everything is clear with group 'M'. The rest of the mages will get F-s automatically."

"But!.. wait!"

"We haven't answered yet!!!"

"Why should we…?!"

The classroom drowned in indignant exclamations.

"Dear students," the violinist winced, "stop this circus. In the future, I hope none of you will dare to play this humiliating guessing game with me, and you will start working. Now let's move on to group 'S', who's brave? Mr. Brittlegill?"

"Well, of course," Jake grumbled, getting up, "if it's an execution, I'm always the first, as usual…"

"Louder, Mr. Brittlegill, don't be shy."

"I'm saying, he was ill, Mr. Black. Traumatic brain injury in childhood and as a result – insomnia. And after his father's death, he developed an unusual gift, he began to see spirits. It seems he tried to escape from his visions to a monastery, but it didn't bring him peace…"

"Now that's more interesting. Continue."

"I've said everything I felt. Sorry."

"The composer could project his consciousness out of his body and communicated with entities from the lower astral," a girl from group 'S' came to his rescue. "He was considered possessed."

"Larvae and devils visited him even during his years of seclusion in the monastery," her neighbor joined in.

"He is not the author of the work attributed to him," the yellow eyes of another snake flashed.

Not wanting to receive F-s en masse following the mages, the students began to "pull out" each other, gathering the necessary information in bits and pieces through time and space.

"And who is the real author then?" Mr. Black asked, almost mockingly. In response, the company just spread their hands. "Okay, sit down, Brittlegill, you've got 'C'. I'm not giving grades to the others, since it's not possible to confirm or refute these hypotheses using historical sources."

The students exhaled with relief. Someone slid down the back of their chair, someone stretched stiff shoulders, someone put a mint candy in their mouth.

"Antipova, now you. Surprise us."

My knees were shaking slightly. I wanted to hide, there wasn't enough air. A gust of wind caught me again, and I really did hide – there, far-far away, high-high above the moisture-smelling trees. How good it would be to actually fly away from here right now!

The image split. I saw two places at once and began to describe the second one in an emotionless, hollow voice:

"The old railway cuts through the dense forest. It bends and weaves between tall, dark green firs and pines that stretch endlessly. Cracked, wet wooden sleepers flash by in the window. Despite the heavy rain and gusty wind, the train rushes as fast as it can until it is stopped by a tree felled by the hurricane…"

Mr. Black raised an eyebrow. Then, frowning, he began to rub his chin.

"Somewhere far away, a large city is noisy, and next to it spreads a huge clean lake – like a real sea. But I'm not there. I'm flying over dark dense forests, besides which nothing can be seen, and if you expand the view higher and to the right, then further, beyond the forest, mountains will begin, and at the foot a small village of ten houses will spread out. Now there are ten, one old wooden and nine brick ones, but once there were twice as many, and later – only a single one. The rest were destroyed by a storm…" I paused and added uncertainly. "Should I continue?"

"Yes," Mr. Black exhaled. "I mean, no. Thank you, Antipova, that's enough. Sit down. B."

"Why not an A?" Jake chimed in.

"I can draw a map!" I exclaimed, returning to reality. "I don't convey small details very accurately in words, it would be easier to draw!.."

"No need," Mr. Black strictly cut me off. "I asked you to read the melody. The melody, Antipova, and what were you reading?.. You tune in well, but next time make an effort to hear the assignment correctly."

I felt a slap as if someone had painfully hit my hand. Or even my wing?! I was knocked out of contact, and couldn't connect anymore. A solid metal wall with barbed wire that suddenly grew around the podium reliably suppressed all attempts to open the channel again.

"You've just listened to the first part of Giuseppe Tartini's sonata in G minor, better known as the 'Devil's Trill'," Mr. Black explained, putting the violin back in its case. "As the composer claimed, he first heard this melody in a dream performed by the Devil himself – in those years when he was hiding in a monastery from the Roman police. Who knows, perhaps it wasn't a dream at all, but an astral projection, where he met His Majesty Satan? In that case, would it be fair to say that a mortal human really has nothing to do with the authorship of this work?.."

His question hung in the air, remaining rhetorical. This information no longer particularly concerned anyone, interest in the mysterious sonata had waned, and in general, no one wanted to enter into polemics anymore.

Ha! It seems the mini-skirts are off the table. The recently enchanted female students now looked at Mr. Black with undisguised hatred. Well, finally you see his true face!

"Niki, what were you suggesting there?" Liz gloomily muttered, poking me in the back with a pencil. "A collective complaint to the rector?"

Chapter 11: Nothing Could Scare

The clock in its gilded frame ticked loudly on the sunlit wall. My heart was beating quietly and dully, tickling my throat. Maybe we shouldn't have planned all this? What if we get caught?! How will we wriggle out of it? How will we explain all this to Mr. Doe?!

"Liz, are you sure?.." I whispered, freezing at the creak of the rector's office door.

"Shhh!" she shushed me. "Just go in! Gill, you're on lookout! If anything happens, you'll rewind time!.."

"What if I can't do it?" he hissed, his eyes flashing. "Your dad will get you off the hook again, but what about Niki and me then?!"

"Stop being such a downer!" Liz snapped, pulling me along with her and closing the door. "You were the ones saying we needed evidence! Well, if not evidence, then at least some leads…"

The reception area was empty, and so was the office. Mr. Doe and his secretary liked to have a good lunch in the cafeteria during the long break – right along with the students, like ordinary people – which we took advantage of.

"Now what?" I looked back at my friend as I approached the massive oak desk. A golden bird statuette, wings spread, was looking at us disapprovingly. "Mr. Doe always carries the key to the drawers with him. We can't break in!"

"Why break furniture when there's a computer!" Liz jiggled the mouse, bringing the rector's laptop out of sleep mode. "He's only obsessed with real keys and locks, but he doesn't put a password here!"

Her finger with a fresh French manicure shamelessly clicked through the folders:

"Here we go! He's got 'dirt' on all the teachers here! Now we'll find out everything about this Mr. Black!.."

But after just half a minute, Charm's optimism disappeared:

"Hmm, strange…" she mused. "See, the others have detailed dossiers, but there's nothing on him. As if he was never officially employed here."

"How can that be? Is he an impostor?"

"More likely, Mr. Doe carefully hid his folder somewhere as a favor, and we won't find it so easily," Liz took a rubber band off her wrist and pulled her hair into a ponytail. "Okay, since we're here, let's see if there was anything in common among the five missing girls…"