27 August, 1924 18 страница

'I'm getting out of here, ' Del said, sounding panicky.

Then the door was open and he was backing through it. Tom reached for the knob, but Del caught his elbow: the door slammed shut.

'You crazy? ' Del said. His face was as green as an army blanket.

'I wanted to see, ' Tom said. 'That's what this is all about. For once, I wanted to see more than he wanted us to. '

'You can't fight him, ' Del said. 'You're not supposed to. '

'Oh, Del. '

'Well, I don't want him to see us out here. '

Tom thought that he too did not want Collins to see him outside the door. Del already was lost: fright glinted in his eyes. 'All right. Let's go upstairs. '

'I don't need your permission. '

In the corridor outside their rooms, they looked out the big windows to see Coleman Collins just now reaching the top of the iron staircase. The lights pulled a long shadow out behind him on the flagstones.

'At least he was down there all the time, ' Del said.

'He knew where we were. He set off the sound effects, didn't he? '

'Then it was a mistake to go into that room. And I'm sorry I did. ' Del looked ferociously up at him, and Tom mentally braced himself for an attack. 'You used to be my best friend, but I think he was right about you. You're jealous. You want to get me in trouble with him. '

'No. . . ' Tom started to utter some general shocked denial, but his dismay was overwhelming. Coming so soon after the threat from one of the 'Brothers Grimm, ' Del's assault left him wordless. 'Not now, ' was all he managed to get out.

Del spun away from him. 'You sound like a girl. ' When he reached the door, Del turned to glare at him again. 'And you act like you own this place. I should be showing you things, not the other way around. '

'Del, ' Tom pleaded, and the smaller boy grimaced as if he had struck him.

'You want to know something, pal? Something I never told you? I guess you remember those times my uncle showed up in Arizona — at the football game and at Ventnor. Well, you wanted to know why I never talked about it with you. '

'Because he confused you, ' Tom said, happy to be back on ground more or less solid. 'Because I didn't ask about him enough. And he was here, not there, and — '

'Shut up. Just shut up. I saw you with him, dummy. You were right next to him — you were walking along with him, like something that was going to happen. I saw you, damn you. Now I know why. You always wanted him for your own. And he was trying to show me what you're really like. ' Del shook his balled fists at him, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and disappeared inside his door. A second later Tom heard the slam of the sliding doors.

Glumly Tom went into his own room.

His dreams were instant, vivid, and worse than any that had appeared on the Carson School notice board. He was operating on a dead man in an impromptu theater, knowing that the man was dead but unable to admit it to the others around the table; he was supposed to be a surgeon, but he had no idea of what had killed the man or how to proceed. The instruments in his hands were impassively foreign. Way way way way down in his guts, whispered a nurse with blond hair and passive eyes. . . . Collected. Wasn't he? Wasn't he? Something stirred beneath his bloody hands, and the head of a vulture popped up like a toy, clean and bald, from within the open chest cavity. Great wings stirred in the mire. 'I want to see, ' Tom wailed to the nurse, knowing that above all, he did not want to see. . . .

Coleman Collins, wearing a red velvet smoking jacket, bent toward him. 'Come with me, my little boy, come along, come along. . . ' and Skeleton Ridpath, no age at all, leaned forward in a chair and watched with a vacant avid face. He held a glass owl in his hands and bled from the eyes. . .

and a black man with a square, serious, elegant magician's face was standing in a corridor of light, holding out a real owl with both hands. The owl's eyes beamed brilliantly toward him. Let him in, said the magician; let me in, commanded the owl. . . .

He stirred, finally aware that a voice at his door was saying, 'Let me in. Let me in. ' He remembered, in an unhappy flash of memory, that the man holding the owl had been Bud Copeland.

'Please, ' said the voice at the door.

'All right, all right, ' Tom said. 'Who is it? '

'Please. '

Tom switched on his bedside light, stepped into his jeans, and pulled a shirt over his arms. He padded to the door and opened it.

Rose Armstrong was standing in the dark hall. 'I wanted to see you, ' she said. 'This place is no good for you. '

'You're telling me, ' Tom said, aware of his rumpled hair and bared chest. His face felt numb with sleep. Rose stepped around him and went into his room.

'Poor grumpy Tom, ' she said. 'I want to get out of here, and I want you and Del to help me. '

Now Tom was fully awake: his nightmares blew away like fluff, and he was aware only of this pretty girl with her half-adult face standing before him in a yellow blouse and green skirt. The Carson colors, he dimly noted. 'I don't mean right away, because we couldn't, ' she explained. 'But soon. As soon as we could. Would you help? '

'Would Del? ' he asked. He knew the strongest reason for Del's refusal. 'I don't know much about Coleman Collins, but I bet if Del sneaked out of here, he'd never be able to come back: '

'Maybe he shouldn't ever want to come back. May I sit down? '

'Uh, yeah, sorry. ' He watched her go to the chair and neatly sit, looking at him all the while: she was relieved, he saw — or was that just her face again, meaninglessly recording the expectation of rejection? Having this girl in his room made him nervous; she seemed far more poised than he. And she had spoken the idea which should have been his, which he had been too anchored in Shadowland to have — the simple idea of escape.

'I thought you said you owed Collins everything, ' he said. He sat on the floor because there was nowhere else to sit but the bed.

'That's true, but he's changing too much. Everything's different this year. Because you're here, I think. '

'How is it different? '

She looked at her small hands. 'It used to be fun before. He wasn't drunk so often. He wasn't so angry and so. . . worked up. Now it's sort of like he lost control. He scares me. This summer, everything is so wild. It feels like a machine that's spinning around faster and faster, shooting off sparks, smoking away — ready to blow up. At least that's how I feel. '

'What could I have to do with that? ' He looked up at her as if she were an oracle: her shining knees, her glowing hair falling back from her high forehead. Even the way she spoke was full of little shocks for him, the clipped, slightly twangy Vermont accent. Suddenly his own voice seemed odd in his mouth, too slow and somehow dusty.

'I think he's jealous of you. He sees something in, you — something he says you're too young to see yourself. You could be better than he is. He wants to own you. He wants you to stay here forever. From the time Del first mentioned you, he started talking about you. I heard him talking about you lots of times last winter and spring. He was going on about you and Del all the time. '

She gave him a flat, unmeasured look that slid deeply within him, and he saw himself lifting a log with his mind alone, making it spin crazily, sickly, in midair. 'Really, I think you should get out of here. I'm not saying that just because I want you to help me. '

'Why do you need help? '

'Oh, because. . . ' She looked into his heart again, then tucked her hair back behind her ears. 'Do you think you could get off that ridiculous floor and sit here? ' She looked toward the bed; back at him.

He moved as if ordered.

When he sat on the edge of the bed, her startling face was only a foot from him. Her eyes, permanently wide and flecked with pale blue and gold and green, drew him in. 'I need help because I'm scared. It's those men — you mentioned them that first time, in Del's room. '

'Are they bothering you? '

'They might. They could. They wouldn't mind a bit. You know what they're like. They're animals. Mr. Collins used to watch them, but this summer they sort of run free. They have work to do — for him, you know — but I'm afraid that when they have a couple of days free. . . ' She nervously tucked back her hair again. 'They know where I'm staying. They drink a lot, too, and Mr. Collins didn't used to let them do that. I never liked them. But before, I was little. I was a little girl. ' She let the implication state itself.

'Why don't you just go? '

'I think someone always knows where I am. I can just sneak out sometimes and swim across the lake. They don't mind if I swim. Today I had to buy some things in town, so they let me go. They know I talk to Del sometimes. They don't mind that either. They laugh about it. ' Her face went smooth and hard and inward for a moment. 'I hate them. I really do hate them. If Mr. Collins was the way he usually is, it would be okay, but. . . ' The sentence died. 'And I wanted to tell you what I was thinking. Do you want to leave here? '

'I'd have to trust you, ' Tom said.

'Why? Oh. You mean, maybe it's a trick? '

Tom nodded. 'Everything's a trick, here. '

'Well, do you trust me? What can I say to make you feel that. . . ? ' She blushed. 'Tom, I'm all alone. I like you. I want to know you better. I'm happy you came this summer. I just think that we can help each other. '

'I guess I can trust you, ' Tom said. In truth, it was not possible for him not to trust her.

She smiled. 'It would be terrible if you didn't. I want to help, Tom. I want to help us. '

Us. The word seemed to fall toward his heart, along with the darting half-bold, half-sly glances into his eyes.

'Del thinks a lot of you, ' he said.

'I think a lot of Del. ' The sentence put Del at a cliche's distance from her.

'I mean, he cares about you. '

'Del is really a little boy, ' Rose said, looking straight at him, and Tom felt the moral universe shift about him, expanding too quickly for him to keep track of it. 'Physically he is a little boy. Mentally he has a lot of sophistication because of the way he was brought up, but actually you are a lot older than Del is. That was the first thing. I noticed when I met you. Besides that, you were so grumpy. '

'Grumpy? I was nervous as a puppy! '

She laughed; then, with her face turned fully toward him, she took his hand and leaned forward. She was blushing. 'Tom, my life has been so funny. . . . I'm asking you to rescue me, I guess — and that sounds so dumb, like a princess in a story. I hardly even know you, but I feel like we're close already. . . . You're going to have to talk Del into leaving his uncle, and it'll break his heart. . . . ' She leaned an inch closer, and in front of Tom her face filled the room, large and enigmatic and beautiful as a model's face on a billboard. When their lips met, Tom's whole being seemed concentrated in the few centimeters of skin that touched her mouth. By instinct but awkwardly he put his arms around her.

She pulled back. 'You won't believe me, but the first time I saw you, I wanted to kiss you. '

'I thought you and Del — '

'Del is a little boy, ' she repeated, and they kissed again. 'We can meet outside sometimes. I'll tell you how. I'll arrange it. And I already know when we can escape. Mr. Collins is planning some big show — some big thing — in a little while. If you and Del will help, we can all get away then. '

'But where can we go? '

'Into the village. From there, we can go anywhere. But we'd be safe in Hilly Vale. '

'I have to get a letter out. '

'Give it to Elena. She's the only one who goes to the village regularly. I think she'll mail it for you. ' Rose stood up and smoothed out her skirt. She looked tense and slightly drawn. 'But be careful. And don't pay attention to anything you see me doing — I'm only doing it because I have to. Because he's making me do it. Just wait until you hear from me. Promise? '

'Promise. '

'And do you trust me? '

'Yes. I do. '

'We have to trust each other from now on. '

Tom nodded, and she flickered a tentative smile at him and slipped away out the door.

A minute later he stood on the balcony outside in the warm fragrant air. He watched her disappearing into the woods down beside the lake, and stayed on the balcony until he saw her entering one of the circles of light. She turned and waved; he waved back at her slight, determined-looking figure.

After that he could not fall asleep again. He kept remembering her face swimming up before him, becoming more certain and beautiful the closer it came. That she had allowed him to kiss her was a blessing: it had not at all been like kissing Jenny Oliver or Diane Darling. Rose Armstrong was beyond his experience in a thousand incalculable ways. The unknown surrounded her, cast all of her words and gestures into relief — that yearning brooding uncertain beautiful face looming up before him, claiming him, not as much asking for trust as demanding it, had in some way been the essence of Shadowland. Certainly it was as unexpected as everything at Shadowland; as dreamlike, too, in its suddenness. And Rose Armstrong was much better at kissing than his earlier girlfriends. That, the sharp responsive physicality of her mouth, was anything but dreamlike. He lay in his narrow bed, wondering. What was she promising him? Del is just a little boy. He could not bear to think of Rose Armstrong in the company of Mr. Peet's brutes, but his mind perversely would not leave these pictures be: as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Seed or Thorn pushing toward her, all belly and beard. Then he saw her as he had with Del, pulsing through the dark water.

After half an hour he threw back his sheets and got up. He felt impatient, constrained by the room. With nothing else to do, he decided to write to his mother. Sheets of paper and envelopes were just under the flap of the desk. Still in his underwear, he sat and wrote.

Dear Mom,

I miss you lots. I miss Dad too, just like he was still alive and pretty soon I could go home and see him again. I guess I'll feel like that for a long time.

Del and I arrived safely, but the train before ours had a bad wreck. This is the strangest place anybody could be. Del's uncle is such a good magician that he can really mess up your mind. He keeps saying that I could be a good magician too, but I don't want to be like him.

I want to come home. It's not just homesickness. Honest. If I can get us out of this place, could you arrange to be back home? I guess I won't be able to get a letter back from you for about two weeks, but could you please. . .

That was no good. He balled it up and threw it in the wastebasket.

Dear Mom,

I'll explain later, but Del and I have to get out of this house. Can you possibly cut your trip short and come back sooner than you planned? Send me a telegram. This is urgent. I'm not joking, and I'm not just homesick.

Love,

Tom

This he folded into an envelope, wrote the address of the London hotel where Rachel Flanagan was staying, printed 'airmail' and 'please forward' on it just in case, and put the envelope on top of the desk. He stared at it, knowing that it committed him to trying to get Del to leave Shadowland. Now he was truly the traitor the magician had said he was.

But he could be a magician without Coleman Collins, and so could Del. You didn't have to lock yourself up in a fortress and apprentice yourself to an alcoholic madman. . . . These thoughts bounced against an area in himself which he did not wish to acknowledge, but which was there all the same; part of him was fascinated by Shadowland, and intrigued by the powers Coleman Collins might be able to find in him. You are exactly the right age. . . . Two and a half months isn't long enough. This was still tempting: after seeing Collins at work, any career but that of magician seemed flat to him.

Tom dressed, knowing that he could not sleep. He put the envelope in his wallet, the wallet back in his hip pocket. For a time he paced around the austere room, knowing that there was something he had intended to do, something suggested by a comment made before Rose Armstrong had sent everything but herself out of his mind, but not remembering what it was.

He had wanted to look at something. . . That was as far as he got.

Tom flopped down in the chair — the chair where she had sat — and picked up his book. He willed himself into Nero Wolfe's round of the orchid room, the kitchen, and office, but read only ten pages before he gave up. That orderly, talkative adult world was not his. His stomach growled. He decided to go downstairs and see what was in the refrigerator. Collins had not forbidden him that.

He closed the door behind him and slipped down the hall. The magician's room was dark — what was it like in there, behind the swinging doors? As bleak as Tom's own room? Or would it look like Del's room at home, crowded with photographs and the apparatus of magic? He did not want to find out.

Down the stairs, around the corner in darkness into the long hall. Scattered ceiling lights dimly shone. This time he remembered to stop before the posters.

He was looking at one from the Gaiety Theater, ' Dublin. A night of spectacle and enchantment, it said in ornate type. Halfway down the list of names Tom found herbie butter, the Amazing Mechanical Magician and Acrobat. Beneath that but in type of the same size was this line: Assisted by speckle john, master of black mystery. Beneath this, in slightly larger type: THRILL TO THEIR WIZARDRY, GASP AT THEIR OCCULT SKILLS. Far down the list of mainly Irish names Tom found' The Astounding Mr. Peet and the Wandering Boys-Music and Madness. Tom searched the ornate poster for a date and saw it near the top: 21 July, 1921.

The poster beside it was in French, and featured a drawing of a black-hatted magician emerging from a puff of smoke. Was that where Del had got the idea for the beginning of their own performance? monsieur herbie butter, l'orioinal. avec speckle john. This was dated 15 Mai, 1921.

Other posters were from London, Rome, Paris again, Bern, Florence. In some, Speckle John's name preceded Herbie Butter's. Mr. Peet and the Wandering Boys appeared on most of them. The dates of the performances spanned from 1919 to 1924. The last poster, from the Wood Green Empire in London, announced The Last Appearance on any Stage, by the Beloved Herbie Butter. Farewell Performance. Thrills, Surprises, and Frights Guaranteed. Here the illustration was of a smooth-faced young man in tails floating above an astonished audience, his arms out before him, his legs together like a man in the middle of a dive. Beneath the illustration was a line stating that Mr. Peet and the Wandering Boys would assist. With an appearance by the Collector. Feats of mentalism. Defiance of gravity. Fire. Ice. The astounding Collector! Invisibility! Wizardry Unparalleled-Feats never before attempted on the English Stage. A Magical Extravaganza. The date on the poster was 27 August, 1924.

Then someone was moving, a shape was coming from the living room out into the hall. Tom gasped and whirled around to face it.

The old woman, Elena, was glowering at him. In a flash, she had disappeared back into the living room.

'Elena! ' Tom called. 'Please! ' He ran down the hall and into the room. The woman was hovering by a couch, knotting her hands together before her. She looked very uneasy. Tom stopped running and held up his hands, palm out. 'Please, ' he said. Her black eyes burrowed into him. 'Letter? Post office? '

She dropped her hands, but her face did not change. Tom pulled out his wallet and showed her the letter. 'Post office? Will you mail it for me? '

She glowered. Looked at the letter in his hands. 'Post office? '

'Si. Da. Yes. Please. '

Elena stabbed her forefinger toward the letter. 'Momma? You momma? '

He nodded. 'Please, Elena. Help me. '

'Is okay. Post office. ' She snatched the envelope out of his hands and buried it somewhere in her apron. Then she went past him without another word.

So now it was settled. He had two weeks at the most before he and Del and Rose would have to leave Shadowland.

Tom turned on the kitchen lights. Both the stove and the refrigerator were outsize and made of stainless steel — restaurant equipment. And when he swung open the refrigerator's double doors, he saw piles of steaks, cooked hams, heads of lettuce, bags of tomatoes and cucumbers, gallon jars of mayonnaise, rolled roasts of beef — as much food as he had ever seen in one place. All this, for one man and his housekeeper? And a restaurant range to cook it on? Of course — it was for Mr. Peet and the Wandering Boys as well as Collins and Elena. Tom searched the drawers for a knife, found a long bone-handled carving blade, and cut a section of ham away from the bone.

Chewing, he remembered what he had wanted to do, and the thought nearly made the ham stick in his throat. Because of what the 'Brothers Grimm' had said, he had decided to take another look at the Collector in the bathroom mirror.

For the sake of your story, he is.

Del had said the face just came forward until it was near your own, and then retreated. It was a grisly joke, a Shadowland joke. All he wanted to do was to see how closely the horrible face actually resembled Skeleton Ridpath's. That was all he wanted, but it still scared him.

Tom left the kitchen and walked slowly back down the hall to the bathroom door. He jittered there a moment, now thinking that the idea of inspecting Coleman Collins' macabre joke was silly.

Not really, he thought. Because it would be better to find that the Collector did not look any more like Skeleton Ridpath than Snail or Root did — that way, he could get rid of the feeling that he and Del were still in some awful way linked to Skeleton Ridpath: that graduation had not taken Skeleton out of their lives.

But of course it did, he thought, putting his hand on the doorknob. He's gone for good. Then Tom remembered the day, years before, when an eighth-grade Skeleton had knocked him down in the Junior School playground; and knocked him down again; and then flurried his sharp fists and shredded his lip. Dirty little Irish nigger, dirty little Irish nigger: spitting that out mindlessly, his eyes showing that his brain had switched off absolutely. Skeleton had struck his face and slobbered with glee, and struck his face again, making his nose bleed. Tom had fought back, but Skeleton was three years older; he had never got close enough to land a blow, and Skeleton kept chipping away at his face. It might have gone on until the end of recess if one of the teachers had not pulled Skeleton away and sent him home.

The humiliation had been worse than the pain. The pain went away, but Skeleton Ridpath returned to school and the playground, a spindly, snaky eighth-grader who had only to look at Tom to tyrannize him. Long before Del's arrival at Carson, Tom had felt hounded by the coach's son. Tackling him, bringing him down hard again and again in the practice game between the varsity and the junior varsity, had helped him face down Skeleton during all the trouble with Del.

All right. He swallowed, reminded himself that it was just a joke and that Del had seen it a hundred times, and opened the door. He flicked the lights. His own face looked worriedly back at him from the mirror. The button, the one that brought the Collector, was just beside the light switch. It just comes up close and then melts back down into the mirror. He took a breath and pushed the button.

The yellow light instantly turned purple. That other face swam up from the mirror like something hidden hi his own face. For a second, his own features obscured it. He knew in his stomach that he had made a mistake.

Then the avid, greedy face jumped into life. Purple, with distorted mouth and dead skin and flabby smudges under its eyes. Tom groaned, all but quailed back against the wall. It was Skeleton Ridpath's face, and no other: Skeleton blowtorched down to painful essence, skinned of whatever was human and pitying in him. Skeleton grinned at him and crawled forward.

Tom's knees turned to rubber. The figure was lifting its hands. Mirror image, Tom thought with weird rationality. Now the entire trunk was protruding out of the mirror, leaning toward him.

Tom backed away, in his panic forgetting all about the button. Skeleton's face was alight. He was holding himself up on the edge of the mirror, taking his weight on his arms in order to get his knee on the silver frame.

'Go back, ' Tom whispered.

Skeleton's knee appeared on the lip of the mirror. He opened his mouth in a wordless shout of rapture, and pushed his leg through the mirror.

'No, ' said Tom, barely able to get the word out.

The awful face homed in on the sound of his voice; the distorted mouth began to drool. The Collector was blind. He grinned, showing purplish blackness instead of teeth. Balanced on the sink, he soundlessly dropped his feet to the floor.

Tom bumped into the door, moving sideways, then realized what the door meant. He opened it a crack, the Collector's face scanning brightly toward him, and jumped through the opening. He slammed the door shut and heard Skeleton's feet shuffle on the floor.

Bracing himself, Tom pushed in with all his strength: in an instant, the world had flipped inside-out and turned his mind to jelly. He felt a gentle push from the inside, then a harder push that nearly moved him. Tom laid his cheek against the wood and got his shoulder to the door. He heard himself making little whistling noises in his throat. Keeping the door closed was all he could think of. The next push wobbled him, but his feet held. When Skeleton came back for another attempt to escape the bathroom, he battered the door open an inch and a half before Tom was able to jam it shut again.

He saw himself standing there all night, bottling Skeleton up inside the bathroom.

The fifth blow knocked him back off his feet — he went sprawling in the corridor, and the door banged open. The Collector stood on the threshold, arms dangling, his face swiveling avidly from side to side. He wore the ancient black suit of the mural, and it too shone a faint purple. He shuffled forward.

Tom scuttled backward and got to his feet, making enough noise for the figure to focus directly on him. The Collector's face split open in a grin of empty radiance. 'Great play, ' he whispered in a voice a shadow of Skeleton's.

He stumbled forward. 'I told you to stay away from that piano. Take off that fairy shirt. I want to see some skin. '

Tom ran.

'Flanagini! Flanagini! FLAAAAANAGINNNIII! '

Panting, Tom wheeled around the corner into the living room. Hide behind a couch? Behind a curtain? He could barely think: pictures of hiding places too small for him rattled through his mind. From Rose Armstrong to this. . . thing, as though a line were drawn between them.

Why, sure, Tom thought with bright panic: Rose wanted out of Shadowland, Skeleton wanted out of the mirror. Simple.

'I saw your owl, Vendouris, ' whispered a voice behind him. 'You are mine. '

Tom spun around and saw purple Skeleton skimming toward him. He uttered a squeak and dodged to the side. Skeleton snaked out an arm and dug his fingers into his shoulder. The thin fingers burned through Tom's shirt like ice. 'Dirty little Irish nigger! ' Tom banged the side of his fist against Skeleton's unheeding head, twisted in frantic disgust to the side, and lost his balance. Skeleton lurched nearer, Tom swung and hit a rock-hard chest, and when Tom twisted again, he brought both of them down onto the flowered couch.