Shuteye for the Timebroker

by Paul Di Filippo

  Billy almost fainted. Swarms of strangers clambering over the Mowbray grounds, trampling his plant, ending his hopes—

  At that moment, silence descended like a pall. Welcome Goodnight had unfolded his cadaverous frame and risen to his feet. In his fusty archaic suit, his eye patch barely concealing the glinting object socketed beneath, he looked like some specter come to dissuade.

  “We cannot endure publicity,” Goodnight intoned. “I myself will not permit it. I know measures to ensure our privacy.”

  Those who knew Goodnight began to quake. Cordovan, armored in his ignorance, stood firm, however. Courageously, he responded.

  “There won’t be any publicity,” he said. “Landisberg wants absolute secrecy on the set. He’ll come and go and the outside world won’t even know about it. No tourists, I promise. We won’t even mention the name of your town in the credits.”

  Goodnight seemed unmollified, and was about to utter some further warning when Cordovan dared to interrupt.

  “I didn’t get to say that there’s quite a few bit parts uncast. Also one crucial one. We need just the right guy to play the Pyncheons’ archenemy, the wizard Maule. Now, I can’t promise anything, but you look like just the man we need, Mr., Mr.—”

  The sour old mage was utterly disarmed. The thought of appearing in a film seemed a stronger magic than any he could muster in defense. He weakly said his own name aloud, like one sorcerer surrendering his most prized possession to another.

  “Goodnight. Welcome Goodnight.”

  Cordovan seemed to gloat. “Hey, Welcome, welcome aboard.”

  After such cavalier treatment of the town’s most forbidding figure, the vote was a foregone conclusion.

  * * *

  Luke Landisberg had a big shock of aggressive black curls that foamed above his youthful unlined brow like a perpetually breaking wave. Aviator-style sunglasses hid his eyes, and a sparse beard less successfully concealed his face. He wore a denim shirt with pearly buttons, jeans, and sneakers. He dominated the organized confusion at the Mowbray house like some Toscanini demon conducting the Pandemonium Symphony Orchestra.

  Billy watched Landisberg’s crew scurry about the property, obeying the director’s mysterious and sometimes contradictory orders. They reminded Billy of worker ants under the control of some domineering hive-mind. One by one, they were harmless. But together—

  Who knew what they contemplated, or could do?

  The town had been invaded shortly after the decisive vote had been cast. Cordovan had disappeared back to the state capital, and the citizens of Blackwood Beach, as if recovering from a spell, had begun to consider what they had done.

  Billy, now official liaison, had been perhaps more concerned than anyone else. His duties remained nebulous, his worries many—chief among them what would happen to his future mate when the strangers arrived. Billy dreaded the questions and intrusions that would doubtless accompany the discovery of his secret.

  This period of nervous anticipation was mercifully short. One day, without warning, the assault began.

  Huge trucks rumbled in first, carrying all manner of lights, cameras, props, and outré devices. Following these were pickups pulling trailers that were to be the living quarters for those involved. (Billy had wondered where everyone would stay. He had visions of sharing his room at Eva’s with a dozen assorted strangers.) Following the sleek silver trailers were several black stretch limos, behind whose smoked windows lurked the director and the stars.

  Hearing the first trucks, the townspeople lined the streets, watching the parade as if it were an invasion of Martians. The vehicles passed through the center of the town and headed for the Mowbray place. The Blackwooders solemnly followed.

  At the decrepit mansion, the vehicles formed a half-circle around the building like a wagon train under attack. The citizens hung back, cast in the role of reluctant Indians, and waited for someone to emerge.

  A limo door swung open and Cordovan bellied out. Landisberg, instantly recognizable, followed. The crowd was silent.

  “Here it is, Luke baby,” the Film Bureau man said. “Isn’t it just what you asked for?”

  Landisberg studied the scene for a moment, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. Then he spoke, his voice a youthful but assured soprano.

  “Not bad, but where’s the elm?”

  “The elm?” Cordovan repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.

  “You didn’t pay attention to the script, Freddie. There’s supposed to be a three-hundred-year-old elm—the Pyncheon elm—in front of the house. I don’t see it, do you?”

  Cordovan trembled, as if expecting the crack of a lash whistling toward his back. He stammered, “Gee, Luke, I just—that is—couldn’t we—”

  Landisberg waved a hand imperiously. “Forget it, Freddie. We’ll let the SFX crew handle it. You did good.”

  Turning toward one of the trucks, leaving Cordovan to wipe sweat from his brow, Landisberg yelled, “Turnbull!”

  A small man emerged. He looked like a hunched gnome with indigestion.

  “Turnbull, give me a three-hundred-year-old elm in front of the house, shading the doorway.”

  “Will do, chief,” said Turnbull. The gnome assembled helpers from within the truck. Clutching numerous tools and raw materials, they swarmed to a spot before the house. Moving so fast that no one could see what they were doing, they hammered and sawed, yelled and swore, rasped and drilled. Staging and ladders were assembled and dismantled in seconds, the workers clambering over them like blurry ghosts.

  When their rapid motions finally ceased, a forty-foot elm, its gnarled trunk so wide three men couldn’t circle it with their arms, stood in plain view.

  Billy, who had been watching the whole operation with the rest of the town, walked with vast bemusement to the tree. Close up, he could sense its life aura, indistinguishable from that of any real tree. Over Billy’s head, the leaves of the tree rustled gently, dispersing shade like gentle balm.

  Billy walked up to Landisberg. “How—how did you do that?”

  Landisberg smiled cryptically. “Special effects.” He sized Billy up. “You must be Budd, the delegate for the town.”

  Billy nodded. Landisberg shook his hand, then said, “Well, let’s get busy. We’ve got a film to make here.”

  Following that, nothing was too clear.

  The trucks disgorged more workers, the limos spat forth the stars, and chaos was under way.

  After two weeks of filming, however, Billy was almost used to the craziness.

  Listening to Landisberg shout orders now, he even dared to hope that things might turn out all right, for both the town and his special plant. Miraculously, no one had yet—to the best of Billy’s knowledge—stumbled upon his secret. These outsiders seemed too incurious and jaded to bother poking around much. Since Billy was continually on the set of the movie—save for a few hours begrudged to sleep—he had been able to keep constant tabs on his maturing womandrake. There were never any signs that anyone had disturbed the thriving plant, and Billy was happy with its progress. Now three weeks into May, with only five weeks left in its accelerated growth, the plant was already four feet tall, glossy and healthy-looking, its hidden core bulging the outer leaves in a suggestive fashion. Billy continued to read aloud to it, hoping that the texts he chose would somehow counterbalance the debased dialogue that drifted over from the filming. The liberties they were taking with one of Billy’s favorite books—! It made him almost nauseous at times.

  Landisberg’s calling of Billy’s name shattered his reverie. “Hey, Budd, we’re ready to shoot! Where the hell is Goodnight?”

  Billy sighed deeply. Keeping Welcome Goodnight appeased was his most delicate and dangerous chore. The resident sorcerer had indeed been cast as the wizard Maule, and also as Maule’s descendant, Matthew. (Due to the generational nature of the tale, almost everyone had dual roles.) He chafed under the rigors of filming, resented having to obey the director’s orders, and was constantly on
the verge of blowing up.

  Billy found Goodnight at last sulking in the dreary basement of the Mowbray house and convinced him to come up to the parlor, where the current scene was to be filmed. There, Natasha Kaprinski, a smoldering, dark-eyed beauty dressed in eighteenth-century clothing, awaited her costar among the imported furnishings. When Landisberg saw Billy and Goodnight, he began to issue instructions.

  “All right, Natasha, remember that in this scene you’re not playing Phoebe, but her ancestor, Alice. Goodnight has just propositioned you, and you’re suitably shocked. Got it?”

  Kaprinski looked offended, her lush lips twisting in a pout. This moue of distaste was her favorite expression, and she was seldom encountered without it. “This isn’t my first movie, Luke. Of course I know my part. I just hope these amateurs do.”

  Goodnight bristled at this aspersion and seemed ready to retaliate in some dreadful way, until Billy managed to calm him down. He convinced him to stand a few paces away from the actress.

  Landisberg shouted, “Places, everyone! OK? Roll!”

  Kaprinski assumed a look of shock and horror. Her expansive bosom heaved in righteous indignation. “Sir! How dare you!” she exclaimed. Then, without warning, she slapped Goodnight across the face.

  Landisberg had said nothing to Goodnight about this. His theory was that certain reactions would be truer if the actor was not forewarned. Once he had dropped a snake on an actress without first alerting her. That time, he had gotten the results he wanted.

  Today, his luck wasn’t holding.

  Goodnight reared back in angered disbelief. From beneath his eye patch a malevolent glow diffused, sickly blue in color. Before anyone could stop him he raised his arms and gestured. A searing radiance flared, blinding everyone.

  When Billy’s vision cleared, Goodnight was gone. So, it appeared, was Kaprinski. Then her voice could be heard, a few inches from the floor.

  “Oh, Luke,” the once-sultry voice moaned, “I don’t feel so good …”

  Billy looked down. All he saw was a big slimy newt.

  Then he noticed it was pouting.

  * * *

  Free for the moment from the exigencies of his new job, Billy was reading aloud to the womandrake when he sensed someone entering the clearing behind him. At last, he thought, they’ve decided to intrude. With a feeling of mixed sorrow and relief that the wait was over at last, Billy shut his book and turned to face whoever was coming.

  It was Landisberg. The man smiled, his eyes unreadable behind his mirrored lenses.

  “Hey, Budd, I need you to hold Goodnight’s hand for another scene.”

  Since asserting himself in the incident with Kaprinski, Welcome Goodnight had, surprisingly, become more tractable, as if exhibiting his power had been enough to mollify him. After he had restored Kaprinksi to her old self, he had cooperated fairly well with the director and his demands. Still, he needed cosseting now and then, which it was Billy’s duty to supply.

  Landisberg seemed to spot the plant for the first time. “What’s this?” he demanded.

  Before Billy could do more than stammer a few words, Landisberg had gone to the gate in the chicken wire fence and opened it. Billy rushed to his side, but he was too late to stop the director’s eager hands from gently parting the outer leaves of the tall plant.

  Revealed was the beautiful, pale green, heart-shaped face, framed with long blonde hair, belonging to Billy’s mate. Her eyes were closed, but as the sunlight hit them the long-lashed lids trembled and her lips quivered.

  Billy knocked the director’s hands away.

  “Don’t!” he said. “She’s not ready yet!”

  Landisberg seemed stunned by the revelation of what Billy was growing. He allowed Billy to conduct him out of the enclosure.

  “Wow,” Landisberg finally said. “What’s this all about, Budd?”

  Reluctantly, Billy explained.

  Landisberg gradually recovered his normal aplomb, until once again he seemed in control of the situation. He took Billy’s hand and shook it. “This place is freakier than Hollywood! Well, let me be the first to congratulate you, Budd. I’m sure it’ll be a happy marriage. But let’s get going. You’re needed on the set.”

  The two departed from the clearing. The director seemed once more mentally immersed in the technicalities of his project, as if he had never seen the startling sight in the hidden dell.

  But Billy observed the strange and covetous glance Landisberg cast back over his shoulder as they left.

  * * *

  Sitting once more on the stump in his clearing, Billy breathed deeply, then coughed at the obscene odor he had inhaled. Damn that Freddie Cordovan, he thought. When was he going to keep his promises?

  It was now June. The Landisberg film company had been shooting for over a month, and the town still had not received its promised rewards from the state. Middenheap Mile was unchanged, a long stretch of rutted clay. More disturbingly, the beached whale was an inescapable rotting presence on the town’s shore. The smell was now so inextricably intertwined with the presence of the movie stars that everyone in the town was calling it “the Landisberg aroma.”

  Billy shifted uneasily on his uneven seat. June sunlight filtered down at an angle through the full canopy of leafy trees that surrounded his future bride. His frequent visits to his prospective mate had once been his only source of pleasure, amid the pressures of keeping both the townspeople and Luke Landisberg happy. Now, however, even these visits had become something to worry about.

  And like everything else wrong in the town, this trouble could be traced directly to Landisberg.

  Ever since the brash young director had dared to look upon Billy’s bride, Billy had noticed—or imagined he noticed—a change in the womandrake. Whenever he read aloud to it, it seemed to stir restlessly, as if in discomfort. Whereas before it had seemed to appreciate his readings, now it reacted to them as if they were boring or actually distasteful. Billy chalked it up to growing pains of some sort—after all, he had really sped up his mates normal development. But what he feared was contamination from the movie set.

  What they had done to one of Billy’s favorite novels was really a horror story in itself. Gone were all the original work’s meditative passages on society and ethics. In their place, the supernatural happenings never explicitly endorsed by Hawthorne had been blown up to gigantic proportions, and now made up the bulk of the action. Murders, chokings on blood, supernatural sexual thralldom, and fits of insanity now ensured that Hellhouse of Seven Gables would be another Landisberg triumph.

  Billy looked wistfully up from his copy of Melville’s The Confidence Man, which he had been about to read to the womandrake. It hardly seemed worth it now. The beautiful words would probably only cause the plant to wince and shudder. He would just have to wait out these last couple of weeks of filming—which coincided with the last weeks of the plant’s development—and hope that when the strangers left, his bride would be OK.

  Getting to his feet, Billy headed back toward the Mowbray mansion, wondering what troubles today’s filming would bring.

  Entering the manse, he wasn’t even surprised when he nearly stepped on the newt that was shrilly screaming at Landisberg, “This is the last time I do anything you tell me to, Luke!”

  * * *

  Billy had survived. He prided himself on that. Although he couldn’t have said how he had done it, he had outlasted the filming, which had wracked Blackwood Beach with unprecedented turmoil.

  He had endured the countless shouts of “Hey, Weed,” which was what the cast and crew had begun to call him toward the end.

  When Goodnight—prevailed upon to summon up actual ghosts for one portion of the film—had accidentally brought back the spirit of his rival, Andrew Mowbray, and begun a titanic magical battle with it, punctuated by loose bolts of green lightning, Billy had emerged unscathed, although he had been caught right in the middle of the fighting.

  When the Viking-like Skandik brothers—they of t
he immense appetites—had kidnapped both Natasha Kaprinski and the ancient Dame Shabbycough, and Billy had been called upon to effect a rescue, he had somehow accomplished the release of the ravaged actresses without getting his head split by one of the Skandiks’ picks (which they always kept by their sides).

  When the temperamental and anti-establishment veteran actor, George C. Coates, had learned that the Film Academy was considering him for an Oscar for the role of Judge Pyncheon—on the strength of rumors alone—and had disgustedly stalked off the set, it had been Billy who had found him consoling himself with a bottle at Emmett’s Roadhouse and convinced him to return.

  And when Murray Roydack, in a pranksterish mood, had, despite repeated warnings, swum out to Big Egg and been plucked from his perch by the angered humanoid fish-god beneath it, it had been Billy who had run for Milo Musselwhite and ferried him out in a rowboat, whereupon the town coordinator had convinced his distant ancestor to release the actor unharmed.

  Yes, taken all in all, it had been quite a rough two months. Billy doubted if he would ever enter another spring with exactly the same idyllic feelings he had once brought to the season.

  But now it was over at last. The stars had all left as each finished their scenes. Today, the crew had restored the Mowbray manse to its former decrepitude (no one could figure out how they took down the big elm) and departed. Finally, Landisberg himself had been chauffered off, with Freddie Cordovan blusteringly accompanying him, as the fat man tried to weasel out word of the director’s next project.

  As for the town’s payment for hosting the filmmakers—well, it had come, after a fashion. The whale, after being reduced mostly to bones by the elements, had finally been hauled out to sea by the Coast Guard. The aroma still lingered, though, and there was talk of having to replace all the sand on the beach. Middenheap Mile had been paved, but in such a shoddy manner that it was already deteriorating, and everyone knew that by the end of the next winter the road would be almost as bad as before. And regarding the money the newcomers had, as promised, injected into Blackwood Beach’s few stores—as any Blackwooder would tell you, it was only money, and could hardly compensate for seven weeks of mass confusion.