The Man in the Tree

by Damon Knight

  She took the cards back, dealt one on top of the other. "This is what covers you." Another, crosswise, on top of the first two. "This, what crosses you." She dealt four more in a cross-shape around the center. "This is behind you -- your past. This below, this above, this ahead of you."

  She dealt four more cards in a vertical row to the right of the center. "Here are three major trumps. That is very unusual in reading for a young person. Their cards are always wishy-washy, not this, not that. For you, the cards are not wishy-washy. Also, here are many swords, covering you, crossing you, behind you. You have left a home where you were safe and protected, is that not so?"

  "Yes," said Gene. His throat was dry. He stared with fascination at the cards, the woman's face, her swollen fingers.

  "There was a struggle with an older man. It is not over yet. Ahead of you -- the Sun. That is wealth; you will be very rich. Do you think that will make you happy?."

  "Yes." Gene smiled.

  "No, it will not. Now here again, this is you -- the Hermit. Wealth will not be enough for you, you will also seek wisdom. The next card is your life now: you are satisfied, but you will not be for long. Next, this is what you wish for yourself. It is very little, You will discover that you want more. And this is your future -- the third major trump. It is Justice."

  "I don't understand what that means."

  "Later you will." She gathered the cards, tapped them straight, put them back into the deck.

  "Could you read the cards again, Madame Porgorny? About the older man you said was against me?"

  "Yes, if you wish, and then no more. It is not good to read them too often." This time she found the knight of swords and put it down, then shuffled and dealt as before. He recognized two of the cards besides the first one -- the young man with the feather in his cap, and the man with the row of cups.

  "He wants to settle something that is unfinished. It has to do with you -- here is your card, do you see? He cannot settle it because of money -- either he has not enough or you have too much. Here he is beginning to plan something, and here" -- she tapped the lowest card -- "this is the Moon, the card of deception. That is how he will do it. Here before him is the Fool, he will not succeed." She studied the row of four cards on the right. "This is the man himself, he has suffered a terrible loss. He is strong, he has everything on his side. Here is his wish, it is for dominion, for mastery. And -- this I do not understand -- he will achieve wholeness."

  Chapter Seven

  Cooley was disappointed in Los Angeles; he spent a week there, going to art schools and asking questions, but found no trace of the boy. He drove north to San Francisco, checked into a hotel. The next morning, he got a city map at the desk, then went to a phone booth and tore out the page of the directory that listed "Schools -- Private." Seventeen of the listings seemed to have something to do with art. In his room, he called them one by one, found out their hours, and divided them into districts with the aid of the map.

  That afternoon he visited the Academy of Fine and Useful Arts, the Adams Free Expression Art School, the Beacon Hill Art Centre, and the Co-op Art School. His procedure was always the same. He told the registrar, "My name is Andrew McDonnel, the painter -- maybe you've seen my work? Well, it don't matter. Now I'm looking for a particlar kind of model, very particlar -- the model agencies, they don't have what I want."

  "What kind of a model, Mr. McDonnel?"

  "Has to be a young boy, not more than, say, fifteen or sixteen, but he has to be tall. Now I thought maybe one of your students wouldn't mind earning a little extra money -- ?"

  Then the registrar would open her record book and frown, and say something like, "No, we don't have anybody that young, I'm afraid. Here's a girl, but she's seventeen." And Cooley would thank her and say good-bye.

  On the second day, af the Devonshire Gallery and Art School, the woman at the desk told him they had a student, Bob Young, who was sixteen, and she thought he was tall, although she really couldn't remember. Cooley asked when he could see the boy.

  "Well, he's down here for Oil Painting on Thursday evenings at eight o'clock -- that's tomorrow. You could come and talk to him then."

  Cooley said, "That's funny. I used to know a Young. Wonder if it's the same one. Does he live on Lincoln Way, by any chance?"

  "No, Eleventh Avenue -- four twenty-five Eleventh."

  Cooley looked up Youngs in the telephone book, and there was one at that address. The kid couldn't have been here long enough to get in the phone book, but there was just a chance that he had got himself adopted by somebody, or maybe he was living with a family and using their name at school.

  He was across the street having his shoes shined at a quarter to eight the next day. He watched the students go in, first one, then three together, then a bunch. About half were college-age kids, the other half middle-aged women. There was one younger boy -- tall, sallow, black-haired. Cooley crossed the school off his list.

  On Saturday, at the second place he tried, the woman said, "Why, yes, we do have a boy that age. Let's see, he's fifteen. Stephen Miller, and he is quite tall."

  "Funny, I have an old friend named Miller -- wonder if it's the same one. Does he live on Lincoln Way?"

  "What is it?" asked a loud voice behind him. He turned; it was a tall woman with an imposing bust and a black ribbon for her glasses; she was staring at him as if he were a burglar. "We don't give out addresses of our students," she said in a strong accent. "Why are you asking such questions?"

  Cooley started his set speech all over again, but she interrupted him. "McDonnel? I have never heard of you. Go away, or I will call the police." Her voice carried very well; as he left, Cooley could hear her saying, "Miss Olney, we must be on our guard against perverts of all descriptions, constantly on our guard."

  He got into the Buick and thought it over. The kid would lie about his age, naturally, and fifteen would be about the most he could get away with. The first class was at one; he had found out that much on the phone, and it was a quarter after twelve now. He lit a cigar and settled himself to wait.

  After about ten minutes a cab pulled up in front of the school; the driver went inside. In a moment he was back with a woman, the same one -- the dragon who had caught him at the desk. She had her coat on, and a funny hat perched on top of her hair. Cooley's first thought was that he was in luck -- he could go in and talk to the registrar again and maybe find out something. Then he thought: where is she going, half an hour before school starts?

  "There you are, ma'am," the driver said.

  Madame Porgorny peered out. "This? You are sure?" It was a corner house, two stories, painted blue, with a porch and a fanlight.

  "Twenty-one eighteen," the driver said. "Right there over the door."

  Madame Porgorny paid him and walked up the porch steps. Through the glass pane of the door she could see a little foyer and four mailboxes. She stepped inside and read the cards. One of them, in careful ballpoint lettering, said "Stephen Miller, 2A."

  She climbed the stairs and knocked. The door opened; the boy stood there with his shirt half buttoned. "Madame Porgorny," he said. He looked startled.

  "Let me come in, please."

  He said awkwardly, "Oh, sure," and stood aside. "I was just getting ready to come to school. Is something the matter?" Books and magazines were everywhere, on the couch, two of the three chairs, on the floor.

  She turned to face him. "Stephen, the man you spoke of, the one who wants to do you harm, is he a short man, strong, with a red face?"

  The boy had gone pale. "Did you see him?"

  "He was at the school, looking for you."

  "Oh." He sat down.

  "Now you must tell me, Stephen, what does that man want?"

  "I think he wants to kill me," the boy muttered.

  "The police, would they protect you from him?"

  "No. He -- he is the police." He looked at her. "I did something bad, Madame Porgorny, but I didn't mean to."

  "And your parents?" />
  "They couldn't help me."

  "So. Well, then," she said, "I will ask you no more questions, but you must go away. And you must not go to art school any more, because that is how he found you." She opened her purse. "Do you have money?"

  "Yes."

  "Take this anyway, you may need more." She held out fifty dollars. When he shook his head, she pressed the money into his hand. "Do not be foolish."

  "Well -- I'll send it back to you."

  "No, you must not. You must not tell me where you are going, and you must not write to me, or to anyone. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  She looked at him: so tall, but so terribly young. She wanted to hold him for a moment, kiss him on the forehead, but she knew how much he would hate that, and then she would have to wipe off the lipstick. "Good-bye then, Stephen. Be very careful."

  "Good-bye, Madame Porgorny."

  She went down the stairs more slowly than she had gone up. How could it happen that a child so young should be hunted like a criminal? And what would happen to him now, without friends, alone?

  As she turned away from the house she saw a big car parked across the street, and in it a red-faced man. Her heart trembled, and she stopped, afraid to look again. In God's name, what was she to do? If she went back into the house he would know, and if she kept walking-- She opened her purse blindly, fumbled in it to gain time, and the ghost of a plan came to her. She closed the purse, turned back with her mouth set angrily. She did not look across the street. He must believe I have left something behind, she told herself. Let him believe it.

  She entered the house, climbed the stairs, knocked at the door again. "Stephen, it is I, Madame Porgorny."

  He opened the door, looking startled. He had a shopping bag in his hand. "What's the matter?"

  "Let me come in. Close the door. Stephen, he is here -- that man. He is waiting downstairs in a car. My poor boy, it is my fault. He must have followed me. I led him to you. My God, let us think. Is there a back way from the house?"

  "Yes, but -- it comes out the side. Would he see me there?"

  She thought a moment. "Yes. He is sitting where he can see down both streets. I must lead him away, but how is it possible?"

  "I don't know."' Something new had come into the boy's expression; his mouth was firmer, his eyes narrowed. It was a look she did not like to see.

  "Wait, Stephen," she said, "there must be a way. My brain is dead. Think, think!" She rubbed her eyes. "Tell me, is there a place where you could hide, not here, but in this house?"

  "There's a closet under the stairs."

  "Good. Now listen to me. You must hide there, and when you hear us going up the stairs, you must go out quietly and then run as fast as you can. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." His expression had softened; he took both her hands. "Madame Porgorny -- "

  "I know, my poor boy, I know." She let him hold her hands, even though it hurt her swollen fingers. After a moment they did not hurt quite so much. "Thank you for doing this for me," he said.

  "It is nothing. And now it is really good-bye. Remember all I have told you."

  "Good-bye, Madame Porgorny. I'll remember."

  In her mind she rehearsed her part as she went down the stairs. Something terrible has happened, she told herself, I am bouleversée, hysterical, but I must not overplay it, he must be convinced.

  She opened the front door and stepped out, looking wildly around. "Help!" she cried. She looked again, saw the man in the car as if for the first time, and ran toward him. He was opening the door.

  "You!" she said. "Why are you here? What do you want? Never mind, you must help me. The boy is ill -- he fell down, he is not breathing."

  "Did he faint or what?" the red-faced man asked, following her.

  "I do not know. It was like a seizure -- suddenly he fell down, and his face so white!" She was toiling up the stairs.

  "Which door is it?"

  "There. That one."

  The red-faced man tried the knob, then knocked and listened. "He may be dying!" cried Madame Porgorny.

  "Who locked the door, for Christ sake?"

  "I must have done it, when I ran out. My God, what a horrible thing!"

  "Hell," said the red-faced man. He stepped back, raised his foot, kicked the door below the lock. A panel splintered. He kicked it again and again until a jagged piece fell into the room. He reached inside, grunting, and opened the door.

  She watched him as he went through the cluttered rooms. "He's not here," he said, coming back to her. His face had turned a darker red, and his lips were moist. For a moment she thought he might strike her.

  "Stephen, where are you.'?" she cried, running out into the hall. "Ah, my heart!" She clutched herself, stumbled, and managed to fall at the head of the stairs, sprawled across the way.

  "Hell!" said the red-faced man, stepping over her gingerly. She made it as difficult for him as she could; he almost fell, but recovered himself and went running down the stairs. When she got to the street, she heard the tires of his big car squealing as it turned the corner.

  Madame Porgorny hailed a cab on the avenue and went back to the school. The plumber was there, making his usual mess, and the janitor was not to be found; the clay for the ceramics class had not come; there was a bill from the electrician that she had already paid. She had enough to keep her busy all day, and it was not until evening, when she was sitting down to dinner, that she realized the swelling in her fingers was entirely gone and that there was no pain.

  Chapter Eight

  Later Gene Anderson remembered two things about his trip across the country: the Grand Canyon, and a carnival in Columbus, Ohio. The carnival was a sort of traveling amusement park, set up in a vacant lot near the railroad station. He rode the Ferris wheel and the loop-the-loop, ate hot dogs, corn on the cob, and pink cotton candy. Then the cries of a sideshow barker drew him, and he went in.

  First they saw the Lizard Man. He was about thirty, partly bald, with expressionless eyes. When he took off his red robe, they saw that his body was covered with shiny scales that looked like a snake's molted skin. "His mother was frightened by a boa constrictor before he was born, ladies and gentlemen. Scientists said it couldn't happen, but here he is, before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, one of the Eight Wonders of the World, the Lizard Man, condemned to go through life with the skin of a reptile."

  Next was the Fat Lady, and after her the Human Pincushion, who put long needles through his cheeks and tongue, then lay down on a bed of nails with a fifty-pound weight on his chest.

  After him was the Bearded Lady, who was bearded all over her face (not just on one half, as in the painting outside). Then came the giant. He sat in a thronelike chair on a little platform, a pale man in a business suit, with wispy dark hair and spectacles. His shoes were like anybody else's, black leather, a little scuffed around the toes, but they were twice as big as any shoes Gene had ever seen before. He took off the gold ring on his finger and the barker showed them that two of his own fingers would fit into it. As he was buying a brass copy of this ring for fifty cents, Gene saw the giant looking at him with a curious expression: he smiled faintly, then closed his eyes and turned his head away.

  Out in the midway, Gene was stopped by a man who wore tan denims, with riding boots and a baseball cap. "Hey, kid, how old are you?"

  "Twelve," said Gene before he thought.

  "Yeah?" The man looked him over. "Well, if you grow another two feet, come and see me." He handed Gene a card and walked away.

  Then he was in New York, and it was like coming home to a paradise he had only dreamed of. There were miles of shops, bookstores, galleries; even San Francisco was nothing to this. He rented an apartment in Chelsea. For weeks he saw a different movie every day. He bought books, art supplies, a record player, a television set; he bought Oriental rugs of incredible shimmering colors.

  At first it did not bother him that he had no friends or even acquaintances in New York; he liked the feel
ing of anonymity, invisibility. As long as the golden summer lasted, the city was cheerful; in the autumn it turned melancholy. The first snowfall exhilarated him, but its brilliant whiteness turned overnight to brown freezing slush.

  He bought galoshes, a hat, gloves, an overcoat, and a muffler. The overcoat was an absurd garment that could not be closed at the neck, and the muffler did not keep out the bitter wind. Darkness flowed down the streets, and the raw-nosed people walked bending against it, holding their lapels together at the neck. Indoors, in restaurants and theaters, the yellow light made people look feverish. This was not winter as he had known it; it was a nordic underworld.