“Almost. But not quite,” said the reedy-voiced one, and he made an attempt at a smile. On his blank, awkward face, the effect was deeply disturbing.
George was not sure if it was the most disturbing thing about the wolves, though. Perhaps what was most disturbing was the way their images and faces would suddenly blur and shudder, as if they were forgetting to maintain the illusion. Or perhaps it was the way their bones and teeth would click when they stretched their limbs or twisted their necks, affecting poses usually only attainable by reptiles and owls.
But more than any of this, he decided the most frightening thing about the wolves had to be the way light and space behaved around them. Shadows seemed to stretch to brush over their feet and hands, as if they were being worshipped by the dark. When they came near, the entire theater began to feel both cavernous and claustrophobic all at once, and George got the strange sensation of being dangled over a deep chasm. Their very presence was doing something to reality, he felt, stretching and tearing at dimensions he could not detect with his normal senses. They were violations of the purest kind, anomalies that breached and mocked every rule George had about the way the world should work. Their half hearted attempts at appearing like men highlighted their Wrongness even further.
He had hoped that they would not know who he was, but the fat one had identified him immediately. He’d swooped George up in his arms and whisked him off to the orchestra pit and held him next to the little dummy seated on the piano bench. “It’s him! It’s him!” the reedy-voiced one had crowed. “We’ve got him, we’ve got him! Stupid thing! Stupid little child! Came walking right in here, didn’t he!”
“Come stumbling from the shadow-lands,” growled the fat one, looking over the marks on George’s hands. “You’ve seen the gray reaches then, haven’t you? But here you are now. Here you are.” And they’d both howled in delight, a high, keening sound that did not echo but seemed to penetrate deep into the mind.
Once they’d loosened George’s bonds, the fat one said, “Now we’ll wait until he gets back. He’ll have questions for you. Lots and lots of questions. And then we get to do as we please.”
“But we can ask some of our own first,” said the reedy-voiced one. “Perhaps he’ll spill his guts to us. Then we’d have all the glory, wouldn’t we?”
“Would you do that?” breathed the fat one. He stared into George’s face, eyes wide. “Would you tell us? Tell us everything?”
George was too terrified to speak. He did not know what they would ask, so he could not tell them if he could answer.
“Have you seen it?” demanded the reedy-voiced one. “Have you seen the Light? That awful Light they carry, like the very eye of the Enemy?”
“How do they carry it?” said the fat one. “Do they carry it in a lantern? We think they must carry it in a lantern … They walk into the dark, don’t they, swinging it back and forth?”
Both of the wolves shuddered. Then the reedy-voiced one snarled in fury.
“Tell us!” he cried. “Tell us about the lantern! How can we destroy it? Is it made of moonish silver?” He rushed up to glare into George’s face, and George thought he could see cracks appearing in the wolf’s façade, threatening to break away to show what was hiding beneath its skin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” George said. “I … I don’t know anything about a lantern, or … or moonish silver!”
The reedy-voiced wolf growled and whirled away, but the fat one leaned forward, fascinated. “Is it not in a lantern?” he said. “Do not pretend like you would not know, like you are not one of them. We know you are Silenus’s child. Aren’t you?”
George took a breath. He’d never been a very good liar, and he wondered what to say.
But before he could think of anything, the wolf smiled. “Ah, yes. I don’t know much about you and your kind, but I know the shape of truth. And there it was, winking in your eyes. So you must know, don’t you? You must know how it’s carried, how they transport it.”
“We have waited so long …” said the reedy-voiced one. “Tell us what it looks like. Tell us how we can get at it. We’ll make you, if you don’t.”
“Yes,” said the fat one. “We will.” He thought and said, “Do you know why we wear the guises of men?”
George shook his head.
“It’s not to sneak about among you. It’s because we’re being polite.” He extended a finger, and there was a soft cracking noise, like someone dropping an eggshell. Something very black and sharp stabbed out through the white flesh of his fingertip, which crumbled away like it was made of chalk. It was a claw, George saw, black as coal and sharper than a razor, poking through the skin from whatever the wolf really was, underneath.
The wolf watched as George’s eyes followed his clawed finger. “You don’t want to see what we really look like,” he said. Then he lifted his finger and cut a straight line underneath his jaw, like he was slashing his own throat. But no blood poured from the gash; instead it was like he had sliced through paper, and now the skin (was it skin?) on his neck flapped open loosely, and George glimpsed something black and misty underneath.
“If you don’t tell us, we’ll look at you,” said the fat one. “We’ll take off this silly little face and look at you, and then you’ll never look at anything again after that. You won’t be able to. Not after seeing us.”
“Tell us,” said the reedy-voiced one, and there was hyena laughter in his words. “Tell us where he keeps it.”
The image of Silenus’s steamer trunk flashed in George’s mind. He must not ever tell them, he knew. He thought wildly, and glanced at the Silenus dummy up on the stage. He said, “Do you want to know why I took the head off of that?”
The two wolves looked at him, confused, and glanced back at the dummy. “The head?” said the reedy-voiced one.
“Yes,” said George. “I did it for a reason. I … I wanted to keep you from knowing something.”
The reedy-voiced wolf took a quick intake of breath, excited. He grew close, and the silence in George’s ears became so overpowering his eyes began to water. “Tell us,” the wolf whispered. “Tell us what you wanted to hide …”
George swallowed, and said, “You really want to know where he keeps the Light?”
“Yes,” said the fat one. “Yes!”
“It’s … it’s in his hat,” said George. “He keeps it in his hat.”
The two wolves drew back, shocked.
“In his hat?” echoed the reedy-voiced one.
“Yes,” said George.
They both pondered this.
“We’ve never heard that it could be in his hat,” said the fat one. “It’s almost too … dangerous.”
“Obvious,” said the reedy-voiced wolf.
“Exposed,” said the fat wolf.
“But that makes it the best place!” said George. “Doesn’t it? He always has his hat with him. He never loses it. And who would ever think to look in a hat?”
The reedy-voice one nodded, seeing the sense in this, but the fat one shook his head. “Hm. No,” he said.
George’s heart plummeted. “No?”
“No. No, no,” said the fat one. “That doesn’t sound right. It was far too easy, far too quick. We’ve been after this secret for so, so long. It can’t be gotten that easy.” He frowned. “You lied to us, didn’t you, child?”
“N-no!” said George.
“Oh, yes. Yes, you did. Come now. That was a lie. Right?” He did not wait for George’s answer. Instead he turned and lumbered down to the campfire (stopping halfway to shudder and shake, and somewhere there was the sound of thick fur rustling). He picked up one smoldering branch and slowly began walking back. “We can’t have you telling us lies,” he said. “Can’t have you filling our ears up with half-truths, and no-truths. But we can’t show you our face,” he said, gesturing to the open flap underneath his chin. “Because then you’d be useless. See?”
George dimly became aware that he was trembl
ing.
“We think something more mundane is needed,” said the fat one. One hand snapped out so fast George could hardly see it, and the next thing he knew the wolf had grasped his chin and forced his head up.
The wolf ’s fingers were colder than ice. He raised the smoldering branch up and waved it below George’s cheek. “Something mundane, but something you won’t forget.”
“No,” said George.
“No,” echoed the wolf, mocking him.
“No, please.”
“No, please,” said the wolf. His empty gray eyes were huge in his face. He smiled as though this was all a fond distraction. The smoking branch grew closer until George could feel its heat on his skin. He shut his eyes and braced himself for its sizzling kiss …
Something slammed up toward the entrance of the theater. Then a high, strong voice called out, “What is going on?”
The wolf released him. George opened his eyes and saw the two of them backing away, abashed. Someone was walking down the rows behind him. George turned to try to get a look at this new arrival, but due to how he was bound he could only see a man in a red coat. He very briefly thought it was his father come to rescue him.
It was not. It was a third wolf. But this one looked very different from all the other ones George had ever seen.
The forms and figures of the wolves all varied—as in the current case, some were fat, and some were thin, and so on—but overall there was little difference among them. They all wore gray suits with black bowler hats, and their eyes and faces all had that same curious emptiness to them that made their very appearances seem like shells or masks.
But not this one. To begin with, he wore a bright red coat and a black porkpie hat with a white feather stuck in the band. This was so startling that George at first thought him a normal person, and feared for the man’s life. But then George noticed the very quiet silence the man carried with him, and realized he was indeed a wolf as well.
“What is this? Are you torturing a child?” asked the wolf in red.
The other two exchanged a glance, as though this question were ridiculous. “Obviously,” said the fat one.
“But why would you do such a thing?” asked the wolf in red. “Have I not told you that my studies here must be uninterrupted? That we must maintain a peaceful, quiet environment for me to work in?”
Again the two wolves looked at each other, and George got the sense that if they’d possessed the humanity to roll their eyes in exasperation, they would have.
“He came here of his own accord,” said the reedy-voiced one. “That’s how we found him.”
“And he is not just any boy,” said the fat one. “He is the pianist.”
“The pianist?” said the wolf in red. His mouth fell open and he stared at George.
“Yes,” said the reedy-voiced wolf. “He is Silenus’s son. You can see it there, in his face.”
The wolf in red was lost for words for a moment. “My goodness, you’re right! I recognize him now. But this is extraordinary!” he cried, delighted. “Why do you have him all tied up?”
“All tied up?” said the reedy-voiced wolf. “Have you forgotten that he is the son of our sworn enemy? That his father carries that hated Light?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the wolf in red. “I know all about that. How could I forget? But think of the opportunity!”
“The what?” said the fat wolf, but before he could say more the wolf in red strode over and began untying George.
“What are you doing?” said the reedy-voiced wolf. “Don’t let him go!”
“I’m not letting him go,” said the wolf in red. “But I can’t examine him if he’s all tied up, now can I?”
“Examine?” said the fat wolf. “What do you mean?”
“I mean examine, that’s what I mean. This is a perfect opportunity to … well, explore. And the more I explore and learn, the more I learn about how the Light works.”
“And then you can figure out how to track and destroy it?” asked the reedy-voiced wolf.
“What?” said the wolf in red. “Oh, yes, yes. To destroy it. But I’m beginning to think that we’ve been going about this all wrong … It is not a light, really, but something else. Something more like a sound, I believe …”
“Very good,” said the fat wolf. He looked extremely angry. “But you seem to be forgetting that this boy is a very big coup for us. He is a veritable mine of information. You are letting your curiosities get the better of you, and putting too much at risk. We should simply interrogate him, which is why we restrained him in the first place.”
“My interests and … unique predicament allow me truths you are blind to,” said the wolf in red. “Let me handle this interrogation. Can you imagine anyone better to do it than I? I, the one who knows more about their company and what they do than anyone else?”
The two wolves looked mutinous at this, but reluctantly nodded.
“Then that’s settled. Here,” said the wolf in red to George. “Come on. Stand up. That’s it, there we go.” He looked George up and down. “You seem to be in working order. All your … parts are functioning?”
“Yes?” hazarded George.
“Very good. Very, very good. Then come down with me. Let’s sit in the front row together, and we can talk.” He nodded and said to the two other wolves, “That will be all.”
“What!” said the reedy-voiced wolf. “That will be all? What do you mean, that will be all?”
“I mean that’s all I require from you,” said the wolf in red. “You’re no longer needed.”
“You can’t just order us about!” snarled the fat wolf. “We’re not your underlings!”
“But we took this theater for me, for my researches,” said the wolf in red. “It’s mine. I am the one who knows what this project is about, and I am the one in charge of it. And you are interrupting. Or would you like me to tell—”
The wolf in red then said something that George did not understand. It was not a word, and it was not quite a noise. If George had not had the First Song within him, and been so attuned to the silence of the wolves, he would not have heard it at all. But as he did, he heard the wolf in red say something that was like a burst of pure, cold silence, one so complete and awful it was like George had been slapped on either side of his head. His skin erupted in goose bumps and his bowels turned to water, and a tremor ran through the shadows all around them as if in anticipation. He did not know what the wolf had said; he only knew he did not want to hear it again, and he definitely did not ever, ever want to know what it referred to.
The two other wolves stiffened at its mention. “You wouldn’t,” said the fat one.
“I was given approval,” said the wolf in red. “My works have the blessings, the authorities. I am allowed. And you are not. And today, here, you are no longer needed.”
The two wolves stared at him. Then the reedy-voiced one nodded, and retreated into the shadows, and disappeared. But the fat one lingered, and said, “You should be careful. It is possible that your works are tainting you. And remember: we are all underlings to the one you name. And it is watching you very carefully.” Then he withdrew as well, and was gone.
The wolf in red shook his head once when they were gone. “Silly things,” he said. “They are so eager, but they really don’t understand.”
George felt very confused. While this wolf seemed too unhinged to trust, George was keen to stay in his good graces, since he was the only thing keeping him from horrible abuse. So as politely as possible, George said, “Excuse me, but—”
But the wolf cried, “No, no! No, don’t say anything yet! Please don’t! For now, please, just … look.” He leaped down the aisle steps to the front row before the orchestra pit. He gestured to all six of the dummies, and said, “Just look, and please, tell me what you think. Look carefully, and … oh, dear. It looks like someone has stolen the impresario’s head. But ignore that. Please, ignore that, and just … tell me your thoughts.”
Ge
orge was not sure what he meant. He looked back over the tilted, distorted figures that were so horribly reminiscent of his friends, leaning this way and that in the dancing ash. “It’s … it’s meant to be the troupe.”
“Well, yes, obviously,” said the wolf. “But how close are the representations? Are they very close? Are they exact? I conducted dozens of interviews, kept hundreds of theater bills … Please tell me where I went right and wrong, please.”
The wolf was earnestly watching him, waiting on his every word. George was reminded of an artist bracing himself for criticism.
“They’re extremely close,” said George.
“But not exact?”
“Well, n-no …”
The wolf tutted and shook his head and began rifling a stack of notes. “What is wrong? What’s different? Please spare no detail, it’s the details that trouble me so.”
George had no idea where to begin. Stanley was not five feet tall, and Kingsley was not four feet, and Colette did not have such formidable biceps. But in the interest of humoring the wolf, George told him only about the incorrect pattern of Harry’s trousers, and also mentioned that Stanley usually wore a tie. The wolf immediately asked about the color of the tie as well as the waist size of Silenus’s pants. “This is good, this is very good!” said the wolf, scribbling quickly as George answered. “You have no idea how useful this is! I’ve been following you all for months, trying to get every bit of information on you I could! I traveled miles to find anyone who’d seen your show, and now to have a genuine member in my company … what are the odds? This will be perfect for my researches!”
“I’m sorry, but … researches?” asked George.
“Oh, yes!” said the wolf brightly. “We wanted to know all about you, so I asked them to take this theater for me, and then I could re-create one of your performances! This is where I collect all my little findings, all my little discoveries about you and your company of actors. This is a theater your company visited, isn’t it? I wanted the re-creation to be exact.”
“Well, I played here, yes,” said George. “But it was just me. Not Silenus.”
The Troupe Page 25
