“I trained him as my assistant in the business of concocting and dispensing noise,” finished the doctor, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“No noise is good noise,” exclaimed the Humbug happily, trying to catch the spirit of things.
“THAT’S NOT FUNNY AT ALL,” sobbed the DYNNE, who went to a corner and sulked.
“What is a DYNNE?” asked Milo when he had recovered from the shock of seeing him appear.
“You mean you’ve never met the awful DYNNE before?” said Dr. Dischord in a surprised tone. “Why, I thought everyone had. When you’re playing in your room and making a great amount of noise, what do they tell you to stop?”
“That awful din,” admitted Milo.
“When the neighbors are playing their radio too loud, late at night, what do you wish they’d turn down?”
“That awful din,” answered Tock.
“When the street on your block is being repaired and the pneumatic drills are working all day, what does everyone complain of?”
“The dreadful row,” volunteered the Humbug brightly.
“The dreadful RAUW,” cried the anguished DYNNE, “was my grandfather. He perished in the great silence epidemic of 1712.”
Milo felt so sorry for the unhappy DYNNE that he gave him his handkerchief, which was immediately covered in bluish smoggy tears.
“Thank you,” groaned the DYNNE; “that’s very kind. But I certainly can’t understand why you don’t like noise,” he said. “Why, I heard an explosion last week that was so lovely I cried for two days.”
The very thought of it upset him so much that he began to sob all over again in a way that sounded almost exactly like a handful of fingernails being scratched across a mile-long blackboard. He buried his head in the doctor’s lap.
“He’s very sensitive, isn’t he?” asked Milo, trying to comfort the emotional DYNNE.
“It’s true,” agreed Dr. Dischord. “But he’s right, you know, for noise is the most valuable thing in the world.”
“King Azaz says words are,” said Milo.
“NONSENSE,” the doctor roared. “Why, when a baby wants food, how does he ask?”
“He screams!” answered the DYNNE, looking up happily.
“And when an automobile wants gas?”
“It chokes!” he shouted again, jumping for joy.
“When a river wants water, what does it do?”
“It creaks!” bellowed the DYNNE as he collapsed into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
“And what happens when a new day begins?”
“It breaks!” he gasped joyfully from the floor, a look of utter bliss covering his face.
“You see how simple it is,” the doctor said to Milo, who didn’t see at all. And then, turning to the tear-stained, smiling DYNNE, he remarked, “Isn’t it time for you to go?”
“Where to?” asked Milo. “Perhaps we’re going the same way.”
“I think not,” the DYNNE replied, picking up an armful of empty sacks from the table, “for I’m going on my noise collection rounds. You see, once a day I travel throughout the kingdom and collect all the wonderfully horrible and beautifully unpleasant noises that have been made, pack them into my sacks, and bring them back here for the doctor to make his medicines from.”
“And a good job he does,” said Dr. Dischord, pounding his fist on the table.
“So, wherever the noise is, that’s where you’ll find me,” said the DYNNE with an appreciative smile; “and I must hurry along, for I understand that today there’s to be a screech, several loud crashes, and a bit of pandemonium.”
“And in which direction are you going?” asked the doctor, mixing another brew.
“To Digitopolis,” replied Milo.
“How unfortunate,” he said as the DYNNE shuffled toward the door; “how very unfortunate, for then you must pass through the Valley of Sound.”
“Is that bad?” asked the perpetually worried Humbug.
The DYNNE paused in the doorway with a look of extreme horror on his almost featureless face, and the doctor shuddered in a way that sounded very much like a fast-moving freight train being derailed into a mountain of custard.
“Well you might ask, for you will find out soon enough” was all he would say as he sadly bade them farewell and the DYNNE galloped off on his rounds.
12. The Silent Valley
“How agreeable and pleasant this valley is,” thought Milo as once again they bounced along the highway, with the Humbug humming snatches of old songs, to his own vast amusement, and Tock sniffing contentedly at the wind.
“I really can’t see what Dr. Dischord was so concerned about; there certainly couldn’t be anything unpleasant along this road.” And just as the thought crossed his mind they passed through a heavy stone gateway and everything was very different.
At first it was difficult to tell just what had changed—it all looked the same and it all smelled the same—but, for some reason, nothing sounded the same.
“I wonder what’s happened?” said Milo. At least that’s what he tried to say, for, although his lips moved, not a sound came from his mouth.
And suddenly he realized what it was, for Tock was no longer ticking and the Humbug, although happily singing, was doing so in complete silence. The wind no longer rustled the leaves, the car no longer squeaked, and the insects no longer buzzed in the fields. Not the slightest thing could be heard, and it felt as if, in some mysterious way, a switch had been thrown and all the sound in the world had been turned off at the same instant.
The Humbug, suddenly realizing what had happened, leaped to his feet in terror, and Tock worriedly checked to see if he was still keeping time. It was certainly a strange feeling to know that no matter how loudly or softly you chatted or rattled or bumped, it all came out the same way—as nothing.
“How dreadful,” thought Milo as he slowed down the car.
The three of them began to talk and shout at once with absolutely no result until, hardly noticing where they were going, they had driven into the midst of a large crowd of people marching along the road. Some of them were singing at the tops of their nonexistent voices and the others were carrying large signs which proclaimed:
“DOWN WITH SILENCE”
“ALL QUIET IS NO DIET”
“IT’S LAUDABLE TO BE AUDIBLE”
“MORE SOUND FOR ALL”
And one enormous banner stated simply:
“HEAR HERE”
Except for these, and the big brass cannon being pulled along behind, they all looked very much like the residents of any other small valley to which you’ve never been.
When the car had stopped, one of them held up a placard which said: “WELCOME TO THE VALLEY OF SOUND.” And the others cheered as loudly as possible, which was not very loud at all.
“HAVE YOU COME TO HELP US?” asked another, stepping forward with his question.
“PLEASE!” added a third.
Milo tried desperately to say who he was and where he was going, but to no avail. As he did, four more placards announced:
“LISTEN LOOK CAREFULLY”
“AND WE”
“WILL TELL YOU”
“OF OUR TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE”
And while two of them held up a large blackboard, a third, writing as fast as he could, explained why there was nothing but quiet in the Valley of Sound.
“At a place in the valley not far from here,” he began, “where the echoes used to gather and the winds came to rest, there is a great stone fortress, and in it lives the Soundkeeper, who rules this land. When the old king of Wisdom drove the demons into the distant mountains, he appointed her guardian of all sounds and noises, past, present, and future.
“For years she ruled as a wise and beloved monarch, each morning at sunrise releasing the day’s new sounds, to be borne by the winds throughout the kingdom, and each night at moonset gathering in the old sounds, to be catalogued and filed in the vast storage vaults below.”
The writer paus
ed for a moment to mop his brow and then, since the blackboard was full, erased it completely and continued anew from the top.
“She was generous to a fault and provided us with all the sound we could possibly use: for singing as we worked, for bubbling pots of stew, for the chop of an ax and the crash of a tree, for the creak of a hinge and the hoot of an owl, for the squish of a shoe in the mud and the friendly tapping of rain on the roof, and for the sweet music of pipes and the sharp snap of winter ice cracking on the ground.”
He paused again as a tear of longing rolled from cheek to lip with the sweet-salty taste of an old memory.
“And all these sounds, when once used, would be carefully placed in alphabetical order and neatly kept for future reference. Everyone lived in peace, and the valley flourished as the happy home of sound. But then things began to change.
“Slowly at first, and then in a rush, more people came to settle here and brought with them new ways and new sounds, some very beautiful and some less so. But everyone was so busy with the things that had to be done that they scarcely had time to listen at all. And, as you know, a sound which is not heard disappears forever and is not to be found again.
“People laughed less and grumbled more, sang less and shouted more, and the sounds they made grew louder and uglier. It became difficult to hear even the birds or the breeze, and soon everyone stopped listening for them.”
He again cleared the blackboard, as the Humbug choked back a sob, and continued writing.
“The Soundkeeper grew worried and disconsolate. Each day there were fewer sounds to be collected, and most of those were hardly worth keeping. Many people thought it was the weather, and others blamed the moon, but the general consensus of opinion held that the trouble began at the time that Rhyme and Reason were banished. But, no matter what the cause, no one knew what to do.
“Then one day Dr. Dischord appeared in the valley with his wagon of medicines and the bluish smoggy DYNNE. He made a thorough examination and promised to cure everyone of everything; and the Soundkeeper let him try.
“He gave several bad-tasting spoonfuls of medicine to every adult and child, and it worked—but not really as expected. For he cured everybody of everything but noise. The Soundkeeper became furious. She chased him from the valley forever and then issued the following decree:
“ ‘FROM THIS DAY FORWARD THE VALLEY OF SOUND SHALL BE SILENT. SINCE SOUND IS NO LONGER APPRECIATED, I HEREBY ABOLISH IT. PLEASE RETURN ALL UNUSED AMOUNTS TO THE FORTRESS IMMEDIATELY.’
“And that’s the way it has been ever since,” he concluded sadly. “There is nothing we can do to change it, and each day new hardships are reported.”
A small man, with his arms full of letters and messages, pushed through the crowd and offered them to Milo. Milo took one which read:
Then he took a telegram which stated:
“Now you see,” continued the writer, “why you must help us attack the fortress and free sound.”
“What can I do?” wrote Milo.
“You must visit the Soundkeeper and bring from the fortress one sound, no matter how small, with which to load our cannon. For, if we can reach the walls with the slightest noise, they will collapse and free the rest. It won’t be easy, for she is hard to deceive, but you must try.”
Milo thought for just a moment and then, with a resolute “I shall,” volunteered to go.
Within a few minutes he stood bravely at the fortress door. “Knock, knock,” he wrote neatly on a piece of paper, which he pushed under the crack. In a moment the great portal swung open, and, as it closed behind him, a gentle voice sang out:
“Right this way; I’m in the parlor.”
“Can I talk now?” cried Milo happily, hearing his voice once again.
“Yes, but only in here,” she replied softly. “Now do come into the parlor.”
Milo walked slowly down the long hallway and into the little room where the Soundkeeper sat listening intently to an enormous radio set, whose switches, dials, knobs, meters, and speaker covered one whole wall, and which at the moment was playing nothing.
“Isn’t that lovely?” she sighed. “It’s my favorite program—fifteen minutes of silence—and after that there’s a half hour of quiet and then an interlude of lull Why, did you know that there are almost as many kinds of stillness as there are sounds? But, sadly enough, no one pays any attention to them these days.
“Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn?” she inquired. “Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven’t the answer to a question you’ve been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause in a roomful of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you’re all alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful, if you listen carefully.”
As she spoke, the thousands of little bells and chimes which covered her from head to toe tinkled softly and, as if in reply, the telephone began to ring, too.
“For someone who loves silence, she certainly talks a great deal,” thought Milo.
“At one time I was able to listen to any sound made any place at any time,” the Soundkeeper remarked, pointing toward the radio wall, “but now I merely——”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Milo as the phone continued to ring, “but aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Oh no, not in the middle of the program,” she replied, and turned the silence up a little louder.
“But it may be important,” insisted Milo.
“Not at all,” she assured him; “it’s only me. It gets so lonely around here, with no sounds to distribute or collect, that I call myself seven or eight times a day just to see how I am.”
“How are you?” he asked politely.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. I seem to have a touch of static,” she complained. “But what brings you here? Of course—you’ve come to tour the vaults. Well, they’re usually open to the public only on Mondays from two to four, but since you’ve traveled so far, we’ll have to make an exception. Follow me, please.”
She quickly bounced to her feet with a chorus of jingles and chimes and started down the hallway.
“Don’t you just love jingles and chimes? I do,” she answered quickly. “Besides, they’re very convenient, for I’m always getting lost in this big fortress, and all I have to do is listen for them and then I know exactly where I am.
They entered a tiny cagelike elevator and traveled down for fully three quarters of a minute, stopping finally in an immense vault, whose long lines of file drawers and storage bins stretched in all directions from where here began to where there ended, and from floor to ceiling.
“Every sound that’s ever been made in history is kept here,” said the Soundkeeper, skipping down one of the corridors with Milo in hand. “For instance, look here.” She opened one of the drawers and pulled out a small brown envelope. “This is the exact tune George Washington whistled when he crossed the Delaware on that icy night in 1777.”
Milo peered into the envelope and, sure enough, that’s exactly what was in it. “But why do you collect them all?” he asked as she closed the drawer.
“If we didn’t collect them,” said the Soundkeeper as they continued to stroll through the vault, “the air would be full of old sounds and noises bouncing around and bumping into things. It would be terribly confusing, because you’d never know whether you were listening to an old one or a new one. Besides, I do like to collect things, and there are more sounds than almost anything else. Why, I have everything here from the buzz of a mosquito a million years ago to what your mother said to you this morning, and if you come back here in two days, I’ll tell you what she said tomorrow. It’s really very simple; let me show you. Say a word—any word.”
“Hello,” said Milo, for that was all he could think of.
“Now where do you think it went?” she asked with a smile.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know,” said Milo, shrugging his shoulders. “I always thought that——”
“Most people do.” She hummed, peering down one of the corridors. “Now, let me see: first we find the cabinet with today’s sounds. Ah, here it is. Then we look under G for greetings, then under M for Milo, and here it is already in its envelope. So you see, the whole system is quite automatic. It’s a shame we hardly use it any more.”
“That’s wonderful,” gasped Milo. “May I have one little sound as a souvenir?”
“Certainly,” she said with pride, and then, immediately thinking better of it, added, “not. And don’t try to take one, because it’s strictly against the rules.”
Milo was crestfallen. He had no idea how to steal a sound, even the smallest one, for the Soundkeeper always had at least one eye carefully focused on him.
“Now for a look at the workshops,” she cried, whisking him through another door and into a large abandoned laboratory full of old pieces of equipment, all untended and rusting.
“This is where we used to invent the sounds,” she said wistfully.
“Do they have to be invented?” asked Milo, who seemed surprised at almost everything she told him. “I thought they just were.”
“No one realizes how much trouble we go through to make them,” she complained. “Why, at one time this shop was crowded and busy from morning to night.”
“But how do you invent a sound?” Milo inquired.
“Oh, that’s very easy,” she said. “First you must decide exactly what the sound looks like, for each sound has its own exact shape and size. Then you make some of them here in the shop, and grind each one three times into an invisible powder, and throw a little of each into the air every time you need it.”