What would he be looking for? Proof? There was always the great possibility that Mike had retrieved the pieces of broken glass. There was the rope, but what significance it held he didn’t know. The rope had been there when Mike had gone down and his friend had looked at it as though the sight of it startled him.
There had also been something else in the Drop. Something besides himself, Mike and Mike’s toy. David felt it in the air. It gave him the creeps to think about it, but while within the Drop David thought the air to be heavy with some fetid quality hiding just beneath the clean, crisp air for which Ceedon’s Valley was known. He felt that if he had not been mesmerized by the sight of that freely spinning ball perhaps he may have reached out in order to grasp that fourth party. He thought for another moment and decided that was definitely something he would not have done. There had been, about that thickness, something that said it was a carnivore of human flesh and would consume if given the chance. It also said —
David could feel his mother’s eyes on him. He was concentrating too deeply on his thoughts — and yet not thinking — again and it showed.
“Well, gotta go,” he offered and left the kitchen quickly without waiting for a response.
In his room David found the privacy to think as hard as he pleased without having to answer any questions. He certainly wouldn’t be able to explain the air quality of the Drop if called upon to do so by his mother. It was one of those things he, himself, wasn’t even sure about. Perhaps the musty, thick air was a result of the space being closed off for so long by the leaves of trees. Leaves, he thought strange, that grew on branches which pushed themselves inward despite sunlight coming from directly above. He was positive it was in order to shield up the clearing. Had it been put there by…? Who would be responsible for something like that? If the Drop was made by bulldozers instead of nature David reasoned that it would be cheaper to only plant trees along the edges and somehow train the branches to grow in towards the centre. He wasn’t sure exactly how something like that could be done but he reasoned it was far from impossible. That made the most sense of all. It was cheaper because they were planting less trees, yet its beauty still attracted the tourists.
What else had his mother said? David thought a moment before it came back to him. His mother had stated that all one had to do was stand back and they would see a canopy of leaves forming a ceiling over the Drop. That was true and now he tried his hardest to picture that canopy. In fall it was a gorgeous sight. The leaves seemed to be on fire and people would often be seen taking pictures. There was even a man who’d always come around with oil paints and a canvas to capture the incredible scenery. He said he came all the way from Paris, which David suspected was supposed to be a joke since Paris was the name of the next town over. The funny thing was the leaves, despite being deciduous never dropped from the trees. They would turn brown by the first snowfall but always they clung to the branches until supplanted by next spring’s growth. David had asked his father about this and the man had replied by saying that it was because of all the branches. They supported the leaves even though they were already dead. To David that made no sense, but he had left the whole thing alone. Sure there were a lot of branches, but did they arch inward? David conjured up the picture again but it had already been warped by his imagination. He’d have to return to the Drop to clear the whole thing up once and for all. That was something that would have to wait until tomorrow or, even worse, until he got up enough courage to go anywhere close to the Drop again.
David let out an uneasy, nervous laugh. Why should he be afraid to go back into the Drop? That was a simple question to answer. David didn’t realize this consciously but there had indeed been something else inside the Drop. It was the same thing that had made the air thick. It was the thing Mike had named the magic and if it ever again had the opportunity it would harm David. It would hurt him in a way Mike only wished he could. Standing in the clearing David had felt this, and mixed with the hate Mike had been emitting, the animosity towards him was a pretty powerful force. A force that had come and gone quickly, leaving David just as puzzled as he was afraid.
Something in the Drop had definitely fled. If David had looked really, really closely, he would have seen the pupils of Mike’s eyes coming back together much faster than they had parted. David had felt that something leaving the Drop. Where it was going was another question that hadn’t quite come to him consciously, and even if it had he wouldn’t know how to answer it. Mike would have. David knew that if there were questions to be answered Mike would have the answers to them, for didn’t Mike have a way of knowing things?
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.”
David now lay back on his bed. His fingers were woven into one another and cradled the back of his head. He was contemplating calling Mike. How long would it take for his friend to cool down? He had never seen Mike that angry before and, although David could not pin-point a reason for it, he felt giddily afraid— he simply didn’t know where to direct his fear: Mike? The Drop? What wasn’t in the Drop but should have been? What was in the Drop but shouldn’t have been? …. David wondered what it was that Mike was doing right now. Would his mother be home? He knew some days she went to help out at the nursery school but not which days they were. It didn’t really matter, he was just curious.
David pushed his head against his hands as hard as he could, forcing both further into the pillow. Suddenly the urge to pick up the phone was immense. He fought it. He willed himself to lay there, staring intently at his legs, until the urge subsided.
David was only able to view his legs from the knees down but to him it was obvious that they were powerfully athletic. The ropes of muscle stood out in an awkward way that shaped his calves the same way he was sure they did his thighs. Looking at his legs made him think of running, but running made him think of the Drop, and to think of the Drop brought that unreasonable feeling of fright back again. He wouldn’t be able to get out that night anyway, his mother would be watching him too closely. If he went out she’d want to know where he was going and what he’d be doing, and then from there the homework issue would resurface again. He had managed to sneak out wearing his running shorts a few times in the past weeks but David had very realistic doubts about pulling that stunt tonight.
David sighed, silently, under his breath, and wondered again what Mike was up to.
CHAPTER TWELVE
About the time David was wondering what Mike was doing Mike was glancing speculatively at his bookshelf. It was a large dominating oak structure that occupied the far corner of his bedroom. The shelves and the area around it were cluttered with novels, newspapers, textbooks, workbooks, non-fiction books and hardcover classics. There was more of the same on the shelves his father had attached to the wall and in the milk crates that Mike had stacked to look like bookshelves.
Glancing in that direction one would suspect that Michael Gregory was a boy who did a lot of reading, if for nothing but the mere enjoyment of it. This was to the contrary, the only exception being, of course, in regard to the neatly stacked piles of comic books that occupied the area under his bedroom window. Other than his comic books, reading was something Mike found barely tolerable and he had yet to flip open one of the literature or activity books his father was always bringing him.
This was, however, the first time Mike had taken note of just how many math books there really were. He shouldn’t have been surprised, his father was always asking what he was doing in math in one breath while confessing he didn’t understand any of it in the other.
At the end of each semester the first thing his dad would ask is what grade Mike had received in math. Mike was not totally ignorant and agreed that math was of some importance. It was — was it not? — a minor but substantial aspect of the mind games. How that was he couldn’t say at the moment, but after grabbing one of those puzzle or text books he’d find out just how serious the problem was. Then he’d be able to tackle it in a logical manner.
; The reason Mike had chosen math was simple. First of all, he was unyieldingly good at it and second, he figured that from mathematics it was simple to assess a skill level. There was always a mark for math on his report card. If a course in mind games was being offered he had yet to hear about it. Besides, he knew where he stood in math — aptitude in mind games would be a little more difficult to measure; you either knew what you were doing or you didn’t.
Mike stood staring at the spines of his many books. At last, without even glancing at the title, he pulled one off the shelf. The only reason he could give for choosing that particular book was because of the colourful spine. It was a deep blue with thin purple and white stripes. The words were formed by bold purple letters that Mike ignored as text but recognized as a part of the overall design. All this reminded him of the colours from the polyhedron and he was pleased to find they continued on both front and back covers. Mike flipped open the book and quickly turned to a randomly selected page in the centre. Seldom did he ever read instructions. It was something he unconsciously skipped. He only ever forced himself to read directions while taking exams. Sometimes on exams the questions could be tricky and to get less than a ninety-eight would be shattering. Not to him, but to his father. His father was always interested in marks. If Mike didn’t give them in per cents his dad would pull out a calculator and convert them. Mike could have easily converted the fractions for him but his father didn’t ask and Mike didn’t offer.
Now in the pale light that spilled through his thin bedroom curtains Mike looked at the equation and then at the diagram. What was he doing? He should start with something more basic. It was, after all, the first time he was actually doing a math problem as a test….
“… a real test, anyway,” he stated aloud. And that’s exactly what it was: a real test. Things were changing quickly and if not stopped would soon grow out of proportion. He was no longer sure he wanted to go through life without his “gift” of knowing.
Mike walked to the bookshelf and again picked a book that was pleasing to look at. It had a baby blue hard cover with a lot of writing on the front. The writing varied in size and style and was probably why he found it all tolerable. With a brisk movement the book was thrown open to the centre page. There was no picture this time, only a bunch of closely typed numbers and letters. The boy grasped about half a centimetre of the book’s pages and, with a mask of tedium on his face, flipped these over to come across some word problems. In the corner there was a small black and white pen drawing.
Mike studied the picture, bored, impatient; and then shut that book also, heedlessly throwing it aside. It had been a picture of a man that looked astonishingly familiar. Not because Mike had seen him before but because he felt he should have known who he was and under normal circumstances he would have. Anyhow, the crudely cross-hatched portrait had only served to turn him off of the whole book altogether.
The third go at it couldn’t be anything but lucky. Mike took from the cluttered shelf a paperback book. It was the length and width of a standard sheet of paper. He was quite content with the basic, hand drawn, picture of an owl on the front. The owl was drawn in chalky blue and set against a black background. Mike opened the cover. Now before him was some text. It was brief but closely typed. Mike, again, turned the page without bothering to read what was on it. In large letters was the word REVIEW. His green eyes rested on this and then moved to the first problem. 0.5n = 4: that was what was written, widely spaced. He examined it for a moment then turned, in search of a pad and pencil.
The three fingers on Mike’s hand which had been most deeply cut were tightly bandaged. As he crossed the cluttered room Mike began to drum one on his lower lip. Upon reaching his desk the home phone rang. Mike turned and walked out the door. Things were changing all right. The steps he took were slow and easy, seemingly relaxed. The funny thing in all this? Mike didn’t feel relaxed. He had a heavy, unpleasant feeling in the bottom of his stomach. He felt hot and sticky … and for some reason, afraid. But he had no reason to be afraid. None once so ever.
“Hello?” he asked into the receiver.
Mike knew who it would be. He’d known from the moment the phone had sounded. The voice that replied elicited from him no surprise. The voice on the other end inquired something other than what Mike thought it would, but he suspected it was a cover for ulterior motives. Her tone was pitched high — inquisitive, whiney.
“Mikey? Mike, did you take the meat out of the freezer?”
He had not. Was it three o’clock already? The boy sat down heavily on his parents’ bed and glanced toward the clock on the wall. It was hard for him to believe so much time had gone by. The clock said it was quarter to three. There was still a whole fifteen minutes before the time his mother had asked him to tend to the meat.
“Ma,” Michael stated as calmly as he could, “it’s not even three o’clock yet.”
“Well I know that Mike, I was just calling to remind you, that’s all.”
“I’ll do it as soon as you let me off the phone.” It was as blunt a hint he could think of but if his mother had gotten it she gave no indication of doing so.
“Okay Michael, I just don’t want you to forget. We’re having guests for dinner.”
“I won’t forget Ma, I promise.”
“Did David come by?”
Mike thought as quickly as he could, debating what his answer should be. “No,” he replied after what he hoped was not too long a pause.
“So does that mean you don’t plan to go out for the rest of the day?”
“Ma, what does it matter?”
“I’m just wondering. If you do go back out make sure to wash your face.”
He rolled his eyes. Surely she could cover her tracks better than that.
“You were a mess this afternoon, Michael. I’m not sure I want you playing in the woods. Helen also said the same thing, that a number of kids have just disappeared.”
Mike wasn’t surprised. If there was news going around Helen Miller would know about it — her and her kid both. Thoughtfully he brought one of his bandaged fingers to his lips and began to drum.
“Mike?”
It was his mother.
“Mikey are you still there?”
He was and he told her this.
She wanted to know why it was taking him so long to answer. “That’s not like you Michael, normally you’re so quick.”
He grunted out a good-bye then hung up the phone half way through her response.
Mike sat on the edge of the large bed and thought. His mother was right about one thing: normally he was quick. Michael Gregory hadn’t missed a beat in about two years, but as the afternoon wore on he got the distinct feeling that his timing was becoming more and more syncopated.
All he really wanted was for that serene feeling to come to him, the one that always came to him when within the Drop. Instead, even as he tried to relax, what settled in was that heavy feeling of oppression and doom which had been upon him more and more frequently but that he couldn’t remember getting since he had had his cold.
“Great,” he said aloud, not to himself but to the empty room. “How can this be? And what does it mean? Another cold?”
“Well,” his other side answered, also aloud, “not necessarily. Remember, it used to come before the cold and you considered that not the least bit unusual.”
“True.” Mike rose and walked out of the room. With him he brought the second conversationalist. Michael wasn’t surprised to find he was talking with himself. It was something he’d always done. That is, until about two years ago. Before discovering the magic he’d been a lonely child, and now, it seemed, because the magic was gone, he was alone again.
“Very true,” his alter ego confirmed. “As a matter of fact, it may be is a sign of normality. Normal as society sees it.”
Mike smiled. He liked that explanation.
“Of course,” Mike agreed aloud, “in all probability that’s i
t. But there is one way to know for sure.”
“Oh?” His re-found other half sounded completely surprised.
“The math.”
“Oh.” Now it sounded disappointed.
Michael grabbed a few pieces of stationary from his mother’s table and left the room. From his own desk he took a pencil then resumed his seat in front of it.
“Now,” he said, no longer talking to himself but rather to that other side, “let the games begin.”
“Let it.”
He laughed for no apparent reason and decided there and then that he’d missed that other side very much. It always agreed with him and he always agreed with it.
“Zero pint five, by n will equal four.” Mike stated this in a definite tone.
“Will it?”
“Of course, all we have to do is figure out what n is.”
“Oh.” His other side, James — Mike had always liked the name James — sounded disappointed again.
“Sure, don’t be so worried, it’s easy.” Mike looked again at the book then began to mark on the pink stationary. When done he had used light strokes of pencil to write this: 0.5 x n = 4
Mike looked down at the paper than thought a moment.
“We could,” he said when finished thinking, “do this two ways: trial and error or the other way.”
“What’s the other way?” James wanted to know.
“Well, I can’t remember what it’s called but there is another way to attack this problem.”
“Oh. I suspect in a case like this we’d better stick to the Trial and Error.”
“If that’s what you honestly think, but there is a systematic way to go about these things.”
“And are you familiar with it?
“I suppose.”
“Well why don’t you choose. I’m not picky about these things, you know.”
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