27 August, 1924 10 страница

Level 4 Level 5 Level 6

Window of Flame Collector Ghostly Presence

Window of Ice Mind Over Matter Living Statue

Tree Lift Mind Control Fish Breathing

Level 7 Level 8 Level 9

Altered Time Put A Hurting Wood Green Empire

Created Landscape Conjure Minor Devils

Desired Fireworks

Tom looked up when he had read it.

'Read it again. '

Tom glanced down the lists again. 'I don't get it. '

'Sure you do. ' Del's whole being was alight.

'Do you get one of these every summer? '

Del shook his head. 'This is the first time. But when I saw him at Christmas, he said that if I came back with you, he'd send me a description. '

'Of what? Everything he can do? '

'He can do a lot more than that. But I guess what he means is a description of what a magician ought to be able to do. '

'He can turn statues into people? He can. . . ? ' Tom searched the list. 'Alter the landscape? '

'I guess so. ' Del laughed. 'I've seen a lot of that stuff. Not all of it, but a lot. '

'So if Rose Armstrong brings you coffee, she might come in upside down? With upside-down coffee in an upside-down cup? '

Del shook his head, still laughing.

'I don't like that business about 'Know What You Are Getting Into. ''

'I told you he was scary sometimes. '

'But it's like a threat. ' And then his mind gave him an image he had a month ago decided was false: that of Skeleton Ridpath hovering two inches below the ceiling of the auditorium, hanging like a spider, exulting in the coming destruction.

'It's not really a threat, ' Del explained. 'Sometimes up there, everything is normal, and at other times. . . ' He waved at the paper. 'Other times, you learn things. Oh, great, here comes dinner. '

Tom gingerly cut into one of the eggs on his plate, saw yolk flood out into the paler yellow of the sauce, and lifted a dripping fork to his mouth. 'Wow, ' he said, when he swallowed. 'How long has this been going on? '

'The hollandaise comes out of a bottle, ' Del said. 'But you get the general idea. '

As they ate, the train slowed into a station — Tom could see only a metal water tower and a peeling shed. The usual men in curling hats waited to get on.

Del said, 'With these levels, I guess you can sometimes do something on a higher one without being able to do everything on the lower ones. Like I can rise, you know, but Uncle Cole says everybody can learn to do that, if they concentrate the right way. But I'm really Level One — I can't even do voice, throw my voice yet. I'm still trying to learn. 'Trance' is just like hypnotism. An idiot can do it. Theatrics, now. . . '

Tom watched the lonely cowboys filing past. They looked thirsty. Nobody ever saw cowboys off, nobody ever greeted them.

'. . . it's just the ordinary stage stuff, all you have to know is how to do it, how the mechanics work. . . '

They were like spacemen, so loosely tied to earth, but where they orbited was towns like this, the name of which was Lone Birch.

Then he saw a face that violently took his mind off cowboys. All the pleasure in him went black and cold.

'Theatrics, see, he thinks it's all junk, just the word shows it. ' Del looked at him curiously. 'You lose your appetite all of a sudden? '

'Don't know, ' Tom said. He craned over the table, trying desperately to see the bruised face among the half-dozen men waiting outside.

'You think you saw a friend? In Lone Birch? '

'Not a friend. I thought I saw Skeleton out there. Waiting to get on the train. '

Del laid down his knife and fork. 'Oh. I just lost my appetite too. ' He looked perfectly composed. 'What do we do? '

'I don't want to do anything. '

'I think we ought to take a look. That way we'll know. How sure are you? '

'Pretty sure. But I just saw him for a second — just a glimpse. '

The train began to snick-snick out of the station.

'But a face like that. . . '

'It's pretty hard to miss, ' Tom said. 'Yeah. '

'Let's go. ' Del pushed himself away from the table. 'I'll pay the waiter. I'll go forward, and you go back. We're about halfway in the train. ' Del took a deep breath and swayed a little with the tram's motion. 'If it's him. . . I don't mean to give you orders — and he could be sitting facing the way you come in — but maybe he's just traveling. . . '

'And maybe I'm wrong, ' Tom said. Part of him was happy that Del's nervousness had emerged. 'And maybe if I see him, I'll kick him off the train. ' Now that Del had shown his own fear, his could turn to anger. 'I guess we'd better start. '

'That's what I said, ' Del reminded him over his shoulder, and held out a folded ten-dollar bill to the waiter.

Tom entered the next car and looked over the passengers. Many slept — babies sprawled over their mothers sprawled over two seats. Soldiers slept with caps pulled over their eyes, snoring like a yard full of pigs. A few wakeful ones glanced at him over the tops of magazines. Skeleton Ridpath was not there.

He went quickly down the aisle, pushed aside the heavy door, and for a moment stood in the rocking space between cars and peered through the gritty window. This was their car — Tom felt an angry certainty that if Skeleton were on the train, he would be sitting near them. The thought made his bowels liquefy. But the seat behind theirs was empty; the people he could see from the window were those to whom he had spoken or nodded. He pushed the door aside and went in.

One of the sleepy mothers smiled at him. The long car felt warm and comfortable. Tom imagined that if Skeleton were actually seated there, his nerves would have screamed, alarms howled.

Three cars remained. Since Skeleton had got on Tom's half of the train, there was a thirty-three-percent chance he was in the next car. Tom left his own carriage and pushed open the door to the next.

Here all the lights were off. Tom closed the door behind him. His eyes adjusted slowly. This car is almost empty, which is why the few in it were able to enforce their unanimous opinion that nights on trains were for sleeping. One of the men, mustached and blue-jeaned, grunts in his sleep and digs his face deeper into the untender material of the seat. Tom has seen at once that none of them is Skeleton. He wishes that he could curl up like this, grind his face into a seat, and be somewhere else, safe — and then he feels that he is walking straight through their dreams, trespassing in them.

This man who lifts a shoulder before him, is he dreaming of the snake that circles the world and rests with its pointed tail in its mouth?

And the man two rows back who sleeps like a child, his head thrown back and knees asplay, does he dream of some Rose Armstrong, some perfect girl who haunts him? Or of a flame-girdled toad with a jewel in its forehead and a key in its mouth?

And does this one dream of being a hunter in a starry wood — Orion with his drawn bow?

Or of a man become a hunting bird?

Then he feels that he does not trespass through their dreams, but is them; that he is a dream being dreamed. His feet do not quite touch the ground. Their snores and stirrings carry him to the end of the dark carriage, and the door floats to the side under the pressure of his hand. He sweats, his head full of cobwebs. . . hunting birds. . . blazing toads. . .

He was sweating, that is, sweating and dizzy on the swaying platform between carriages, and it seemed to Tom that his mind was floating out of his control, prey to any fancy that came along. He has been someplace he has never been before. Being dreamed? Him, steady Tom Flanagan? The thought of Skeleton was somehow the cause of that. And as he put his hand on the door to the next carriage, he realized that by his earlier reckoning, there was a fifty-percent chance of seeing Skeleton in this car.

He marched up the aisle, looking rapidly from side to side, checking the faces even though he was sure that if his enemy were present, he'd be so visible as to be fluorescent. Two ten-year-old girls flouncing up the aisle in identical calico dresses separated to let him pass.

Tom pushed his way out into the breeze again. By his reckoning, the odds were a hundred percent that Skeleton was in this last car.

He had to pee — it was like pre-exam panic. He swallowed, and hoped that Del was already safe in his seat, thinking that Skeleton was out of their lives for good. Tom grasped the handle and pushed the door. He knew Skeleton was there.

But there it was again, that shock, even though he had thought he was prepared. For down at the end of the carriage, the very back of Skeleton's head met him, narrow and matted with mouse hair.

He has no power now, Tom told himself; he can't do anything to us. There was no reason to fear him. In that case, maybe Del was right. Don't let him see you, just make sure and go away and hope he gets off the train at the next station.

Tom almost did it. What stopped him was the thought of going back to Del and saying, yes, he is here, and then spending the next two days and nights in fear. He imagined himself and Del in their sleeping car, heeding every sudden noise. He would not allow himself to be so childish.

He took a step nearer the hated head.

Tom closed his mouth on a breath, took a quick step around Skeleton's side, and dropped himself into the facing seat. Adrenaline blasted his good intentions, and he blurted out, 'What are you doing here, anyway? '

Then crumbled — another shock. The face was Skeleton's at fifty, not Skeleton's now. It was the same skinned, reptilian visage with smudgy pouches beneath the same colorless eyes, but with a lot of extra years on it. 'I got a right to be here, ' the man said. Then the stingy flesh colored. 'Who the hell are you, anyway? Get outta here. ' The man's thin, hand trembled against the side of his face, went to his tie. 'Geez, get this kid. ' He appealed to empty seats for witness. 'Get lost, kid. Lemme alone. '

This moment was truly like being trapped in a dream — the man was eerily like Skeleton, was, if anything, even more hideous than Skeleton. But he was certainly not Skeleton. He looked one step elevated from trampdom.

'You're tryna mess with me, ain't ya, kid? Just get outta here before I cut you to pieces. ' The man was like an angry, bewildered dog.

Tom was already up out of the seat, stuttering apologies. He saw a conductor down at the other end of the car, and fled.

From movies he knew that little balconies rode at the end of trains, and he darted out through the rear door. Yet here was another puzzle. Another car swayed before him. He was not at the end of the train. What the. . . ? The car had not been on the train when they boarded that morning. He and Del had entered the fourth car from the end: he remembered that absolutely. This car had somehow been magicked onto the end of the train.

Tom reeled.

'Get this kid, ' the man said to the conductor.

The door heaved to one side, and he slipped through, ignoring the conductor's shout.

But the next car — now here was real disorientation. He had gone fifty years back in time. Gas lamps flickered on flocked walls, a thick patterned carpet glowed. Hunting prints shone down from the walls. A knot of men dressed in old-fashioned checked and belted suits regarded him. Most were bearded, some smoked long cigars. He could smell the whiskey in their glasses.

'You have made a mistake, ' a tall burly man with a stand-up collar and a Vandyke said quietly. 'Please leave. ' He looked stonily at Tom through a thin gold pince-nez:

The conductor banged the door open and fastened a rough hand on Tom's upper arm. 'I couldn't stop him in time, Mr. Peet. '

'All right, yes, understood. Remove him. '

The conductor hauled Tom out into the next carriage. The old defeated Skeleton Ridpath turned on his seat in a grotesque parody of snobbery and faced the window.

'Don't ever go back there again, ' the conductor said in Tom's ear. He did not sound angry. 'They might look crazy, but that's their business. '

'What is that, anyway? '

The conductor released Tom's arm. 'Private party — own their own car. Food? Liquor? You never seen anything like it. You gotta be rich to live that good. They hooked up a couple stations back, going all the way to New York. Just leave 'em alone, son. You got plenty of train to walk around in. '

When Tom got back to his seat, he sat down beside Del, who stared. 'Is he there? '

'Just an old guy who looks like him. '

'Aaaah. ' Del slumped back into his seat, sighing. 'Thank God. ' He smoothed his glossy hair, looked at Tom, grinned. 'You know, we were both scared shitless. But what could he do to us, really? Even if he was on the train? '

'Maybe he's the Ghostly Presence, ' Tom said, and Del tried to smile.

That night, rolling through Illinois on his upper bunk, Tom dreamed of lying by a campfire in a deep wood. The moon was a huge eye. A snake whispered up to him and spoke.

A morning of French toast dripping maple syrup, hard little sausages that tasted of hickory smoke, tomato juice: Ohio just ending outside the dining-car windows, an epic of grain-filled plains separated by dark smoky cities. By now nearly everybody who had joined their train in Arizona was gone, and churchy, singing Midwestern voices had replaced the sunburnt drawls. The most important new passengers were four middle-aged black men dressed in conspicuously handsome suits — they had supervised the loading, late at night in Chicago, of a trove of instrument cases into the baggage car and were supposed to be famous musicians. The conductors treated them like heroes, like kings, and they looked like kings: they had an extra charge of authority and no need of anyone else. Morris Fielding would have known their names.

'One of them's called Coleman Hawkins, ' Del said. 'The conductor told me. And you'll never guess the name of the quiet one without any hair. '

'You're right. I can't guess. '

'Tommy Flanagan. He plays piano, and the conductor says he's fantastic. '

'Tommy Flanagan? ' Tom put down his silverware and looked at every table in the dining car.

'I don't think they get up this early, ' Del said wryly. 'Don't look that way. If someone has to have your name, it might as well be a fantastic piano player. '

'Yeah, it's sort of neat. . . but I'd rather have him be a fantastic third baseman, ' Tom said. For a second he had felt that the man, as modest and civilized as an Anglican priest, had stolen his name from him.

'I wonder what he's going to do this time, ' Del said.

'Play the piano somewhere, dummy. '

'Not your namesake, Jell-O Brains. Uncle Cole. I wonder what it'll be this summer. '

'Is it always different? '

'Sure it is. One summer it was like a circus-clowns and acrobats all over the place. That was when I was a little kid. Another summer, it was like movies. Cowboy movies and cop movies. That was a year I went to movies all the time — I was twelve. Saw a double feature every Saturday. And when I got to Shadowland, every day was like a different movie. I never knew what was going to happen. There was Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe and William Bendix and Randolph Scott — '

'Right there? That's impossible. '

'Well, it looked like them. I know it wasn't them, but. . . sometimes it was pieces of their movies. He has projectors all over the place. He can make it look like anything is happening. Every summer is like a different performance. I just wonder what it'll be this time. ' He paused. 'Because it's always tied in with what's going on before you get there. That's all part of magic, he says — working with what's in your mind. Or on your mind. And with all the stuff that went on this year. . . ' Del looked decidedly worried for a moment.

'You mean it might be about school? '

'Well, it never has been. Uncle Cole hates schools. He says he's the only person he knows who should be allowed to run a school. '

'But it might be Skeleton and our show and. . . '

'The fire. Maybe. ' Del brightened. 'Whatever it is, we'll learn something. '

'I guess there are some things I'd rather not learn, ' Tom said, making the only truly conservative statement of his life.

'Just listen to whatever he says first. When he meets us at the station. That's the clue to everything. '

Tom said, 'The Case of the Famous First Words. '

Del looked uncomfortable again. 'Hey, breakfast is over, huh? Let's get out of here. ' He rattled his fork against his plate, looked at the window. The filthy brick backs of office buildings and warehouses slid by, encrusted with fire escapes — some bleak Ohio city. He finally came out with what he had been planning to say. 'Listen, Tom. You have to know. . . I mean, I should have said before. My uncle — everything I said about him is true. Including that he's half-crazy. He drinks. He drinks one hell of a lot. But that's not the reason, I don't think. He just is half-crazy. Except for the summers, I think he's alone all the time. Magic is everything he's got. So sometimes he gets kind of wild. . . and if he's been drinking. . . '

'That's what I thought, ' Tom said.

Take care, Red.

'Does Bud Copeland know him? ' Tom asked.

Del nodded. 'He met him once — once when he came to Vermont to get me. I, uh, I broke a leg. It was just an accident. But they met, yeah. ' Tom did not have to ask the question. 'Bud wanted me never to go back. I had to talk him into it. He didn't like Uncle Cole. But he didn't understand, Tom. That was all. '

'I get it, ' Tom said.

'He's not all crazy, ' Del pleaded. 'But he just never got the recognition he should have, and he spends all that time alone. It's okay, really. It's not even half. That's just an expression. '

'But you broke your leg because he got carried away. '

'That's right. But people break their legs skiing all the time. ' This had the air of something Del had said many times before — to Bud Copeland and the Hillmans. 'It was just a little break, a hairline break, the doctor called it. I was only in a cast about three weeks, and that's nothing. '

'Did your uncle get the doctor? '

Del colored. 'Bud did. My uncle said it would heal by itself. And he was right. It would have. Maybe not as fast, but it would have healed. '

'And how did it happen? '

'I fell down a sort of a cliff, ' Del said. Now his face was very red. 'Don't worry. Nothing like that is ever going to happen again. '

They changed trains in Pennsylvania Station; during the two hours before the departure of the Vermont train, the boys put their bags in lockers and walked around the station.

'Just a couple more hours, ' Del said as they stood in a doorway and looked at people coming in and out of the Statler Hilton across the street. 'This is going to be what people call an adventure. '

'I feel like I'm already having an adventure, ' Tom answered. The musicians, Hawkins and the man wkh Tom's name and the other two, were hailing cabs, joking, already going in different directions.

'Someday we'll be like them, ' Del said. 'Free. Can't you see what that'll be like? Traveling, performing. . . going wherever we like. I love the thought of the future. I love the whole idea. '

Suddenly Tom saw it as Del did: lone-wolfing around the world, carrying an airline ticket always in his pocket, living in taxis and hotels, performing in one club after another. . . A layer of self deep in his personality trembled, and for the first time he really said yes to a life so different from any his parents or Carson School would have chosen for him.

The afternoon saw them stalled north of Boston, far out in the green Massachusetts countryside. Brindled cows swung their heads and regarded them with liquid eyes; people strolled along the tracks, sat on the slope of the line and looked back at the cows. 'Will we be here much longer? ' Tom asked the conductor.

'Could be a couple more hours, way I hear it. '

'That long? '

'You boys jus' got lucky. '

At intervals a bored, half-audible voice broadcast over the loudspeakers: 'We regret the inconvenience of this delay, but. . . We anticipate resumption of service in a short. . . ' Lively rumors traveled through the train.

'Big mess — up at the next junction, ' their porter finally told the boys. 'First thing like it in a lot of years. A train clear over on her side, people all bust up — terrible day for the railroad. '

'What can we do? ' Del asked, almost frantic. 'Someone's waiting for us at a station in Vermont. '

'Wait is all you can do, ' said the porter. 'Nobody goes anywhere till the line's clear. If your daddy's waiting for you in Vermont, he'll know all about this — they got TV in Vermont too. '

'Not in that house, ' Del said in despair.

Tom looked outside and saw a few men in suits and ties passionately hurling rocks at cows.

As the hours went by, Tom felt his energy flicker like a dying candle. His eyes were heavy enough to drop from their sockets. All the colors in the train seemed lurid. Twice he went to the toilet and in a stink so concentrated that it was nearly visible allowed his stomach to erupt and leave him weightless. 'I've got to get some sleep, ' he said when he had staggered back after the second time, and saw that Dei was already there, folded up into himself like an exhausted bird.

When they finally moved again, the jolt of the carriage snapped Tom into wakefulness. Del still slept, curled in stationary flight.

The junction where the wreck had occurred was twenty miles down the track. For a moment the boys' carriage, the entire train, silenced: passengers crowded in the aisle to look out the windows but did not speak. A train the size of their own lay sprawled like a broken snake on the left side of the tracks. A gout of sparks blew into the air and died before the brilliant dots could fall on the few who still lay, covered up to the neck with blankets, on the sloping ground. One of the toppled carriages had been folded as neatly as paper; others were battered. Over the half-dozen policemen standing about, heavy gray smoke shifted in the humid air. Tom thought he could smell the wreck: oil and metal, the smell of heat and the smell of blood. The screams too. That was a smell like a taste in his own mouth, familiar and rancid.

Hilly Vale

Late that evening they reached a town called Springville, and Del said, 'It's the next stop. ' He stood and pulled their suitcases off the luggage rack and arranged them in the aisle — he was being very businesslike and concentrated. Del sat up straight in his seat for fifteen minutes, not speaking, and for the last ten minutes stood by the door, looking straight ahead. 'Hey, what. . . ' Tom said, but Del did not even blink.

'Hilly Vale, ' the metallic voice said. 'Hilly Vale. Please watch your step while leaving the train. '

Del shot him a glance, but Tom was already hauling his suitcase toward him.

They went down into hot, humid night. For a second Tom heard insect noises, a drumming and creaking and scratching and singing as loud as if they stood in the midst of jungle, and then the train started up and the insect noises disappeared. The station was so small it looked like a cartoon; yolky yellow light from overhead bulbs hugged it close. The train sailed into blackness and became a red dot vanishing around an invisible bend. Insects scratched and banged and whistled.

'Well? ' Tom said. He felt as if he had been put down by the side of the road in Alaska or Peru.

Then the cacophony of insect sounds increased: drills, hammers, wrenches on pipes, musical saws, penny whistles, piano strings, whole boxes of tools dropped from a great height, doorbells, breaking bottles, miniature kamikaze aircraft, blows against flesh.

Del shushed him. For a second the two boys stood embraced by the yellow light in what should have been silence.

Mr. Thorpe stepped out of the blackness.

But no, it was not Mr. Thorpe, any more than the man on the train had been Skeleton Ridpath. He was tall, white-haired, dressed in a dark blue suit with wide chalky pin stripes. He had the sort of slight, elegant limp that makes limping look desirable. His nose was long and curved: the whole long squared — off face was powerful. Coleman Collins looked like an ambassador or an aged actor become so grand that he was offered no parts but those of financial pirates, grand dukes, and rascally Nazi generals. He smoothed down the longish white hair at the side of his head, and Tom thought that if you saw him playing a Latin teacher in a movie, you would know that his students would begin dying of a mysterious ailment late in the first reel. The limp became a definite waver, and Tom saw that the man was drunk. 'So the birds have come home, ' the magician said.

TWO

The Erl King

Del just picked up his bag and went straight for the car, the biggest, blackest Lincoln you ever saw. . . .

Wordlessly Del picked up his suitcase and began to walk toward the steps down into the station parking lot. In confusion so great it was almost like pain, Tom watched the smaller boy advancing away from him, and then looked back at the magician. Coleman Collins' icy face flickered a smile at him. I didn't think he'd be so old, Tom thought. He's even older than Mr. Thorpe.

'Say hello to your uncle, ' Collins said. Even slightly slurred by alcohol, his voice was resonant and cultured. 'He has waited long enough to hear it. '

Del stopped moving. In the instant of silence after he dropped his case, the insects began their symphony again. 'I know. I'm sorry. ' Del half-turned to look at his uncle. 'I am sorry. There was a big accident — a train went off the track. . . ' Del turned savagely away again, and Tom recognized with astonishment that his friend was either in tears or on the verge of them.

'A big accident. A big big big accident, was it? Not just a teeny-weeny little one? Not just a little spilled coffee, a little bump on the tracks, a little messy commotion? Didn't stain your clothes, all that coffee flying about? '

'It wasn't our train, ' Tom said.

The magician focused his icy eyes on Tom — who was relieved to see, way down under all the layers of real and assumed anger, a layer of amusement. 'Ah. The mystery deepens. ' He lolled back against the railing. 'Surely one of you two boys can explain why an unrelated accident, all that coffee flying about on some other train, led to my sitting here for most of the day. Is that in your power, Del? '

Del turned and explained. Haltingly, badly, with what looked almost like stage fright — but he was explaining, he was talking to his uncle, and Tom felt the strange tension about them wilting from the air.

When Del was done, his uncle said, 'And did you not see the spot, child? Didn't you sight the site? No visions of blood, or wrecked carriages, of dazed and crippled survivors, eager-beaver reporters, hard-eyed Polizei? ' He startled both the boys by laughing. 'No corpses, no — '

'Uncle Cole, ' Del said.

The magician glittered at him. 'Yes, dear one? '