The bells. Those terrible bells. I am not sure how to explain the turmoil they have put me through, but I have done my best to ensure no other poor soul would accidentally elicit their wrath.
On the evening of the 27th I continued my study of the bells by varying the orientation and frequency of bell hits in an effort to understand how the sound changes between them. (According to my notes, the last I had tried was “Left bell x2, Right bell x3”).
I had decided to take a small break to peer over the various journals I had filled with my studies. When suddenly, and wholly surprisingly, I heard a ding I had not caused. I turned back towards the bells and scanned the room for the cat who must have pawed one in a jealous rage over my attention. But there were no cats to be found, the bells stood alone and when yet another “ding!” rang out my curiosity got the better of me. (I can almost hear it now! That frightful ringing!) The third time it rang on it’s own I took it’s cue and struck the mallet down on the center bell and was immediately accosted by a tintinnabulation beyond description. It seems as though all the bells in the world were suddenly pealing together in the space of my crowded room. I could feel the sonic waves jostling around inside my skull, and felt myself like a clapper slamming against brass bell sides in all directions. At some point I curled into a ball on the ground and closed my eyes against the sight of the three bells ringing themselves much harder than I would have trusted them to sustain. But when I opened my eyes again everything was still. The sounds had stopped. The sun was up, and outside my closed door was a pile of uneaten meals covered in silver domes.
Junior walked by my door and quipped that I was finally coming out of April Fools Day hiding. I grabbed him and asked as politely as my severely frazzled brain could handle, whether it was truly April first. “No,” he responded, “Of course it isn’t. It’s the 9th.”
Just at that moment the hallway clock chimed the hour, the sound of which sent me cowering back into my room. I slammed the door and continued backing up, almost knocking the three bells from their place on the small table. I eyed them carefully, and devised a plan. I must make sure these bells never ring again. I delicately picked them up one by one and filled their mouths with cloth and then continued wrapping the outside of the bells with cloth until no sound could possibly escape. I then looked around the room at the stacks of old furniture and crates of various DeLaporte memorabilia and found the crate least likely to be opened. I gently placed the bells inside, covered them with Aunt Cecelia’s nude self portraits and re-closed the lid as tightly as possible.
It is hard to believe it has been almost a fortnight since my last entry. To me, it has felt like only two minutes. The world outside my window has gone from the beginning stages of spring to full summer so swiftly that I was worried that I had been two months in the void instead of two weeks.
But things have changed. I have reason to believe the cats have found a new benefactor, someone with a taste for the garish. Poor Elephant’s plain blue collar has been replaced with a full ensemble which includes top hat and walking stick, and the typically tabby hair around Roudha’s face seems to have grown into a rather stylish blonde updo. If nothing else, I will need to leave the room to take her to visit cousin Coiffeuse when her roots begin to show.
That is all for now, dear diary. I must figure out how to proceed.
