by Peter Straub
Tom wobbled into the living room. He mentally charted his path to the glass doors. Chair to table to couch, then a long unsupported walk.
No princes and no ravens. Del's despairing, injured cries floating upward. Tom put his left hand delicately on the back of a chair and hobbled forward: two steps to the coffee table.
Bud Copeland was sitting on the couch, and Tom could see the delicate green-and-blue pattern through his suit. 'You made it this far, Tom, you're going to make it all the way. Remember there's a safety catch on the gun, you'll hang yourself if you forget that.'
'No repeat performances,' Tom said.
'That's the way, son.'
By instinct, Tom turned his head to look at the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. His stomach flipped over. Blood splashed and spattered on the inside of the glass — spattered again, obscuring the entire shelf behind a screen of red.
Ka-whamp! went the fireworks outside. Whamp!
The prelude to the performance.
'You gonna make it all the way,' Bud said.
Tom listed over to the left, put a bloody palm print on the coffee table, sucked in air because of the pain, and reeled toward the glass doors, still bent over and unable to straighten up.
He crawled up the glass of the sliding doors.
Whamp!
Through the mist of blood his hands left on the doors he saw the sky: an orange flower drooping and dying, going blue at its edges . . . Whamp! A red column grew through its center and spread throughout the gray air.
Soon it would be night.
Ka-whamp! Whamp! Whamp! Beside the spreading column of red, an owl made of white light was drifting down, its wings wide and awesome, burning down out of the darkening sky.
'Get that door open — you got to,' came Bud's voice.
Tom pushed his slippery hands along the glass. Del shrieked somewhere off to his left, and Tom used his forearms to move the glass sideways.
The aluminum riser caught his foot, and he fell forward onto the flagstones. Shock vibrated up to his shoulders from his elbows; his hands flamed. He groaned. Rolled onto his back and swung his legs out. His heart almost stopped in terror. The fireworks owl; silvery light in the gray sky, dropped toward him with its claws out, sailing down to get him.
Tom closed his eyes. All right. I can't beat that. Carry me away, do what you want. Just get it over with.
Another explosion took place above him. He looked up and saw that the owl was dying, turning to cinders and shredding apart, becoming something meaningless. Tom got to his feet.
Then went back to his knees again, because he had a glimpse of them, just around the side of the house. The Wandering Boys were on the sloping lawn about thirty yards away, just before the start of the woods and the bluff. He had seen Snail and Root, who were looking upward for a moment, watching the last seconds of the owl before they went back to their work. Del whimpered.
All right, get the gun out. You think you're a hotshot? Then get the gun out of your pants. He went prone on the flagstones, face down, and tried to reach behind his back. The index finger of his right hand brushed the lump of metal under his shirt; the same miraculous finger twitched up the tail of his shirt. Little more, there, Buck Rogers. Another twitch. Now the grip of the pistol was exposed. He forced his hand back and touched what he thought was the trigger guard. Sweating again, he hooked the index finger around it and tugged.
Whamp! Spreading brightness about him, but with his face pressed into the rough flagstones, he could not see what figure the fireworks were making. He tugged again at the trigger guard, and his hand yelled at him.
He heard the sweetest sound, the pistol clunking on the stone, then heard himself sob with relief.
Tom twisted on his side and scooped the pistol toward him with both hands. The grip and trigger guard were bright red. Safety. He did not know what it looked like, and turned the gun over in his fingers, looking for anything that might be the catch. Finally he saw a little knurled button, pushed it forward.
Walking on his knees, he came around the side of the house and off the flagstones and onto lush grass. The six men stood in a circle at what seemed an impossible distance away. Root and Snail were joking — he saw Snail's mouth open in a gap-toothed grin. Thorn was wiping his broken face on his sleeve. Seed, whose shirt was bubbling out between his pants and vest, was prodding something with his foot. Del squeaked, nearly invisible in their midst. Tom flattened out in the grass and tried to take aim. But it was no good. The pistol trembled in his fingers. If he were to shoot, the bullet would go off into the woods; into the lake; dig itself into the ground.
'Stop it,' he said. But his voice was only a whisper. The gun fell out of his hands. He hooked his index finger through the trigger guard again and crawled forward several yards. It seemed he was going with unreal, impossible slowness. A cricket sang. The saw teeth on the side of a blade of grass jumped into focus directly before him. He inched forward.
'See what you can do to his ribs,' Snail said. 'Ten bucks you can get him that way.'
'Stop it,' Tom said. He sat up on the grass. 'Stop. I said stop.' Seed, who was facing him, looked up in puzzlement. Tom fumbled for the pistol and pointed it vaguely at the men. He saw Snail grinning at him, Thorn rubbing his chest. He wondered if the old pistol would actually work.
Here goes nothing. Trying to hold the gun level, he pulled the trigger.
At first he thought his whole arm had been blown off. The sound was much louder than he had anticipated, deafening him for a moment. The pistol had dropped from his fingers again. Both of his hands were balloon size.
The trolls were looking at him with great concentration, moving out of their cluster.
An explosion turned the sky pale green.
Tom picked up the gun, twisted it so that it faced the men again. Snail was coming toward him, a small worry line carved between his eyebrows.
'Hey,' Thorn yelled. 'Watch yourself.'
'He's got holes in his hands, he can't do nothin',' Snail said. Still there was the look of almost delicate worry on his face.
Tom swung the gun to the center of his chest and held the grip with the fingers of his right hand while he prodded the trigger with the index of his left. Again the recoil tore the gun from his hand. His ears rang.
A spot of redness appeared in Snail's chest. It looked like a boutonniere. Snail's feet flew out from under him.
Tom picked up the gun again and stood. He was crying, not entirely from pain, but despite his fears and the agony of his hands and arms, he felt a great nervous concentration.
Ka-whamp! All the air turned yellow. He saw Del curled up on the grass. He awkwardly lifted the pistol and aimed it at Pease.
Pease broke away, running for the iron ladder to the beach.
Tom swung the gun back and shot at random into the men. This time he managed to keep the gun in his hands. Thorn jerked backward and fell down heavily. A bubbling sound came from his throat.
Del rolled over on his side and stared at Tom with dull eyes. Redness covered his face.
The others were already tearing into the woods, going for good, Tom knew. They were just employees. They weren't paid enough to be shot at. He swayed sideways and watched Pease reach the top of the ladder. He remembered the man bending back his fingers so that Collins could drive in the nail. He dropped the gun, and it fired and jumped when it hit, zinging a bullet harmlessly into dark air. He remembered Pease twisting in his seat, looking at him as if he were an inferior painting.
Ladder, he thought. Bolts. Loose bolts. He saw them: saw the rusty threads, the iron going into the clips. He began to trudge toward the ladder. He could hear Pease banging his way down. Two rungs, three, four . . .
A ground-shaking explosion. A red orchid bloomed in the sky.
He let his hatred of Pease bloom. Out. Out. In his mind the bolts were beginning to stir, crushing their threads, rattling free . . . he saw them flying out of the clips, tumbling down the bluff.
Peas
e screamed. In the silence between fireworks, a sudden popping noise of shattered metal stood out as sharply as a color. Tom made his legs go faster and reached the edge of the bluff in time to see Pease sailing far out and down, still clinging to the iron ladder. He seemed to fall dreamily for whole minutes, still trying to climb down the rungs. In time his feet fell out beneath him; then his hands let go, and he and the ladder were tipping back in tandem. There was a noise of splintering wood when Pease hit the pier. A hole instantly opened up
in the wood. A second later the ladder sliced it in half.
Pieces of the pier flew upward. Then water gouted up. Now there was only one way out.
11
He trudged back to Del and half-fell, half-sat on the grass beside him. Del was wiping the blood away from his face with his sleeve. They had hit him in the face before deciding to kick him to death.
'How do you feel?' he asked.
Del's eyes swam up. The lids fluttered.
'Did they break anything?'
'I hurt all over.' Red froth appeared on Del's lips. He looked dully at Thorn's body; at Snail's, facedown, closer to the house. Thorn was muttering something.
'What did they do to you?' Del said. 'Did they beat you up too?'
'Sort of,' Tom said.
The sky shook: after the thunder, an ice-blue fountain shimmered in the air..
'They're coming back!' Del shrieked.
'No,' Tom said. 'We're through with them.'
'Oh.' Del closed his eyes and put his head down on the grass.
'Can you move?'
'I want to go home.'
'Who doesn't?'
The lights in the forest flicked on; the house blazed. Tom could see the red smears on the window wall. Then he heard a car starting, heard the tires whisper on the drive. Could Collins have given up so easily?
Thorn's breath rattled and chugged in his throat. Tom turned to him in horror. 'Ah,' Thorn said, and died. No white bird lifted from his chest, but Tom knew that he had seen his life go.
'Car . . . ' Del said. 'He left, Tom. He left! We can go — we can get out.'
'I don't think so. You see all those lights? The show changed theaters, that's all.'
'Oh, my God,' Del said. He was looking at Tom's hands. 'How did you. . . ?'
'I was lucky,' Tom said. He looked up at the house. 'He's still there, Del. I think we really just started.'
'But we can't fight him.' Del shrank back into himself.
'We'll do whatever we have to.' It was not a strong statement, and Tom did not feel strong — he felt emptied of his resources, capable of doing nothing more than lying on the lawn and waiting in despair for Collins to produce his special effects.
Suddenly the sky was filled with fireworks, layer after layer of explosions in the night air. They would not have to wait long for the rest of it.
12
'WELCOME TO THE WOOD GREEN EMPIRE!' The amplified voice echoed from the trees, from the side of the house: as if the trees and boards themselves were speaking. 'WE PRESENT AN EVENING OF SPECTACLE AND THRILLS UNPARALLELED ON ANY STAGE ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD. THE FINAL PERFORMANCE, THE FINAL PROFESSIONAL APPEARANCE OF THE BELOVED HERBIE BUTTER. IS HE ONE OR IS HE MANY? DECIDE FOR YOURSELVES, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THESE FEATS OF CONJURY AND PRESTIDIGITATION ARE FAR BEYOND THE POWERS OF ANY OTHER LIVING MAGICIAN.
'FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION, DO NOT ATTEMPT AT ANY TIME TO LEAVE THE THEATER.'
Del was crying again, his wet face illuminated by the brilliant flashes of fireworks.
'PRESENTING . . . MR. HERBIE BUTTER!'
The explosions in the sky doubled: a roll of snare drums from the loudspeakers. Whole areas of the sky blasted into white, fitting themselves together like a puzzle around eyeholes and an open, grinning mouth. Ka-whamp! Glowing red lay atop the giant face, and Herbie Butter stretched across the sky, grinning down at them. It was like a cartoon face, sharply etched and two-dimensional.
'THE AMAZING MECHANICAL MAGICIAN AND ACROBAT! THE KING OF THE CATS!'
Collins seemed too powerful to Tom, too tricky and experienced. He watched the enormous cartoon sift down through the air, seeking them out. Then he looked back at the house. All those blazing windows: he remembered his first full day at Shadowland, Collins a figure with the face of a wolf, pointing across a gulf and showing him that he could have anything he wanted . . . then he felt as though Collins were nailing him to the air behind him, pounding a spike through his chest. Rose Armstrong was looking down at him from the window where he had seen her that day. It was his bedroom. Even on that first day, they had been taking part in the magician's repeat performance.
It has to be like this. This is not an easy school.
Rose looked down with a stricken face. She motioned for him to stay where he was: that she would come down. Stupidly, he shook his head. Rose turned away from the window. He looked up again: Herbie Butter still sifted down toward them.
Tom saw the gun, a black lump in dark green. He could not imagine how he had lifted it. Very little fresh blood came from his wounds, but both hands had swollen. They felt like gloves.
'Rose is coming,' he said to Del. Fear had stolen the color from his friend's face.
'Oh, no,' Del wailed.
'may we have two volunteers from the audience, please?'
'I think her part is done,' Tom said. His heart was as numb as his hands.
'step up, step up smartly — we require the assistance OF YOU BRAVE YOUNG PEOPLE.'
Rose burst out of the living room onto the patio and started running toward them. The green dress shone in the light. Whiteness flickered in her right hand — she was carrying white rags.
'Leave us alone!' Del screamed at her, and she stepped on the grass. She looked fearfully at the two bodies. 'Go back inside, you Judas!'
'I had to do it,' she said. 'I didn't know what he'd . . . I thought it was just part of his show. . . . Tom, I'm so sorry . . . ' She held out her arms. 'He would have killed me otherwise, but I wish he had. . . . I brought some handkerchiefs for your hands, they're all I could find, please let me tie them on for you. Please, Tom.'
'Who was in the car?' Tom asked.
Del screamed, 'Don't let her touch you!'
'Elena,' Rose answered. 'She ran off. She saw the blood . . . she left him. I want to help you, Tom. Please. I have to.'
'Because he told her to!' Del screamed. 'Get away!'
'He wanted me to wait in his room,' Rose said. 'You weren't supposed to see me anymore. But I thought it was just going to be a performance, Tom. If I'd known . . . we could have hidden in the woods . . . I wouldn't have brought you back.'
'You liar!' Del shouted.
'No, it's the truth,' Tom said. 'She didn't know. She was tricked too.'
'Can I help your hands?'
'Come on,' he said.
She stumbled forward.
'and we pause to remember our heroine of the crimean . . . the angel of the battlefield . . . florence nightingale!'
Ka-whamp! Rockets sailed up, making red tracers in the sky w&-whamp! — exploded into the British flag.
'He's going to get us,' Del said. He wiped more of the blood from his face with his sleeve. 'There's no way . . . '
'Get it as tight as you can,' Tom said.
Rose was folding the first handkerchief over his hand and twisting the ends together to knot them. 'Who's left, Rose? Who's left in the house?'
'Just Mr. Peet. They were both upstairs when we heard the shots. At first they thought they were rockets. Then they went downstairs.' She began to fold the second handkerchief around Tom's right hand. 'And he said something about the ladder.'
'What happened to the ladder?' Del asked. 'The ladder's gone!' He was slipping into panic again. 'We can't get down!' He turned his head toward the house and went quiet. Coleman Collins stood at every window they could see, far enough from the glass for the light to show him clearly.
Six, seven. . . ? It didn't matter how many, because it could be any number.
Identical Coleman Collinses, caressing their identical upper lips with identical index fingers.
'We have to go in there,' Del said, a little awe showing through his voice.
'That's what he said about the ladder.' Rose tied the ends together. Red circles had already appeared in the centers of the two handkerchiefs. 'That you'd have to go in. And he said you'd want to go in.'
'But that's just a trick,' Del pleaded. 'There's only two of them, really — and Mr. Feet will run like those men.'
'Maybe not,' Tom said, trying to move his fingers. 'But there's someone else. He wanted two volunteers, remember? He had the other one all along.'
The images of the magician vanished from the windows.
'I'm on your side, Tom,' Rose said. Her voice was desperate. 'I told you I didn't know what he was going to do — you know I'm telling you the truth. I left him.'
'I didn't mean you,' Tom said with more calm than he felt. 'He still has Skeleton.'
'have we another volunteer?' the speakers boomed. 'have we? have we? ah! the handsome GENTLEMAN IN THE BLACK SUIT!'
13
A shadowy figure appeared on the lawn behind them: or had it been there before, unnoticed? Rose grabbed Tom's arm. Del stepped backward. 'It's Skeleton,' he said, his voice way above its usual register, high enough to be birdsong: but Tom saw that it was not Skeleton.
The figure stepped forward, and tortoiseshell eyeglass frames turned red in the light from the house.
'This school has been unwell,' Laker Broome said, 'and now it is time to cut back the diseased branches.' He moved closer to them. 'Pruning, gentlemen . . . pruning. Time to clean up our garden.' Tom could see the lights down in the woods through his glen-plaid suit.
'We'll get you! We know who you are and we will get you!' He raised a transparent fist, and Rose and the boys stepped back.
'We have had indiscipline, smoking, failures, and theft — and now we are cursed with something so sick, so ill, that in all my years as an educator I have never seen its like.
'NEVER!'
He stepped forward again, pushing them back to the flagstones and the light.
