by Ray Bradbury
“Fly, Timothy, fly!” shouted the great bat-winged uncle.
“I am, I am!” gasped Timothy.
“No, really fly!”
And laughing, the good uncle tossed and Timothy fell, flapping his arms, and still fell, shrieking, to be caught again.
“Well, well, in time!” said Uncle Einar. “Think. Wish. And with the wishing: make!”
Timothy shut his eyes, floating amidst the great flutter of pinions that filled the sky and blinded the stars. He felt small buds of fire in his shoulder blades and wished more and felt bumps grow and push to burst! Hell and damn. Damn and hell!
“In time,” said Uncle Einar, guessing his thought. “One day, or you’re not my nephew! Quick!”
They skimmed the roof, peered into attic dunes where Cecy dreamed, seized an October wind that soared them to the clouds, and plummeted down, gently, to land upon the porch where two dozen shadows with mist for eyes welcomed them with a proper tumult and rainfall applause.
“Good flying, aye, Timothy?” the uncle shouted, he never murmured, everything was an outrageous explosion, an opera bombardment. “Enough?”
“Enough!” Timothy wept with delight. “Oh, Uncle, thanks.”
“His first lesson,” Uncle Einar announced. “Soon the air, the sky, the clouds, will be his as well as mine!”
More rainfall applause as Einar carried Timothy in to the dancing phantoms at the tables and the almost-skeletons at the feast. Smokes exhaled from the chimneys shapeless to assume shapes of remembered nephews and cousins, then ceased being smolders and took on flesh to be crushed in the orchestra of dancers and crowd the banquet spreads. Until a cock crowed on some distant farm. All stiffened as if struck. The wildness stilled. The smokes and mists and rain-shapes melted along the cellar steps to stash, lounge, and occupy the bins and boxes with brass-labeled lids. Uncle Einar, last of all, kettledrummed the air as he descended, laughing at some half-remembered death, perhaps his own, until he lay in the longest box of all and let his wings simmer to be tucked on each side of his laughs and with the last bat-web pinion safely appliquéd to his chest, shut his eyes, gave a nod, and the lid, so summoned, shut down on his laughs as if he were still in flight and the cellar was all silence and dark.
Timothy, in the cold dawn, was abandoned. For all were gone, all slept fearful of light. He was alone, and loving the day and the sun, but wishing somehow to love darkness and night as he crept back up through all the stairs of the House saying, “I’m tired, Cecy. But I can’t sleep. Can’t.”
“Sleep,” murmured Cecy, as he lay on the Egyptian sands beside her. “Hear me. Sleep. Sleep.”
And, obeying, he slept.
Sunset.
Three dozen long, hollow box-lids slammed wide. Three dozen filaments, cobwebs, ectoplasms swarmed up to pulsate and then—become. Three dozen cousins, nephews, aunts, uncles melted themselves from the vibrant air, a nose here, a mouth here, a set of ears, some upraised hands and gesticulant fingers, waiting for legs to extend the feet to extrude, whereupon they stepped out and down on the cellar floor even as the strange casks popped wide to let forth not vintages but autumn leaves like wings and wings like autumn leaves which stormed footless up the stairs, while from down the vacuumed chimney flues blown forth in cindered smokes, tunes sounded from players invisible, and a rodent of incredible size chorded the piano and waited on applause.
In the midst of which, Timothy was ricocheted from beast-child to dread relative in a volcanic roar so that at last, defeated, he yanked himself free and fled to the kitchen where something huddled against the flooded windowpanes. It sighed and wept and tapped continually, and suddenly he was outside, staring in, the rain beating, the wind chilling him, and all the candle darkness inside lost. Waltzes were being waltzed; he could not waltz. Foods were being devoured he could not devour, wines were being drunk he could not drink.
Timothy shivered and ran upstairs to the moonlit sands and the dunes shaped like ladies and Cecy asleep in their midst.
“Cecy,” he called, softly. “Where are you tonight?”
She said, “Far west. California. By a salt sea, near the mud pots and the steam and the quiet. I’m a farmer’s wife sitting on a wooden porch. The sun’s going down.”
“What else, Cecy?”
“You can hear the mud pots whispering,” she replied. “The mud pots lift little gray heads of steam, and the heads rip like rubber and collapse with a noise like wet lips. And there is a smell of sulfur and deep burning and old time. The dinosaur has been cooking here two billion years.”
“Is he done yet, Cecy?”
Cecy’s calm sleeper’s lips smiled. “Quite done. Now it’s full night here between the mountains. I’m inside this woman’s head, looking out through the little holes in her skull, listening to the silence. Planes fly like pterodactyls on huge wings. Further over, a steam shovel Tyrannosaurus stares at those loud reptiles flying high. I watch and smell the smells of prehistoric cookings. Quiet, quiet …”
“How long will you stay in her head, Cecy?”
“Until I’ve listened and looked and felt enough to change her life. Living in her isn’t like living anywhere in the world. Her valley with her small wooden house is a dawn world. Black mountains enclose it with silence. Once in half an hour I see a car go by, shining its headlights on a small dirt road, and then silence and night. I sit on the porch all day, and watch the shadows run out from the trees, and join in one big night. I wait for my husband to come home. He never will. The valley, the sea, few cars, the porch, rocking chair, myself, the silence.”
“What now, Cecy?”
“I’m walking off the porch, toward the mud pots. Now the sulfur fumes are all around. A bird flies over, crying. I’m in that bird! And as I fly, inside my new small glass-bead eyes, I see that woman, below, take two steps out into the mud pots! I hear a sound as if a boulder has been dropped! I see a white hand, sinking in a pool of mud. The mud seals over. Now, I’m flying home!”
Something banged against the attic window.
Cecy blinked.
“Now!” she laughed. “I’m here!”
Cecy let her eyes wander to find Timothy.
“Why are you upstairs instead of with the Homecoming?”
“Oh, Cecy!” he burst out. “I want to do something to make them see me, make me as fine as them, something to make me belong, and I thought you might—”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Stand straight! Now, shut your eyes and think nothing, nothing!”
He stood very straight and thought of nothing.
She sighed. “Timothy? Ready? Set?”
Like a hand into a glove, Cecy thrust in both ears. “Go!”
“Everyone! Look!”
Timothy lifted the goblet of strange red wine, the peculiar vintage, so all could see. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews!
He drank it down.
He waved at his stepsister Laura, held her gaze, to freeze her in place.
Timothy pinned Laura’s arms behind her, whispering. Gently, he bit her neck!
Candles blew out. Wind applauded the roof shingles. Aunts and uncles gasped.
Turning, Timothy crammed toadstools in his mouth, swallowed, then beat his arms against his hips and ran in circles. “Uncle Einar! Now I’ll fly!”
At the top of the stairs, flapping, Timothy heard his mother cry, “No!”
“Yes!” Timothy hurled himself out, thrashing!
Halfway his wings exploded. Screaming, he fell.
To be caught by Uncle Einar.
Timothy squirmed wildly as a voice burst from his lips.
“This is Cecy!” it cried. “Cecy! Come see! In the attic!” Laughter. Timothy tried to stop his mouth.
Laughter. Einar let him drop. Running through the mob as they rushed up toward Cecy, Timothy kicked the front door wide and …
Flap! went the wine and toadstools, out into the cold autumn night.
“Cecy, I hate you, hate you!”
Inside the
barn, in deep shadow, Timothy sobbed bitterly and thrashed in a stack of odorous hay. Then he lay still. From his blouse pocket, from the protection of the matchbox used as his retreat, the spider crawled forth and along Timothy’s shoulder to his neck to climb to his ear.
Timothy trembled. “No, no. Don’t!”
The delicate touch of the feeler on his tympanum, small signals of large concern, made Timothy’s crying cease.
The spider then traveled down his cheek, stationed itself beneath his nose, probing the nostrils as if to seek the melancholy in there, and then moved quietly up over the rim of his nose to sit, peering at Timothy, until he burst with laughter.
“Get, Arach! Go!”
In answer, the spider floated down and with sixteen delicate motions wove its filaments zigzag over Timothy’s mouth which could only sound:
“Mmmmmm!”
Timothy sat up, rustling the hay.
Mouse was there in his blouse pocket, a small snug contentment to touch his chest and heart.
Anuba was there, curled in a soft round ball of sleep, all adream with many fine fish swimming in freshets of dream.
The land was painted with moonlight now. In the big House he could hear the ribald laughter as “Mirror, Mirror” was played with a huge mirror. Celebrants roared as they tried to identify those of themselves whose reflections did not, had not ever, and never would appear in a glass.
Timothy broke Arach’s web on his lips:
“Now what?”
Falling to the floor, Arach scuttled swiftly toward the House, until Timothy trapped and tucked him back in his ear. “All right. Here we go, for fun, no matter what!”
He ran. Behind, Mouse ran small, Anuba large. Half across the yard, a green tarpaulin fell from the sky and pinned him flat with silken wing. “Uncle!”
“Timothy.” Einar’s wings clamored like kettledrums. Timothy, a thimble, was set on Einar’s shoulder. “Cheer up, nephew. How much richer things are for you. Our world is dead. All tombstone-gray. Life’s best to those who live least, worth more per ounce, more per ounce!”
From midnight on, Uncle Einar soared him about the House, from room to room, weaving, singing, as they fetched A Thousand Times Great Grandmère down, wrapped in her Egyptian cerements, roll on roll of linen bandage coiled about her fragile archaeopteryx bones. Silently she stood, stiff as a great loaf of Nile bread, her eyes flinting a wise, silent fire. At the predawn breakfast, she was propped at the head of the long table and suffered sips of incredible wines to wet her dusty mouth.
The wind rose, the stars burned, the dances quickened. The many darknesses roiled, bubbled, vanished, reappeared.
“Coffins” was next. Coffins, in a row, surrounded by marchers, timed to a flute. One by one coffins were removed. The scramble for their polished interiors eliminated two, four, six, eight marchers, until one coffin remained. Timothy circled it cautiously with his fey-cousin, Rob. The flute stopped. Gopher to hole, Timothy lunged at the box. Rob popped in first! Applause!
Laughter and chat.
“How is Uncle Einar’s sister? She of the wings.”
“Lotte flew over Persia last week and was shot with arrows. A bird for a banquet. A bird!”
Their laughter was a cave of winds.
“And Carl?”
“The one who lives under bridges? Poor Carl. No place in all Europe for him. New bridges are rebuilt with Holy Water blessings! Carl is homeless. There are refugees tonight beyond counting.”
“True! All the bridges, eh? Poor Carl.”
“Listen!”
The party held still. Far off, a town clock chimed 6 A.M. The Homecoming was done. In time with the clock striking, a hundred voices began to sing songs that were centuries old. Uncles and aunts twined their arms around each other, circling, singing, and somewhere in the cold distance of morning the town clock stopped its chimes and was still.
Timothy sang.
He knew no words, no tune, yet he sang and the words and tune were pure, round and high and beautiful.
Finished, he gazed up to the High Attic of Egyptian sands and dreams.
“Thanks, Cecy,” he whispered.
A wind blew. Her voice echoed from his mouth, “Do you forgive me?”
Then he said, “Cecy. Forgiven.”
Then he relaxed and let his mouth move as it wished, and the song continued, rhythmically, purely, melodiously.
Goodbyes were said in a great rustling. Mother and Father stood in grave happiness at the door to kiss each departing cheek. The sky, beyond, colored and shone in the east. A cold wind entered. They must all rise and fly west to beat the sun around the world. Make haste, oh, make haste!
Again Timothy listened to a voice in his head and said, “Yes, Cecy. I would like that. Thanks.”
And Cecy helped him into one body after another. Instantly, he felt himself inside an ancient cousin’s body at the door, bowing and pressing lips to Mother’s pale fingers, looking out at her from a wrinkled leather face. Then he stepped out into a wind that seized and blew him in a flurry of leaves away up over the awakening hills.
With a snap, Timothy was behind another face, at the door, all farewells. It was Cousin William’s face.
Cousin William, swift as smoke, loped down a dirt road, red eyes burning, fur pelt rimed with morning, padded feet falling with silent sureness, panting over a hill into a hollow, and then suddenly in flight, flying away.
Then Timothy welled up in the tall umbrella shape of Uncle Einar to look out from his wildly amused eyes as he picked up a tiny pale body: Timothy! Picking up himself! “Be a good boy, Timothy. See you soon!”
Swifter than borne leaves, with a webbed thunder of wings, faster than the lupine thing of the country road, going so swiftly the earth’s features blurred and the last stars tilted, like a pebble in Uncle Einar’s mouth, Timothy flew, joined on half his flight.
Then slammed back in his own flesh.
The shouting and the laughing faded and were almost lost. Everybody was embracing and crying and thinking how the world was becoming less a place for them. There had been a time when they had met every year, but now decades passed with no reconciliation. “Don’t forget, we meet in Salem in 2009!” someone cried.
Salem. Timothy’s numbed mind touched the word. Salem—2009. And there would be Uncle Fry and Grandma and Grandfather and A Thousand Times Great Grandmère in her withered cerements. And Mother and Father and Cecy and all the rest. But would he be alive that long?
With one last withering wind blast, away they all shot, so many scarves, so many fluttery mammals, so many seared leaves, so many wolves loping, so many whinings and clusterings, so many midnights and dawns and sleeps and wakenings.
Mother shut the door.
Father walked down into the cellar.
Timothy walked across the crepe-littered hall. His head was down, and in passing the party mirror he saw the pale mortality of his face. He shivered.
“Timothy,” said Mother.
She laid a hand on his face. “Son,” she said. “We love you. We all love you. No matter how different you are, no matter if you leave us one day.” She kissed his cheek. “And if and when you die your bones will lie undisturbed, we’ll see to that, you’ll lie at ease forever, and I’ll come see you every All Hallows’ Eve and tuck you in more secure.”
The halls echoed to polished lids creaking and slamming shut.
The House was silent. Far away, the wind went over a hill with its last cargo of small dark flights, echoing, chittering.
He walked up the steps, one by one, crying to himself all the way.
CHAPTER 10
West of October
The four cousins—Peter, William, Philip, and Jack—had lingered on after the Homecoming because a cloud of doom and melancholy and disbelief hung over Europe. There was no room in the dark House, so they were stashed almost upside-down in the barn, which shortly thereafter burned.
Like most of the Family they were not ordinary.
T
o say that most of them slept days and worked at odd occupations nights would fall short of commencement.
To remark that some of them could read minds, and some fly with lightnings to land with leaves, would be an understatement.
To add that some could not be seen in mirrors while others could be found in multitudinous shapes, sizes, and textures in the same glass would merely repeat gossip that veered into truth.
These boys resembled their uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents by the toadstool score and the mushroom dozen.
They were just about every color you could mix in one restless night.
Some were young and others had been around since the Sphinx first sank its stone paws in tidal sands.
And all four were in love and in need for one special Family member.
Cecy.
Cecy. She was the reason, the real reason, the central reason for the wild cousins to circle her and stay. For she was as seedpod full as a pomegranate. She was all the senses of all the creatures in the world. She was all the motion-picture houses and stage-play theaters and all the art galleries of all time.
Ask her to yank your soul like an aching tooth and shoot it into clouds to cool your spirit, and yanked you were, drawn high to drift in the mists.
Ask her to seize that same soul and bind it in the flesh of a tree, and you awoke the next morning with birds singing in your green head.
Ask to be pure rain and you fell on everything. Ask to be the moon and suddenly you looked down to see your pale light painting lost towns the color of tombstones and spectral ghosts.
Cecy. Who extracted your soul and pulled forth your impacted wisdom, and could transfer it to animal, vegetable, or mineral; name your poison.
No wonder the cousins lingered.
And along about sunset, before the dreadful fire, they climbed to the attic to stir her bed of Egyptian sands with their breath.
“Well,” said Cecy, eyes shut, a smile playing about her mouth. “What would your pleasure be?”
“I—” said Peter.
“Maybe—” said William and Philip.
“Could you—” said Jack.
