“No. You’re right, nothing happens by accident. Sit down.”
Grasshopper sits back down eagerly, legs folded. Ancient’s annoyed face stirs up hope inside him. The seniors are powerful and subtle. There will come a day when he’s going to be like that, too.
“Are they still bullying you? I seem to remember Blind telling me about it.”
“It’s less now,” Grasshopper answers readily. “They got bored, I guess. Just . . . pick on me sometimes, that’s all.”
“All right.” Ancient ponders something behind the closed snow-white eyelashes. “Tell me again how you felt that Great Power of yours. There must be a way to revive it. We may still find it. I need to hear one more time.”
Grasshopper shrugs his shoulders again to throw back the sleeves of his jacket and tries to explain everything one more time from the beginning. Ancient looks almost asleep, but he’s not sleeping. The lamp, turned to the wall, casts a golden halo on it. The fish bump against the glass of the tank with their puffy lips.
“I see,” Ancient says after Grasshopper stops talking. “I understand now. Well, this happens sometimes. I thought I was giving you power, but instead it was something else. Something much better. Only now you lost it. That happens too.”
Grasshopper’s lips tremble. Ancient pretends not to see that. The smoke writhes transparently between his fingers.
“And the reason is,” he continues softly, “that you are still too little for that amulet. I warned you, I never make them for children. But you can turn it back on. Even if you aren’t able to do it right away, I’m almost sure you will when you’re older. It’s for an adult, see.”
Grasshopper isn’t even trying to conceal his disappointment.
“And now? What about now? I can’t wait that long.”
Having caught Ancient’s rising irritation, Grasshopper rushes to explain.
“It’s not because I want it right now. I swear! But they all say that I’m not good for anything, and even those who don’t say it must think the same. They’re all stronger than I am because they all have arms. All of them,” he says with quiet horror. “And if I am going to remain like this until I grow up, there would be nothing I could do about it then. They are all going to remember that I was useless. Always. How am I supposed to become the next Skull then?”
Ancient clears his throat and waves the smoke away.
“Good question. Don’t you think you just might become someone else instead? Two Skulls would be a bit much for one House.”
“All right, not Skull,” Grasshopper agrees. “Someone else. But only if that someone else is like Skull.”
Ancient averts his gaze, unable to look at the empty sleeves and the burning eyes.
“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
His face is angry now, scaring Grasshopper, even though the anger is not directed at him.
“Right,” Ancient says. “Tell me, who’s the most powerful man in the House?”
“Skull,” Grasshopper says without hesitation.
“And who’s the smartest?”
“Well . . . they say . . . you?”
“Listen, then, to what the smartest man in this big gray box is telling you. There is one way to give the amulet its power back. Only one. It’s very hard. Harder than anything. You’ll have to do everything exactly as I say. Not once, not for a couple of days, but for many, many days. And if you fail to do it completely and fully, even once, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest thing . . .”
Grasshopper shakes his head vigorously.
“If you miss something, or forget, or just get lazy”—Ancient pauses ominously—“the amulet will lose all of its power forever. Might as well throw it in the trash.”
Grasshopper freezes.
“So think about it,” Ancient concludes. “You still have time.”
“Yes,” Grasshopper whispers. “Yes. I’ll do everything. I’m not going to miss or forget.”
“You didn’t even ask what it is that you’re promising to do.”
“I forgot,” Grasshopper admits. “What is it I’m promising to do?”
“Things,” Ancient says mysteriously. “Some of them may even seem dull or boring. For example”—his extinguished cigarette zigzags in the air—“I might order you to think magic words. Every morning as you wake up and every night before you fall asleep. Or say them to yourself very softly. They may sound simple, but you’ll have to repeat them like you mean them. Every time. Or here’s something I might say.” Ancient smiles at his thoughts. “I’d say, ‘Today you’re not allowed to utter a single word.’ And then you must be silent.”
“What about classes? I can’t be completely silent in class.”
“There are no classes on weekends.”
“What if the counselors . . .”
“You see?” Ancient throws up his hands. “You’re already arguing with me. Looking for an out. It doesn’t work like that. Either you agree or you don’t.”
Grasshopper blinks.
“Go hide in the attic, if you have to. But whatever you do that day, you do it in silence. And that’s one of the easy ones. They’ll get harder as we go along. For example, several days of not feeling sorry for yourself. Or not getting angry. That one is very hard. Not even Skull can do that.”
The mention of Skull cheers up disheartened Grasshopper.
“Are all the tasks going to be like that? Like . . .” He searches for the right word. “Brainy?”
“The spirit is more important than the body,” Ancient proclaims. “But if you are referring to the physical side, don’t worry. We’ll do that too. You’re not going to have it easy.”
“Will I have to fight?”
“Not for a while. It’s not essential, really. But for starters, you’re going to kiss both of your heels.”
Grasshopper smiles.
“How so?”
“Simple.” Ancient spreads out the blanket, shakes out the crumbs, and wraps it around himself again. “I’m going to say: ‘On this and this day you are to appear here before me and kiss your heels.’ One, and then the other. While standing, of course. Anyone can do it sitting down. And you’re either going to do it, or forfeit the whole task.”
“When are you going to say that?”
“Not today. And not tomorrow. First things first.”
In Grasshopper’s misty gaze Ancient reads the future, and it definitely includes attempts at kissing the heels. Very soon. Ancient hides his smile in a glass of lemonade. He takes a very long sip, and when he puts away the glass he’s somber again.
“All right, that’s enough,” he says. “I shouldn’t even have told you all of that ahead of time. It’s late. Go, think it over carefully. I’d drop the whole thing if I were you.”
Grasshopper rises up reluctantly.
“I’ve decided. I’m not going to change my mind. I will be silent, and I will be whatever else. Can you give me a task now?”
Ancient looks at his watch.
“That’s it for today,” he says. “The tasks will have to wait until tomorrow. I need to remember all the magic words. And a lot of other things too. Now go and think. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Grasshopper walks backward to the door, nodding all the while. Once he’s in the hallway he just stands there in uncertainty, as if not knowing where he’s supposed to go. The bright lights are hard on his eyes after the darkness of the room. Finally he turns and shuffles away along the corridor. His boots scuff listlessly at the floor. He is walking full of the innermost secrets and strange visions. Of magic words, of pitiless and angerless weeks, of big Skull and little Skull, of Bruce Lee kissing his own heels, of Blind asking “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Of voices around him: “He’s become so strange lately.” It lies heavy on Grasshopper, but also suddenly fills him with pride.
“Not even Skull can do that,” he mutters. “For him that would be too hard.”
Humpback is on his haunches by the doghouse, petting the re
sident dog and rubbing it behind the ears. Grasshopper comes over. Humpback gets up and follows him to the fence. To the place where the bushes hide the secret tunnel to the Outsides.
Humpback’s shirt is covered in stains and splotches. He’s wearing sunglasses that used to belong to one of the seniors; one side is cracked. They keep sliding down his nose, exposing the conjoined half-moons of his eyebrows. The yard is reflected in the twin round mirrors. His cap is covered in pins and badges. He takes off the shades and the cap deliberately, like a swimmer about to go into the water. On the other side of the fence, in the outside world, the five scruffy stray dogs all react to this gesture in unison: they whine and brush the ground impatiently with their tails.
“Down!” Humpback commands. “Sit!”
The passage into the Outsides was constructed by the seniors. When autumn arrives, the bushes around it grow thinner, and then it can be seen from a distance. That’s why dried leaves are piled around it. But the dogs still know where it is, and when Humpback approaches the right spot, they become even more agitated.
“Shall we?” Humpback says and reaches into the pocket of Grasshopper’s coat.
They exchange knowing smiles.
Humpback produces a grease-stained package, hides it under his shirt, crouches down, and crawls into the bushes. The camouflage leaves stream on top of him like a rustling waterfall. The hole in the fence is now evident, and the whimpering dogs jostle each other to sniff at the black-haired, shaggy head that has suddenly appeared on their side.
“Sit!” Humpback shouts, trying to make them back down.
Surprisingly they do sit, in a docile circle, with only their tails still thumping the ground. Each receives its share, and then there are just chomping noises. It doesn’t take long. When it’s all gone, Humpback lets them sniff him, at his hands and his pockets, to assure them that he’s not hiding anything. He goes back the same way and emerges covered in clods of wet earth. They shovel the leaves back into the bushes. The dogs snap at each other and run back and forth along the fence.
“Wild animals,” Humpback observes thoughtfully, watching them. “No one needs them. All by themselves . . .”
“Newbie!” the boys shout to each other as they run.
The word is passed down the chain, even the walls seem to vibrate as they absorb it. Wherever a member of the Pack was peacefully excavating his nostrils, or tossing a ball, or trying to coax a cat to come closer so he could tie a bottle to its tail, this enticing vibration in the walls and in his own legs prompts him to abandon all other pursuits and run, overtake the ones running in front, and pick up the airborne word: “Newbie!” And then, putting on the brakes in front of the door of the Sixth, elbow aside those who came first—to look, to inhale that scent that new arrivals always bring in. Only the children of the House can feel it. The fleeting scent of the mother’s warmth, of hot chocolate in the morning, of packed lunches, a dog, maybe even a bicycle. Scent of one’s own home. The farther it drifts back in time for the denizens of Stuffage, the sharper they sense it on someone else.
And so they run, they rush and hurry, only to freeze once arrived and sniff at the air and see just a scrawny little boy on crutches, smiling plaintively, showing his braces, a boy with a ragged haircut, with one of the shoes so strange that it obviously cannot contain a regular foot. Grasshopper runs with the rest of them, and gawks with the rest of them too. His eyes are open wide, he shoves and jostles those in front of him. He’s not after any scents, as he hasn’t learned to distinguish them yet. For him the newbie means simply a boy who looks strange and smells of the Outsides. What he also means is the end of the war, end of humiliation, a ticket into the Pack and the peaceful life. But when he hears that word tossed around in excited whispers, he still cringes, as if they were talking about him.
The boy is surrounded.
“Hey you, newbie!” they laugh.
One of the Siamese pulls up the boy’s pant leg, and the Pack examines the foot with the air of experts. The newbie sways uncertainly on his crutches.
“They’ll cut it off. Like all of it,” says one of the Siamese.
“Naturally,” affirms the assembled choir.
“Mama’s boy,” Hoover adds dreamily. “Gonna be without a leg.” And he forcefully inhales the sweet scent of home.
Grasshopper realizes that he’s waiting for the familiar insults: “Elk’s Pet” and “Blind’s Tail.” They are not uttered, but it seems like they will be in a moment. They really are on the tips of the tongues. The boys have got so used to shouting it out in a certain sequence that they are confused and angry at the sudden drying out of their reservoir of curses.
Grasshopper steps back. He is uneasy. The joy he was feeling is quickly overshadowed by despair. He is stepping closer and closer toward the door, until he’s out of the circle, out of the room, until he can see only their backs, and still he can’t erase the image in his mind, the image of the boy drooping on his crutches, the boy who has taken his place and assumed his horrible designation. Grasshopper is now standing behind everybody else. Farther behind than necessary, to show his noninvolvement. When the ritual runs its course and the boys start to drift off, he doesn’t move. He waits until the last one of them goes away, then waits a bit more and enters the dorm.
THE FOREST
Blind was walking waist-deep in the coarse weeds. His sneakers squelched. He’d managed to take on water somewhere. His heels clung to the wet rubber, and he was thinking of taking off the shoes and continuing barefoot. He decided against it: the grass could cut, there were thorns in it, and also disgusting slugs that, once squashed, were almost impossible to wash off. There were other things too, something resembling soggy cotton balls, and something else, like clumps of tangled hair, and all of that inhabited the noxious grass, ate it, crawled in it, intoxicated by its vapors, gave birth, and died, turning into muck. It was all grass, if you stopped to think about it, all flesh was as grass and nothing more.
Blind took a dainty snail’s shell off a tendril that slashed at his hand. The snails clung to the tops of the weeds and knocked against each other, sounding like hollow walnuts. He slipped the shell in his pocket. He knew the pocket was going to be empty when he returned, but he still took something with him every time, out of habit.
He threw back his head. The moon washed out his face. The Forest was very close now. Blind quickened his step, even though he knew he shouldn’t; the Forest did not like the impatient and could draw back from them. It had happened before: he’d search for it and not be able to find, feel it nearby and not be able to enter. The Forest was moody and fickle. Many roads led to it, but all of them were long and winding. You could go through the swamp or through the noxious meadow. Once he’d ended up in it by crossing an abandoned dump strewn with busted tires, rusting iron, and broken glass; there he gashed his hand on a piece of sharp metal and lost his favorite rope bracelet. That time the Forest grabbed him of its own accord, picked him up in its tree-trunk arms and pulled him inside, into the stuffy thickets of its damp heart.
The Forest was beautiful. It was shaggy and mysterious, and concealed deep burrows and the strange denizens of those burrows. It never knew the sun and never let the wind through, it was inhabited by the dogheads and the whistlers, giant blackcap mushrooms and bloodsucking flowers grew in it. Somewhere, Blind was never quite sure where, exactly, there was the lake and the river feeding it, maybe even more than one. The road to the Forest began in the hallway, at the doors of the dorms behind which boys snored and whispered, on the moaning rickety floorboards, right behind the indignantly squeaking rats scurrying to avoid him in the dark.
Blind was ready to enter it now. The noxious meadow ended. He lingered, inhaling the scent of the wet leaves, and then heard the footsteps. The Forest vanished in an instant and took the smells with it. The footsteps drew closer, it was obvious now that the walker limped. He also reeked of nail polish and mint gum. Blind smiled and stepped forward.
“Hey! Who’s th
ere?” Vulture whispered, shrinking away.
A match flared.
“Oh. It’s you . . .”
“You have frightened my Forest, Gimpyleg,” Blind said lightly, but the voice betrayed his disappointment.
“My sincere apologies!” Vulture sounded genuinely upset. “But there is someone coming through right behind. Heavyweight, too. Why don’t we clear the way?”
“All right.”
They stepped closer to the wall. Vulture leaned on it gingerly, trying not to get the stains on himself. Blind pressed against it from head to toe. Somewhere in the vicinity of the Crossroads, a door slammed. Moonlight pierced the corridor. Then the sound of footsteps and breathing. Something heavy was treading the path. It was pushing through, moaning and huffing, the debris from the tops of the trees cascading over its back. The steam curling from its nostrils brushed their faces, making them press even harder into the wall. The beast stopped, inhaled nervously, trembled, and thundered off, noisily breaking the trunks along the way and leaving a blackened trail of trampled earth in its wake. Blind turned to Vulture.
“That was your Elephant.”
“Come off it, Blind! Elephant is a wimp, he would never go out by himself in the night. Even in the middle of the day he is scared of being alone.”
“Still, it was him. Go see for yourself if you want.”
“I don’t. If you say it was him, then it was. Which is very strange. And not a good sign. Would you like to go and have a smoke now?”
Vulture pulled open the door to one of the disused classrooms. They entered, closed the door behind them, and sat down on the floor. They lit up and made themselves comfortable. Then lay down, propped on their elbows. The smells of the meadow returned. Time rushed past. Gray House lurked within its own mute walls.
“Do you remember, Blind . . . You were talking about this wheel once. The huge ancient wheel, with so much stuff clinging to it that it’s not entirely clear it is a wheel anymore, and it turns. Very slowly, but still it turns. One could get run over, while the other is carried up high. Remember? You said then that it was possible to predict its motion by the squeaking noise, long before it actually completes the turn. Listen to the squeaking and tell.”
The Gray House Page 14
