Shadowland

by Peter Straub

  'Then everything gradually returned to normal. I could stand. I went back inside the theater, where Withers was just finishing with the boy on my table. He looked at me in disgust, finished his sutures, and returned to his own table. I did five more operations that day, and never felt the approach of that power which had healed Washford.'

  The magician looked up. 'Night.' Tom, surprised, saw the lamps burning in the woods; lights on the beach pushed his shadow toward the lake. 'Time to go to bed. Tomorrow I will tell you about my meeting with Speckle John and what happened after the war.'

  'Bedtime?' Del said. 'What happened to . . . ?'

  Both boys simultaneously saw the crushed sandwich wrappers, the paper plates laden with crumbs.

  'Oh, yes, you have eaten,' Collins said. His face was serene and tired.

  'We've only been here . . . ' Tom looked at his watch, which said eleven o'clock. 'An hour.'

  'You have been here all day. I will see you here tomorrow at the same time.' He stood up, and they dazedly imitated him. 'But know this. William Vendouris, whose name I had taken for a time, put a hurtin' on me. Without Vendouris, perhaps I would have re­mained an amateur magician, locked out and away from everything I wished most to find.'

  5

  Tom and Del climbed the rickety steps by themselves. Their minds and bodies told them it was late morning, but the world said it was night: the thick foliage on the bank melted together into a single vibrant breathing mass. They reached the top and stood in the pale, yellowish electrical light, looking down. Coleman Collins was stand­ing on the beach, looking out at the lake.

  'Did you know he used to be a doctor?' Tom asked.

  'No. But it explains why he didn't send for one when I broke my leg that time. The whole story explains that.' Del put his hands in his pockets and grinned. 'If I started to heal wrong or anything, he would have fixed me like he did with that colored man.'

  'I guess,' Tom said moodily. 'Yeah, I guess so.' He was watching Collins: the magician had extended one arm into the air, as if signaling to someone on the other side of the lake. After a moment the arm went down and Collins began to stroll along the beach in the direction of the boathouse. 'Could we really have been down there all day?'

  Del nodded. 'I was sort of hoping I'd see her today. But the whole day vanished.'

  'Well, that's just it,' Tom said. 'It vanished. It was ten in the morning, about an hour went by, and now it's eleven at night. He stole thirteen hours away from us.'

  Del looked at him, uncertain as a puppy.

  'What I mean is, what's to stop him from taking a week away from us? Or a month? What does he do, put us to sleep?'

  'I don't think so,' Del said. 'I think everything just sort of speeds up around us.'

  'That doesn't make sense.'

  'It doesn't make sense to say that you met the Brothers Grimm, either.' Del's tone was wistful, but his face momentarily turned bitter, 'I should have.'

  'Well, I never met Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe.'

  'Uncle Cole said I had to watch out for your jealousy,' Del blurted out. 'I mean . . . he just said that once when we were alone. He said that one day it would hit you, and you would want Shadowland for yourself.'

  Tom fought down the impulse to tell exactly what Collins had said about his nephew. 'That's crazy. He wants to break up our friendship.'

  'No, he doesn't.' Del was adamant. 'He just said — '

  'That I'd be jealous. Okay.' Tom was reflecting that Collins had after all been right: though it was not Shadowland that made him jealous, but Rose Armstrong. 'Tell you what. Do you really want to meet the Brothers Grimm?'

  'Right now?' Del was suspicious.

  'Right now.'

  'Are you sure it's all right?'

  'I'm not sure of anything. Maybe they're not even there.'

  'Where?'

  'You'll see.'

  Del shrugged. 'Sure. I'd like to,'

  'Come on, then.'

  Del gave a worried look down at the beach: Collins had disappeared into the boat house. Then he followed Tom through the sliding doors into the living room.

  'I guess we really ought to be in bed,' Del said a little nervously.

  'You can go to bed if you want to.' Then he felt sorry for being so abrupt. 'Are you tired?'

  'Not really.'

  'Me neither. I think it's eleven-ten in the morning.'

  This was said in defiance of all the physical evidence. All Shadowland seemed put to bed, even if the principal occupants were still out of theirs. One lamp burned beside a couch; the carpet showed the tracks of a vacuum cleaner. On the end tables, the ashtrays sparkled. Tom marched through the dim, quiet room, almost hoping to see Elena silently buffing the furniture.

  'Upstairs?' Del asked.

  'Nope.' Tom turned into the hall. One of the recessed lights gave a pumpkin-colored illumination.

  'In the Little Theater?'

  'Nope.' Tom stopped where the short hallway inter­sected the main hall to the theaters.

  'Oh, no,' Del said. 'We can't.'

  'I already did.'

  'And he saw you?'

  'He was waiting for me when I came out.'

  'Was he mad?'

  'I guess so. But nothing happened. You saw how he was today. Maybe he even forgot it. He was pretty drunk.

  He wants us to see them, Del. That's why they're there.' 'Do they just sit there? Or can you talk to them?' 'They'll talk your ears off,' Tom said. 'Come on. I

  want to ask them some questions.' He turned into the

  short hallway and pulled open the heavy door.

  6

  'Our young visitor again, Jakob,' said the one with the seasoned, kindly face.

  'And behind him, is there not another little Geist?' 'He has never been curious before, that one.' 'He has never had his brave brother's help before.' Both of them laid down their pens and looked in­quisitively at Tom, but Tom did nbt move forward. He was aware of Del stretching on tiptoe behind him, trying to see over his shoulder. Instead of the cluttered, cozy workroom in which he had seen them earlier, the two men in the frock coats and elaborate neckwear were sur­rounded by a more barren and purposeful but equally cluttered room. The walls were earthen, crumbling here and there; nails had been driven into the packed earth, and from the nails hung khaki jackets, peaked hats, and tin helmets. Complicated green-and-white maps hung on a wide board. A clumsy box with a crank and a headpiece sat on a trestle table which also supported rolled maps, bundles of paper tied with shoelaces, more military headgear, a fleece-lined jacket, and a kerosene lamp. Stark wooden chairs surrounded it. In this curious setting, the two men sat at their ornate desks. A soldier's room, was all that Tom could make of this. Staff room?

  'Yes, little one,' said Wilhelm. 'They let us work here.'

  'For our work goes on,' said Jakob, standing up and beckoning the two boys into the room.

  Tom stepped forward and smelled the close loamy odor of earth; the trace of cigars. Del came alongside him. From far off, what could have been miles away, came the booming of big guns.

  'And on and on. For the stories' sake.'

  'Where are you supposed to be now?' asked Tom.

  'Shadowland,' both brothers answered. 'It is always Shadowland.'

  'I mean, France? Germany?'

  'Things are getting dark,' said Jakob. 'We may have to move again, and take our work and our families with us. But still the stories continue.'

  'Even though Europe is dying, brother.'

  'The sparrows have given up their voices.'

  'Their choice.'

  Del was looking at the brothers with a rapt face. 'Are you always here?'

  Wilhelm nodded. 'Always. We know you, boy.'

  'I want to ask you something,' Tom said, and the brothers turned their faces, kindly and businesslike, to him. Outside, the shelling continued, far off and reso­nant.

  'That is why you have found us,' said Jakob.

  Tom hesitated. 'Do you know the expression 'p
ut a hurtin' on' something?'

  'It is not one of our expressions, but we know it,' said Jakob. His expression said: Follow this line, boy.

  'Okay. Did Del's uncle put a hurtin' on that train? Did he make it crash?'

  'Of course,' said Jakob. 'Aren't you a bright boy? He put a hurtin' on it — he made it crash. For the sake of the story in which you find yourself.'

  Tom realized that he was trembling; two shells ex­ploded very near, and dust drifted off the earthen walls.

  'I have one more question,' Tom said.

  'Of course you do, child,' said Jakob. 'You want to know about the Collector.'

  'That's right,' Tom said. 'Is the Collector Skeleton Ridpath?' He saw the other one, Wilhelm, suppress a smile.

  'For the sake of your story,' said Jakob. 'For the sake of your story, he is.'

  'Wait a second,' Del said. 'I don't understand. The Collector is Skeleton Ridpath? It's just a kind of a toy — kind of a joke — it's been here for years.'

  'Anybody can be collected at any time,' said Wilhelm.

  'But it's just a joke,' Del insisted. 'And I don't believe that my uncle caused that train to wreck. He wouldn't do a thing like that.'

  Wilhelm asked, 'Do you know our story 'The Boy Who Could Not Shiver'? It too is a kind of a joke. But it is full of the most frightening things ever encountered. Many frightening things conceal jokes, and many jokes have ice in their hearts.'

  Tom suddenly felt afraid. The men were so large, and most of the friendliness had faded from their faces.

  'As for your second remark,' said Jakob, 'do the two of you know the mouse's song to the rabbit?'

  They shook their heads.

  'Listen.' The brothers moved together in front of their desks, crouched slightly at the knees, tilted back their heads and sang:

  Way way way way down in the dump

  I found a tin can and I found a sugar lump.

  I ate the one and I kicked the other,

  And I had a real good time.

  Way way way way down in the dump . . .

  The lights suddenly died: a half-second later came the boom of an enormous explosion. Tom felt dirt showering down on his head. The whole room shook, and he momentarily lost his balance. A pair of rough hands shoved at his chest, knocking him back into Del.

  He smelled sausage, smoke, sour breath beneath brandy: someone was whispering in his ear. 'Did the mouse put a hurtin' on the sugar lump, boyo? Or did the mouse put a hurtin' on the rabbit?' The hands pressed him back. Del, stumbling behind him, kicked his shins. Rattling and banging: things were falling off the walls, the hails shredding out of the dirt. The hands, Jakob's or Wilhelm's, continued to push him back. The man's face must have been only inches from Tom's. 'Way way way way down in the dump, I found a little boy . . . and nobody ever saw either one of us again.'

  Vacancy felt more than seen opened up before him: he heard a confusion of retreating footsteps.

  '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.'

  7

  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.

  8

  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.'

  9

  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, becaus
e 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.'