Mr. Wicker's Window

by Carley Dawson

  CHAPTER 3

  The last reverberations of sound hung in the air and jangled inChris's head. Of the many times he had examined Mr. Wicker's windowand pored over the rope, the ship and the Nubian boy, he had nevergone into Mr. Wicker's shop. So now, alone until someone should answerthe bell, he looked eagerly, if uneasily, around him.

  What with the one window and the lowering day outside, the long narrowshop was somber. The ceiling seemed close above Chris's head. Heavyhand-hewn beams crossed it from one side to the other. A few dustypieces of furniture stood about, whether for sale or for use Chriscould not determine, and almost lost in the black shadows at the farend were what appeared to be boxes and bales, piled one upon theother.

  The growing silence, now the bell had stopped, gripped Chris. A chillmade itself felt in his feet and spread rapidly over his body so thathe gave a convulsive shiver. He was about to turn and go out when, atthe farthest end of the gloomy shop, a small primrose oblong of lightseeped for a little way along the floor and a door opened.Fascinated, Chris stared, as into this distant pallor stepped theshort and remarkably spidery figure of a man. Mr. Wicker's back beingtoward the source of light, Chris could not see his face. The figurepaused, with a fragile hand scarcely bigger than that of a child's onthe doorhandle, and then came forward.

  The silence, Chris noticed, was still unbroken as Mr. Wicker advancedtoward him, and Chris shuddered again as he stood waiting andwatching, but whether it was with cold or with fear--and the room wasindeed very dank and unaired--it would have been hard to say.

  When Mr. Wicker had come within a few feet of Chris, the finalvestiges of daylight from outside reached the extraordinary man facingthe boy, and for the first time Chris was able to examine the old manwho was more legend than fact throughout Georgetown.

  William Wicker's face in itself was not forbidding. What made an icymouse seem to run the length of Chris's spine was the impression ofenormous age in the appearance of the man confronting him. The thinlips crackled the withered and multi-wrinkled cheeks in the ghost ofwhat had once been a smile. The nose, once hawk-like and proud anddenoting strength of character and purpose, was now pinched by theever-tightening fingers of a progression of years. The double fans ofminute wrinkles breaking from eye corner to temple and joining withthose over the cheekbones were drawn into the horizontal lines acrossthe domed forehead. Little tufts of white fuzz above the ears were allthat remained of the antiquarian's hair, but what drew and heldChris's gaze were the old man's eyes.

  Mr. Wicker's eyes were not those of an old man at all. They had thevigor of a man in the prime of life, and their presence in thatpuckered face of age which confronted Chris was horriblydisconcerting. Chris blinked and looked again. Yes, they were stillthere. Eyes so deeply brown they might well have been black, butclear, sparkling, and with a decided glint of humor and mischief.While the boy had been too frightened to move at the sight of Mr.Wicker's ancient cheeks, pinched nose, and hairless head, he wasencouraged by the friendly eyes. Chris could not help but like thoseeyes, even though it was hard to believe they belonged to the manbefore him.

  As though from a great distance Mr. Wicker's voice came to his ears,and this too, Chris found difficult to credit. There, not four feet infront of him was the old shopkeeper, and yet the high thin voice mighthave come from anywhere else--the rafters, the room beyond the lighteddoor; anywhere.

  "Well, my boy? You wanted something?"

  Chris swallowed and his voice came back to him. "Yes sir," he said. "Isaw your sign, and I know a boy who needs the job." He looked at Mr.Wicker as though he were unable to look elsewhere. "He's a schoolmateof mine. Jakey Harris, his name is, and he really needs the job. Iwondered--" Mr. Wicker's eyes, laughing at him just a little, confusedChris and he began to stammer.

  "I--I just wondered if the place was still open."

  Mr. Wicker studied Chris for a moment or two before he replied. Whathe saw was a fresh-cheeked lad tall for thirteen, sturdy, withsincerity and good humor in his face, and something sensitive andappealing about his eyes. His chin showed obstinacy and tenacity; hisnose would shape itself well as he grew older. Unruly tawny hair wasblown and ruffled in every direction and his hands, even young as hewas, showed ability and strength.

  "Hm-mm," said Mr. Wicker, and his remote smile broadened while hiseyes sparkled with the warmth of a fire on a winter's night. "Hm-mm.Yes. The job is still open, young man, but while you're here, why notapply for it yourself?"

  Chris, somewhat less ill at ease, now he had got his message out,shifted his feet and gave a short laugh.

  "Oh no, thank you, sir. You see, I don't really need it, and Jakeydoes. It wouldn't be fair for me to take it if Jakey has a chance."

  He looked away, and saw that the light from the distant hidden roomwas jumping and flickering on the shadowed walls. He guessed theremust be a lively fire in that room beyond.

  "Of course," Chris added anxiously, "I don't know what the job is. Youdon't say, on the sign, and Jakey isn't awfully well. He has a twistedfoot and it makes him slow in walking. Would that interfere withJakey's getting the job, sir?" Chris enquired.

  The reply was slow in coming, and Chris heard as if the words had beenspoken, not before him, where the black outlined figure still stood,but as if at his very ear. Soft but clear, the words sounded.

  "It would not interfere, Christopher my boy. But now that you arehere, you must make the test. Jakey will be cared for, never fear."

  Almost as in a dream, Chris felt an atmosphere drenching him as thougha powerful scent filled the air. His head swam a little, and herealized that it was a long time since he had had lunch. He thought hedetected a pleasant smell of herbs, like the potpourri his mother hadin bowls in their house. The sharp black outline of Mr. Wickerimpressed itself on his eyeballs, and in the room, now totally darkexcept for the light that streamed from the faraway open door, Mr.Wicker's body seemed to radiate a bright edge, like a carbon paperheld up to the sun. The voice at his ear once more filled his head andhis hearing.

  "_You_ will make the test, my boy. Now. Just turn around, and tell mewhat you see out my window."

  Chris, in spite of the strangeness rising about him like a mist,remembered very well what lay outside the window. But even as heslowly turned, the thought pierced his mind, Why had he not seen thereflection of the headlights of the cars moving up around the cornerof Water Street and up the hill toward the traffic signals? And whyhad the sound of wheels, of gears and of horns, been so completelymuffled out? The room seemed overly still.

  Then, in that second, he turned and faced about. The wide bow windowwas there before him, the three objects he liked best showing frostyin the moonlight that poured in from across the water.

  Across the water! Where was the freeway? It was no longer there, norwere the high walls and smokestacks of factories to be seen. Thewarehouses were still there. They were the very same, for Chris couldmake out the winch and tackle he had noticed as he opened the door.But instead of factories, instead of the freeway, the river flickeredsilver under the moon, and the hulls and masts of countless shipsbroke the starry sky.

  Flabbergasted and breathless, Chris was unaware that he had movedcloser to peer out the window in every direction. No electric signs,no lamplit streets. Going as far as the wall to his left and leaningforward, Chris looked up toward M Street.

  Where the People's Drugstore had stood but a half-hour before, rosethe roofs of what was evidently an inn. A courtyard was sparsely litby a flaring torch or two, showing a swinging sign hung on a post. Thepost was planted at the edge of what was now a broad and muddy road.Even as Chris stared, not knowing whether to believe what his eyes sawor not, there was a great sound of hoofs and of a cracking whip. Acoach with its top piled high with luggage stamped to a halt besidethe flagged courtyard. Ostlers ran out to hold the team of horsessteaming in the cool night air, and linkboys carrying torches andorange lanterns ran out to help the travelers in. The coachman woreknee breeches and a cockaded hat; two gentlemen got d
own from theinterior of the coach, stretching their cramped legs. Chris couldcatch the shine as lantern glow touched the silver buckles on theirshoes. Their full-backed coats were slightly lifted, on the left, bythe tips of their rapiers, and a froth of white, lace or muslin, fellfrom their necks onto satin waistcoats. They moved into the inn; thecoach rattled off to the stable. Before the window, farm carts rumbledby, and instead of the crowded outline of Georgetown roofs, Chriscould see only a few chimneys against the stars, and many lofty trees.

  "What do you see, boy?" asked the voice, so gentle, at his ear. Chris,frightened and dumbfounded, shook his head.

  "I will tell you," Mr. Wicker said. "My window has a power for thosefew who are to see. You are looking back into the past, my boy. Theway it used to be."

  Then the coldness, the strangeness, the fluttering of the light wastoo much for Chris. Blackness descended on him as if a hood had beendropped over his head, but before he was quite gone, he heard what hethought was Mr. Wicker's voice saying kindly:

  "You will do."