“If you think I’m going to let my child grow up to be a schizophrene, you’re wrong, Jeff Fransen. Any psychologist will tell you—children have got to get out of their dream worlds and the sooner they do, the better. Do you think we’d be able to keep him off trains the rest of his life?”
“But honey, he’s only ten!”
“Ten-year-old kids write books on sex these days.”
“He’ll hate us—I’m telling you. If you take him into his ‘train’ this time and let him get disappointed, he’ll hate us.”
“Nonsense. You’re—honestly, Jeff, you’re talking like a first grade pupil, not a college professor!”
“All right, all right. You’ll be taking him; it’s you he’ll hate most.”
Neely shook his head of all the crazy words and let the cindery wind claw at his face. He was alone now, in the Train. Everyone else was sleeping and he had seen the Train again.
He stood, holding the rail, feeling the movement, laughing at the night whirling by.
Time was now the little hand on a clock and the mercury in a thermometer. It almost stopped: Neely stood on the platform, holding it all motionless within himself.
He didn’t know how many hours were passing, or days, or minutes, maybe. For he had the thought that was the most wonderful of all: the thought of everything staying just like it was. He could stand forever on the platform of his World and never go back. Mother would sleep forever in the faraway berth and Father would be forever waiting and Time would suspend itself as it was now. . . .
The sudden slowing and jogging and voices filled the air, but not Neely’s mind. He had the thought of all eternity in the Train, so for now his mind was filled and there was not room for more.
“Pull ’er on up ahead to the tank,” said a voice. “We’ll keep this one here.”
“Hotbox on 916—I already told MacCready it’d take about half an hour,” said another voice.
“Pull ’er up anyways. We’re running late,” a third voice called.
The buzz of words, close-by. Violet flares. The sound of feet running and then the mile of green cars disconnecting and rumbling ahead, far ahead up the track and out of sight, leaving the last car in the dark, alone.
Then—stillness.
Neely felt the rush of years deliriously and it was not until he knelt his head to swallow that he saw. The moon had come from behind its layer of clouds and he saw—that the ground no longer moved. The cross-ties were not blurred, but stationary, each one distinct. And the wind had ceased.
He rubbed his eyes, turned and ran the length of the car to the door. He opened it savagely, strained to see, looked out into—
The night.
Excitement gathered as he tried to think. He looked again. Nothing. Just a track leading into blackness, nothing else, no train; and around him, the hills and trees and . . .
He remembered. His wish! It—had come true! Now he couldn’t go back down the halls of the cars, back to Mother. And he couldn’t ever see the other life again. It was a miracle, but the Train itself had been a miracle and this was what he had wished, above all else.
Neely felt his heart about to explode. He raced back to the platform and saw the empty tracks.
The tears rushed up, suddenly. What had happened? His wish had come true: what had happened, why was he crying?
He had what he wanted and now he was crying, afraid. He was afraid, afraid. Why?
“Please!” Neely screamed. “Please! Make—oh, make it come back. Make it come back. I don’t want to be alone here, I don’t want to be alone in the Train. Please God!”
He shut his eyes tight, waited and opened them again. Then he stumbled and fell into a corner and sobbed, hysterically, until he realized what he had been saying: That he hated the Train, that he really wanted the other life. No, not that—had to have it. And the strange words began to mold clearly, the words Father had said to Mother. “Don’t let him get disappointed . . .”
The Train melted, even as Neely understood. The Room of Happiness became a washroom; the Train became iron; the wheels wheels. It all became, slowly, a way to get from one place to another, a machine invented by somebody years and years ago, put together by men, used by people.
Neely screamed out his confusion, sobbed until his throat could make no sound.
Then the black darkness came and entered his mind. . . .
The bridge of black was long—it stretched far across Time. Things happened, they had happened, they were happening: people appeared, talking and exclaiming; and Mother, excited, nervous. Neely felt himself lifted and carried by strong hands, carried through illimitable cars gently while the worried words droned louder, louder in his consciousness. . . . The bridge ascended when he thought of the empty tracks so he stopped thinking and pulled the blackness about him as a quilt to keep out the cold.
But the words came through: he could not cover them over. The important ones came like quick fishes, barbed fishes with big mouths and sharp white teeth.
What’s the matter, lady, don’t you know better than to leave your kid run all over? . . .
Sorry, ma’am—he probably just got scared is all, maybe just too scared to do anything when he seen we was adding that other car. Thought he was being left behind or something, maybe. . . .
Can you hear us, sonny? You all right? Now now, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all over now, all over. See, son, we had what they call a hotbox—that means when something goes wrong, like on a car, you know?—and, see, what we had to do, we had to put on another car. That’s all there was to it. . . .
Don’t suppose he got sick, do you? . . .
No, that doctor’d of said so, wouldn’t he? Kid just got panicky when he seen he was alone. . . .
You think it’s all right now, ma’am? You think we ought to get him anything? Or just put him to bed; yeah, that’s it, best thing in the world for him. . . .
Neely waited until the pool was clear and all the words had gone away; then he let Mother tuck him in and pull down the shades and pat him with her nervous shaking hands.
“Neely, Neely . . .”
He was tired, so he tried to sleep now. But—the noise disturbed him. And the berth was too narrow. And all the shaking and rocking hurt his head.
He tried only once to remember.
Then he lay back and began to wonder when they would finally get to wherever they were going.
The Dark Music
It was not a path at all but a dry white river of shells, washed clean by the hot summer rain and swept by the winds that came over the gulf from Mexico: a million crushed white shells, spread quietly over the cold earth, for the feet of Miss Lydia Maple.
She’d never seen the place before. She’d never been told of it. It couldn’t have been purposeful, her stopping the bus at the unmarked turn, pausing, then inching down the narrow path and stopping again at the tree-formed arch; on the other hand, it certainly was not impulse. She had recognized impulsive actions for what they were years ago: animal actions. And, as she was proud to say, Miss Maple did not choose to think of herself as an animal. Which the residents of Sand Hill might have found a slightly odd attitude for a biology teacher, were it not so characteristic.
Perhaps it was this: that by its virginal nature, the area promised much in the way of specimens. Frogs would be here, and insects, and, if they were lucky, a few garden snakes for the bolder lads.
In any case, Miss Maple was well satisfied. And if one could judge from their excited murmurings, which filtered through the thickness of trees, so were the students.
She smiled. Leaning against the elm, now, with all the forest fragrance rising to her nostrils, and the clean gulf breeze cooling her, she was suddenly very glad indeed that she had selected today for the field trip. Otherwise, she would be at this moment seated in the chalky heat of the classroom. And she would be reminded again of the whole nasty business, made to defend her stand against the clucking tongues, or to pretend there was nothing to d
efend. The newspapers were not difficult to ignore, but it was impossible to shut away the attitude of her colleagues; and—no: one must not think about it.
She looked at the shredded lace of sunlight.
It was a lovely spot! Not a single beer can, not a bottle nor a cellophane wrapper nor even a cigarette to suggest that human beings had ever been here before. It was—pure.
In a way, Miss Maple liked to think of herself in similar terms. She believed in purity, and had her own definition of the word. Of course she realized—how could she doubt it now?—she might be an outmoded and slightly incongruous figure in this day and age; but that was all right. She took pride in the distinction. And to Mr. Owen Tracy’s famous remark that hers was the only biology class in the world where one would hear nothing to discourage the idea of the stork, she had responded as though to a great compliment. The Lord could testify, it hadn’t been easy! How many, she wondered, would have fought as valiantly as she to protect the town’s children from that most pernicious and evil encroachment of them all?
Sex education, indeed!
By all means, let us kill every last lovely dream; let us destroy the only trace of goodness and innocence in this wretched, guilty world!
Miss Maple twitched, vaguely aware that she was dozing. The word sex jarred her toward wakefulness, but purity pulled her back again. What a pity, in a way, she thought, that I was born so late. . . .
She had no idea what the thought meant; only that, for all the force of good she might be in Sand Hill, her battle was probably a losing one; and she was something of a dinosaur. In earlier, unquestionably better times, how different it would have been! Her purity would then have served a very real and necessary function, and would not have called down charges from the magazines that she was “hindering education.” She might have been born in pre-Dynastian Egypt, for instance, and marched at the forefront of the court maidens toward some enormously important sacrifice. Or in the early Virginia, when the ladies were ladies and wore fifteen petticoats and were cherished because of it. Or in New England. In any time but this!
A sound brushed her ear.
She opened her eyes, watched a fat wren on a pipestem twig, and settled back to the half-sleep, deciding to dream a while now about Mr. Hennig and Sally Barnes. They had been meeting secretly after three o’clock, Miss Maple knew. She’d waited, though, and taken her time, and then struck. And she’d caught them, in the basement, doing those unspeakable things.
Mr. Hennig would not be teaching school for a while now.
She stretched, almost invisible against the forest floor. The mouse-colored dress covered her like an embarrassed hand, concealing, not too successfully, the rounded hills of her breasts, keeping the secret of her slender waist and full hips, trailing down below the legs she hated because they were so smooth and white and shapely, down to the plain black leather shoes. Her face was pale and naked as a nun’s, but the lips were large and moist, and the cheekbones high, and it did not look very much like a nun’s face. Miss Maple fought her body and her face every morning, but she was not victorious. In spite of it all, and to her eternal dismay, she was an attractive woman.
The sound came again, and woke her.
It was not the fat bird and it was not the children. It was music. Like the music of flutes, very high-pitched and mellow, yet sharp; and though there was a melody, she could not recognize it.
Miss Maple shook her head, and listened.
The sound was real. It was coming from the forest, distant and far off and if you did not shut out the other noises, you could scarcely hear it. But it was there.
Miss Maple rose, instantly alert, and brushed the leaves and pine needles away. For some reason, she felt a chill.
Why should there be music in a lost place like this?
She listened. The wind cooled through the trees and the piping sound seemed to be carried along with it, light as shadows. Three quick high notes; a pause; then a trill, like an infant’s weeping; and a pause. Miss Maple shivered and started back to the field where the children were. She took three steps and did not take any more in that direction.
The music changed. Now it did not weep, and the notes were not so high-pitched. They were slow and sinuous, lower to the ground.
Imploring. Beckoning. . . .
Miss Maple turned and, without having the slightest notion why, began to walk into the thickness. The foliage was wet, glistening dark green, and it was not long before her thin dress was soaked in many places, but she understood that she must go on. She must find the person who was making such beautiful sounds.
In minutes she was surrounded by bushes, and the trail had vanished. She pushed branches aside, walked, listened.
The music grew louder. It grew nearer. But now it was fast, yelping and crying, and there was great urgency in it. Once, to Miss Maple’s terror, it sounded, for a brief moment, like chuckling; still, there was no note that was not lonely, and sad.
She walked, marveling at her foolishness. It was, of course, not proper for a school teacher to go tumbling through the shrubbery, and she was a proper person. Besides—she stopped, and heard the beating of her heart—what if it were one of those horrid men who live on the banks of rivers and in woods and wait for women? She’d heard of such men.
The music became plaintive. It soothed her, told her not to be afraid; and some of the fear drained away.
She was coming closer, she knew. It had seemed vague and elusive before, now it thrummed in the air and encircled her.
Was there ever such lonely music?
She walked carefully across a webwork of stones. They protruded like small islands from the rushing brook, and the silver water looked very cold, but when her foot slipped and sank, she did not flinch.
The music grew impossibly loud. Miss Maple covered her ears with her hands, and could not still it. She listened and tried to run.
The notes rolled and danced in her mind: shrill screams and soft whispers and silences that pulsed and roared.
Beyond the trees.
Beyond the trees; another step; one more—
Miss Maple threw her hands out and parted the heavy green curtain.
The music stopped.
There was only the sound of the brook, and the wind, and her heart.
She swallowed and let the breath come out of her lungs. Then, slowly, she went through the shrubs and bushes, and rubbed her eyes.
She was standing in a grove. Slender saplings, spotted brown, undulated about her like the necks of restless giraffes, and beneath her feet there was soft golden grass, high and wild. The branches of the trees came together at the top to form a green dome. Sunlight speared the ground.
Miss Maple looked in every direction. Across the grove to the surrounding dark and shadowed woods, and to all sides. And saw nothing. Only the grass and the trees and the sunlight.
Then she sank to the earth and lay still, wondering why she felt such heat and such fear.
It was at this moment that she became conscious of it: one thing which her vision might deny, and her senses, but which she knew nonetheless to be.
She was not alone.
“Yes?” The word rushed up and then died before it could ever leave her mouth.
A rustle of leaves: tiny hands applauding.
“Who is it?”
A drum in her chest.
“Yes, please—who is it? Who’s here?”
And silence.
Miss Maple put fisted fingers to her chin and stopped breathing. I’m not alone, she thought. I’m not alone.
No.
Did someone say that?
The terror built, and then she felt something else entirely that wasn’t terror and wasn’t fear, either. Something that started her trembling. She lay on the grass, trembling, while this new sensation washed over her, catching her up in great tides and filling her.
What was it? She tried to think. She’d known this feeling before, a very long time ago; years ago on a summer night when the mo
on was a round, unblinking, huge and watchful eye, and that boy—John?—had stopped talking and touched her. And how strange it was then, wondering what his hands were going to do next. John! There’s a big eye watching us; take me home, I’m afraid! I’m afraid, John.
If you don’t take me home, I’ll tell.
I’ll tell them the things you tried to do.
Miss Maple stiffened when she felt the nearness, and heard the laughter. Her eyes arced over the grove.
“Who’s laughing?”
She rose to her feet. There was a new smell in the air. A coarse animal smell, like wet fur: hot and fetid, thick, heavy, rolling toward her, covering her.
Miss Maple screamed.
Then the pipes began, and the music was frenzied this time. In front of her, in back, to the sides of her; growing louder, growing faster, and faster. She heard it deep in her blood and when her body began to sway, rhythmically, she closed her eyes and fought and found she could do nothing.
Almost of their own volition, her legs moved in quick, graceful steps. She felt herself being carried over the grass, swiftly, light as a blown leaf—
“Stop!”
—swiftly, leaping and turning, to the shaded dell at the end of the grove.
Here, consumed with heat, she dropped to the softness, and breathed the animal air.
The music ceased.
A hand touched her, roughly.
She threw her arms over her face: “No. Please—”
“Miss Maple!”
She felt her hands reaching toward the top button of her dress.
“Miss Maple! What’s the matter?”
An infinite moment; then, everything sliding, melting, like a vivid dream you will not remember. Miss Maple shook her head from side to side and stared up at a young boy with straw hair and wide eyes.
She pulled reality about her.
“You all right, Miss Maple?”
“Of course, William,” she said. The smell was gone. The music was gone. It was a dream. “I was following a snake, you see—a chicken snake, to be exact: and a nice, long one, too—and I almost had it, but I twisted my ankle on one of the stones in the brook. That’s why I called.”
The Hunger and Other Stories Page 10
