27 August, 1924 11 страница

'Is Rose Armstrong here this summer? '

Collins pretended to consider the question. 'Rose. Rose Armstrong. Now, I think I heard. . . was it a sick cousin in Missoula, Montana? Or was that some other Armstrong? Yess. Some dreary Armstrong person, not our little Vermont Rose. Yes, I do think that the girl should be taking part in our exercises. If we can ever get them begun, that is. '

'She is here. '

'She is. The real Rose. '

'Uncle Cole, ' Del said. 'I'm sorry we were so late. '

'So it's come to that, ' Collins said. 'Oh, dear. Let's have a look at something. ' He held out one palm, and a silver dollar appeared between his first and second fingers. He revolved his hand, and the coin had moved to the space between the next two fingers. When he turned the palm back to the boys, the coin had vanished. He showed the back of his hand: not there. But then it was in the other hand, moving itself so quickly between his fingers it seemed to have a life of its own. He tossed the coin in the air and caught it. 'Can you do that yet? '

'Not as fast as you, ' Del said.

'Let's get home, ' said Coleman Collins.

The magician's car was the only one in the lot: a black Lincoln without a mark on it, long as a bank, and all the more impressive for being at least ten years old. Their bags went in the enormous trunk, the boys in the front seat beside Del's uncle. The interior of the Lincoln smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and, less strongly, of leather. Collins looked over Del's head at Tom as he rolled out of the lot. 'So you are the Tom Flanagan. '

'I'm Tom Flanagan, anyhow. The Tom Flanagan plays the piano. '

'And modest and good — and very good at the work, I gather. Welcome to Vermont. I hope we'll give you a summer to remember. '

'Yes. '

They were gliding into an area of dark little shops, vacant gas stations. The magician seemed to be grinning at him. 'I live for these summers, you know. It could have been different — Del might have told you something about me. But I had only one ambition. Can you guess? To be the best magician in the world. And to stay the best magician in the world. Which is what I have done. Letters — I get mail from all over the world, asking for my advice. Can they meet me? Can they study with me? No, no, no, no. I have only one pupil. Two, now. That, and the knowledge — it's enough. '

'The knowledge? '

'Oh, yes, the knowledge. You'll see. You'll experience. And that is all I will say at present. '

Now they were on a wide main road, cutting through the center of the small darkened town; soon they swerved off onto a narrow road which led directly into deep wood. Collins held a bottle between his thighs, and lifted it now and then to sip. Before long the trees blotted out the stars.

The narrow road twisted through the forest, and when it began to ascend, split into two forks. Collins took the left fork — this was unpaved, and rose sharply. After a few minutes, Tom was dimly aware of a field on his side of the road: a gray horse, nearly invisible in the murk, drifted up to a fence, followed by two black shapes that must have been horses also. Then the trees closed in again.

'What's it like here in the winter? '

'Snowed in, little bird. Very beautiful. '

They continued to rise on the narrow bumpy road.

Tom asked, 'Do you have neighbors? '

'All of my neighbors are in my head, ' Collins said, and laughed again. He glanced at Del. 'And is it good to be back, accidents and upsets notwithstanding? '

'Oh, yes, ' Del breathed.

'Ah. '

After perhaps twenty minutes, Collins turned the car into a paved drive which looped back and then made a wide descending curve interrupted by big iron gates set into high brick gateposts. From the posts, a wall fanned into the trees on either side.

'You'll excuse my precautions, Thomas, ' Cole Collins said, gently stopping the car. 'I am an old man, all alone in these woods. Of course vandals can still come across the lake in the winter, to get at the summer houses. ' He propped the bottle on the seat and got out to punch a series of numbered buttons on one of the posts. The gates slid open.

The car moved forward, rounded a bend, and they could see the house. It looked like a Victorian summer house which had been added on to by generations of owners: a three-story frame building with gables and corbels and pointed windows, flanked by more modern wings. It took Tom a moment to see why these were odd — the lines of white board were unbroken by windows. Lights hung on the wood illuminated bright circles on the windowless facades; lights hung in the trees on either side of the house. It looked faintly like a compound — faintly like something else.

'The school, ' Tom said. 'I mean. . . it sort of reminds me of our school. '

Del looked at him in surprise.

'Lucky boy, ' Collins murmured. He opened the door. 'Leave your things in the car. Someone will bring them in later. ' He staggered a bit, getting out of the car, but tucked the half-empty bottle under his arm with an almost soldierly snap. 'Step lively, step lightly, but step inside. We can't hang around outside all night. '

Tom got out and saw Collins' tall figure outlined against the vast house. Strings of lights shone from widely separated trees deep in the woods; others were so close together as to remind him of the circles of light through which Jimmy Durante walked at the end of his show, just after saying, 'Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. ' There were many more lights than he had seen from the car.

'Why do you light up the forest like that? ' he asked.

'Why? So I can see what's coming and what's going, ' Collins said. 'And what big eyes you have, Grandmother. Ready? '

Collins opened the front door and stood to one side to let them enter. Del walked in before Tom, and when Tom went through into the dim interior, his friend faced him with a shining, exalted face. Then he saw why. Candles blazed all over the entry: candles burned on the little table stacked with newspapers, candles burned on the shelf where Coleman Collins dropped his car keys.

'The fuse for this part of the building blew, I suppose, ' Collins said. 'Someone's probably fixing it now. Nice of them to get out these candles for us. They give a welcoming glow, don't you think? Or do you think they look too much like Halloween? '

'You knew, ' Del said. 'Just like Registration Day — like Tom said, at school. You knew. '

'I don't know what you are talking about, ' Collins said. 'I must take a bath and lie down for a bit. There will be some food in your rooms. ' He leaned against the wall of the entry, supporting his shoulders on the shelf, and crossed his arms over his chest. Tom got another shining glance from Del. 'Wash up in the bathroom down here. Then go up. Tom's room is right next to yours, Del. He will be in the connecting room. When you have eaten, come downstairs and I will see you in the Little Theater. Can you still find it? '

'Sure I can. '

'Stupendous. I'll see you there at. . . ' He looked at his watch. 'Shall we say eleven? '

Del nodded.

'Fine. Tom, there will not be much of a view of the lake at this hour, but tomorrow you should be able to see it. A very tempting vista. ' Again there was a suggestion of mockery and unstated meanings in his voice. He nodded and began to mount the stairs. Halfway up, he wobbled backward, and the boys stood nailed to the floor, fearing that he was about to topple down, but he righted himself with a hand against the wall, said, 'Oops, ' and continued upward.

Del shook his head in relief. 'Let's go wash our hands. '

He led Tom to a small bathroom just off the entry. While Del lathered his hands in the sink, Tom waited in the doorway. 'Are the woods always lighted up like that? '

'First time. But those candles! I was right. '

'About it being like school this time. '

'We'll see, ' Del said. 'Your turn. '

'Well, I hope it isn't like school. ' Tom edged around Del in the little bathroom.

'Hey, did you know this was a haunted house? ' Del asked playfully.

'Come on, Florence. '

Del pushed a button beneath the light switch, and the radiance in the bathroom abruptly turned purple. In the sink, Tom's hands shone a lighter, more vibrant purple. He looked in the mirror — Del was laughing — and saw his face, the same shade of purple, disappearing under a hideous mask which seemed to stretch forward from the glass. The effect was half-comic, half-frightening. The face, with distorted rubbery lips and dead skin, the very face of greed, of acquisitiveness sucked down into pure hunger, looked at him with his own eyes. It pushed forward slowly, slowly, and became the only thing in the room. Tom finally jerked backward, unable to face the ugly thing down, and banged into Del. The face hung vibrating in the air.

'I know. ' Del laughed. 'But it just comes up close and then melts back down into the mirror. It's a great trick. The first time I saw it, I howled like hell. ' He pushed the button, and Tom was again standing in an ordinary wallpapered half-bath. His face was itself, familiar but pale.

'Uncle Cole calls it the Collector, ' Del said. 'Don't ask me how it works. Let's go up and eat. '

'The Collector, ' Tom echoed, now really shaken. That was just how it had looked.

Their rooms, in the left wing of the house, were window — less, bright, incongruously modern and 'Scandinavian': they could have been rooms in an expensive motel. Creamy off — white walls hung with colorful but bland abstract paintings, neat single beds covered in blue corduroy, thick white carpets that showed their footprints. White louvered doors swung open onto deep closets where their clothes had already been hung or folded, their suitcases packed away at the back. White desks with lamps stood against the walls. In Del's room, connected to Tom's by sliding wooden pocket doors, a table had been set for two. A crystal decanter half-filled with red wine stood beside covered dishes and a salad bowl.

'Boy, ' Tom said, smelling the steaks.

Del marched to the table and sat down, snapping his napkin onto his lap. He poured from the decanter into Tom's glass and his own.

'He lets you drink wine? '

'Of course he does. He can hardly be puritanical about drink, can he? And besides that, he really believes dinner isn't complete without wine. ' Del sipped, and smiled. 'He used to put water in it when I was younger. There isn't any water in this. '

'Well, this isn't much like school, ' Tom said.

The steaks were still warm, bloodred in the center and delicately charred on the outside. Other covered dishes concealed a little hill of spinach, mounded mushrooms, trench fries. Tom lifted his glass and sipped: a dusty, stony, slightly grapy flavor, intensely pleasing — the more it sat in his mouth, the more taste it gave him. 'So that's what good wine is like, ' he said.

'That's what Margaux is like anyhow, ' said Del, busily chewing. 'He's giving us something good because this is our first night. ' A moment later he said, 'He knew. He knew about the candles. I couldn't be sure before. But he knows everything that happened. '

'Anyhow, your Rose Armstrong will be around, ' Tom said, and Del's face flushed with an increase of pleasure. 'This is going to be the perfect summer, ' he said.

When they left Del's room to go downstairs, they paused a minute to look out one of the big windows in the hallway. These gave a view of a long expanse of wood; the spotlights or torches illuminated a congregation of branches or slabs of boulder, holes into the wood. Where the wood ended, a black non — thing that must have been the lake began. Tom saw iron railings dripping down a cliff behind the house. Far off in the woods bordering the other side of the lake, similar lights burned — fuzzy as Japanese lanterns. 'Time to get downstairs, ' Del said, and moved away from the window. To Tom it looked like the setting for a party yet to begin, full of promises and anticipations. 'Come on, ' said Del, eager to be downstairs, and Tom gave it one last look and saw the party's first guest. A wolf, or what looked like a wolf. It came into one of the circles of light, tongue lolling, and stared toward the house. Far off, centered in the light, the wolf seemed staged, posed as for a picture. It seemed like a signpost, a hint. 'Hey! ' Tom said.

'Come on, ' Del said from the staircase. 'We have to get to the Little Theater. '

'Coming, ' Tom said. The wolf was gone. But had it been there at all? A wolf, in Vermont?

Going back down, he noticed that the house was more complicated than it looked. At the top of the staircase an old-fashioned swinging door barred them from a large black space in which Tom made out the shape of a tall door. 'What's back there? '

'Oh, my uncle's room. We have to get down. '

They rattled down the stairs and turned back into the body of the original house. They passed a living room where a lamp burned on a table between two couches covered in an unexpectedly feminine fabric, passed the entrance to a galleylike kitchen. Del pushed open another door which Tom had assumed led outside; but it took them into another 'motel' corridor, carpeted dark brown, its ceiling illuminated by indirect lighting. At the beginning of this corridor, another hall jutted off to the rear and ended at a crossbarred wooden door as impressive as Laker Broome's. 'And what's back there? '

'I don't know. He never lets me go in there. '

Del bustled down the corridor until he came to a black door set in a recess lighted by a single downspot. A brass plate had been screwed into the door just above the boys' heads, but it was blank. Del quickly checked his watch. 'God. A whole minute to spare. '

Now what? Tom wondered. An office like Lake the Snake's? A concrete-block classroom overlooking Santa Rosa Boulevard?

But what he saw when Del opened the door was at first a steeply banked jewel-box theater with perhaps fifty seats. Though empty, it still seemed full of life, and a half-second later Tom saw that the walls had been painted with ranks of people in chairs — people with rapt faces, one of them drinking from a cup through a straw, one pawing a box of chocolates. Then there was something grotesque in their midst. . . But Del was pushing him into the first row and turning him around.

'This is wild, ' he said. They faced a tiny stage. A polished table and a Shaker chair stood before brown velvet curtains. He looked quickly over his shoulder to find what had briefly caught his eye, and saw it immediately. It was the Collector, black-suited, a few rows back and to the side of the man drinking through a straw: pushing his rapt, greedy face forward, wishing to devour whatever he saw on the tiny stage; a grotesque joke. Then Tom was startled by the thought that the grotesque figure resembled Skeleton Ridpath.

His eye caught another surprise just as he heard the clicking of a door behind the velvet curtains: a few seats away from the Collector, a group of men with outdated but elegant clothing and neat beards, cigars stuck in their mouths, a group of raffish bucks out on the town. . . Del jabbed him in the ribs, and he snapped his head back just as Cole Collins parted the curtains and sat in the Shaker chair. His handsome, slightly hooded blue eyes were glazed, but his face was pink. Instead of the suit, the magician wore a dark green pullover from the top of which frothed a green-and-red scarf, beautifully fitted to his neck. He smiled, taking in the whole room, and Tom felt the presence of the painted men behind him. The back of his neck prickled.

'The magician and his audience, ' Del's uncle said with the air of one who opens a treasure chest. 'A subject you should consider. What is their relationship? That of an actor and those he seeks to move, to entertain? That of an athlete and those before whom he demonstrates his skill? Not quite, though it has elements of both. ' His smile had never left his face. 'An audience always fights a magician, boys. It is never truly on his side. It feels hostility toward him: because it knows that it is being fooled. '

No, it can't be, Tom thought. They left the train in New York, they are part of some other story. And that awful joke can't have anything to do with Skeleton.

'The magician must make them relish it. He is the storyteller whose only story is himself, and every man jack in the audience, every drunk, every dolt, every clever skeptic, every doubter, is looking for the chink in his story that he can use to destroy him. '

Tom forced himself to look straight ahead: he had to keep his neck rigid by willpower. He felt as though Mr. Peet and the others were moving in their seats.

'The magician is a general with an army full of deserters and traitors. To keep their loyalty, he must inspire and entertain, frighten and cajole, baffle and command. And when he has done that, he can lead them. '

In the midst of his tension, Tom felt a growing area of tiredness, and realized that the wine and Collins' tirade were making him sleepy.

The smile was taut now, and directed straight at Tom. 'I am saying that the practice of magic is the courting of self-destruction — that is one of its great secrets. The closer you allow yourself to come to that truth, the greater you may become. Listen: magic is used only to inspire fear and to grant wishes — even those you do not wish to have. In itself it is not important. Enough. '

He gave Tom that smile like a glare. 'Do you want to learn to fly? Would you like to leave the earth behind, boy? '

'You called us birds, ' Tom said. And thought for the first time in months of the Ventnor owl. Collins nodded. 'Are you afraid? ' 'Yes, ' Tom said. He had a terrible urge to yawn, and felt his lips stretching.

'You don't have the beginning of an idea what magic is, ' Collins hissed.

Tom thought: I can't spend all summer with this crazyman.

'But you will learn. You are a unique boy, Tom Flanagan. I knew it when I first heard about you. Shadowland will give you every gift it has, because you will be able to accept them. And you are exactly the right age. Exactly! '

He looked from Tom to Del, back again, his eyes like marbles. 'What experiences you two have before you. I envy, you — I would chop my hands off to have what you take for granted. Now. A few, ah, ground rules. Do you remember everything I have said so far? Do you understand what I said? ' They nodded simultaneously. 'The magician is a general in charge of what? '

'Traitors, ' Del said.

His eyes full of triumph and the windy spaces of drunkenness, the magician looked at Tom alone. 'Ground rules. The rules you obey, in this house. Did you see the wooden door set back in a little half-hallway on the way to this theater? '

Tom nodded.

'You are forbidden to open that door. You are free to wander where you like, except for that room and my room. Which is in back of the swinging doors at the top of the stairs. Understood? '

Tom nodded again, felt Del beside him nod his head.

'That is number one, then. In this theater we practice cards and coins, the close-up work. Tomorrow we will see Le Grand Theatre des Illusions, and that is where you will learn to fly. If, that is, you give yourself entirely to me. ' Then, abruptly: 'Your father is dead? '

'Yes, ' Tom whispered.

'Then for the summer I am your father. That is number two. In this house I am the law. When I say you cannot go outside, you stay in. And when I tell you to stay in your rooms, you will obey me. There will always be a reason, I assure you. Okay. Questions? '

Del sat as silent as a stone; Tom asked, 'Are there any wolves in Vermont? Have you ever seen one? '

Collins tilted his head. 'Of course not, ' and gave an equivocal, playful glance. Then he relaxed back into his chair. 'Did you ever hear the story about how all stories began? '

Both boys shook their heads. In Tom, there was a sudden, strong resistance to all about him. This man was not his father. His stories would be lies: there was nothing about him that was not dangerous.

'This story, ' Collins said, plucking delicately at a fold of the scarf and exposing another quarter-inch of its pattern above the green velour, 'is — might be, rather — yes, might be about treachery. And it might be about coming close to the destructiveness of magic. You decide. '

'The Box and the Key'

'A long, long time ago, in a northern country where snow fell eight months of the year, a boy lived alone with his mother in a little wooden house at the foot of a steep hill. There they lived a decent, purposeful, hardworking life. Chores always demanded to be done, provisions to be salted away, cords of wood to be cut and stacked. There was endless work, little of what boys today would call fun, but much joy. The boy's entire world was the snug wooden house with its wood fires and waxed floors, the animals he cared for, his work and his mother and the land they inhabited. The life made a perfect circle, a perfect orb, in which every action and every emotion was useful, in tune with itself and each other action and emotion.

'One day the boy's mother told him to go out and play in the snow while she did her baking. I imagine that she did not want him dodging around her skirts, pestering her for a taste of what she was mixing. She dressed him warmly, in heavy sweaters and thick socks and boots and a big blue coat and a woolen cap and said, 'Go out now and play for an hour. '

'The boy asked, 'May I climb the hill? '

' 'You may go all the way to the top if you like, ' said his mother. 'But give me an hour to do my baking. '

'So out he went — he loved to climb the hill, though sometimes his mother decided that marauding animals made it dangerous. From the top he could see his little house, its chimney and windows, and the entire little valley where it sat, that cozy little house in a deep northern valley where dark firs grew straight out of the snow.

'It took him half an hour, but finally he had struggled up to the top of the hill. Looking one way, he could see hill after hill stretching away into a cold northern infinity. And when he looked the other direction, he saw right down into his own valley. There, now looking like a (tollhouse, was his home. Smoke puffed from its chimney, drifted and blew, and his mother crossed and recrossed the kitchen window, carrying mixing bowls and trays for the oven. It looked so warm, that little house with its busy woman and its drifting, blowing column of smoke.

'The boy alone on the snowy hill decided to dig. Perhaps he thought he would build a fort under the snow. He scooped out a handful of snow, then another, and all the — time he was conscious of what lay down in the valley — the warm house, his mother moving back and forth across the kitchen window.

'He dug for a time, looking back and forth from his hole in the snow to his house and his mother, and soon realized that he had little time left in which to play. He looked back down at his house and his mother in the window, and dug a few more cold wet handfuls out.

'It was time to begin going back. He watched a curl of smoke lift from the chimney.

'Then he heard a voice in his mind saying: Dig out another handful.

'He looked back at his warm house, and he put his hand deep into, the snow.

'His fingers touched something hard and smooth and colder than ice. He looked'back at the house, where his mother was taking hot cakes from the tray with a long-handled baker's spatula; and then he looked back into the hole he had made, and dug quickly around, feeling for the sides and edges of whatever he had found.

'It was a box — a silver box, so cold it burned his hands right through his gloves. That voice in his mind, which was his own voice, said: Where there is a box, there is a key.

'So he looked back at the house and knew its warmth. . . saw the smoke lazing from the chimney. . . saw his mother glance toward the window. And he took one hand and just delicately scraped his fingers across the bottom of the hole.

'His fingers turned over a little silver key.

'Where there is a key, there is a lock, his own voice said within its head.

'He revolved the cold silver box in his hands and saw how the lock was set into a complicated pattern of scrollwork just before the lip of the top. He looked back once more at the warm house, his mother wiping her hands on her apron before the window. And he put the little key into the lock.

'The box clicked.

'Then for the last time he looked back at his warm house and his mother, at all he had known, and he raised the lid of the box. '

Coleman Collins lifted his hands, palms facing about a foot apart, and suddenly swooped them upward. 'Every story in the world, every story ever told, blew up out of the box. Princes and princesses, wizards, foxes and trolls and witches and wolves and woodsmen and kings and elves and dwarves and a beautiful girl in a red cape, and for a second the boy saw them all perfectly, spinning silently in the air. Then the wind caught them and sent them blowing away, some this way and some that. '

He put his hands back on the table, smiling; he looked drunk as an owl to Tom, but the resonant voice coiled in the sleepy spaces of his mind, echoing even when Collins was not talking. 'But I wonder if some of those stories might not have blown into other stories. Maybe the wind tumbled those stories all together, and switched the trolls with the kings and put foxes' heads on the princes and mixed up the witch with the beautiful girl in the red cape. I often wonder if that happened. '

He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. 'That was your bedtime story. Go up to your rooms and go to bed. I don't want you to leave your rooms until tomorrow morning. Run along. ' He winked, and disappeared through the curtains, leaving them momentarily alone in the empty theater.

Then he poked his disembodied — looking head through the join of the curtains. 'I mean now. Upstairs. Lead the way, Mr. Nightingale. ' The head jerked back through the curtains.

A moment later it reappeared, thrust forward like a jack-in-the-box. 'Wolves, and those who see them, are shot on sight. Unless it is a lupus in fabula, who appears when spoken of. ' The head opened its mouth in a soundless laugh, showing two rows of slightly stained and irregular teeth, and popped back through the curtain.

'Lupus in fabula? ' Del said, turning to Tom.

'Mr. Thorpe used to say it sometimes. The wolf in the story. '

'Who appears when. . . '

'Spoken of, ' Tom said miserably. 'It doesn't mean real wolves, it means. . . Oh, forget it. '

The Wolf in the Story

'This isn't like any other summer, ' Del said as they passed the short hall which ended at the crossbarred door. 'He never told me a story before. I liked it. Didn't you? '

'Sure, I guess, ' Tom said, pausing. 'Weren't you ever curious about what was behind that thing? '

Del shrugged, looked uneasy. 'You mean, I should have looked just because he told me not to? '

'Not exactly. But what's so important that we aren't even allowed to see it? I just wondered if you were curious. '

'I never had time to be curious, ' Del said. 'He said upstairs. We're supposed to stay in our rooms. '

'Does he do that a lot, order you to stay in your room all night? '

'Sometimes. ' Del firmly pushed open the door to the older part of the house and began to march past the kitchen and living room.

'But wouldn't you anyway? I mean, why make it an order? Why would we get out of bed in the middle of the night, go wandering in the dark? . . . If he makes it an order, he's just making us think about doing it. See what I mean? '