Shadowland

    'Do you hear what we are saying to you, boy?' Jakob asked. 'Do you understand Wilhelm?'

    'I think so,' Tom said.

    'The stories, our treasures, are for children, among others. But . . . '

    Tom nodded: he saw. It was not the personal point.

    'No child can go the whole way with them,' Wilhelm said.

    'We gave our wings,' Jakob said. 'For our song was our life. But as for you . . . '

    Both brothers looked at him indulgently.

    'Do not idly throw away any of your gifts,' said Jakob. 'But when you are called . . . '

    'We answered. We all must answer,' Wilhelm said. 'Oh, my, what are we saying to this boy? It is late. Do you mind stopping work until tomorrow, brother? It is time to join our wives.'

    They turned large brown eyes toward him, clearly expecting him to leave.

    'But what happens next?' Tom asked, almost believing that they were who they appeared to be and could tell him.

    'All stories unfold,' Jakob said. 'But they take many turns before they reach their ends. Embrace the treasure, child. It is our best advice. Now we must depart.'

    Tom stood up from the chesterfield, confused: so much of what happened here ended with a sudden departure! 'Where do you go? According to you, where are we?'

    Wilhelm laughed. 'Why, Shadowland, boy. Shadowland is everything to us, as it may be to you. Shadowland is where we spent our busy lives. You may be within a wood . . . within a storied wood . . . '

    'Or fur-wrapped in a sleigh in deep snow . . . '

    'Or dying for love of a sleeping princess . . . '

    'Or before a dwindling fire with your head full of pictures . . . '

    'Or even asleep with a head full of cobwebs and dreams . . . '

    'And still you will be in Shadowland.'

    Both brothers laughed, and blew out the candles on their desks.

    'I have another question,' Tom said into the lively blackness.

    'Ask the stories, child,' said a departing voice.

    A flurry of quiet rustling, then silence: Tom knew they were gone. 'But they never give the same answers,' he said to the black room.

    He felt his way to the door.

17

When he turned the corner back into the main hallway, Coleman Collins was standing before him in the semi-darkness, blocking his way. Tom felt an instant ungovernable surge of fright — he had broken one of the rules, and the magician knew it. He must have seen him turn out of the short corridor.

    Collins' posture gave him no clues; he could not see his face, which was shadowed. The magician's hands were in his pockets. His shoulders slouched. The entire front of his body was a dark featureless pane in which a few vest burtons shone darkly: tiger's eyes.

    'I went in that room,' Tom said.

    Collins nodded. Still he kept his hands in his pockets and slouched.

    'You knew I would.'

    Collins nodded again.

    Tom edged closer to the wall. But Collins was deliberately blocking his way. 'You knew I would, and you wanted me to.' He bravely moved a few inches nearer, but Collins made no movement. 'I can accept what I saw,' Tom said. He heard the note of insistence, of fear, in his voice.

    Collins dropped his head. He drew one heel toward him along the carpet. Now Tom could see his face: pensive, withdrawn. The magician tilted his head and shot a cold glance directly into Tom's eyes.

    There might have been some playacting in it; Tom could not tell. All he knew was that Collins was frightening him. Alone in the hallway, he was scarier than in the freezing sleigh. Collins was more authoritative than a dozen Mr. Thorpes. The expression which had jumped out of his eyes had nailed Tom to the wall.

    'Isn't that what you said? Isn't that what you wanted?'

    Collins exhaled, pursed his lips. Finally he spoke. 'Arrogant midget. Do you really think you know what I want?'

Tom's tongue froze in his mouth. Collins reared back and propped his head against the wall. Tom caught the sudden clear odor of alcohol. 'In two days you have betrayed me twice. I will not forget this.'

    'But I thought — '

    The magician's head snapped forward. Tom flinched, feared that Collins would strike him.

    'You thought. You disobeyed me twice. That is what I think.' His eyes augered into Tom. 'Will you wander into my room next? Ransack my desk? I think that you need more than cartoons and amusements, little boy.'

    'But you told me I could — '

    'I told you you could not.'

    Tom swallowed. 'Didn't you want me to see them?'

    'See whom, traitor?'

    'The two in there. Jakob and Wilhelm. Whoever they were.'

    'That room is empty. For now. Get on your way, boy. I was going to give your friend a word of warning. You can do it for me. Scat. Get out of here. Now!'

    'A warning about what?'

    'He'll know. Didn't you hear me? Get out of here.' He stepped aside, and Tom slipped by him. 'I'm going to have fun with you,' the magician said to his back.

    Tom went as quickly as he could to the front of the stairs without actually running. He realized that he was dripping with sweat — even his legs felt sweaty. He could hear Collins limping away down the hall in the direction of the theaters.

    The next second brought a new astonishment.

    When he looked up the stairs, he saw a nut-faced old woman in a black dress at their top, looking down at him in horror. She lifted her hands sharply and scurried away out of sight.

    'Hey!' Tom said. He ran after her up the stairs. He could hear her moving frantically as a squirrel, trying to escape bun. When he reached the head of the stairs, he ran past the bedrooms and saw the hem of a black dress just vanishing around a corner at the end of the hall. To his side, through the glass and far away, lights burned deep in the forest and sent their reflections across the black lake.

    He reached the far end of the hall and realized that he had never been there before. The old woman had opened an outside door, one Tom had never seen, and was starting to descend an exterior staircase that curved back in toward the patio and the house. Tom got through the door before it closed and clapped a hand on the old woman's shoulder.

    She stopped as suddenly as a paralyzed hare. Then she looked up into his face with a compressed, dense mixture of expressions on her dry old face. A few white hairs grew from her upper lip. Her eyes were so brown as to look black, and her eyebrows were strongly, starkly black. He understood two things at once: she was foreign, and she was deeply ashamed that he had seen her.

    'I'm sorry,' he said.

    She jerked her shoulder away from his hand.

    'I just wanted to talk to you.'

    She shook her head. Her eyes were cold flat stones embedded in deep wrinkles.

    'Do you work here?'

    She made no movement at all, waiting for him to allow her to go.

    'Why weren't we supposed to see you?' Nothing. 'Do you know Del?' He caught a glimmer of recognition at the name. 'What's going on around here? I mean, how does all this stuff work? Why aren't we supposed to know you're here? Do you do the cooking? Do you make the beds?'

    No sign of anything but impatience to get away from him. He pantomimed breaking an egg into a pan, frying the egg. She nodded curtly. Inspired, he asked, 'Do you speak English?'

    No: a flat, denying movement of the head. She stabbed him with another black glance, and turned abruptly away and flew down the stairs.