by Ray Bradbury
‘Hey,’ he said. And, ‘Hey!’ He tossed his books straight up in the air. They exploded like a great burst of doves, whistling. He laughed. She laughed. Their laughter flew and fell with the books. He ran to scream down the banister again.
At the bottom of the stairs, she waited, arms wide, to catch him.
Edwin lay on his moonlit bed and his fingers pried at the Jack-in-the-Box, but the lid stayed shut: he turned it in his hands, blindly, but did not look down at it. Tomorrow, his birthday—but why? Was he that good? No. Why then, should the birthday come so soon? Well, simply because things had gotten, what world could you use? Nervous? Yes, things had begun to shimmer by day as well as by night. He saw the white tremor, the moonlight sifting down and down of an invisible snow in his mother’s face. It would take yet another of his birthdays to quiet her again.
‘My birthdays,’ he said to the ceiling, ‘will come quicker from now on. I know, I know. Mom laughs so loud, so much, and her eyes are funny…’
Would Teacher be invited to the party? No, Mother and Teacher had never met. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because,’ said Mom. ‘Don’t you want to meet Mom, Teacher?’ ‘Some day,’ said Teacher, faintly, blowing off like cobwebs in the hall. ‘Some…day…’
And where did Teacher go at night? Did she drift through all those secret mountain countries high up near the moon where the chandeliers were skinned blind with dust, or did she wander out beyond the trees that lay beyond the trees that lay beyond the trees? No, hardly that!
He twisted the toy in his sweating hands. Last year, when things began to tremble and quiver, hadn’t Mother advanced his birthday several months, too? Yes, oh, yes, yes.
Think of something else. God. God building cold midnight cellar, sunbaked attic, and all miracles between. Think of the hour of his death, crushed by some monstrous beetle beyond the wall. Oh, how the Worlds must have rocked with his passing!
Edwin moved the Jack-in-the-Box to his face, whispered against the lid. ‘Hello! Hello! Hello, hello…’
No answer save the sprung-tight coiled-in tension there. I’ll get you out, thought Edwin. Just wait, just wait. It may hurt, but there’s only one way. Here, here…
And he moved from bed to window and leaned far out, looking down to the marbled walk in the moonlight. He raised the box high, felt the sweat trickle from his armpit, felt his fingers clench, felt his arm jerk. He flung the box out, shouting. The box tumbled in the cold air, down. It took a long time to strike the marble pavement.
Edwin bent still further over, gasping.
‘Well?’ he cried. ‘Well?’ and again, ‘You there!’ and ‘You!’
The echoes faded. The box lay in the forest shadows. He could not see if the crash had broken it wide. He could not see if the Jack had risen, smiling, from its hideous jail or if it bobbed upon the wind now this way, that, this way, that, its silver bells jingling softly. He listened. He stood by the window for an hour staring, listening, and at last went back to bed.
Morning. Bright voices moved near and far, in and out the Kitchen World and Edwin opened his eyes. Whose voices, now whose could they be? Some of God’s workmen? The Dali people? But Mother hated them; no. The voices faded in a humming roar. Silence. And from a great distance, a running, running grew louder and still louder until the door burst open.
‘Happy Birthday!’
They danced, they ate frosted cookies, they bit lemon ices, they drank pink wines, and there stood his name on a snow-powdered cake as Mother chorded the piano into an avalanche of sound and opened her mouth to sing, then whirled to seize him away to more strawberries, more wines, more laughter that shook chandeliers into trembling rain. Then, a silver key flourished, they raced to unlock the fourteenth forbidden door.
‘Ready! Hold on!’
The door whispered into the wall.
‘Oh,’ said Edwin.
For, disappointingly enough, this fourteenth room was nothing at all but a dusty dull-brown closet. It promised nothing as had the rooms given him on other anniversaries! His sixth birthday present, now, had been the schoolroom in the Highlands. On his seventh birthday he had opened the playroom in the Lowlands. Eighth, the music room: ninth, the miraculous hell-fired kitchen! Tenth was the room where phonographs hissed in a continuous exhalation of ghosts singing on a gentle wind. Eleventh was the vast green diamond room of the garden with a carpet that had to be cut instead of swept!
‘Oh, don’t be disappointed; move!’ Mother, laughing, pushed him in the closet. ‘Wait till you see how magical! Shut the door!’
She thrust a red button flush with the wall.
Edwin shrieked. ‘No!’
For the room was quivering, working, like a mouth that held them in iron jaws; the room moved, the wall slid away below.
‘Oh, hush now, darling,’ she said. The door drifted down through the floor, and a long insanely vacant wall slithered by like an endlessly rustling snake to bring another door and another door with it that did not stop but traveled on while Edwin screamed and clutched his mother’s waist. The room whined and cleared its throat somewhere; the trembling ceased, the room stood still. Edwin stared at a strange new door and heard his mother say go on, open it, there, now, there. And the new door gaped upon still further mystery. Edwin blinked.
‘The Highlands! This is the Highlands! How did we get here? Where’s the parlor, Mom, where’s the parlor?’
She fetched him out through the door. ‘We jumped straight up, and we flew. Once a week, you’ll fly to school instead of running the long way around!’
He still could not move, but only stood looking at the mystery of Land exchanged for Land, of Country replaced by higher and further Country.
‘Oh, Mother, Mother…’ he said.
It was a sweet long time in the deep grass of the garden where they idled most deliciously, sipped huge cupfuls of apple cider with their elbows on crimson silk cushions, their shoes kicked off, their toes bedded in sour dandelions, sweet clover, Mother jumped twice when she heard Monsters roar beyond the forest. Edwin kissed her cheek. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll protect you.’
‘I know you will,’ she said, but she turned to gaze at the pattern of trees, as if any moment the chaos out there might smash the forest with a blow and stamp its Titan’s foot down and grind them to dust.
Late in the long blue afternoon, they saw a chromium bird thing fly through a bright rift in the trees, high and roaring. They ran for the parlor, heads bent as before a green storm of lightning and rain, feeling the sound pour blinding showers to drench them.
Crackle, crackle—the birthday burnt away to cellophane nothingness. At sunset, in the dim soft Parlor Country, Mother inhaled champagne with her tiny seedling nostrils and her pale summer-rose mouth, then, drowsy wild, herded Edwin off to his room and shut him in.
He undressed in slow-pantomimed wonder, thinking, this year, next year, and which room two years, three years, from today? What about the Beasts, the Monsters? And being mashed and God killed? What was killed? What was Death? Was Death a feeling? Did God enjoy it so much he never came back? Was Death a journey then?
In the hall, on her way downstairs. Mother dropped a champagne bottle. Edwin heard and was cold, for the thought that jumped through his head was, that’s how Mother’s sound. If she fell, if she broke, you’d find a million fragments in the morning. Bright crystal and clear wine on the parquet flooring, that’s all you’d see at dawn.
Morning was the smell of vines and grapes and moss in his room, a smell of shadowed coolness. Downstairs, breakfast was in all probability, at this instant, manifesting itself in a fingersnap on the wintry tables.
Edwin got up to wash and dress and wait, feeling fine. Now things would be fresh and new for at least a month. Today, like all days, there’d be breakfast, school, lunch, songs in the music room, an hour or two at the electrical games, then—tea in the Outlands, on the luminous grass. Then up to school again for a late hour or so, where he and Teacher might prowl the censored lib
rary together and he’d puzzle with words and thoughts about that World out there that had been censored from his eyes.
He had forgotten Teacher’s note. Now, he must give it to Mother.
He opened the door. The hall was empty. Down through the deeps of the Worlds, a soft mist floated, through a silence which no footsteps broke; the hills were quiet; the silver fonts did not pulse in the first sunlight, and the banister, coiling up from the mists, was a prehistoric monster peering into his room. He pulled away from this creature, looking to find Mother, like a white boat, drifted by the dawn tides and vapors below.
She was not there. He hurried down through the hushed lands, calling, ‘Mother!’
He found her in the parlor, collapsed on the floor in her shiny green-gold party dress, a champagne goblet in one hand, the carpet littered with broken glass.
She was obviously asleep, so he sat at the magical breakfast table. He blinked at the empty white cloth and the gleaming plates. There was no food. All his life wondrous foods had awaited him here. But not today.
‘Mother, wake up!’ He ran to her. ‘Shall I go to school? Where’s the food? Wake up!’
He ran up the stairs.
The Highlands were cold and shadowed, and the white glass suns no longer glowed from the ceilings in this day of sullen fog. Down dark corridors, through dim continents of silence, Edwin rushed. He rapped and rapped at the school door. It drifted in, whining, by itself.
The school lay empty and dark. No fire roared on the hearth to toss shadows on the beamed ceiling. There was not a crackle or a whisper.
‘Teacher?’
He poised in the center of the flat, cold room.
‘Teacher!’ he screamed.
He slashed the drapes aside: a faint shaft of sunlight fell through the stained glass.
Edwin gestured. He commanded the fire to explode like a popcorn kernel on the hearth. He commanded it to bloom to life! He shut his eyes, to give Teacher time to appear. He opened his eyes and was stupefied at what he saw on her desk.
Neatly folded was the gray cowl and robe, atop which gleamed her silver spectacles, and one gray glove. He touched them. One gray glove was gone. A piece of greasy cosmetic chalk lay on the robe. Testing it, he made dark lines on his hands.
He drew back, staring at Teacher’s empty robe, the glasses, the greasy chalk. His hand touched a knob of a door which had always been locked. The door swung slowly wide. He looked into a small brown closet.
‘Teacher!’
He ran in, the door crashed shut, he pressed a red button. The room sank down, and with it sank a slow mortal coldness. The World was silent, quiet, and cool. Teacher gone and Mother—sleeping. Down fell the room, with him in its iron jaws.
Machinery clashed. A door slid open. Edwin ran out.
The parlor!
Behind was not a door, but a tall oak panel from which he had emerged.
Mother lay uncaring, asleep. Folded under her, barely showing as he rolled her over, was one of Teacher’s soft gray gloves.
He stood near her, holding the incredible glove, for a long time. Finally, he began to whimper.
He fled back to the Highlands. The hearth was cold, the room empty. He waited. Teacher did not come. He ran down again to the solemn Lowlands, commanded the table to fill with steaming dishes! Nothing happened. He sat by his mother, talking and pleading with her and touching her, and her hands were cold.
The clock ticked and the light changed in the sky and still she did not move, and he was hungry and the silent dust dropped down on the air through all the Worlds. He thought of Teacher and knew that if she was in none of the hills and mountains above, then there was only one place she could be. She had wandered, by error, into the Outlands, lost until someone found her. And so he must go out, call after her, bring her back to wake Mother, or she would lie here forever with the dust falling in the great darkened spaces.
Through the kitchen, out back, he found late afternoon sun and the Beasts hooting faintly beyond the rim of the World. He clung to the garden wall, not daring to let go, and in the shadows, at a distance, saw the shattered box he had flung from the window. Freckles of sunlight quivered on the broken lid and touched tremblingly over and over the face of the Jack jumped out and sprawled with its arms overhead in an eternal gesture of freedom. The doll smiled and did not smile, smiled and did not smile, as the sun winked on the mouth, and Edwin stood, hypnotized, above and beyond it. The doll opened its arms toward the path that led off between the secret trees, the forbidden path smeared with oily droppings of the Beasts. But the path lay silent and the sun warmed Edwin and he heard the wind blow softly in the trees. At last, he let go of the garden wall.
‘Teacher?’
He edged along the path a few feet.
‘Teacher!’
His shoes slipped on the animal droppings and he stared far down the motionless tunnel, blindly. The path moved under, the trees moved over him.
‘Teacher!’
He walked slowly but steadily. He turned. Behind him lay his World and its very new silence. It was diminished, it was small! How strange to see it less than it had been. It had always and forever seemed so large. He felt his heart stop. He stepped back. But then, afraid of that silence in the World, he turned to face the forest path ahead.
Everything before him was new. Odors filled his nostrils, colors, odd shapes, incredible sizes filled his eyes.
If I run beyond the trees I’ll die, he thought, for that’s what Mother said. You’ll die, you’ll die.
But what’s dying? Another room? A blue room, a green room, far larger than all the rooms that ever were! But where’s the key? There, far ahead, a large half-open iron door, a wrought-iron gate. Beyond a room as large as the sky, all colored green with trees and grass! Oh, Mother, Teacher…
He rushed, stumbled, fell, got up, ran again, his numb legs under him were left behind as he fell down and down the side of a hill, the path gone, wailing, crying, and then not wailing or crying any more, but making new sounds. He reached the great rusted, screaming iron gate, leapt through; the Universe dwindled behind, he did not look back at his old Worlds, but ran as they withered and vanished.
The policeman stood at the curb, looking down the street. ‘These kids. I’ll never be able to figure them.’
‘How’s that?’ asked the pedestrian.
The policeman thought it over and frowned. ‘Couple seconds ago a little kid ran by. He was laughing and crying, crying and laughing, both. He was jumping up and down and touching things. Things like lampposts, the telephone poles, fire hydrants, dogs, people. Things like sidewalks, fences, gates, cars, plateglass windows, barber poles. Hell, he even grabbed hold and looked at me, and looked at the sky, you should have seen the tears, and all the time he kept yelling and yelling something funny.’
‘What did he yell?’ asked the pedestrian.
‘He kept yelling. “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m glad I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m glad I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, it’s good to be dead!”’ The policeman scratched his chin slowly. ‘One of them new kid games, I guess.’
The Leave-Taking
She was a woman with a broom or a dustpan or a washrag or a mixing spoon in her hand. You saw her cutting piecrust in the morning, humming to it, or you saw her setting out the baked pies at noon or taking them in, cool, at dusk. She rang porcelain cups like a Swiss bell ringer, to their place. She glided through the halls as steadily as a vacuum machine, seeking, finding, and setting to rights. She made mirrors of every window, to catch the sun. She strolled but twice through any garden, trowel in hand, and the flowers raised their quivering fires upon the warm air in her wake. She slept quietly and turned no more than three times in a night, as relaxed as a white glove to which, at dawn, a brisk hand will return. Waking, she touched people like pictures, to set their frames straight.
But, now…?
‘Grandma,’ said everyone. ‘Great-grandma.’
Now it was as if a hu
ge sum in arithmetic were finally drawing to an end. She had stuffed turkeys, chickens, squabs, gentlemen, and boys. She had washed ceilings, walls, invalids, and children. She had laid linoleum, repaired bicycles, wound clocks, stoked furnaces, swabbed iodine on ten thousand grievous wounds. Her hands had flown all around about and down, gentling this, holding that, throwing baseballs, swinging bright croquet mallets, seeding black earth, or fixing covers over dumplings, ragouts, and children wildly strewn by slumber. She had pulled down shades, pinched out candles, turned switches, and—grown old. Looking back on thirty billions of things started, carried, finished and done, it all summed up, totaled out; the last decimal was placed, the final zero swung slowly into line. Now, chalk in hand, she stood back from life a silent hour before reaching for the eraser.
‘Let me see now,’ said Great-grandma. ‘Let me see…’
With no fuss or further ado, she traveled the house in an ever-circling inventory, reached the stairs at last, and, making no special announcement, she took herself up three flights to her room where, silently, she laid herself out like a fossil imprint under the snowing cool sheets of her bed and began to die.
Again the voices:
‘Grandma! Great-grandma!’
The rumor of what she was doing dropped down the stairwell, hit, and spread ripples through the rooms, out doors and windows and along the street of elms to the edge of the green ravine.
‘Here now, here!’
The family surrounded her bed.
‘Just let me lie,’ she whispered.
Her ailment could not be seen in any microscope: it was a mild but ever-deepening tiredness, a dim weighing of her sparrow body; sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest.
As for her children and her children’s children—it seemed impossible that with such a simple act, the most leisurely act in the world, she could cause such apprehension.
