Prologue: A Different Point of View

I am not the oldest resident of the museum, but I have lived here longest.  There are others, such as the princess who resides in the lower chambers, who are thousands of years of age.  But I came for the quiet opening of this shelter, right about the time that that beautiful ship, Titanic, sank to the bottom of the ocean.  Luckily, I was not on board that one.  But I certainly heard enough about the tragedy, in the early days of my residence here, at the Imaginary Museum.

I was rescued from the bottom of a dark, sour wooden sarcophagus,  where I had been sequestered for two years.  I could not understand why the man had taken me.  If it was to protect me, he might have placed me in a country castle where I could have graced the walls and smiled at a loving, patrician family. But no, he piled his stinky rags atop me, and there I languished until my rescue, two years later.  It was then that the Lady Imogene removed me to this beautiful retreat, and La Imposter took my place.  I hardly miss the crowds; the attention was gratifying for a few hundred years, but lately, the threat of being slashed or sprayed with toxic substances, has outweighed the joy of the Great Museum in Paris.

 In this little retreat, I no longer dread the crowds of noisy and often rude people, packed into tight bunches, shoving one another,  in order to catch a glimpse of me. And then often they talked, right before my eyes, of how much smaller I am, than they had expected. No, I do not miss those crowds,  In my home here, I can beam with radiance, and I know that I am loved by the stewards of my shelter, and by the very select visitors who always seem to appreciate me. I am not vain; on the contrary, after hundred of years of being picked apart, analyzed, and even compared to my creator, a man, for goodness' sake, I am long past vanity.  But I love the freedom to beam, to send that smile through my lips and my eyes, with uninhibited warmth, to all of the visitors to the Imaginary Museum.

Dear Reader,
        This is a story of mystery and intrigue and requires of you an adventurous spirit. The story will unfold a little at a time; follow the chapter numbers, for a blog can seem backwards, from back to front. Or newest to oldest. And sometimes confusing.   I  hope that you are up for the game. Good reading- Marguerite 

Chapter Two: B.J. Crumpet

Beryl James Crump (dubbed Berry Jam Crumpet by her  associates) arrived at the IM in a most ingenuous manner. Clothed in a mackintosh and  carrying a large patent leather tote (which  contained all of her essential possessions-a tooth brush, two spare pairs of glasses, and her cat), she boarded the last ferry from the mainland one day, on an impulse, and joined a large group of tourists heading for the island.  It was toward the end of the summer season, and Beryl recounts that there was a strange tug at her heart as she walked past the dock; some notion that there may not be another chance to make the day trip until next year, or perhaps ever again. So before she could clarify her impulse, she was crossing the calm seas, assuring Whittington, her cat, that all would be well.

Beryl James was a small, mouse of a lady, about thirty five, with a high pitched voice and large, black spectacles.  Her curly blond, shoulder length hair fanned out from her face in all directions; she seldom worried about it unless it obstructed her view, in which case she tied it back in a ponytail, high on her head.   Beryl James was the name given to her by her parents in order to efficiently cover all bases; they were hurriedly packing for a long trip to Africa and did not have time to wait for her to be born.  So when she did make her first appearance on the planet, all legal documents had been filled out, and only the time of her entrance need be recorded.  Male or female, her name was extraordinarily efficient; had she been a little boy, she would have been called B. James Crump, as dignified as anything. Unfortunately for Beryl and her very focused parents, their ship went down in a gale somewhere along the coast of west Africa, and poor Beryl had been left behind in the care of an elderly aunt.  There had always been rumors in the Crump family as to their lineage; it was said that Beryl was one of a long line of descendents of Henry VIII and a certain scullery maid. Although no one had ever proven it, no one could disprove, either. Given the lusty monarch's reputation, it was entirely possible.

So on that brilliant afternoon when Beryl and Whittington eagerly followed the group up the broad avenue to the IM, fate seemed to step in to change her life.  No one paid much attention to Beryl or her quiet little cat.  They wondered through the halls of plaster casts-the laughing Dionysus, the solemn Athena, the solid dark cast of the Rosetta Stone.  Beryl felt that she had found her destiny, although she couldn't explain exactly how or why.  The most powerful fascination came in the King's Chamber.  A reconstruction of the bedroom of her (questionable) ancestor, it was equipped with a dark, palatial fourposter hung with heavy red velvet curtains.  Beryl felt  strangely relaxed and uninhibited as she calmly removed the barrier ropes and climbed upon the bed, assuring herself that it was for only a moment. Whittington curled up beside her, and soon she was fast asleep.

No one noticed the absence of the mousy little lady as they climbed  onto the ferry and headed back to the mainland. She had not come with any friends and had no living relatives. Just as the group approached the docks, a storm set in, cutting off the island for several days.  All of the tourists felt fortunate that they had missed the storm and visited the strangely charming museum on the tiny island.  Beryl continued to sleep in Henry VIII's reproduction chamber for several hours, until Whittington became tired of chasing out the mice and drinking from the fountain. It was not until the weekly visit from the maid, whose job it was to dust the chamber, that anyone knew about Beryl.

Chapter One: Wherefair Island

Tucked along the rocky coastline of a well-known center of civilization  is a small island on which stands the Imaginary Museum.  The history of the Imaginary Museum, or the IM, as it is fondly called by all of the employees, is rather dim.  Sometime in the early part of the twentieth century, a benefactor named Imogene N. Airy dedicated vast sums of money to the construction of a monumental stone structure, built in the classical style, with giant pillars,  lush, hedge lined gardens, and  flowing fountains.  Marble cupids, a fierce Hercules,  and Romans clad in togas amble along the wide avenue leading up to the lofty facade.  Above the doorway was inscribed THE IMOGENE N. AIRY MUSEUM OF CLASSICAL ARCHAEOLOGY AND FINE ARTS.  Over time, given the  proximity to the sea and blustery storms, the inscription wore thin, so that as our story begins, in the early twenty-first century, all that remains clearly visible proclaims it to be THE IMAGINARY MUSEUM.

No one really seems to know who Imogene N. Airy was, or why she decided to endow such an outlandish folly in such a remote location.  The only way to reach the island is by ferry boat, and that could be a dicey proposition in all but the mildest seasons of the year.  For that reason, the museum does not receive much attention or many visitors.  But for those who do make the effort to cross the channel and dare the choppy sea, it is always a magical experience.  Upon returning from their pilgrimages, when these brave souls would try to explain the effect of the museum to others, it would be difficult for them to articulate, what exactly had left them with a faraway smile. But whether the visitor was a  school child, young teacher, retired veteran, or any other variety of tourist, they would always vow to return some day.

And so as our story begins, our cast of characters is just such a group of those who had wanted to some day return to the IM, and had managed to find their way back there. The head curator of the museum, Mrs. Margery Meriweather, is a brisk, energetic woman  who spares no words, is averse to nonsense, but has never been known to be unkind. She is an attractive lady in rather an austere way; her grayish hair is always tied back in a rolled knot, but it is shiny and clear, and her skin and eyes also sparkle with intelligence and energy. There is a mystery about Mrs. Meriweather which she chooses not to reveal. As long as anyone can remember, she has been the head curator, in charge of hiring all of the employees, setting up the exhibitions (which in most cases means moving the artifacts around and refurbishing the wall paints), and making all of the major decisions about the museum.  It was Mrs. Meriweather who was most profoundly affected when the crisis occurred which nearly ended the very existence of the IM. But more of that later.

The second most familiar character in the employment of the museum is Mr. Ian Barnes. Mr. Barnes is a tall, burly man who always wears a charcoal gray suit with white dress shirt and a humorous tie, perhaps to amuse himself on  those many, gray days when torrential rains preclude any ferries full of visitors. Barnes seems a melancholy sort; he  perpetually broods over the isolation of the place, and worries about the lack of attendance.  Barnes is most often found seated outside on one of the second floor, stone verandahs, his head resting on his chin, his gray eyes staring out to sea.  Perhaps he had imagined his career at the museum to be more glamorous than it is; he dreams of Roman soldiers washing up on the pebble beaches, poised for combat, and then is roused from his daydream by the  chiming of the evening bell from the inn, calling the few residents of the island to dinner.

Ronnie Roarke is one of the younger associates at the IM. Just out of school, Ronnie is a wiry, athletic fellow whom everyone calls "Spiderlad" for his tendency to climbing.  Ronnie prides himself on his rappelling talent. He has been seen rappelling down the steep stone slopes of the main museum building, striding confidently as if he were merely going for an afternoon walk, but at an angle perpendicular to the ground.  Hired because of his background in archaeology, Ronnie has a terrible secret.  He is brilliant at climbing up Mayan pyramids or navigating his way through jungles or deserts, but he cannot stand  confinement in small places.  Ronnie is claustrophobic, for an archaeologist, this is a severe disadvantage. Hoping to make the most of his other talents, Ronnie is an enthusiastic lover of all things museum. He finds himself a bit restless, longing for adventure. Soon both Ronnie and Mr. Barnes will be roused from their restlessness and called into action.