Forum

CHAPTER 11 Walking Tours 1 Ben Hanscom Makes a Withdrawal Richie Tozier got out of the cab at the three-way intersection of Kansas Street, Center Street, and Main Street, and Ben dismissed it at the top of Up-Mile Hill. The driver was Bill's 'religious fella,' but neither Richie nor Ben knew it: Dave had lapsed into a morose silence. Ben could have gotten off with Richie, he supposed, but it seemed better somehow that they all start off alone. He stood on the corner of Kansas Street and Daltrey Close, watching the cab pull back into traffic, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets, trying to get the lunch's hideous conclusion out of his mind. He couldn't do it; his thoughts kept returning to that black-gray fly crawling out of the fortune cookie on Bill's plate, its veined wings plastered to its back. He would try to divert his mind from this unhealthy image, think he had succeeded, only to discover five minutes later that his mind was back at it. I'm trying to justify it somehow, he thought, meaning it not in the moral sense but rather in the mathematical one. Buildings are built by observing certain natural laws; natural laws may be expressed by equations; equations must be justified. Where was the justification in what had happened less than half an hour ago? Let it alone, he told himself, not for the first time. You can't justify it, so let it alone. Very good advice; the problem was that he couldn't take it. He remembered that the day after he had seen the mummy on the iced-up Canal, his life had gone on as usual. He had known that whatever it had been had come very close to getting him, but his life had gone on: he had attended school, taken an arithmetic test, visited the library when school was over, and eaten with his usual heartiness. He had simply incorporated the thing he had seen on the Canal into his life, and if he had almost been killed by it . . . well, kids were always almost getting killed. They dashed across streets without looking, they got horsing around in the lake and suddenly realized they had floated far past their depth on their rubber rafts and had to paddle back, they fell off monkey-bars on their asses and out of trees on their heads. Now, standing here in the fading drizzle in front of a Trustworthy Hardware Store that had been a pawnshop in 1958 (Frati Brothers, Ben recalled, the double windows always full of pistols and rifles and straight-razors and guitars hung up by their necks like exotic animals), it occurred to him that kids were better at almost dying, and they were also better at incorporating the inexplicable into their lives. They believed implicitly in the invisible world. Miracles both bright and dark were to be taken into consideration, oh yes, most certainly, but they by no means stopped the world. A sudden upheaval of beauty or terror at ten did not preclude an extra cheese-dog or two for lunch at noon. But when you grew up, all that changed. You no longer lay awake in your bed, sure something was crouching in the closet or scratching at the window . . . but when something did happen, something beyond rational explanation, the circuits overloaded. The axons and dendrites got hot. You started to jitter and jive, you started to shake rattle and roll, your imagination started to hop and bop and do the funky chicken all over your nerves. You couldn't just incorporate what had happened into your life experience. It didn't digest. Your mind kept coming back to it, pawing it lightly like a kitten with a ball of string . . . until eventually, of course, you either went crazy or got to a place where it was impossible for you to function. And if that happens, Ben thought, It's got me. Us. Cold. He started to walk up Kansas Street, not conscious of heading anyplace in particular. And thought suddenly: What did we do with the silver dollar? He still couldn't remember. The silver dollar, Ben . . . Beverly saved your life with it. Yours . . . maybe all the others' . . . and especially Bill's. It almost ripped my guts out before Beverly did . . . what? What did she do? And how was it able to work? She backed it off, and we all helped her. But how? A word came to him suddenly, a word that meant nothing at all but which tightened his flesh: Chüd. He looked down at the sidewalk and for a moment saw the shape of a turtle chalked there, and the world seemed to swim before his eyes. He shut them tightly and when he opened them saw it was not a turtle; only a hopscotch grid half-erased by the light rain. Chüd. What did that mean? 'I don't know,' he said aloud, and when he looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard him talking to himself, he saw that he had turned off Kansas Street and onto Costello Avenue. At lunch he had told the others that the Barrens were the only place in Derry where he had felt happy as a kid . . . but that wasn't quite true, was it? There had been another place. Either accidentally or unconsciously, he had come to that other place: the Derry Public Library. He stood in front of it for a minute or two, hands still in his pockets. It hadn't changed; he admired its lines as much now as he had as a child. Like so many stone buildings that had been well-designed, it succeeded in confounding the closely observing eye with contradictions: its stone solidity was somehow balanced by the delicacy of its arches and slim columns; it looked both bank-safe squat and yet slim and clean (well, it was slim as city buildings went, especially those erected around the turn of the century, and the windows, crisscrossed with narrow strips of iron, were graceful and rounded). These contradictions saved it from ugliness, and he was not entirely surprised to feel a wave of love for the place. Nothing much had changed on Costello Avenue. Glancing along it, he could see the Derry Community House, and he found himself wondering if the Costello Avenue Market was still there at the point where the avenue, which was semicircular, rejoined Kansas Street. He walked across the library lawn, barely noticing that his dress boots were getting wet, to have a look at that glassed-in passageway between the grownups' library and the Children's Library. It was also unchanged, and from here, standing just outside the bowed branches of a weeping willow tree, he could see people passing back and forth. The old delight flooded him, and he really forgot what had happened at the end of the reunion lunch for the first time. He could remember walking around to this very same spot as a kid, only in the winter, plowing his way through snow that was almost hip-deep, and then standing for as long as fifteen minutes. He would come at dusk, he remembered, and again it was the contrasts that drew him and held him there with the tips of his fingers going numb and snow melting inside his green gumrubber boots. It would be drawing-down-dark out where he was, the world going purple with early winter shadows, the sky the color of ashes in the east and embers in the west. It would be cold where he was, ten degrees perhaps, and chillier than that if the wind was blowing across from the frozen Barrens, as it so often did. But there, less than forty yards from where he stood, people walked back and forth in their shirtsleeves. There, less than forty yards from where he stood, was a tubeway of bright white light, thrown by the overhead fluorescents. Little kids giggled together, high-school sweethearts held hands (and if the librarian saw them, she would make them stop). It was somehow magical, magical in a good way that he had been too young to account for with such mundane things as electric power and oil heat. The magic was that glowing cylinder of light and life connecting those two dark buildings like a lifeline, the magic was in watching people walk through it across the dark snowfield, untouched by either the dark or the cold. It made them lovely and Godlike. Eventually he would walk away (as he was doing now) and circle the building to the front door (as he was doing now), but he would always pause and look back once (as he was doing now) before the bulking stone shoulder of the adult library cut off the sight-line to that delicate umbilicus. Ruefully amused at the ache of nostalgia around his heart, Ben went up the steps to the door of the adult library, paused for a moment on the narrow verandah just inside the pillars, always so high and cool no matter how hot the day. Then he pulled open the iron-bound door with the book-drop slot in it and went into the quiet. The force of memory almost dizzied him for a moment as he stepped into the mild light of the hanging glass globes. The force was not physical — not like a shot to the jaw or a slap. It was more akin to that queer feeling of time doubling back on itself that people call, for want of a better term, déjà vu. Ben had had the feeling before, but it had never struck him with such disorienting power; for the moment or two he stood inside the door, he felt literally lost in time, not really sure how old he was. Was he thirty-eight or eleven? Here was the same murmuring quiet, broken only by an occasional whisper, the faint thud of a librarian stamping books or overdue notices, the hushed riffle of newspaper or magazine pages being turned. He loved the quality of the light as much now as then. It slanted through the high windows, gray as a pigeon's wing on this rainy afternoon, a light that was somehow somnolent and dozey. He walked across the wide floor with its red-and-black linoleum pattern almost completely worn away, trying as he had always tried back then to hush the sound of his footfalls — the adult library rose up to a dome in the middle, and all sounds were magnified. He saw that the circular iron staircases leading to the stacks were still there, one on either side of the horseshoe-shaped main desk, but he also saw that a tiny cagework elevator had been added at some point in the twenty-five years since he and his mamma had moved away. It was something of a relief — it drove a wedge into that suffocating feeling of deja-vu. He felt like an interloper crossing the wide floor, a spy from another country. He kept expecting the librarian at the desk to raise her head, look at him, and then challenge him in clear, ringing tones that would shatter the concentration of every reader here and focus every eye upon him: 'You! Yes, you! What are you doing here? You have no business here! You're from Outside! You're from Before! Go back where you came from! Go back right now, before I call the police!' She did look up, a young girl, pretty, and for one absurd moment it seemed to Ben that the fantasy was really going to come true, and his' heart rose into his throat as her pale-blue eyes touched his. Then they passed on indifferently, and Ben found he could walk again. If he was a spy, he hadn't been found out. He passed under the coil of one of the narrow and almost suicidally steep wrought-iron staircases on his way to the corridor leading to the Children's Library, and was amused to realize (only after he had done it) that he had run down another old track of his childhood behavior. He had looked up, hoping, as he had hoped as a kid, to see a girl in a skirt coming down those steps. He could remember (now he could remember) glancing up there for no reason at all one day when he was eight or nine and looking right up the chino skirt of a pretty high-school girl and seeing her clean pink underwear. As the sudden sunlit glint of Beverly Marsh's ankle -bracelet had shot an arrow of something more primitive than simple love or affection through his heart on the last day of school in 1958, so had the sight of the high-school girl's panties affected him; he could remember sitting at a table in the Children's Library and thinking of that unexpected view for perhaps as long as twenty minutes, his cheeks and forehead hot, a book about the history of trains open and unread before him, his penis a hard little branch in his pants, a branch that had sunk its roots all the way up into his belly. He had fantasized the two of them married, living in a small house on the outskirts of town, indulging in pleasures he did not in the least understand. The feelings had passed off almost as suddenly as they had come, but he had never walked under the stairway again without glancing up. He hadn't ever seen anything else as interesting or affecting (once a fat lady working her way down with ponderous care, but he had looked away from that sight hastily, feeling ashamed, like a violator), but the habit persisted — he had done it again now, as a grown man. He walked slowly down the glassed-in passageway, noticing other changes now: Yellow decals that said OPEC LOVES IT WHEN YOU WASTE ENERGY, so SAVE A WATT! had been plastered over the switchplates. The framed pictures on the far wall when he entered this scaled-down world of blondewood tables and small blondewood chairs, this world where the drinking fountain was only four feet high, were not of Dwight Eisenhower and Richard Nixon but of Ronald Reagan and George Bush — Reagan, Ben recalled, had been host of GE Theater in the year that Ben had graduated from the fifth grade, and George Bush would not have seen thirty yet. But — That feeling of déjà vu swept him again. He was helpless before it, and this time he felt the numb horror of a man who finally realizes, after half an hour of helpless splashing, that the shore is growing no closer and he is drowning. It was story hour, and over in the corner a group of roughly a dozen little ones sat solemnly on their tiny chairs in a semicircle, listening. 'Who is that trip-trapping upon my bridge?' the librarian said in the low, growling tones of the troll in the story, and Ben thought: When she raises her head I'll see that it's Miss Dames, yes, it'll be Miss Davies and she won't look a day older — But when she did raise her head, he saw a much younger woman than Miss Davies had been even then. Some of the children covered their mouths and giggled, but others only watched her, their eyes reflecting the eternal fascination of the fairy story: would the monster be bested . . . or would it feed? 'It is I, Billy Goat Gruff, trip-trapping on your bridge,' the librarian went on, and Ben, pale, walked past her. How can it be the same story? The very same story? Am I supposed to believe that's just coincidence? Because I don't . . . goddammit, I just don't! He bent to the drinking fountain, bending so far he felt like Richie doing one of his salamisalami-baloney routines. I ought to talk to someone, he thought, panicked. Mike . . . Bill . . . someone. Is something really stapling the past and present together here, or am I only imagining it? Because if I'm not, I'm not sure I bargained for this much. I — He looked at the checkout desk, and his heart seemed to stop in his chest for a moment before beginning to race doubletime. The poster was simple, stark . . . and familiar. It said simply: REMEMBER THE CURFEW. 7 P.M. DERRY POLICE DEPARTMENT. In that instant it all seemed to come clear to him — it came in a grisly flash of light, and he realized that the vote they had taken was a joke. There was no turning back, never had been. They were on a track as preordained as the memory-track which had caused him to look up when he passed under the stairway leading to the stacks. There was an echo here in Derry, a deadly echo, and all they could hope for was that the echo could be changed enough in their favor to allow them to escape with their lives. 'Christ,' he muttered, and scrubbed a palm up one cheek, hard. 'Can I help you, sir?' a voice at his elbow asked, and he jumped a little. It was a girl of perhaps seventeen, her dark-blonde hair held back from her pretty high-schooler's face with barrettes. A library assistant, of course; they'd had them in 1958 too, high-school girls and boys who shelved books, showed kids how to use the card catalogue, discussed book reports and school papers, helped bewildered scholars with their footnotes and bibliographies. The pay was a pittance, but there were always kids willing to do it. It was agreeable work. On the heels of this, reading the girl's pleasant but questioning look a little more closely, he remembered that he no longer really belonged here — he was a giant in the land of little people. An intruder. In the adults' library he had felt uneasy about the possibility of being looked at or spoken to, but here it was something of a relief. For one thing, it proved he was still an adult, and the fact that the girl was clearly braless under her thin Western-style shirt was also more relief than turn-on: if proof that this was 1985 and not 1958 was needed, the clearly limned points of her nipples against the cotton of her shirt was it. 'No thank you,' he said, and then, for no reason at all that he could understand, he heard himself add: 'I was looking for my son.' 'Oh? What's his name? Maybe I've seen him.' She smiled. 'I know most of the kids.' 'His name is Ben Hanscom,' he said. 'But I don't see him here.' 'Tell me what he looks like and I'll give him a message, if there is one.' 'Well,' Ben said, uncomfortable now and beginning to wish he had never started this, 'he's on the stout side, and he looks a little bit like me. But it's no big deal, miss. If you see him, just tell him his dad popped by on his way home.' 'I will,' she said, and smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, and Ben suddenly realized that she hadn't come over and spoken to him out of simple politeness and a wish to help. She happened to be a library assistant in the Children's Library in a town where nine children had been slain over a span of eight months. You see a strange man in this scaled-down world where adults rarely come except to drop their kids off or pick them up. You're suspicious . . . of course. 'Thank you,' he said, gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring, and then got the hell out. He walked back through the corridor to the adults' library and went to the desk on an impulse he didn't understand . . . but of course they were supposed to follow their impulses this afternoon, weren't they? Follow their impulses and see where they led. The name plate on the circulation desk identified the pretty young librarian as Carole Banner. Behind her, Ben could see a door with a frosted-glass panel; lettered on this was MICHAEL HANLON HEAD LIBRARIAN. 'May I help you?' Ms Banner asked. 'I think so,' Ben said. 'That is, I hope so. I'd like to get a library card.' 'Very good,' she said, and took out a form. 'Are you a resident of Berry?' 'Not presently.' 'Home address, then?' 'Rural Star Route 2, Hemingford Home, Nebraska.' He paused for a moment, a little amused by her stare, and then reeled off the Zip Code: '59341.' 'Is this a joke, Mr Hanscom?' 'Not at all. 'Are you moving to Derry, then?' 'I have no plans to, no.' 'This is a long way to come to borrow books, isn't it? Don't they have libraries in Nebraska?' 'It's kind of a sentimental thing,' Ben said. He would have thought telling a stranger this would be embarrassing, but he found it wasn't. 'I grew up in Berry, you see. This is the first time I've been back since I was a kid. I've been walking around, seeing what's changed and what hasn't. And all at once it occurred to me that I spent about ten years of my life here between ages three and thirteen, and I don't have a single thing to remember those years by. Not so much as a postcard. I had some silver dollars, but I lost one of them and gave the rest to a friend. I guess what I want is a souvenir of my childhood. It's late, but don't they say better late than never?' Carole Banner smiled, and the smile changed her pretty face into one that was beautiful. 'I think that's very sweet,' she said. 'If you'd like to browse for ten or fifteen minutes, I'll have the card made up for you when you come back to the desk.' Ben grinned a little. 'I guess there'll be a fee,' he said. 'Out-of-towner and all.' 'Bid you have a card when you were a boy?' 'I sure did.' Ben smiled. 'Except for my friends, I guess that library card was the most important — ' 'Ben, would you come up here?' a voice called suddenly, cutting across the library hush like a scalpel. He turned around, jumping guiltily the way people do when someone shouts in a library. He saw no one he knew . . . and realized a moment later that no one had looked up or shown any sign of surprise or annoyance. The old men still read their copies of the Berry News, the Boston Globe, National Geographic, Time, Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report. At the tables in the Reference Room, two high-school girls still had their heads together over a stack of papers and a pile of file-cards. Several browsers went on looking through the books on the shelves marked CURRENT FICTION — SEVEN-DAY-LOAN. An old man in a ridiculous drivingcap, a cold pipe clenched between his teeth, went on leafing through a folio of Luis de Vargas' sketches. He turned back to the young woman, who was looking at him, puzzled. 'Is anything wrong?' 'No,' Ben said, smiling. 'I thought I heard something. I guess I'm more jet-lagged than I thought. What were you saying?' 'Well, actually you were saying. But I was about to add that if you had a card when you were a resident, your name will still be in the files,' she said. 'We keep everything on microfiche now. Some change from when you were a kid here, I guess.' 'Yes,' he said. 'A lot of things have changed in Derry . . . but a lot of things also seem to have remained the same.' 'Anyway, I can just look you up and give you a renewal card. No charge.' 'That's great,' Ben said, and before he could add thanks the voice cut through the library's sacramental silence again, louder now, ominously jolly: 'Come on tip, Ben! Come on up, you fat little fuck! This Is Your Life, Ben Hanscom!' Ben cleared his throat. 'I appreciate it,' he said. 'Don't mention it.' She cocked her head at him. 'Has it gotten warm outside?' 'A little,' he said. 'Why?' 'You're — ' 'Ben Hanscom did it!' the voice screamed. It was coming from above — coming from the stacks. 'Ben Hanscom killed the children! Get him! Grab him!' ' — perspiring,' she finished. 'Am I?' he said idiotically. 'I'll have this made up right away,' she said. 'Thank you.' She headed for the old Royal typewriter at the corner of her desk. Ben walked slowly away, his heart a thudding drum in his chest. Yes, he was sweating; he could feel it trickling down from his forehead, his armpits, matting the hair on his chest. He looked up and saw Pennywise the Clown standing at the top of the lefthand staircase, looking down at him. His face was white with greasepaint. His mouth bled lipstick in a killer's grin. There were empty sockets where his eyes should have been. He held a bunch of balloons in one hand and a book in the other. Not he, Ben thought. It. I am standing here in the middle of the Derry Public Library's rotunda on a late-spring afternoon in 1985, I am a grown man, and I am face to face with my childhood's greatest nightmare. I am face to face with It. 'Come on up, Ben,' Pennywise called down. 'I won't hurt you. I've got a book for you! A book . . . and a balloon! Come on up!' Ben opened his mouth to call back, You're insane if you think I'm going up there, and suddenly realized that if he did that, everyone here would be looking at him, everyone here would be thinking, Who is that crazyman? 'Oh, I know you can't answer,' Pennywise called down, and giggled. 'Almost fooled you there for a minute, though, didn't I? "Pardon me, sir, do you have Prince Albert in a can? . . . You do? . . . Better let the poor guy out!" "Pardon me, ma'am, is your refrigerator running? . . . It is? . . . Then hadn't you better go catch it?'" The clown on the landing threw its head back and shrieked laughter. It roared and echoed in the dome of the rotunda like a flight of black bats, and Ben was only able to keep from clapping his hands over his ears with a tremendous effort of will. 'Come on up, Ben,' Pennywise called down. 'We'll talk. Neutral ground. What do you say?' I'm not coming up there, Ben thought. When I finally come to you, you won't want to see me, I think. We're going to kill you. The clown shrieked laughter again. 'Kill me? Kill me?' And suddenly, horribly, the voice was Richie Tozier's voice, not his voice, precisely, but Richie Tozier doing his Pickaninny Voice: 'Doan kill me, massa, I be a good nigguh, doan kill thisyere black boy, Haystack!' Then that shrieking laughter again. Trembling, white-faced, Ben walked across the echoing center of the adults' library. He felt that soon he would vomit. He stood in front of a shelf of books and took one down at random with a hand that trembled badly. His cold fingers flittered the pages. 'This is your one chance, Haystack!' the voice called from behind and above him. 'Get out of town. Get out before it gets dark tonight. I'll be after you tonight . . . you and the others. You're too old to stop me, Ben. You're all too old. Too old to do anything but get yourselves killed. Get out, Ben. Do you want to see this tonight?' He turned slowly, still holding the book in his icy hands. He didn't want to look, but it were as if there were an invisible hand under his chin, tilting his head up and up and up. The clown was gone. Dracula was standing at the top of the lefthand stairway, but it was no movie Dracula; it was not Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee or Frank Langella or Francis Lederer or Reggie Nalder. An ancient man-thing with a face like a twisted root stood there. Its face was deadly pale, its eyes purplish-red, the color of bloodclots. Its mouth dropped open, revealing a mouthful of Gillette Blue-Blades that had been set in the gums at angles; it was like looking into a deadly mirror-maze where a single misstep could get you cut in half. 'KEEE-RUNCH!' it screamed, and its jaws snapped closed. Blood gouted from its mouth in a red-black flood. Chunks of its severed lips fell to the glowing white silk of its formal shirt and slid down its front, leaving snail-trails of blood behind. 'What did Stan Uris see before he died?' the vampire on the landing screamed down at him, laughing through the bloody hole of its mouth. 'Was it Prince Albert in a can? Was it Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier? What did he see, Ben? Do you want to see it too? What did he see? What did he see?' Then that shrieking laughter again, and Ben knew that he would scream now himself, yes, there was no way to stop the scream, it was going to come. Blood was pattering down from the landing in a grisly shower. One drop had landed on the arthritis-bunched hand of an old man who was reading The Wall Street Journal. It was running down between his knuckles, unseen and unfelt. Ben hitched in breath, sure the scream would follow, unthinkable in the quiet of this softly drizzling spring afternoon, as shocking as the slash of a knife . . . or a mouthful of razorblades. Instead, what came out in a shaky, uneven rush, spoken instead of screamed, spoken low like a prayer, were these words: 'We made slugs out of it, of course. We made the silver dollar into silver slugs.' The gentleman in the driving-cap who had been perusing the de Vargas sketches looked up sharply. 'Nonsense,' he said. Now people did look up; someone hissed 'Shhh!' at the old man in an annoyed voice. 'I'm sorry,' Ben said in a low, trembling voice. He was faintly aware that his face was now running with sweat, and that his shirt was plastered to his body. 'I was thinking aloud — ' 'Nonsense,' the old gentleman repeated, in a louder voice. 'Can't make silver bullets from silver dollars. Common misconception. Pulp fiction. Problem is with specific gravity — ' Suddenly the woman, Ms. Danner, was there. 'Mr Brockhill, you'll have to be quiet,' she said kindly enough. 'People are reading — ' 'Man's sick,' Brockhill said abruptly, and went back to his book. 'Give him an aspirin, Carole.' Carole Danner looked at Ben and her face sharpened with concern. 'Are you ill, Mr Hanscom? I know it's terribly impolite to say so, but you look terrible.' Ben said, 'I . . . I had Chinese food for lunch. I don't think it's agreed with me.' 'If you want to lie down, there's a cot in Mr Hanlon's office. You could — ' 'No. Thanks, but no.' What he wanted was not to lie down but to get the hell out of the Derry Public Library. He looked up at the landing. The clown was gone. The vampire was gone. But tied to the low wrought-iron railing which surrounded the landing was a balloon. Written on its bulging skin were the words: HAVE A GOOD DAY! TONIGHT YOU DIE! 'I've got your library card,' she said, putting a tentative hand on his arm. 'Do you still want it?' 'Yes, thanks,' Ben said. He drew a deep, shuddery breath. 'I'm very sorry about this.' 'I just hope it isn't food-poisoning,' she said. 'Wouldn't work,' Mr Brockhill said without looking up from de Vargas or removing his dead pipe from the corner of his mouth. 'Device of pulp fiction. Bullet would tumble.' And speaking again with no foreknowledge that he was going to speak, Ben said: 'Slugs, not bullets. We realized almost right away that we couldn't make bullets. I mean, we were just kids. It was my idea to — ' 'Shhhh!' someone said again. Brockhill gave Ben a slightly startled look, seemed about to speak, then went back to the sketches. At the desk, Carole Danner handed him a small orange card with DERRY PUBLIC LIBRARY stamped across the top. Bemused, Ben realized it was the first adult library-card he had owned in his whole life. The one he'd had as a kid had been canary-yellow. 'Are you sure you don't want to lie down, Mr Hanscom?' 'I'm feeling a little better, thanks.' 'Sure?' He managed a smile. 'I'm sure.' 'You do look a little better,' she said, but she said it doubtfully, as if understanding that this was the proper thing to say but not really believing it. Then she was holding a book under the microfilm gadget they used these days to record book-loans, and Ben felt a touch of almost hysterical amusement. It's the book I grabbed off the shelf when the clown started to do its Pickaninny Voice, he thought. She thought I wanted to borrow it. I've made my first withdrawal from the Demy Public Library in twenty-five years, and I don't even know what the book is. Furthermore, I don't care. Just let me out of here, okay? That'll be enough. 'Thank you,' he said, putting the book under his arm. 'You're more than welcome, Mr Hanscom. Are you sure you wouldn't like an aspirin?' 'Quite sure,' he said — and then hesitated. 'You wouldn't by any chance know what happened to Mrs Starrett, would you? Barbara Starrett? She used to be the head of the Children's Library.' 'She died,' Carole Danner said. Three years ago. It was a stroke, I understand. It was a great shame. She was relatively young . . . fifty-eight or -nine, I think. Mr Hanlon closed the library for the day.' 'Oh,' Ben said, and felt a hollow place open in his heart. That's what happened when you got back to your used-to-be, as the song put it. The frosting on the cake was sweet, but the stuff underneath was bitter. People forgot you, or died on you, or lost their hair and teeth. In some cases you found that they had lost their minds. Oh it was great to be alive. Boy howdy. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'You liked her, didn't you?' 'All the kids liked Mrs Starrett,' Ben said, and was alarmed to realize that tears were now very close. 'Are you — ' If she asks me if I'm all right one more time, I really am going to cry, I think. Or scream. Or something. He glanced at his watch and said, 'I really have to run. Thanks for being so nice.' 'Have a nice day, Mr Hanscom.' Sure. Because tonight I die. He tipped a finger her way and started back across the floor. Mr Brockhill glanced up at him once, sharply and suspiciously. He looked up at the landing which topped the lefthand staircase. The balloon still floated there, tied by its string to lacy wrought-iron. But now the printing on its side read: I KILLED BARBARA STARRETT! — PENNYWISE THE CLOWN He looked away, feeling the pulse in his throat starting to run again. He let himself out and was startled by sunlight — the clouds overhead were coming unravelled and a warm lateMay sun was shafting down, making the grass look impossibly green and lush. Ben felt something start to lift from his heart. It seemed to him that he had left some insupportable burden behind in the library . . . and then he looked down at the book he had inadvertently withdrawn and his teeth clamped together with sudden, painful force. It was Bulldozer, by Stephen W. Meader, one of the books he had withdrawn from the library on the day he had dived into the Barrens to get away from Henry Bowers and his friends. And speaking of Henry, the track of his engineer boot was still on the book's cover. Shaking, fumbling at the pages, he turned to the back. The library had gone over to a microfilm checkout system; he had seen that. Bat there was still a pocket in the back of this book with a card tucked into it. There was a name written on each line of the card followed by the librarian's return-date stamp. Looking at the card, Ben saw this: NAME OF BORROWER RETURN BY STAMPED DATE Charles N. Brown MAY 14 58 David Hartwell JUN 1 58 Joseph Brennan JUN 17 58 And, on the last line of the card, his own childish signature, written in heavy pencilstrokes: Benjamin Hanscom JUN 9 58 Stamped across this card, stamped across the book's flyleaf, stamped across the thickness of the pages, stamped again and again in smeary red ink that looked like blood, was one word: CANCEL. 'Oh dear God,' Ben murmured. He did not know what else to say; that seemed to cover the entire situation. 'Oh dear God, dear God.' He stood in the new sunlight, suddenly wondering what was happening to the others. 2 Eddie Kaspbrak Makes a Catch Eddie got off the bus at the corner of Kansas Street and Kossuth Lane. Kossuth was a street that ran a quarter of a mile downhill before dead-ending abruptly where the crumbling earth sloped into the Barrens. He had absolutely no idea why he had chosen this place to leave the bus; Kossuth Lane meant nothing to him, and he had known no one on this particular section of Kansas Street. But it seemed like the right place. That was all he knew, but at this point it seemed to be enough. Beverly had climbed off the bus with a little wave at one of the Lower Main Street stops. Mike had taken his car back to the library. Now, watching the small and somehow absurd Mercedes bus pull away, he wondered exactly what he was doing here, standing on an obscure street-corner in an obscure town nearly five hundred miles away from Myra, who was undoubtedly worried to tears about him. He felt an instant of almost painful vertigo, touched his jacket pocket, and remembered that he had left his Dramamine back at the Town House along with the rest of his pharmacopeia. He had aspirin, though. He would no more have gone out sans aspirin than he would have gone out sans pants. He chugged a couple dry and began to walk along Kansas Street, thinking vaguely that he might go to the Public Library or perhaps cross over to Costello Avenue. It was beginning to clear now, and he supposed he could even walk across to West Broadway and admire the old Victorian houses that stood there along the only two really handsome residential blocks in Derry. He used to do that sometimes when he was a kid — just walk along West Broadway, sort of casual, like he was on his way to somewhere else. There was the Muellers', near the corner of Witcham and West Broadway, a red house with turrets on either side and hedges in front. The Muellers had a gardener who always looked at Eddie with suspicious eyes until he had passed on his way. Then there was the Bowies' house, which was four down from the Muellers' on the same side — one of the reasons, he supposed, that Greta Bowie and Sally Mueller had been such great friends in grammar school. It was green-shingled and also had turrets . . . but while the turrets on the Muellers' house were squared off, those on the Bowies' house were capped with funny cone-shaped things that looked to Eddie like squatty duncecaps. In the summer there was always lawn-furniture on the side lawn — a table with a sporty yellow umbrella over it, wicker chairs, a rope hammock stretched between two trees. There was always a croquet game set up out back, too. Eddie knew this although he had never been invited over to Greta's house to play croquet. Walking by casually (like he was on his way to somewhere else) Eddie would sometimes hear the click of the balls, laughter, groans as someone's ball was 'sent away.' Once he had seen Greta herself, a lemonade in one hand and her croquet mallet in the other, looking slim and pretty beyond the words of all the poets (even her sunburned shoulders seemed wonderfully pretty to Eddie Kaspbrak, who had at that time been nine), going after her ball, which had been 'sent away'; it had ricocheted off a tree and had thus brought Greta into Eddie's view. He fell in love with her a little that day — her shining blonde hair falling to the shoulders of her culotte dress, which was a cool blue. She glanced around and for a moment he thought she had seen him, but that proved not to be so, because when he raised his hand in a timid hello, she did not raise hers in return but only whacked her ball back onto the rear lawn and then ran after it. He had walked on with no resentment at the unreturned hello (he genuinely believed she must not have see him) or at the fact that he had never been invited to attend one of the Saturday-afternoon croquet games: why would a beautiful girl like Greta Bowie want to invite a kid like him? He was thin-chested, asthmatic, and had the face of a drowned waterrat. Yeah, he thought, walking aimlessly back down Kansas Street, I should have gone over to West Broadway and looked at all those houses again . . . the Muellers', the Bowies', Dr Hole's place, the Trackers' — His thoughts broke off abruptly at that last name, because — speak of the devil! — here he was, standing in front of Tracker Brothers' Truck Depot. 'Still right here,' Eddie said aloud, and laughed. 'Son of a gun!' The house on West Broadway which belonged to Phil and Tony Tracker, a pair of life-long bachelors, was probably the loveliest of the large houses on that street, a spotlessly white mid-Victorian with green lawns and great beds of flowers that rioted (in a neatly landscaped way, of course) all the spring and summer long. Their driveway was freshly sealed each fall so that it always remained as black as a dark mirror, the slate shingles on the many slants of the roof were always a perfect mint green that almost exactly matched the lawn, and people sometimes stopped to take pictures of the mullioned windows, which were very old and quite remarkable. 'Any two men who bother keeping a house so nice must be queers,' Eddie's mother had once said in a disgruntled sort of way, and Eddie hadn't dared ask for clarification. The Truck Depot was the exact opposite of the Tracker house on West Broadway. It was a low brick structure; the bricks were old and crumbling in places, their dirty-orange hue shading to a sooty black at the building's footings. The windows were uniformly filthy except for a small circular place on one of the lower panes of the starter's office. This one pane had been kept spotlessly clean by kids before Eddie and those who came after, because the starter kept a Playboy calendar over his desk. No boy came to play scratch baseball in the back lot without first stopping to wipe at the glass with his ball-glove and examine that month's pinup. The depot was surrounded by a waste of gravel on three sides. Long-distance haulers — Jimmy-Petes and Kenworths and Rios — all painted with the words TRACKER BROS. DERRY NEWTON PROVIDENCE HARTFORD NEW YORK, sometimes stood here in tangled disordered profusion. Sometimes they were put together and sometimes there were just cabs or bodyboxes, standing silent on their rear wheels and support-struts. The brothers kept their trucks out of the lot at the back of the building as much as they could, because they were both avid baseball fans and liked the kids to come and play. Phil Tracker drove freight himself so the boys rarely saw him, but Tony Tracker, a man with huge slab arms and a gut to match, kept the books and the accounts, and Eddie (who never played — his mother would have killed him if she had heard he was playing baseball, racing around and getting dust in his delicate lungs, risking broken legs, concussions, and God alone knew what else) got used to seeing him. He was a summer fixture, his voice as much a part of the game to Eddie then as Mel Alien's later became: Tony Tracker, large but somehow ghostlike, his white shirt glimmering as summer dusk drew down and fireflies began to loom the air with their lace of lights, yelling: 'You got to get under that bawl before you can catch it, Red! . . . You took your eye off 'n the bawl, Half-Pint! You can't hit the goddam thing if you ain't looking at it! . . . Slide, Horsefoot! You get the soles of them Keds in that second-baseman's face, he ain't never goan tag you out!' Never called any of them by name, Eddie remembered. It was always hey Red, hey Blondie, hey Four-Eyes, hey Half-Pint. It was never a ball, it was always a bawl. It was never a bat, it was always something Tony Tracker called an 'ash-handle,' as in 'You ain't never goan hit that bawl if you don't choke up on the ash-handle, Horsefoot.' Grinning, Eddie walked a little closer . . . and then the grin faded. The long brick building where orders had been processed, trucks repaired, and goods stored on a short-term basis was now dark and silent. Weeds were growing up through the gravel, and there were no trucks in either side yard . . . only a single box, its sides rusty and dull. Getting closer still, he saw that there was a realtor's FOR SALE sign in the window. Tracker's out of business, he thought, and was surprised at the sadness the thought carried with it . . . as if someone had died. He was glad now he hadn't walked over to West Broadway. If Tracker Brothers could have gone under — Tracker Brothers, which had seemed eternal — what might have happened on that street he had liked so much to walk down as a kid? He realized uneasily that he didn't want to know. He didn't want to see Greta Bowie with gray in her hair, her hips and legs thickened with much sitting and much eating and much drinking; it was better — safer — to just stay away. That's what we all should have done, just stayed away. We've got no business here. Coming back to where you grew up is like doing some crazy yoga trick, putting your feet in your own mouth and somehow swallowing yourself so there's nothing left; it can't be done, and any sane person ought to be fucking glad it can't . . . what do you suppose happened to Tony and Phil Tracker, anyway? A heart attack for Tony, perhaps; he had been carrying maybe seventy-five extra pounds of meat on his bones. You had to watch out for what your heart might be up to. The poets might romance about broken hearts and Barry Manilow sing about them, and that was fine by Eddie (he and Myra had every album Barry Manilow had ever recorded), but he himself preferred a good solid EKG every year. Sure, Tony's heart had probably given it up as a bad job. And Phil? Bad luck on the highway maybe. Eddie, who made his living behind the wheel himself (or had; these days he only drove the celebs and spent the rest of his tune driving a desk), knew about bad luck on the highway. Old Phil might have jack-knifed a rig somewhere in New Hampshire or in the Hainesville Woods up north in Maine when the going was icy or maybe he had lost his brakes on some long hill south of Derry, heading into Haven in a driving springtime rain. Those things or any of the others you heard in those shitkicking country songs about truck-drivers who wore Stetson hats and had cheating on their minds. Driving a desk was sometimes lonely, but Eddie had been in the driver's seat himself more than once, his aspirator riding there with him on the dashboard, its trigger reflected ghostly in the windshield (and a bucket-load of pills in the glove compartment), and he knew that real loneliness was a smeary red: the color of the taillights of the car ahead of you reflected on wet hottop in a driving rain. 'Oh shit the time goes by,' Eddie Kaspbrak said in a sighing sort of whisper, and was not even aware that he had spoken aloud. Feeling both mellow and unhappy — a state more common to him than he ever would have believed — Eddie skirted the building, Gucci loafers crunching in the gravel, to look at the lot where the baseball games had been played when he was a kid — when, it seemed, ninety percent of the world had been made up of kids. The lot wasn't much changed, but a look was enough to convince him beyond doubt that the games had stopped — a tradition that had simply died out at some point in the years between, for reasons of its own. In 1958 the diamond shape of the infield had been defined not by limed basepaths but in ruts made by running feet. They had no actual bases, those boys who had played baseball here (boys who were all older than the Losers, although Eddie remembered now that Stan Uris had sometimes played; his batting was only fair, but in the outfield he could run fast and he had the reflexes of an angel), but four pieces of dirty canvas were always kept under the loading-bay behind the long brick building, to be ceremonially taken out when enough kids had drifted into the back lot to play ball, and just as ceremonially returned when the shades of evening had fallen thickly enough to end further play. Standing here now, Eddie could see no trace of those rutted basepaths. Weeds had grown up through the gravel in patchy profusion. Broken soda and beer bottles twinkled here and there; in the old days, such shards of broken glass had been religiously removed. The only thing that was the same was the chainlink fence at the back of the lot, twelve feet high and as rusty as dried blood. It framed the sky in droves of diamond shapes. That was home-run territory, Eddie thought, standing bemused with his hands in his pockets at the place where home plate had been twenty-seven years ago. Over the fence and down into the Barrens. They used to call it The Automatic. He laughed out loud and then looked around nervously, as if it were a ghost who had laughed out loud instead of a guy in sixty-dollar slacks, a guy as solid as . . . well, as solid as . . . as . . . Get off it, Eds, Richie's voice seemed to whisper. You ain't solid at all, and in the last few years the chucks have been few and far between. Right? 'Yeah, right,' Eddie said in a low voice, and kicked a few loose stones away in a rattle. In truth, he had only seen two balls go over the fence at the back of the lot behind Tracker Brothers, both of them hit by the same kid: Belch Huggins. Belch had been almost comically big, already six feet tall at twelve, weighing maybe a hundred and seventy. He had gotten his nickname because he was able to articulate belches of amazing length and loudness — at his best, he sounded like a cross between a bullfrog and a cicada. Sometimes he would pat a hand rapidly across his open mouth while belching, emitting a sound like a hoarse Indian. Belch had been big and not really fat, Eddie remembered now, but it was as if God had never really intended for a boy of twelve to attain such remarkable size; if he had not died that summer, he might have grown to six-six or better, and might have learned along the way how to maneuver his outsized body through a world of smaller denizens. He might even, Eddie thought, have learned gentleness. But at twelve he had been both clumsy and mean, not retarded but almost seeming so because all his body's actions seemed so amazingly graceless and lunging. He had none of Stanley's built-in rhythms; it was as if Belch's body did not talk to his brain at all but existed in its own cosmos of slow thunder. Eddie could remember the evening a long, slow fly ball had been hit directly to Belch's position in the outfield — Belch didn't even have to move. He stood looking up, raised his glove in an almost aimless punching gesture, and instead of settling into his glove, the ball had struck him squarely on top of the head, producing a hollow bonk! sound. It was as if the ball had been dropped from three stories up onto the roof of a Ford sedan. It bounced up a good four feet and came down neatly into Belch's glove. An unfortunate kid named Owen Phillips had laughed at that bonking sound. Belch had walked over to him and had kicked his ass so hard that the Phillips kid had run screaming for home with a hole in the seat of his pants. No one else laughed . . . at least not on the outside. Eddie supposed that if Richie Tozier had been there, he wouldn't have been able to help it, and Belch probably would have put him in the hospital. Belch was similarly slow at the plate. He was easy to strike out, and if he hit a grounder even the most fumble-fingered infielders had no trouble throwing him out at first. But when he got all of one, it went a long, long way. The two balls Eddie had seen Belch hit over the fence had both been wonders. The first had never been recovered, although more than a dozen boys had tramped back and forth over the steeply slanting slope which plunged down into the Barrens, looking for it. The second, however, had been recovered. The ball belonged to another sixthgrader (Eddie could not now remember what his real name had been, only that all the other kids called him Snuffy because he always had a cold) and had been in use for most of the late spring and early summer of '58. As a result, it was no longer the nearly perfect spherical creation of white horsehide and red stitching that it had been when it came out of the box; it was scuffed, grassstained, and cut in several places by its hundreds of bouncing trips over the gravel in the outfield. Its stitching was beginning to come unravelled in one place, and Eddie, who shagged foul balls when his asthma wasn't too bad (relishing every casual Thanks, kid! when he threw the ball back to the playing field), knew that soon someone would produce a roll of Black Cat friction tape and embalm it so they could get another week or so out of it. But before that day came, a seventhgrader with the unlikely name of Stringer Dedham tossed what he fancied a 'change of speed' pitch to Belch Huggins. Belch timed the pitch perfectly (the slow ones were, you should pardon the pun, just his speed) and hit Snuffy's elderly Spalding so hard that the cover came right off and fluttered down just a few feet shy of second base like a big white moth. The ball itself had continued up and up into a gorgeous twilit sky, unravelling and unravelling as it went, kids turning to follow its progress in dumb wonder; up and over the chainlink fence it went, still rising, and Eddie remembered Stringer Dedham had said 'Ho-ly shit!' in a soft and awestruck voice as it went, riding a track into the sky, and they had all seen the unwinding string, and maybe even before it hit, six boys had been monkeying up that fence, and Eddie could remember Tony Tracker laughing in an amazed loonlike way and crying: 'That one would have been out of Yankee Stadium! Do you hear me? That one would have been out of fucking Yankee Stadium!' It had been Peter Gordon who found the ball, not far from the stream the Losers' Club would dam up less than three weeks later. What was left was not even three inches through the center; it was some kind of cockeyed miracle that the twine had never broken. By unspoken consent, the boys had brought the remains of Snuffy's ball back to Tony Tracker, who examined it without saying a word, surrounded by boys who were likewise silent. Seen from a distance that circle of boys standing around the tall man with the big sloping belly might have seemed almost religious in its intent — the veneration of a holy object. Belch Huggins had not even run around the bases. He only stood among the others like a boy who had no precise idea of where he was. What Tony Tracker handed him that day was smaller than a tennis ball. Eddie, lost in these memories, walked from the place where home had been, across the pitcher's mound (only it had never been a mound; it had been a depression from which the gravel had been scraped clean), and out into shortstop country. He paused briefly, struck by the silence, and then strolled on out to the chainlink fence. It was rustier than ever, and overgrown by some sort of ugly climbing vine, but still there. Looking through it, he could see how the ground sloped away, aggressively green. The Barrens were more junglelike than ever, and for the first time he found himself wondering why a stretch of such tangled and virulent growth should have been called the Barrens at all: it was many things, but barren was not one of them. Why not the Wilderness? Or the Jungle? Barrens. It had an ominous, almost sinister sound, but what it conjured up in the mind were not tangles of shrubs and trees so thick they had to fight for sunspace; it called up pictures of sand dunes shifting away endlessly, or gray slate expanses of hardpan and desert. Barren. Mike had said earlier that they were all barren, and it seemed true enough. Seven of them, and not a kid among them. Even in these days of planned parenthood, that was bucking the odds. He looked through the rusty diamond-shapes, hearing the far-away drone of cars on Kansas Street, the faraway trickle and rush of water down below. He could see glints of it in the spring sunshine, like flashes of glass. The bamboo stands were still down there, looking unhealthily white, like patches of fungus in all the green. Beyond them, in the marshy stretches of ground bordering the Kenduskeag, there was supposed to have been quickmud. I spent the happiest times of my childhood down there in that mess, he thought, and shivered. He was about to turn away when something else caught his eye: a cement cylinder with a heavy steel cap on the top. Morlock holes, Ben used to call them, laughing with his mouth but not quite laughing with his eyes. If you went over to one, it would stand maybe waist-high on you (if you were a kid) and you would see the words DERRY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC WORKS stamped in raised metal in a semicircle. And you could hear a humming noise from deep inside. Some sort of machinery. Morlock holes. That's where we went. In August. In the end. We went into one of Ben's Morlock holes, into the sewers, but after awhile they weren't sewers anymore. They were . . . were . . . what? Patrick Hockstetter was down there. Before It took him Beverly saw him doing something bad. It made her laugh but she knew it was bad. Something to do with Henry Bowers, wasn't it? Yes, I think so. And — He turned away suddenly and started back toward the abandoned depot, not wanting to look down into the Barrens anymore, not liking the thoughts they conjured up. He wanted to be home with Myra. He didn't want to be here. He . . . 'Catch, kid!' He turned toward the sound of the voice and here came some sort of a ball, right over the fence and toward him. It struck the gravel and bounced. Eddie stuck out his hand and caught it. In his unthinking reflex the catch was so neat it was almost elegant. He looked down at what was in his hand and everything inside him went cool and loose. Once it had been a baseball. Now it was only a string-wrapped sphere, because the cover had been knocked off. He could see the string trailing away. It went over the top of the fence like a strand of spiderweb and disappeared into the Barrens. Oh Jesus, he thought. Oh Jesus, Its here, It's here with me NOW — 'Come on down and play, Eddie,' the voice on the other side of the fence said, and Eddie realized with a fainting sort of horror that it was the voice of Belch Huggins, who had been murdered in the tunnels under Derry in August of 1958. And now here was Belch himself, struggling up and over the bank on the other side of the fence. He wore a pinstriped New York Yankees baseball uniform that was flecked with bits of autumn leaves and smeared with green. He was Belch but he was also the leper, a creature hideously arisen from long years in a wet grave. The flesh of his heavy face hung in putrescent strings and runners. One eyesocket was empty. Things squirmed in his hair. He wore a moss-slimed baseball-glove on one hand. He poked the rotting fingers of his right hand through the diamonds of the chainlink fence, and when he curled them, Eddie heard a dreadful squirting sound which he thought might drive him mad. 'That one would have been out of Yankee Stadium,' Belch said, and grinned. A toad, noxiously white and squirming, dropped from his mouth and tumbled to the ground. 'Do you hear me? That one would have been out of fucking Yankee Stadium! And by the way, Eddie, do you want a blow job? I'll do it for a dime. Hell, I'll do it for free.' Belch's face changed. The jellylike bulb of nose fell in, revealing two raw red channels that Eddie had seen in his dreams. His hair coarsened and drew back from his temples, turned cobweb-white. The rotting skin on his forehead split open, revealing white bone covered with a mucusy substance, like the bleared lens of a searchlight. Belch was gone; the thing which had been under the porch at 29 Neibolt Street was here now. 'Bobby blows me for a dime,' it crooned, beginning to climb the fence. It left little pieces of its flesh in the diamond shapes the crisscrossing wires made. The fence jingled and rattled with its weight. When it touched the climbing, vinelike weeds, they turned black. 'He will do it anytime. Fifteen cents for overtime.' Eddie tried to scream. Nothing but a dry senseless squeak came out of him. His lungs felt like the world's oldest ocarinas. He looked down at the ball in his hand and suddenly blood began to sweat up from between the wrapped strings. It pattered to the gravel and splashed on his loafers. He threw it down and took two lurching stagger-steps backward, his eyes bulging from his face, rubbing his hands on the front of his shirt. The leper had reached the top of the fence. Its head swayed in silhouette against the sky, a nightmare shape like a bloated Halloween jackolantern. Its tongue lolled out, four feet long, perhaps six. It twined its way down the fence like a snake from the leper's grinning mouth. There one second . . . gone the next. It did not fade, like a ghost in a movie; it simply winked out of existence. But Eddie heard a sound which confirmed its essential solidity: a pop! sound, like a cork blowing out of a champagne bottle. It was the sound of air rushing in to fill the place where the leper had been. He turned and began to run, but before he had gone ten feet, four stiff shapes flew out from the shadows under the loading-bay of the abandoned brick depot. He thought at first they were bats and he screamed and covered his head . . . Then he saw that they were squares of canvas — the squares of canvas that had been the bases when the big kids played here. They whirled and twirled in the still air; he had to duck to avoid one of them. They settled in their accustomed places all at once, kicking up little puffs of grit: home, first, second, third. Gasping, his breath short in his throat, Eddie ran past home plate, his lips drawn back, his face as white as cottage cheese. WHACK! The sound of a bat hitting a phantom ball. And then — Eddie stopped, the strength going out of his legs, a groan passing his lips. The ground was bulging in a straight line from home to first, as if a gigantic gopher was tunneling rapidly just below the surface of the ground. Gravel rolled off to either side. The shape under the earth reached the base and the canvas flipped up into the air. It went up so hard and fast it made a popping sound — the sound a shoeshine kid makes when he's feeling good and pops the rag. The ground began to ridge between first and second, racing and racing. Second base flew into the air with a similar popping sound and had barely settled back before the shape under the ground had reached third and was racing for home. Home plate flew up as well, but before it could come down the thing had popped out of the ground like some grisly party-favor, and the thing was Tony Tracker, his face a skull to which a few blackened chunks of flesh still clung, his white shirt a mess of rotted linen strings. He poked out of the earth at home plate from the waist up, swaying back and forth like a grotesque worm. 'Don't matter how much you choke up on that ash-handle,' Tony Tracker said in a gritty, grinding voice. Exposed teeth grinned in lunatic chumminess. 'Don't matter, Wheezy. We'll get you. You and your friends. We'll have a BAWL!' Eddie shrieked and staggered away. There was a hand on his shoulder. He shrank away from it. The hand tightened for a moment, then gave way. He turned. It was Greta Bowie. She was dead. Half of her face was gone; maggots crawled in the churned red meat that was left. She held a green balloon in one hand. 'Car crash,' the recognizable half of her mouth said, and grinned. The grin caused an unspeakable ripping sound, and Eddie could see raw tendons moving like terrible straps. 'I was eighteen, Eddie. Drunk and done up on reds. Your friends are here, Eddie.' Eddie backed away from her, his hands held up in front of his face. She walked toward him. Blood had splashed, then dried on her legs in long splotches. She was wearing pennyloafers. And now, beyond her, he saw the ultimate horror: Patrick Hockstetter was shambling toward him across the outfield. He too was wearing a New York Yankees uniform. Eddie ran. Greta clutched at him again, tearing his shirt and spilling some terrible liquid down the back of his collar. Tony Tracker was pulling himself out of his man-sized gopherrun. Patrick Hockstetter stumbled and staggered. Eddie ran, not knowing where he was finding the breath to run, but running somehow anyway. And as he ran, he saw words floating in front of him, the words that had been printed on the side of the green balloon Greta Bowie had been holding: ASTHMA MEDICINE CAUSES LUNG CANCER! COMPLIMENTS OF CENTER STREET DRUG Eddie ran. He ran and ran and at some point he collapsed in a dead faint near McCarron Park and some kids saw him and steered clear of him because he looked like a wino to them like he might have some kind of weird disease for all they knew he might even be the killer and they talked about reporting him to the police but in the end they didn't. 3 Bev Rogan Pays a Call Beverly walked absently down Main Street from the Derry Town House, where she had gone to change into a pair of bluejeans and a bright yellow smock-blouse. She was not thinking about where she was going. Instead she thought this: Your hair is winter fire, January embers. My heart bums there, too. She had hidden that in her bottom drawer, beneath her underwear. Her mother might have seen it, but that was all right. The important thing was, that was one drawer her father never looked in. If he had seen it, he might have looked at her with that bright, almost friendly, and utterly paralyzing stare of his and asked in his almost friendly way: 'You been doing something you shouldn't be doing, Bev? You been doing something with some boy?' And if she said yes or if she said no, there would be a quick wham-bam, so quick and so hard it didn't even hurt at first — it took a few seconds for the vacuum to dissipate and the pain to fill the place were the vacuum had been. Then his voice again, almost friendly: 'I worry a lot about you, Beverly. I worry an awful lot. You got to grow up, isn't that so?' Her father might still be living here in Derry. He had been living here the last time she had heard from him, but that had been . . . how long ago? Ten years? Long before she had married Tom, anyway. She had gotten a postcard from him, not a plain postcard like the one the poem had been written on but one showing the hideous plastic statue of Paul Bunyan which stood in front of City Center. The statue had been erected sometime in the fifties, and it had been one of the landmarks of her childhood, but her father's card had called up no nostalgia or memories for her; it might as well have been a card showing Gateway Arch in Saint Louis or the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. 'Hope you are doing well and being good,' the card read. 'Hope you will send me something if you can, as I don't have much. I love you Bevvie. Dad.' He had loved her, and in some ways she supposed that had everything to do with why she had fallen so desperately in love with Bill Denbrough that long summer of 1958 — because of all the boys, Bill was the one who projected the sense of authority she associated with her father . . . but it was a different sort of authority, somehow — it was authority that listened. She saw no assumption in either his eyes or his actions that he believed her father's kind of worrying to be the only reason authority needed to exist . . . as if people were pets, to be both cosseted and disciplined. Whatever the reasons, by the end of their first meeting as a complete group in July of that year, that meeting of which Bill had taken such complete and effortless charge, she had been madly, head-over-heels in love with him. Calling it a simple schoolgirl crush was like saying a Rolls-Royce was a vehicle with four wheels, something like a hay-wagon. She did not giggle wildly and blush when she saw him, nor did she chalk his name on trees or write it on the walls of the Kissing Bridge. She simply lived with his face in her heart all the time, a kind of sweet, hurtful ache. She would have died for him. It was natural enough, she supposed, for her to want to believe it had been Bill who sent her the love-poem . . . although she had never gotten so far gone as to actually convince herself it was so. No, she had known who wrote the poem. And later on — at some point — hadn't its author admitted this to her? Yes, Ben had told her so (although she could not now remember, not for the life of her, just when or under what circumstances he had actually said it out loud), and although his love for her had been almost as well hidden as the love she had felt for Bill (but you told him Bevvie you did you told him you loved) it was obvious to anyone who really looked (and who was kind) — it was in the way he was always careful to keep some space between them, in the draw of his breath when she touched his arm or his hand, in the way he dressed when he knew he was going to see her. Dear, sweet, fat Ben. It had ended somehow, that difficult pre-adolescent triangle, but just how it had ended was one of the things she still couldn't remember. She thought that Ben had confessed authoring and sending the little love-poem. She thought she had told Bill she loved him, that she would love him forever. And somehow, those two tellings had helped save all of their lives . . . or had they? She couldn't remember. These memories (or memories of memories: that was really closer to what they were) were hike islands that were not really islands at all but only knobs of a single coral spine which happened to poke up above the waterline, not separate at all but one piece. Yet whenever she tried to dive deep and see the rest, a maddening image intervened: the grackles which came back each spring to New England, crowding the telephone lines, trees and rooftops, jostling for places and filling the thawing late-March air with their raucous gossip. This image came to her again and again, foreign and disturbing, like a heavy radio beam that blankets the signal you really want to pick up. She realized with sudden shock that she was standing outside of the Kleen-Kloze Washateria, where she and Stan Uris and Ben and Eddie had taken the rags that day in late June — rags stained with blood which only they could see. The windows were now soaped opaque and there was a hand-lettered FOR SALE BY OWNER sign taped to the door. Peering between the swashes of soap, she could see an empty room with lighter squares on the dirty yellow walls where the washers had stood. I'm going home, she thought dismally, but walked on anyway. This neighborhood hadn't changed much. A few more of the trees were gone, probably elms felled by disease. The houses looked a little tackier; broken windows seemed slightly more common than they had been when she was a girl. Some of the broken panes had been replaced with cardboard. Some hadn't. And here she stood in front of the apartment house, 127 Lower Main Street. Still here. The peeling white she remembered had become a peeling chocolate brown at some point during the years between, but it was still unmistakable. There was the window which looked in on what had been their kitchen; there was the window of her bedroom. (Jim Doyon, you come out of that road! Come out right now, you want to get run over and killed?) She shivered, hugging her arms across her breasts in an X, cupping her elbows in her palms. Daddy could still be living here; oh yes he could. He wouldn't move unless he had to. Just walk on up there, Beverly. Look at the mailboxes. Three boxes for three apartments, just like in the old days. And if there's one which says MARSH, you can ring the bell and pretty soon there'll be the shuffle of slippers down the hall and the door will open and you can look at him, the man whose sperm made you redheaded and lefthanded and gave you the ability to draw . . . remember how he used to draw? He could draw anything he wanted. If he felt like it, that is. He didn't feel like it often. I guess he had too many things to worry about. But when he did, you used to sit for hours and watch while he drew cats and dogs and horses and cows with MOO coming out of their mouths in balloons. You'd laugh and he'd laugh and then he'd say Now you, Bevvie, and when you held the pen he'd guide your hand and you'd see the cow or the cat or the smiling man unspooling beneath your own fingers while you smelled his Mennen Skin Bracer and the warmth of his skin. Go on up, Beverly. Ring the bell. He'll come and he'll be old, the lines will be drawn deep in his face and his teeth — those that are left — will be yellow, and he'll look at you, and he'll say Why it's Bevvie, Bevvie's come home to see her old dad, come on in Bevvie, I'm so glad to see you, I'm glad because I worry about you Bevvie, I worry a LOT. She walked slowly up the path, and the weeds growing up between the cracked concrete sections brushed at the legs of her jeans. She looked closely at the first-floor windows, but they were curtained off. She looked at the mailboxes. Third floor, STARK-WEATHER. Second floor, BURKE. First floor — her breath caught — MARSH. But I won't ring. I don't want to see him. I won't ring the bell. This was a firm decision, at last! The decision that opened the gate to a full and useful lifetime of firm decisions! She walked down the path! Back to downtown! Up to the Derry Town House! Packed! Cabbed! Flew! Told Tom to bug out! Lived successfully! Died happily! Rang the bell. She heard the familiar chimes from the living room — chimes that had always sounded to her like a Chinese name: Ching-Chong! Silence. No answer. She shifted on the porch from one foot to the other, suddenly needing to pee. No one home, she thought, relieved. I can go now. Instead she rang again: Ching-Chong! No answer. She thought of Ben's lovely little poem and tried to remember exactly when and how he had confessed its authorship, and why, for a brief second, it called up an association with having her first menstrual period. Had she begun menstruating at eleven? Surely not, although her breasts had begun their first achy growth around mid-winter. Why . . . ? Then, intervening, a mental picture of thousands of grackles on phone lines and rooftops, all babbling at a white spring sky. I'll leave now. I've rung twice; that's enough. But she rang again. Ching-Chong! Now she heard someone approaching, and the sound was just as she had imagined: the tired whisper of old slippers. She looked around wildly and came very, very close to just taking to her heels. Could she make it down the cement walk and around the corner, leaving her father to think it had been nothing but kids playing pranks? Hey mister, you got Prince Albert in a can . . . ? She let out a sudden sharp breath and had to tighten her throat because what wanted to come out was a laugh of relief. It wasn't her father at all. Standing in the doorway and looking out at her was a tall woman in her late seventies. Her hair was long and gorgeous, mostly white but shot through with lodes of purest gold. Behind her rimless spectacles were eyes as blue as the water in the fjords her ancestors had perhaps hailed from. She wore a purple dress of watered silk. It was shabby but still dignified. Her wrinkled face was kind. 'Yes, miss?' 'I'm sorry,' Beverly said. The urge to laugh had passed as swiftly as it had come. She noticed that the old woman wore a cameo at her throat. It was almost certainly real ivory, surrounded by a band of gold so thin it was nearly invisible. 'I must have rung the wrong bell.' Or rang the wrong bell on purpose, her mind whispered. 'I meant to ring for Marsh.' 'Marsh?' Her forehead wrinkled delicately. 'Yes, you see — ' 'There's no Marsh here,' the old woman said. 'But — ' 'Unless . . . you don't mean Alvin Marsh, do you?' 'Yes!' Beverly said. 'My father!' The old woman's hand rose to the cameo and touched it. She peered more closely at Beverly, making her feel ridiculously young, as if she should perhaps have a box of Girl Scout cookies in her hands, or maybe some tags — support the Derry High School Tigers. Then the old woman smiled . . . a kind smile that was nonetheless sad. 'Why you have fallen out of touch, miss. I don't want to be the one who tells you this, a stranger, but your father has been dead these last five years.' 'But . . . on the bell . . . ' She looked again and uttered a small, bewildered sound that was not quite a laugh. In her agitation, in her subconscious but rock-solid certainty that her old man would still be here, she had read KERSH as MARSH. 'You're Mrs Kersh?' she asked. She was staggered by this news of her father, but she also felt stupid about the mistake — the lady would think her little more than illiterate. 'Mrs Kersh,' she agreed. 'You . . . did you know my dad?' 'Very little did I know him,' Mrs Kersh said. She sounded a little like Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back, and Beverly felt like laughing again. When had her emotions gone whipsawing so violently back and forth? The truth was she couldn't remember a time . . . but she was dismally afraid she would before much longer. 'He rented the ground-floor apartment before me. We saw each other, me coming and him going, over a space of a few days. He moved down to Reward Lane. Do you know it?' 'Yes,' Beverly said. Roward Lane branched off from Lower Main Street four blocks farther down, where the apartment buildings were smaller and even more desperately shabby. 'I used to see him at the Costello Avenue Market sometimes,' Mrs Kersh said, 'and at the Washateria before they closed it. We passed a word from time to time. We — girl, you're pale. I'm sorry. Come in and let me give you tea.' 'No, I couldn't,' Beverly said weakly, but in fact she actually felt pale, like clouded glass that you could nearly look through. She could use tea, and a chair in which to sit and drink it. 'You could and you will,' Mrs Kersh said warmly. 'It's the least I can do for having told you such unpleasant news.' Before she could protest, Beverly found herself being led up the gloomy hall and into her old apartment, which now seemed much smaller but safe enough — safe, she supposed, because almost everything was different. Instead of the pink-topped Formica table with its three chairs, there was a small round table, really not much bigger than an endtable, with silk flowers in a pottery vase. Instead of the old Kelvinator refrigerator with the round drum on top (her father tinkered with it constantly to keep it going), there was a copper-colored Frigidaire. The stove was small but efficient-looking. There was an Amana Radar Range above it. Bright blue curtains hung in the windows, and she could see flowerboxes outside them. The floor, linoleum when she was a girl here, had been stripped to its original wood. Many applications of oil made it glow mellowly. Mrs Kersh looked around from the stove, where she was placing a teapot. 'You grew up here?' 'Yes,' Beverly said. 'But it's very different now . . . so trim and tidy . . . wonderful!' 'How kind you are,' Mrs Kersh said, and her smile made her younger. It was radiant. 'I have a little money, you see. Not much, but with my Social Security I am comfortable. Once I was a girl in Sweden. I came to this country in 1920, a girl of fourteen with no money — which is the best way to learn the value of money, would you agree?' 'Yes,' Bev said. 'At the hospital I worked,' Mrs Kersh said. 'Many years — from 1925 I worked there. I rose to the position of head housekeeper. All the keys I had. My husband invested our money quite well. Now I have reached a little harbor. Look around, miss, while the water boils!' 'No, I couldn't — ' 'Please . . . still I feel guilty. Look, if you like!' And so she did look. Her parents' bedroom was now Mrs Kersh's bedroom, and the difference was profound. The room seemed brighter and airier now. A large cedar chest, the initials RG inlaid into it, breathed its gentle aroma into the air. A gigantic surprise-quilt lay on the bed. On it she could see women drawing water, boys driving cattle, men building haystacks. A wonderful quilt. Her room had become a sewing room. A black Singer machine stood on a wrought-iron table under a pair of starkly efficient Tensor lamps. A picture of Jesus hung on one wall, a picture of John F. Kennedy on another. A beautiful breakfront stood below the picture of JFK — it was filled with books instead of china, but seemed none the worse for that. She went into the bathroom last. It had been redone in a rose color that was too low and pleasant to seem gaudy. All of the fixtures were new, and yet she approached the basin feeling that the old nightmare had gripped her again; she would peer down into that black and lidless eye, the whispering would begin, and then the blood — She leaned over the sink, catching a glimpse of her pallid face and dark eyes in the mirror over the basin, and then she stared into that eye, waiting for the voices, the laughter, the groans, the blood. How long might she have stood there, bent over the sink, waiting for the sights and sounds twenty-seven years gone, she didn't know; it was Mrs Kersh's voice that bid her return: 'Tea, miss!' She jerked back, the semi-hypnosis broken, and left the bathroom. If there had been dark magic somewhere down in that drain, it was gone now . . . or was sleeping. 'Oh, you shouldn't have!' Mrs Kersh looked up at her brightly, smiling a little. 'O miss, if you knew how seldom company calls these days, you'd not say so. Why, I put on more than this for the man from the Bangor Hydro who comes to read my meter! I'm making him fat!' Delicate cups and saucers stood on the round kitchen table, a clean bone-white edged with blue. There was a plate of small cakes and cookies. Beside the sweets a pewter teapot chuffed mild steam and pleasant fragrance. Bemused, Bev thought that the only things missing were the tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off: auntsandwiches, she'd thought them, always one word. Three main types of auntsandwiches — cream cheese and olive, watercress, and egg salad. 'Sit down,' said Mrs Kersh. 'Sit down, miss, and I'll pour out.' 'I'm not a miss,' Beverly said, and raised her left hand so that her ring would show. Mrs Kersh smiled and pushed a hand through the air — pshaw! the gesture said. 'I call all the pretty young girls miss,' she said. 'Just a habit. Don't take offense.' 'No,' Beverly said, 'not at all.' But for some reason she felt a feather-touch of unease: there was something in the old woman's smile that had seemed a little . . . what? Unpleasant? False? Knowing? But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? 'I love what you've done to the place.' 'Do you?' Mrs Kersh said, and poured out. The tea looked dark, muddy. Beverly wasn't sure she wanted to drink it . . . and suddenly she wasn't sure she wanted to be here at all. It did say Marsh under the doorbell, her mind whispered suddenly, and she was frightened. Mrs Kersh passed her tea. Thank you,' Beverly said. The look of it might have been muddy; the aroma, however, was wonderful. She tasted. It was fine. Stop jumping at shadows, she told herself. That cedar chest in particular is a wonderful piece.' 'An antique, that one!' Mrs Kersh said, and laughed. Beverly noticed that the old woman's beauty was flawed on only one score, and that was common enough here in the northlands. Her teeth were very bad — strong-looking, but bad all the same. They were yellow, and the front two had crossed each other. The canines seemed very long, almost like tusks. They were white . . . when she came to the door she smiled and you thought to yourself how white they were. Suddenly she was not just a little frightened. Suddenly she wanted — needed — to be away from here. 'Very old, oh yes!' Mrs Kersh exclaimed, and drank her cup of tea off at a single gulp, with a sudden, shocking slurping sound. She smiled at Beverly — grinned at her — and Beverly saw that the woman's eyes had changed, too. The corneas were now yellow, ancient, threaded with bleary stitches of red. Her hair was thinner; the braid looked malnourished, no longer silver shot with bright yellow but a dull gray. 'Very old,' Mrs Kersh reminisced over her empty cup, looking slyly at Beverly from her yellowed eyes. Her snaggle teeth showed in that repulsive, almost leering grin. 'From home with me it came. The RG carved into it? You noticed?' 'Yes.' Her voice came from far away, and a part of her brain yammered If she doesn't know you've seen the change perhaps you're still all right, if she doesn't know, doesn't see — 'My father,' she said, pronouncing it fodder, and Beverly saw that her dress had also changed. It had become a scabrous, peeling black. The cameo was a skull, its jaw hung in a diseased gape. 'His name was Robert Gray, better known as Bob Gray, better known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Although that was not his name, either. But he did love his joke, my fadder.' She laughed again. Some of her teeth had turned as black as her dress. The wrinkles in her skin now cut deep. Her milk-rose skin had gone a sickly yellow. Her ringers were claws. She grinned at Beverly. 'Have something to eat, dear.' Her voice had risen half an octave, but the octave was cracked in this register, and her voice was the sound of a crypt door swinging mindlessly on hinges clogged with black earth. 'No, thank you,' Beverly heard her mouth say in a child's high oh-I-must-be-going voice. The words did not seem to originate in her brain; rather they came out of her mouth and then had to travel around to her ears before she was aware of what she had said. 'No?' the witch asked, and grinned. Her claws scrabbled on the plate and she began to cram thin molasses cookies and delicate frosted slices of cake into her mouth with both hands. Her horrid teeth plunged and reared, plunged and reared; her fingernails, long and dirty, dug into the sweets; crumbs tumbled down the bony slab of her chin. Her breath was the smell of long-dead things burst wide open by the gases of their own decay. Her laugh was now a dead cackle. Her hair was thinner. Scaly scalp showed in patches. 'Oh, he loved his joke, my fadder! This is a joke, miss, if you enjoy them: my fadder bore me rather than my mutter. He shat me from his asshole! Hee! Hee! Hee!' 'I ought to go,' Beverly heard herself say in that same high wounded voice — the voice of a small girl who has been viciously embarrassed at her first party. There was no strength in her legs. She was dimly aware that it was not tea in her cup but shit, liquid shit, a little partyfavor from the sewers under the city. She had drunk some of that, not much but a sip, oh God, oh God, oh blessed Jesus, please, please — The woman was shrinking before her eyes, thinning; it was now a crone with an appledoll's face who sat across from her, giggling in a high, squealing voice and rocking back and forth. 'Oh my fadder and I are one,' she said, 'just me, just him, and dear, if you are wise you will run, run back to where you came from, run quickly, because to stay will mean worse than your death. No one who dies in Derry really dies. You knew that before; believe it now.' In slow motion Beverly gathered her legs under her. As if from outside she saw herself gaining her feet and backing away from the table and from the witch in an agony of horror and disbelief, disbelief because she realized for the first time that the neat little dining-room table was not dark oak but fudge. Even as she watched, the witch, still giggling, her ancient yellow eyes slanted slyly off into the corner of the room, broke a piece of it off and stuffed it avidly into the black-ringed trap that was her mouth. The cups, she saw, were white bark that had been carefully looped with blue-dyed frosting. The pictures of Jesus and John Kennedy were creations of nearly transparent spun sugar, and as she looked at them, Jesus stuck out His tongue and Kennedy dropped a stinky wink. 'We're all waiting for you!' the witch screamed, and her fingernails scrabbled over the surface of the fudge table, drawing deep scars in its shining surface. 'Oh yes! Oh yes!' The overhead lights were globes of hard candy. The wainscotting was caramel taffy. She looked down and saw that her shoes were leaving prints on the floorboards, which were not boards at all but slices of chocolate. The smell of candy was cloying. Oh God it's Hansel and Gretel it's the witch the one that always scared me the worst because she ate the children — 'You and your friends!' the witch screamed, laughing.' You and your friends! In the cage! In the cage until the oven's hot!' She screamed laughter, and Beverly ran for the door, but she ran as if in slow motion. The witch's laughter beat and swirled around her head, a cloud of bats. Beverly shrieked. The hall stank of sugar and nougat and toffee and sickening synthetic strawberries. The doorknob, mock crystal when she came in, was now a monstrous sugar diamond. 'I worry about you, Bevvie . . . I worry a LOT!' She turned, swirls of red hair floating around her face, to see her father staggering toward her down the hallway, wearing the witch's black dress and skull cameo; her father's face hung with doughy, running flesh, his eyes as black as obsidian, his hands clenching and unclenching, his mouth grinning with soupy fervor. 'I beat you because I wanted to FUCK you, Bevvie, that's all I wanted to do, I wanted to FUCK you, I wanted to EAT you, I wanted to eat your PUSSY, I wanted to SUCK your CLIT up between my teeth, YUM-YUM, Bevvie, oooohhhhh, YUMMY IN MY TUMMY, I wanted to put you in the cage . . . and get the oven hot . . . and feel your CUNT . . . your plump CUNT . . . and when it was plump enough to eat . . . to eat . . . EAT . . . ' Screaming, she grasped the sticky doorknob and bolted out onto a porch that was decorated with praline doodads and floored with fudge. Far away, dim, seeming to swim in her vision, she saw cars passing back and forth, and a woman pushing a cartful of groceries back from Costello's. I have to get out there, she thought, just barely coherent. That's reality out there, if I can only get out to the sidewalk — 'Won't do you any good to run, Bevvie,' her father (my fadder) told her, laughing. 'We've waited a long time for this. This is going to be fun. This is going to be YUMMY in our TUMMIES.' She looked back again and now her dead father was not wearing the witch's black dress but the clown suit with the big orange buttons. There was a 1958-style coonskin cap, the kind popularized by Fess Parker in the Disney movie about Davy Crockett, perched on its head. In one hand it held a bunch of balloons. In the other it held the leg of a child like a chicken drumstick. Written on each balloon was the legend IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE. 'Tell your friends I am the last of a dying race,' it said, grinning its sunken grin as it staggered and lurched down the porch steps after her. 'The only survivor of a dying planet. I have come to rob all the women . . . rape all the men . . . and learn to do the Peppermint Twist!' It began to do a mad shuck-and-jive, balloons in one hand, severed, bleeding leg in the other. The clown costume writhed and flapped, but Beverly felt no wind. Her legs tangled in each other and she spilled to the pavement, throwing out her palms to take up the shock, which went all the way to her shoulders. The woman pushing the grocery cart paused and looked back doubtfully, then hurried on a little faster. The clown came toward her again, casting the severed leg aside. It landed on the lawn with an indescribable thud. Beverly only lay sprawled on the pavement for a moment, sure somewhere inside that she must wake soon, this couldn't be real, had to be a dream — She realized that wasn't true a moment before the clown's crooked, long-clawed fingers touched her. It was real; it could kill her. As it had killed the children. 'The grackles know your real name!' she screamed at it suddenly. It recoiled, and it seemed to her that for a moment the grin on the lips inside the great red grin that had been painted on and around them became a grimace of hate and pain . . . and perhaps of fear as well. It might only have been her imagination, and she certainly had no idea why she had said such a crazy thing, but it bought her an instant of time. She was on her feet and running. Brakes squealed and a hoarse voice, both mad and scared, yelled: 'Why don't you look where you're going, you dumb quiff!' She had a blurred impression of the bakery truck that had almost hit her when she bolted into the street like a child after a rubber ball, and then she was standing on the opposite sidewalk, panting, a hot stitch in her left side. The bakery truck went on down Lower Main. The clown was gone. The leg was gone. The house still stood there, but she saw now that it was crumbling and deserted, the windows boarded up, the steps leading up to the porch cracked and broken. Was I really in there, or did I dream it all? But her jeans were dirty, her yellow blouse smeared with dust. And there was chocolate on her fingers. She rubbed them on the legs of her jeans and walked away fast, her face hot, her back cold as ice, her eyeballs seeming to pulse in and out with the rapid thud of her heart. We can't beat It. Whatever It is, we can't beat It. It even wants us to try — It wants to settle the old score. Can't be happy with a draw, I guess. We ought to get out of here . . . just leave. Something brushed against her calf, light as a cat's questing paw. She jerked away from it with a little shriek. She looked down and cringed, one hand against her mouth. It was a balloon, as yellow as her blouse. Written on the side of it in electric blue were the words THAT'S WIGHT, WABBIT. As she watched, it went bouncing lightly up the street, urged by the pleasant late-spring breeze. 4 Richie Tozier Makes Tracks Well, there was the day Henry and his friends chased me — before the end of school, this was . . . Richie was walking along Outer Canal Street, past Bassey Park. Now he stopped, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking toward the .Kissing Bridge but not really seeing it. I got away from them in the toy department of Freese's . . . Since the mad conclusion of the reunion lunch, he had been walking aimlessly, trying to make his peace with the awful things which had been in the fortune cookies . . . or the things which had seemed to be in the cookies. He thought that most likely nothing at all had come out of them. It had been a group hallucination brought on by all the spooky shit they had been talking about. The best proof of the hypothesis was that Rose had seen nothing at all. Of course, Beverly's parents had never seen any of the blood that came out of the bathroom drain either, but this wasn't the same. No? Why not? 'Because we're grownups now,' he muttered, and discovered the thought had absolutely no power or logic at all; it might as well have been a nonsense line from a kid's skip-rope chant. He started to walk again. I went up by City Center and sat down on a park bench for awhile and I thought I saw . . . He stopped again, frowning. Saw what? . .. but that was just something I dreamed. Was it? Was it really? He looked to the left and saw the big glass-brick-and-steel building that had looked so modern in the late fifties and now looked rather antique and tacky. And here I am, he thought. Right back to fucking City Center. Scene of that other hallucination. Or dream. Or whatever it was. The others saw him as the Klass Klown, the Krazy Kut-up, and he had fallen neatly and easily into that role again. Ah, we all fell neatly and easily back into our old roles again, didn't you notice? But was there anything very unusual about that? He thought you would probably see much the same thing at any tenth or twentieth high school reunion — the class comedian who had discovered a vocation for the priesthood in college would, after two drinks, revert almost automatically to the wiseacre he had been; the Great English Brain who had wound up with a GM truck dealership would suddenly begin spouting off about John Irving or John Cheever; the guy who had played with the Moondogs on Saturday nights and who had gone on to become a mathematics professor at Cornell would suddenly find himself on stage with the band, a Fender guitar strapped over his shoulder, whopping out 'Gloria' or 'Surfin' Bird' with gleeful drunken ferocity. What was it Springsteen said? No retreat, baby, no surrender . . . but it was easier to believe in the oldies on the record-player after a couple of drinks or some pretty good Panama Red. But, Richie believed, it was the reversion that was the hallucination, not the present life. Maybe the child was the father of the man, but fathers and sons often shared very different interests and only a passing resemblance. They — But you say grownups and now it sounds like nonsense; it sounds like so much bibblebabble. Why is that, Richie? Why? Because Derry is as weird as ever. Why don't we just leave it at that? Because things weren't that simple, that was why. As a kid he had been a goof-off, a sometimes vulgar, sometimes amusing comedian, because it was one way to get along without getting killed by kids like Henry Bowers or going absolutely loony-tunes with boredom and loneliness. He realized now that a lot of the problem had been his own mind, which was usually moving at a speed ten or twenty times that of his classmates. They had thought him strange, weird, or even suicidal, depending on the escapade in question, but maybe it had been a simple case of mental overdrive — if anything about being in constant mental overdrive was simple. Anyway, it was the sort of thing you got under control after awhile — you got it under control or you found outlets for it, guys like Kinky Briefcase or Buford Kissdrivel, for instance. Richie had discovered that in the months after he had wandered into the college radio station, pretty much on a whim, and had discovered everything he had ever wanted during his first week behind the microphone. He hadn't been very good at first; he had been too excited to be good. But he had understood his potential not to be just good at the job but great at it, and just that knowledge had been enough to put him over the moon on a cloud of euphoria. At the same time he had begun to understand the great principle that moved the universe, at least that part of the universe which had to do with careers and success: you found the crazy guy who was running around inside of you, fucking up your life. You chased him into a corner and grabbed him. But you didn't kill him. Oh no. Killing was too good for the likes of that little bastard. You put a harness over his head and then started plowing. The crazy guy worked like a demon once you had him in the traces. And he supplied you with a few chucks from time to tune. That was really all there was. And that was enough. He had been funny, all right, a laugh a minute, but in the end he had outgrown the nightmares that were on the dark side of all those laughs. Or he thought he had. Until today, when the word grownup suddenly stopped making sense to his own ears. And now here was something else to cope with, or at least think about; here was the huge and totally idiotic statue of Paul Bunyan in front of City Center. I must be the exception that proves the rule, Big Bill. Are you sure there was nothing, Richie? Nothing at all? Up by City Center . . . I thought I saw . . . Sharp pain needled at his eyes for the second time that day and he clutched at them, a startled moan coming out of him. Then it was gone again, as quickly as it had come. But he had also smelled something, hadn't he? Something that wasn't really there, but something that had been there, something that made him think of (I'm right here with you Richie hold my hand can you catch hold) Mike Hanlon. It was smoke that had made his eyes sting and water. Twenty-seven years ago they had breathed that smoke; in the end there had just been Mike and himself left and they had seen — But it was gone. He took a step closer to the plastic Paul Bunyan statue, as amazed by its cheerful vulgarity now as he had been overwhelmed by its size as a child. The mythical Paul stood twenty feet high, and the base added another six feet. He stood smiling down at the car and pedestrian traffic on Outer Canal Street from the edge of the City Center lawn. City Center had been erected in the years 1954-55 for a minor-league basketball team that had never materialized. The Derry City Council had voted money for the statue a year later, in 1956. I had been hotly debated, both in the council's public meetings and in the letters-to-the-editor columns of the Derry News. Many thought it would be a perfectly lovely statue, certain to become a tourist attraction of note. There were others who found the idea of a plastic Paul Bunyan horrible, garish, and unbelievably gauche. The art teacher at Derry High School, Richie remembered, had written a letter to the News saying that if such a monstrosity were actually to be erected in Derry, she would blow it up. Grinning, Richie wondered if that babe's contract had been renewed. The controversy — which Richie recognized now as an utterly typical big-town/small-city tempest in a teapot — had raged for six months, and of course it had been entirely meaningless; the statue had been purchased, and even if the City Council had done something as aberrant (especially for New England) as deciding not to use an item for which money had been paid, where in God's name could it have been stored? Then the statue, not really sculpted at all but simply cast in some Ohio plastics plant, had been set in place, still shrouded in a whack of canvas big enough to serve as a clippership sail. It had been unveiled on May 13th, 1957, which was the incorporated township's one-hundred-and-fiftieth birthday. One faction gave voice to predictable moans of outrage; the other to equally predictable moans of rapture. When Paul was revealed that day he was wearing his bib overalls and a red-and-whitechecked shirt. His beard was splendidly black, splendidly full, splendidly lumber jack-y. A plastic axe, surely the Godzilla of all plastic axes, was slung over one shoulder, and he grinned unceasingly at the northern skies, which on the day of the unveiling had been as blue as the skin of Paul's reputed companion (Babe was not present at the unveiling, however; the cost estimate of adding a blue ox to the tableau had been prohibitive). The children who attended the ceremonies (there were hundreds of them, and ten-year-old Richie Tozier, in the company of his dad, had been among them) were totally and uncritically delighted by the plastic giant. Parents boosted toddlers up onto the square pedestal on which Paul stood, took photos, and then watched with mixed apprehension and amusement as the kids climbed and crawled, laughing, over Paul's huge black boots (correction: huge black plastic boots). It had been March of the following year when Richie, exhausted and terrified, had finished up on one of the benches in front of the statue after eluding — by the barest of margins — Messrs. Bowers, Criss, and Huggins in a chase that had led from Derry Elementary School across most of the downtown area. He had finally ditched them in the toy department of Freese's Department Store. The Derry branch of Freese's was a poor thing compared with the grand downtown department store in Bangor, but Richie had been far past caring about such things — by then it was a case of any port in a storm. Henry Bowers had been right behind him and by then Richie had been flagging badly. He had dodged into the mouth of the department store's revolving door as a last resort. Henry, who apparently didn't understand the physics of such devices, had nearly lost the tips of his fingers trying to grab Richie as Richie trundled around and into the store. Pelting downstairs, shirttail flying out behind him, he had heard the revolving door give off a series of reports almost as loud as TV gunfire and understood that Larry, Moe, and Curly were still after him. He was laughing as he went down the stairs to the basement level but that was only a nervous tic; he was as full of terror as a rabbit caught in a wire snare. They really meant to beat him up good this time (he had no idea that in another ten weeks or so he would believe the three of them, Henry in particular, capable of anything short of murder, and he surely would have whitened with shock if he had known of the apocalyptic rockfight in July, when even that last qualification would disappear from his mind). And the whole thing had been so utterly, typically stupid. Richie and the other boys in his fifth-grade class had been filing into the gym. A sixthgrade class, Henry hulking among them like an ox among cows, had been coming out. Although he was still in the fifth grade, Henry went to gym with the older boys. The overhead pipes had been dripping again and Mr Fazio hadn't yet gotten around to putting up his CAUTION! WET FLOOR! sign on its little easel. Henry had slipped in a puddle and had landed on his keister. Before he could stop it Richie's traitor mouth had bugled: 'Way to go, banana-heels!' There had been an explosion of laughter from both Henry's classmates and Richie's, but there had been no laughter on Henry's face as he picked himself up — only a dull flush the color of freshly fired brick. 'Later for you, four-eyes,' he said, and walked on. The laughter died at once. The boys in the hall looked at Richie as one already dead. Henry did not pause to check reactions; he simply walked off, head down, elbows red from catching the fall, a large wet place on the seat of his pants. Looking at that wet spot, Richie felt his suicidally witty mouth drop open again . . . but this time he snapped it shut again, so fast he almost amputated the tip of his tongue with the falling gate of his teeth. Well, but he'll forget, he told himself uneasily as he changed up for gym. Sure he will. Ole Hank just hasn't got that many memory circuits working. Every time he takes a shit he probably has to look up the directions in the instruction booklet, ha-ha. Ha-ha. 'You're dead, Trashmouth,' Vince 'Boogers' Taliendo told him, pulling his jock up over a dork roughly the size and shape of an anemic peanut. He said it with a certain sad respect. 'Don't worry, though. I'll bring flowers.' 'Cut off your ears and bring cauliflowers,' Richie had come back smartly, and everyone laughed, even ole 'Boogers' Taliendo laughed, why not, they could all afford to laugh. What, me worry? They would all be home watching Jimmy Dodd and the Mouseketeers on the Mickey Mouse Club or Frankie Lymon singing 'I'm Not a Juvenile Delinquent' on American Bandstand while Richie went shagging ass through ladies' lingerie and housewares on his way to the toy department with sweat pouring down his back into the crack of his ass and his terrified balls strung up so high they felt like they might be hung over his bellybutton. Sure, they could laugh. Har-de-har-har-har. Henry hadn't forgotten. Richie had left by the door at the kindergarten end of the school building just in case, but Henry had stuck Belch Huggins there, also just in case. Har-de-harhar-har. Richie saw Belch first or there would have been no contest at all. Belch was looking out toward Derry Park, holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and dreamily picking the seat of his chinos out of his ass with the other. Heart pounding hard, Richie had walked quietly across the playground and was most of the way down Charter Street before Belch turned his head and saw him. He yelled for Henry and Victor, and since then the chase had been on. When Richie reached the toy department it had been utterly, horribly deserted. There wasn't even a sales clerk hanging out — a welcome adult to put a stop to things before they got entirely out of hand. He could hear the three dinosaurs of the apocalypse closing in now. And he simply couldn't run anymore. Each breath produced a deep hurting stitch in his left side. His eye fixed on a door which read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY\ ALARM WILL SOUND! Hope kindled in his chest. Richie ran down an aisle crammed with Donald Duck jack-in-the-boxes, United States Army tanks made in Japan, Lone Ranger cap pistols, wind-up robots. He reached the door and slammed the push-bar as hard as he could. The door opened, letting in cool mid-March air. The alarm went off with a strident bray. Richie immediately doubled back and dropped to his hands and knees in the next aisle over. He was down before the door could settle closed again. Henry, Belch, and Victor thundered into the toy department just as the door clicked shut and the alarm cut off. They raced for it, Henry in the lead, his face set and intent. A sales clerk finally appeared, coming on the run. He wore a blue nylon duster over a plaid sportcoat of excruciating ugliness. The rims of his spectacles were as pink as the eyes of a white rabbit. Richie thought he looked like Wally Cox in his Mr Peepers role, and he had to slam his traitor mouth into the fat part of his forearm to keep from screaming out gales of exhausted laughter. 'You boys!' Mr Peepers exclaimed. 'You boys can't go out there! That's an emergency exit! You! Hey! You boys!' Victor glanced at him a little nervously, but Henry and Belch never turned from their course and Victor followed them. The alarm brayed again, longer this time as they charged into the alley. Before it stopped clanging Richie was on his feet and trotting back toward ladies' lingerie. 'You boys will be barred from the store!' the clerk yelled after him. Looking back over his shoulder Richie squealed in his Granny Grunt Voice, 'Did anyone ever tell you you look just like Mr Peepers, young man?' And so he had escaped. And so he had finished up almost a mile from Freese's, in front of City Center . . . and, he devoutly hoped, out of harm's way. At least for the time being. He was spent. He sat down on a bench just to the left of the Paul Bunyan statue, wanting only a little peace while he got himself back together. In a bit he would get up and head home, but for now it felt too good to just sit here in the afternoon sun. The day had opened in a cold drizzly gloom, but now you could believe spring might actually be on the way. Farther up the lawn he could see the City Center marquee, which on that March day bore this message in large blue translucent letters: HEY TEENS! COMING MARCH 28TH THE ARNIE "WOO-WOO' GINSBERG ROCK AND ROLL SHOW! JERRY LEE LEWIS THE PENGUINS FRANKIE LYMON AND THE TEENAGERS GENE VINCENT AND THE BLUE CAPS FREDDY 'BOOM -BOOM ' CANNON AN EVENING OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT!! That was a show Richie really wanted to see, but he knew there wasn't a chance. His mother's idea of wholesome entertainment did not include Jerry Lee Lewis telling the young people of America we got chicken in the barn, whose barn, what barn, my barn. Nor, for that matter, did it include Freddy Cannon, whose Tallahassee lassie had a hi-fi chassis. She was willing to admit that she had done her share of screaming for Frank Sinatra (whom she now called Frankie the Snot) as a bobby-soxer, but, like Bill Denbrough's mother, she was death on rock and roll. Chuck Berry terrified her, and she declared that Richard Penniman, better known to his teen and subteen constituency as Little Richard, made her want to 'barf like a chicken.' This was a phrase for which Richie had never asked a translation. His dad was neutral on the subject of rock and roll and could perhaps have been swayed, but Richie knew in his heart that his mother's wishes would rule on this subject — until he was sixteen or seventeen, anyway — and by then, his mother was firmly convinced, the country's rock and roll mania would have passed. Richie thought Danny and the Juniors were more right on that subject than his mom — rock and roll would never die. He himself loved it, although his sources were really only two — American Bandstand on Channel 7 in the afternoon and WMEX out of Boston at night, when the air had thinned and the hoarse enthusiastic voice of Arnie Ginsberg came wavering in and out like the voice of a ghost called up at a seance. The beat did more than make him happy. It made him feel bigger, stronger, more there. When Frankie Ford sang 'Sea Cruise' or Eddie Cochran sang 'Summertime Blues,' Richie was actually transported with joy. There was power in that music, a power which seemed to most rightfully belong to all the skinny kids, fat kids, ugly kids, shy kids — the world's losers, in short. In it he felt a mad hilarious voltage which had the power to both kill and exalt. He idolized Fats Domino (who made even Ben Hanscom look sum and trim) and Buddy Holly, who, like Richie, wore glasses, and Screaming Jay Hawkins, who popped out of a coffin at his concerts (or so Richie had been told), and the Dovells, who danced as good as black guys. Well, almost. He would have his rock and roll someday if he wanted it — he was confident it would still be there for him when his mother finally gave in and let him have it — but that would not be on March 28th, 1958 . . . or in 1959 . . . or . . . His eyes had drifted away from the marquee and then . . . well . . . then he must have fallen asleep. It was the only explanation that made sense. What had happened next could only happen in dreams. And now here he was again a Richie Tozier who had finally gotten all the rock and roll he had ever wanted . . . and who had found, happily, that it still wasn't enough. His eyes went to the marquee in front of City Center and saw that, with a hideous kind of serendipity, those same blue letters spelled out: JUNE 14TH HEAVY METAL MANIA! JUDAS PRIEST IRON MAIDEN BUY YOUR TICKETS HERE OR AT ANY TICKETRON OUTLET Somewhere along the way they dropped the wholesome entertainment line, thought Richie, but as far as I can tell that's just about the only difference, And heard Danny and the Juniors, dim and distant, like voices heard down a long corridor coming out of a cheap radio: Rock and roll will never die, I'll dig it to the end . . . It'll go down in history, just you watch my friend . . . Richie looked back at Paul Bunyan, patron saint of Derry — Derry, which had come into being, according to the stories, because this was where the logs fetched up when they came downriver. There had been a time when, in the spring, both the Penobscot and the Kenduskeag would have been solid logs from one side to the other, their black bark hides glistening in the spring sun. A fellow who was fast on his feet could walk from Wally's Spa in Hell's Half-Acre over to Ramper's in Brewster (Ramper's was a tavern of such horrible repute that it was commonly called the Bucket of Blood) without getting his boots wet over the third crossing of his rawhide laces. Or so it had been storied in Richie's youth, and he supposed there was a bit of Paul Bunyan in all such stories. Old Paul, he thought, looking up at the plastic statue. What you been doing since I've been gone? Made any new riverbeds coming home tired and dragging your axe behind you? Made any new lakes on account of wanting a bathtub big enough so you could sit in water up to your neck? Scared any more little kids the way you scared me that day? Ah, and suddenly he remembered it all, the way you will sometimes suddenly remember a word which has been dancing on the tip of your tongue. There he had been, sitting in that mellow March sunshine, drowsing a little, thinking about going home and catching the last half hour of Bandstand, and suddenly there had been a warm swash of air into his face. It blew his hair back from his forehead. He looked up and Paul Bunyan's huge plastic face had been right in front of his, bigger than a face on a movie screen, filling everything. The rush of air had been caused by Paul bending down . . . although he did not precisely look like Paul anymore. The forehead was now low and beetling; tufts of wiry hair poked from a nose as red as the nose of a long-time drunkard; his eyes were bloodshot and one had a slight cast to it. The axe was no longer on his shoulder. Paul was leaning on its haft, and the blunt end of its head had crushed a trench in the concrete of the sidewalk. He was still grinning, but there was nothing cheery about it now. From between gigantic yellow teeth there drifted a smell like small animals rotting in hot underbrush. 'I'm going to eat you up,' the giant had said in a low rumbling voice. It was the sound of boulders rocking against each other during an earthquake. 'Unless you give me back my hen and my harp and my bags of gold, I'm going to eat you right the fuck up!' The breath of these words made Richie's shirt flutter and flap like a sail in a hurricane. He shrank back against the bench, eyes bugging, hair standing out to all sides like quills, wrapped in a pocket of carrion-stink. The giant began to laugh. It settled its hands on the haft of its axe the way Ted Williams might have laid hold of his favorite baseball bat (or ash-handle, if you prefer), and pulled it out of the hole it had made in the sidewalk. The axe began to rise into the air. It made a low lethal rushing sound. Richie suddenly understood that the giant meant to split him right down the middle. But he felt that he could not move; a logy sort of apathy had stolen over him. What did it matter? He was dozing, having a dream. Any moment now some driver would blow his horn at a kid running across the street and he would wake up. 'That's right,' the giant had rumbled, 'you'll wake up in hell!' And at the last instant, as the axe slowed to its apogee and balanced there, Richie understood that this wasn't a dream at all . . . and if it was, it was a dream that could kill. Trying to scream but making no sound at all, he rolled off the bench and onto the raked gravel plot which surrounded what had been a statue and was now only a base with two huge steel bolts sticking out of it where the feet had been. The sound of the descending axe filled the world with its pressing insistent whisper; the giant's grin had become a murderer's grimace. Its lips had pulled back so far from its teeth that its plastic red gums, hideously red, gleamed. The blade of the axe struck the bench where Richie had been only an instant before. The edge was so sharp that there was almost no sound at all, but the bench was sheared instantly in two. The halves sagged away from each other, the wood inside the green-painted skin a bright and somehow sickening white. Richie was on his back. Still trying to scream, he pushed himself with his heels. Gravel went down the collar of his shirt, down the back of his pants. And there was Paul, towering above him, looking down at him with eyes the size of manhole covers; there was Paul, looking down at one small boy cowering on the gravel. The giant took a step toward him. Richie felt the ground shudder when the black boot came down. Gravel spumed up in a cloud. Richie rolled over onto his stomach and staggered to his feet. His legs were already trying to run before he was balanced, and as a result he fell flat on his belly again. He heard the wind whoof out of his lungs. His hair fell in his eyes. He could see the traffic going back and forth on Canal and Main Streets as it did every day, as if nothing was happening, as if no one in any of those cars could see or care that Paul Bunyan had come to life and stepped down from its pedestal in order to commit murder with an axe roughly the size of a deluxe motor home. The sunshine was blotted out. Richie lay in a patch of shade that looked like a man. He scrambled to his knees, almost fell over sideways, managed to get to his feet, and ran as fast as he could — he ran with his knees popping almost all the way up to his chest and his elbows pistoning. Behind him he could hear that awful persistent whisper building again, a sound that seemed to be not really sound at all but pressure on the skin and eardrums: Swiiipppppp! — The earth shook. Richie's upper and lower teeth rattled against each other like china plates in an earthquake. He did not have to look to know that Paul's axe had buried itself haft-deep in the sidewalk inches behind his feet. Madly, in his mind, he heard the Dovells: Oh the kids in Bristol are sharp as a pistol When they do the Bristol Stomp . . . He passed out of the giant's shadow into sunlight again, and as he did he began to laugh — the same exhausted laughter that had come from him when he bolted downstairs in Freese's. Panting, that hot stitch in his side again, he had at last risked a glance back over his shoulder. There was the statue of Paul Bunyan, standing on its pedestal where it always stood, axe on its shoulder, head cocked toward the sky, lips parted in the eternal optimistic grin of the myth-hero. The bench which had been sheared in two was whole and intact, thank you very much. The gravel where Tall Paul (He's-a my all, Annette Funicello sang maniacally in Richie's head) had planted his huge foot was raked and immaculate except for the scuffed spot where Richie had fallen off while he was (getting away from the giant) dreaming. There was no footprint, no axe-slash in the concrete. There was nothing here but a boy who had been chased by other boys, bigger boys, and so had had himself a very small (but very potent) dream about a homicidal Colossus . . . the Giant Economy-Size Henry Bowers, if you pleased. 'Shit,' Richie said in a tiny wavering voice, and then uttered an uncertain laugh. He stood there awhile longer, waiting to see if the statue would move again — perhaps wink, perhaps shift its axe from one shoulder to the other, perhaps come down and have at him again. But of course none of those things happened. Of course. What, me worry? Har-de-har-har-har. A doze. A dream. No more than that. But, as Abraham Lincoln or Socrates or someone like that had once observed, enough was enough. It was time to go home and cool out; to make like Kookie on 77 Sunset Strip and just lay chilly. And although it would have been quicker to cut through the City Center grounds, he decided not to. He didn't want to get close to that statue again. So he had gone the long way around and by that evening he had nearly forgotten the incident. Until now. Here sits a man, he thought, here sits a man dressed in a mossy-green sportcoat purchased at one of the best shops on Rodeo Drive; here sits a man with Bass Weejuns on his feet and Calvin Klein underwear to cover his ass; here sits a man with soft contact lenses resting easily on his eyes; here sits a man remembering the dream of a boy who thought an Ivy League shin with a fruit-loop on the back and a pair of Snap Jack shoes was the height of fashion; here sits a grownup looking at the same old statue, and hey, Paul, Tall Paul, I'm here to say you're the same in every way, you ain't aged a motherfucking day. The old explanation still rang true in his mind: a dream. He supposed he could believe in monsters if he had to; monsters were no big deal. Hadn't he sat in radio studios at one time or another reading news copy about such fellows as Idi Amin Dada and Jim Jones and that guy who had blown away all those folks in a McDonald's just down the road apiece? Shitfire and save matches, monsters were cheap! Who needed a five-buck movie ticket when you could read about them in the paper for thirty-five cents or hear about them on the radio for free? And he supposed if he could believe in the Jim Jones variety, he could believe in Mike Hanlon's version, at least for awhile; It even had Its own sorry charm, because It came from Outside and no one had to claim responsibility for It. He could believe in a monster that had as many faces as there are rubber masks in a novelty shop (if you're gonna have one, you might as well have a pack of em, he thought, cheaper by the dozen, right, gang?), at least for the sake of argument . . . but a thirty-foot-high plastic statue that stepped off its pedestal and then tried to carve you up with its plastic axe? That was just a little too ripe. As Abraham Lincoln or Socrates or someone had also said, I'll eat fish and I'll eat meat, but there is some shit I will not eat. It just wasn't — That sharp needling pain struck his eyes again, without warning jerking a dismayed cry from him. This was the worst yet, going deeper and lasting longer, scaring the bejesus out of him. He clapped his hands to his eyes and then groped instinctively for the bottom lids with his forefingers, meaning to pop his contacts out. It's maybe some kind of infection, he thought dimly. But Jesus it hurts! He pulled the lids down and was ready to give the single practiced blink that would send them tumbling out (and he would spend the next fifteen minutes grovelling myopically for them in the gravel surrounding the bench but Jesus God who gave a shit, right now it felt like there were nails in his eyes), when the pain disappeared. It did not dwindle; it just went. One moment there, the next moment gone. His eyes teared briefly and then stopped. He lowered his hands slowly, his heart running fast in his chest, ready to blink them out the instant the pain started again. It didn't. And suddenly he found himself thinking about the only horror movie that had ever really scared him as a kid, possibly because he had taken so much shit about his glasses and had spent so much time thinking about his eyes. That movie had been The Crawling Eye, with Forrest Tucker. Not very good. The other kids had laughed themselves into hysterics over it, but Richie had not laughed. Richie had been rendered cold and white and dumb, for once with not a single Voice to command, as that gelatinous tentacled eye came out of the manufactured fog of some English movie set, waving its fibrous tentacles in front of it. The sight of that eye had been very bad, the embodiment of a hundred not-quite-realized fears and disquiets. On some night not long after, he had dreamed of looking at himself in a mirror and bringing a large pin up and sticking it slowly into the black iris of his eye and feeling a numb, watery springiness as the bottom of his eye filled up with blood. He remembered — now he remembered — waking up and discovering that he had wet the bed. The best indicator of how gruesome that dream had been was that his primary feeling had been not shame at his nocturnal indiscretion but relief; he had embraced the warm wet patch with his body and blessed the reality of his sight. 'Fuck this,' Richie Tozier said in a low voice that was not quite steady, and started to get up. He would go back to the Derry Town House and take a nap. If this was Memory Lane, he preferred the LA. Freeway at rush-hour. The pain in his eyes was probably no more than a signal of exhaustion and jet-lag, plus the stress of meeting the past all at once, in one afternoon. Enough shocks; enough exploring. He didn't like the way his mind was skittering from one subject to the next. What was that Peter Gabriel tune? 'Shock the Monkey.' Well, this monkey had been shocked enough. It was time to catch some z's and maybe gain a little perspective. As he rose his eyes went to the marquee in front of City Center again. All at once the strength ran out of his legs and he sat down again. Hard. RICHIE TOZIER MAN OF 1000 VOICES RETURNS TO DERRY LAND OF 1000 DANCES IN HONOUR OF TRASHMOUTH'S RETURN CITY CENTERPROUDLY PRESENTS THE RICHIE TOZIER 'ALL-DEAD' ROCK SHOW BUDDY HOLLY RICHIE VALENS THE BIG BOPPER FRANKIE LYMON GENE VINCENT MARVIN GAYE HOUSE BAND JIMI HENDRIX LEAD GUITAR JOHN LENNON RHYTHM GUITAR PHIL LINOTT BASS GUITAR KEITH MOON DRUMS SPECIAL GUEST VOCLAIST JIM MORRISON WELCOME HOME RICHIE! YOU'RE DEAD TOO! He felt as if someone had whopped all the breath out of him . . . and then he heard that sound again, that sound that was half pressure on the skin and eardrums, that keen homicidal whispering rush — Swiipppp! He rolled off the bench onto the gravel, thinking So this is what they mean by déjà vu, now you know, you'll never have to ask anybody again — He hit on his shoulder and rolled, looking up at the Paul Bunyan statue — only it was no longer Paul Bunyan. The clown stood there instead, resplendent and evident, fantastic in plastic, twenty feet of Day-Glo colors, its painted face surmounting a cosmic comic ruff. Orange pompom buttons cast in plastic, each as big as a volleyball, ran down the front of the silvery suit. Instead of an axe it held a huge bunch of plastic balloons. Engraved on each were two legends: IT'S STILL ROCK AND ROLL TO ME and RICHIE TOZIER 's 'ALL-DEAD' ROCK SHOW. He scrambled backward, using his heels and his palms. Gravel went down the back of his pants. He heard a seam tear loose in die underarm of his Rodeo Drive sportcoat. He rolled over, gamed his feet, staggered, looked back. The down looked down at him. Its eyes rolled wetly in their sockets. 'Did I give you a scare, m'man?' it rumbled. And Richie heard his mouth say, quite independently of his frozen brain: 'Cheap thrills in the back of my car, Bozo. That's all.' The clown grinned and nodded as if it had expected no more. Red paint-bleeding lips parted to show teeth like fangs, each one coming to a razor point. 'I could have you now if I wanted you now,' it said. 'But this is going to be too much fun.' 'Fun for me too,' Richie heard his mouth say. 'The most fun of all when we come to take your fucking head off, baby.' The clown's grin spread wider and wider. It raised one hand, clad in a white glove, and Richie felt the wind of the movement blow the hair off his forehead as it had on that day twenty-seven years ago. The clown's index finger popped out at him. It was as big as a beam. Big as a bea — , Richie thought, and then the pain struck again. It drove nisty spikes into the soft jelly of his eyes. He screamed and clutched at his face. 'Before removing the mote from thy neighbor's eye, attend the beam in thine own,' the clown intoned, its words rumbling and vibrating, and Richie was again enveloped in the sweet stink of its carrion breath. He looked up, and took half a dozen hurried steps backward. The clown was bending down, its gloved hands on its gaily pantalooned knees. 'Want to play some more, Richie? How about if I point at your pecker and give you prostate cancer? Or I could point at your head and give you a good old brain tumor — although I'm sure some people would say that would only be adding to what was already there. I can point at your mouth and your stupid flapping tongue will turn into so much running pus. I can do it, Richie. Want to see?' Its eyes were widening, widening, and in those black pupils, each as big as a softball, Richie saw the mad darkness that must exist over the rim of the universe; he saw a shitty happiness that he felt would drive him insane. In that moment he understood It could do any of these things and more. And yet again he heard his mouth, but this time it was not his voice, or any of his created Voices, past or present; it was a Voice he had never heard before. Later he would tell the others, hesitantly, that it was a kind of Mr Jiveass Nigger Voice, loud and proud, selfparodying and screechy. 'Git off man case you big ole honky clown!' he shouted, and suddenly he was laughing again. 'No shit an no shine, muhfuh! I got d'walk, I got d'talk, and I got d'big boppin cock! I got d' 'time, I got d' 'mine, I'm a man wit' a plan an if you doan shit, you goan git\ You hear me, you whiteface bunghole?' Richie thought the clown recoiled, but he did not stick around to find out for sure. He ran, elbows pumping, sportcoat flying out in wings behind him, not caring that a father who had stopped so his toddler could admire Paul was now staring warily at him, as if he had gone crazy. As a matter of fact, folks, Richie thought, I feel like I've gone crazy. Oh God do I ever. And that had to have been the shiniest Grandmaster Flash imitation in history but somehow it did the trick, somehow — And then the clown's voice thundered after him. The father of the little boy did not hear it, but the toddler's face suddenly pinched in upon itself and he began to wail. The dad picked his son up and hugged him, bewildered. Even through his own terror, Richie observed this little sideshow closely. The voice of the clown was perhaps angrily gleeful, perhaps just angry: 'We've got the eye down here, Richie . . . you hear me? The one that crawls. If you don't want to fly, don't wanna say goodbye, you come on down under this here town and give a great big hi to one great big eye! You come down and see it anytime. Just any old time you like. You hear me, Richie? Bring your yo-yo. Have Beverly wear a big full skin with four or five petticoats underneath. Have her wear her husband's ring around her neck! Get Eddie to wear his saddle-shoes! We'll play some bop, Richie! We'll play AAALLLL THE HITS!' Reaching the sidewalk, Richie dared to look back over his shoulder, and what he saw was in no way comforting. Paul Bunyan was still gone, and now the clown was gone, too. Where they had stood there was now a twenty-foot-high plastic statue of Buddy Holly. He was wearing a button on one of the narrow lapels of his plaid sportcoat. RICHIE TOZIER's 'ALLDEAD' ROCK SHOW, the button read. One bow of Buddy's glasses had been mended with adhesive tape. The little boy was still crying hysterically; his father was walking rapidly back toward downtown with the weeping child in his arms. He gave Richie a wide berth. Richie got walking (feets don't fail me now) trying not to think about (we'll play AAALLLL THE HITS!) what had just happened. All he wanted to think about was the monster jolt of Scotch he was going to have in the Derry Town House bar before he went up to take that nap. The thought of a drink — just your ordinary garden-variety drink — made him feel a little better. He looked over his shoulder one more time and the fact that Paul Bunyan was back, grinning at the sky, plastic axe over his shoulder, made him feel better still. Richie began to walk faster, making tracks, putting distance between himself and that statue. He had even begun to think about the possibility of hallucinations when the pain struck his eyes again, deep and agonizing, causing him to cry out hoarsely. A pretty young girl who had been walking ahead of him, looking dreamily up at the breaking clouds, looked back at him, hesitated, then hurried over. 'Mister, are you all right?' 'It's my contacts,' he said in a strained voice. 'My damned contact le — oh my God that hurts!' This time he got his forefingers up so quickly he almost jabbed them into his eyes. He pulled down the lower lids and thought, I won't be able to blink them out, that's what's going to happen, I won't be able to blink them out and it's just going to go on hurting and hurting and hurting until I go blind go blind go bl — But one blink did it as one blink always had. The sharp and denned world, where colors stayed inside the lines and where faces that you saw were clear and obvious, simply fell away. Wide bands of pastel fuzz took their place. And although he and the high-school girl, who was both helpful and concerned, searched the paving of the sidewalk for almost fifteen minutes, neither could find even a single lens. In the back of his head Richie seemed to hear the clown laughing. 5 Bill did not see Pennywise that afternoon — but he did see a ghost. A real ghost. So Bill believed then, and no subsequent event caused him to change his mind. He had walked up Witcham Street and paused for some time by the drain where George met his end on that rainy October day in 1957. He squatted down and peered into the drain, which was cut into the stonework of the curbing. His heart was beating hard, but he looked anyway. 'Come out, why don't you,' he said in a low voice, and he had the not-quite-mad idea that his voice was floating along dark and dripping passageways, not dying out but continuing onward and onward, feeding on its own echoes, bouncing off moss-covered stone walls and long-dead machinery. He felt it float over still and sullen waters and perhaps issue softly from a hundred different drains in other parts of the city at the same time. 'Come out of there or we'll come in and g-get you.' He waited nervily for a response, crouched down with his hands between his thighs like a catcher between pitches. There was no response. He was about to stand up when a shadow fell over him. Bill looked up sharply, eagerly, ready for anything . . . but it was only a little kid, maybe ten, maybe eleven. He was wearing faded Boy Scout shorts which displayed his scabby knees to good advantage. He had a Freeze-Pop in one hand and a Fiberglas skateboard which looked almost as battered as his knees in the other. The Freeze-Pop was a fluorescent orange. The skateboard was a fluorescent green. 'You always talk into the sewers, mister?' the boy asked. 'Only in Derry,' Bill said. They looked at each other solemnly for a moment and then burst into laughter at the same time. 'I want to ask you a stupid queh-question,' Bill said. 'Okay,' the kid said. 'You ever h-hear anything down in one of these?' The kid looked at Bill as though he had flipped out. 'O-Okay,' Bill said, 'forget I a-asked.' He started to walk away and had gotten maybe twelve steps — he was headed up the hill, vaguely thinking he would take a look at the home place — when the kid called, 'Mister?' Bill turned back. He had his sportcoat hooked on his finger and slung over his shoulder. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loosened. The boy was watching him carefully, as if already regretting his decision to speak further. Then he shrugged, as if saying Oh what the hell. 'Yeah.' 'Yeah?' 'Yeah.' 'What did it say?' 'I don't know. It talked some foreign language. I heard it coming out of one of those pumpin stations down in the Barrens. One of those pumpin stations, they look like pipes coming out of the ground — ' 'I know what you mean. Was it a kid you heard?' 'At first it was a kid, then it sounded like a man.' The boy paused. 'I was some scared. I ran home and told my father. He said maybe it was an echo or something, coming all the way down the pipes from someone's house.' 'Do you believe that?' The boy smiled charmingly. 'I read in my Ripley's Believe It or Not book that there was this guy, he got music from his teeth. Radio music. His fillings were, like, little radios. I guess if I believed that, I could believe anything.' 'A-Ayuh,' Bill said. 'But did you believe it?' The boy reluctantly shook his head. 'Did you ever hear those voices again?' 'Once when I was taking a bath,' the boy said. 'It was a girl's voice. Just crying. No words. I was ascared to pull the plug when I was done because I thought I might, you know, drownd her.' Bill nodded again. The kid was looking at Bill openly now, his eyes shining and fascinated. 'You know about those voices, mister?' 'I heard them,' Bill said. 'A long, long time ago. Did you know any of the k-kids that have been murdered here, son?' The shine went out of the kid's eyes; it was replaced by caution and disquiet. 'My dad says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. He says anybody could be that killer.' He took an additional step away from Bill, moving into the dappled shade of an elm tree that Bill had once driven his bike into twenty-seven years ago. He had taken a spill and bent his handlebars. 'Not me, kid,' he said. 'I've been in England for the last four months. I just got into Derry yesterday.' 'I still don't have to talk to you,' the kid replied. 'That's right,' Bill agreed. 'It's a f-f-free country.' He paused and then said, 'I used to pal around with Johnny Feury some of the time. He was a good kid. I cried,' the boy finished matter-of-factly, and slurped down the rest of his FreezePop. As an afterthought he ran out his tongue, which was temporarily bright orange, and lapped off his arm. 'Keep away from the sewers and drains,' Bill said quietly. 'Keep away from empty places and deserted places. Stay out of trainyards. But most of all, stay away from the sewers and the drains.' The shine was back in the kid's eyes, and he said nothing for a very long time. Then: 'Mister? You want to hear something funny?' 'Sure.' 'You know that movie where the shark ate all the people up?' 'Everyone does. J-J- Jaws' 'Well, I got this friend, you know? His name's Tommy Vicananza, and he's not that bright. Toys in the attic, you get what I mean?' 'Yeah.' 'He thinks he saw that shark in the Canal. He was up there by himself in Bassey Park a couple of weeks ago, and he said he seen this fin. He says it was eight or nine feet tall. Just the fin was that tall, you get me? He goes, "That's what killed Johnny and the other kids. It was Jaws, I know because I saw it." So I go, "That Canal's so polluted nothing could live in it, not even a minnow. And you think you saw Jaws in there. You got toys in the attic, Tommy." Tommy says it reared right out of the water like it did at the end of that movie and tried to bite him and he just got back in time. Pretty funny, huh, mister?' 'Pretty funny,' Bill agreed. 'Toys in the attic, right?' Bill hesitated. 'Stay away from the Canal too, son. You follow?' 'You mean you believe it?' Bill hesitated. He meant to shrug. Instead he nodded. The kid let out his breath in a low, hissing rush. He hung his head as if ashamed. 'Yeah. Sometimes I think I must have toys in the attic.' 'I know what you mean.' Bill walked over to the kid, who glanced up at him solemnly but didn't shy away this time. 'You're killing your knees on that board, son.' The kid glanced down at his scabby knees and grinned. 'Yeah, I guess so. I bail out sometimes.' 'Can I try it?' Bill asked suddenly. The kid looked at him, gape-mouthed at first, then laughing. 'That'd be funny,' he said. 'I never saw a grownup on a skateboard.' 'I'll give you a quarter,' Bill said. 'My dad said — ' 'Never take money or c-candy from strangers. Good advice. I'll still give you a q-quarter. What do you say? Just to the corner of Juh-Jackson Street.' 'Never mind the quarter,' the kid said. He burst into laughter again — a gay and uncomplicated sound. A fresh sound. 'I don't need your quarter. I got two bucks. I'm practically rich. I got to see this, though. Just don't blame me if you break something.' 'Don't worry,' Bill said. 'I'm insured.' He turned one of the skateboard's scuffed wheels with his finger, liking the speedy ease with which it turned — it sounded like there was about a million ball-bearings in there. It was a good sound. It called up something very old in Bill's chest. Some desire as warm as want, as lovely as love. He smiled. 'What do you think?' the kid asked. 'I think I'm g-gonna kill myself,' Bill said, and the kid laughed. Bill put the skateboard on the sidewalk and put one foot on it. He rolled it back and forth experimentally. The kid watched. In his mind Bill saw himself rolling down Witcham Street toward Jackson on the kid's avocado-green skateboard, the tails of his sport-coat ballooning out behind him, his bald head gleaming in the sun, his knees bent in that fragile way snowbunnies bend their knees their first day on the slopes. It was a posture that told you that in their heads they were already falling down. He bet the kid didn't ride the board like that. He bet the kid rode (to beat the devil) like there was no tomorrow. That good feeling died out of his chest. He saw, all too clearly, the board going out from under his feet, shooting unencumbered down the street, an improbable fluorescent green, a color that only a child could love. He saw himself coming down on his ass, maybe on his back. Slow dissolve to a private room at the Derry Home Hospital, like the one they had visited Eddie in after his arm had been broken. Bill Denbrough in a full body-cast, one leg held up by pullies and wires. A doctor comes in, looks at his chart, looks at him, and then says: 'You were guilty of two major lapses, Mr Denbrough. The first was mismanagement of a skateboard. The second was forgetting that you are now approaching forty years of age.' He bent, picked the skateboard back up, and handed it back to the kid. 'I guess not,' he said. 'Chicken,' the kid said, not unkindly. Bill hooked his thumbs into his armpits and flapped his elbows. 'Buck-buckbuck,' he said. The kid laughed. 'Listen, I got to get home.' 'Be careful on that,' Bill said. 'You can't be careful on a skateboard,' the kid replied, looking at Bill as if he might be the one with toys in the attic. 'Right,' Bill said. 'Okay. As we say in the movie biz, I hear you. But stay away from drams and sewers. And stay with your friends.' The kid nodded. 'I'm right near home.' So was my brother, Bill thought. 'It'll be over soon, anyway,' Bill told the kid. 'Will it?' the kid asked. 'I think so,' Bill said. 'Okay. See you later . . . chicken!' The kid put one foot on the board and pushed off with the other. Once he was rolling he put the other foot on the board as well and went thundering down the street at what seemed to Bill a suicidal pace. But he rode as Bill had suspected he would: with lazy hipshot grace. Bill felt love for the boy, and exhilaration, and a desire to be the boy, along with an almost suffocating fear. The boy rode as if there were no such things as death or getting older. The boy seemed somehow eternal and ineluctable in his khaki Boy Scout shorts and scuffed sneakers, his ankles sockless and quite dirty, his hair flying back behind him. Watch out, kid, you're not going to make the comer! Bill thought, alarmed, but the kid shot his hips to the left like a break-dancer, his toes revolved on the green Fiberglas board, and he zoomed effortlessly around the corner and onto Jackson Street, simply assuming no one would be there to get in his way. Kid, Bill thought, it won't always be that way. He walked up to his old house but did not stop; he only slowed his walk down to an idler's pace. There were people on the lawn — a mother in a lawn chair, a sleeping baby in her arms, watching two kids, maybe ten and eight, play badminton in grass that was still wet from the rain earlier. The younger of the two, a boy, managed to hit the bird back over the net and the woman called, 'Good one, Scan!' The house was the same dark-green color and the fanlight was still over the door, but his mother's flower-beds were gone. So, from what he could see, was the jungle-gym his father had built from scavenged pipes in the back yard. He remembered the day Georgie had fallen off the top and chipped a tooth. How he had screamed! He saw these things (the ones there and the ones gone), and thought of walking over to the woman with the sleeping baby in her arms. He thought of saying Hello, my name is Bill Denbrough. I used to live here. And the woman saying, That's nice. What else could there be? Could he ask her if the face he had carved carefully in one of the attic beams — the face he and Georgie sometimes used to throw darts at — was still there? Could he ask her if her kids sometimes slept on the screened-in back porch when the summer nights were especially hot, talking together in low tones as they watched heat-lightning dance on the horizon? He supposed he might be able to ask some of those things, but he felt he would stutter quite badly if he tried to be charming . . . and did he really want to know the answers to any of those questions? After Georgie died it had become a cold house, and whatever he had come back to Derry for was not here. So he went on to the corner and turned right, not looking back. Soon he was on Kansas Street, headed back downtown. He paused for awhile at the fence which bordered the sidewalk, looking down into the Barrens. The fence was the same, rickety wood covered with fading whitewash, and the Barrens looked the same . . . wilder, if anything. The only differences he could see were that the dirty smudge of smoke which had always marked the town dump was gone (the dump had been replaced with a modern wastetreatment plant), and a long overpass marched across the tangled greenery now — the turnpike extension. Everything else was so similar that he might last have seen it the previous summer: weeds and bushes sloping down to that flat marshy area on the left and to dense copses of junky-scrubby trees on the right. He could see the stands of what they had called bamboo, the silvery-white stalks twelve and fourteen feet high. He remembered that Richie had once tried to smoke some of it, claiming it was like the stuff jazz musicians smoked and could get you high. All Richie had gotten was sick. Bill could hear the trickle of water running in many small streams, could see the sun heliographing off the broader expanse of the Kenduskeag. And the smell was the same, even with the dump gone. The heavy perfume of growing things at the height of their spring strut did not quite mask the smell of waste and human offal. It was faint but unmistakable. A smell of corruption; a whiff of the underside. That's where it ended before, and that's where it's going to end this time, Bill thought with a shiver. In there . . . under the city. He stood awhile longer, convinced that he must see something — some manifestation — of the evil he had come back to Derry to fight. There was nothing. He heard water running, a springlike and vital sound that reminded him of the dam they had built down there. He could see trees and bushes ruffling in the faint breeze. There was nothing else. No sign. He walked on, dusting a faint whitewash stain from his hands as he went. He kept heading downtown, half-remembering, half-dreaming, and here came another kid — this one a little girl of about ten in high-waisted corduroy pants and a faded red blouse. She was bouncing a ball with one hand and holding a babydoll by its blonde Arnel hair in the other. 'Hey!' Bill said. She looked up. 'What!' 'What's the best store in Derry?' She thought about it.' For me or for anyone?' 'For you,' Bill said. 'Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes,' she said with no hesitation whatsoever. 'I beg your pardon?' Bill asked. 'You beg what? 'I mean, is that a store name?' 'Sure,' she said, looking at Bill as though he might well be enfeebled. 'Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes. My mom says it's a junkshop, but I like it. They have old things. Like records you never heard of. Also postcards. It smells like a attic. I have to go home now. Bye.' She walked on, not looking back, bouncing her ball and holding her dolly by the hair. 'Hey!' he shouted after her. She looked back whimsically. 'I beg your whatchamacallit?' The store! Where is it?' She looked back over her shoulder and said, 'Just the way you're going. It's at the bottom of Up-Mile Hill.' Bill felt that sense of the past folding in on itself, folding in on him. He hadn't meant to ask that little girl anything; the question had popped out of his mouth like a cork flying from the neck of a champagne bottle. He descended Up-Mile Hill toward downtown. The warehouses and packing plants he remembered from childhood — gloomy brick buildings with duty windows from which titanic meaty smells issued — were mostly gone, although the Armour and the Star Beef meat-packing plants were still there. But Hemphill was gone and there was a drive-in bank and a bakery where Eagle Beef and Kosher Meats had been. And there, where the Tracker Brothers' Annex had stood, was a sign painted in oldfashioned letters which read, just as the girl with the doll had said, SECONDHAND ROSE, SECONDHAND CLOTHES. The red brick had been painted a yellow which had perhaps been jaunty ten or twelve years ago, but was now dingy — a color Audra called urine-yellow. Bill walked slowly toward it, feeling that sense of déjà vu settle over nun again. Later he told the others he knew what ghost he was going to see before he actually saw it. The show-window of Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes was more than dingy; it was filthy. No Downcast antique shop this, with nifty little spool-beds and Hoosier cabinets and sets of Depression glassware highlighted by hidden spotlights; this was what his mother called with utter disdain 'a Yankee pawnshop.' The items were strewn in rickrack profusion, heaped aimlessly here, there, and everywhere. Dresses slumped off coathangers. Guitars hung from their necks like executed criminals. There was a box of 45 rpm records — 10 c APIECE, the sign read. TWELVE FOR A BUCK. ANDREWS SISTERS, PERRY COMO, JIMMY ROGERS, OTHERS. There were kids' outfits and dreadful-looking shoes with a card in front of them which read SECONDS, BUT NOT BAD! $1.00 A PAIR. There were two TVs that looked blind. A third was casting bleared images of The Brady Bunch out toward the street. A box of old paperbacks, most with stripped covers (2 FOR A QUARTER, 10 FOR A DOLLAR, more inside, SOME 'HOT') sat atop a large radio with a filthy white plastic case and a tuning dial as big as an alarm clock. Bunches of plastic flowers sat in dirty vases on a chipped, gouged, dusty dining-room table. All of these things Bill saw as a chaotic background to the thing his eyes had fixed upon immediately. He stood staring at it with wide unbelieving eyes. Gooseflesh ran madly up and down his body. His forehead was hot, his hands cold, and for a moment it seemed that all the doors inside would swing wide and he would remember everything. Silver was in the righthand window. His kickstand was still gone and rust had flowered on the front and back fenders, but the oogah-horn was still there on the handlebars, its rubber bulb now glazed with cracks and age. The horn itself, which Bill had always kept neatly polished, was dull and pitted. The flat package carrier where Richie had often ridden double was still on the back fender, but it was bent now, hanging by a single bolt. At some point someone had covered the seat with imitation tiger-skin which was now rubbed and frayed to a point where the stripes were almost indistinguishable. Silver. Bill raised an absent hand to wipe away the tears that were running slowly down his cheeks. After he had done a better job with his handkerchief, he went inside. The atmosphere of Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes was musty with age. It was, as the girl had said, a attic smell — but not a good smell, as some attic smells are. This was not the smell of linseed oil rubbed lovingly into the surface of old tables or of ancient plush and velvet. In here was a smell of rotting book-bindings, dirty vinyl cushions that had been halfcooked in the hot suns of summers past, dust, mouse-turds. From the TV in the window the Brady Bunch cackled and whooped. Competing with them from somewhere in the back was the radio voice of a disc jockey identifying himself as 'your pal Bobby Russell' promising the new album by Prince to the caller who could give the name of the actor who had played Wally on Leave It to Beaver. Bill knew — it had been a kid named Tony Dow — but he didn't want the new Prince album. The radio was sitting on a high shelf amid a number of nineteenth-century portraits. Below it and them sat the proprietor, a man of perhaps forty who was wearing designer jeans and a fishnet tee-shirt. His hair was slicked back and he was thin to the point of emaciation. His feet were cocked up on his desk, which was piled high with ledgers and dominated by an old scrolled cash register. He was reading a paperback novel which Bill thought had never been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. It was called Construction Site Studs. On the floor in front of the desk was a barber pole, its stripe revolving up and up into infinity. Its frayed cord wound across the floor to a baseboard plug like a tired snake. The sign in front of it read: A DYEING BREED! $250. When the bell over the door jingled, the man behind the desk marked his place with a matchbook cover and looked up. 'Help you?' 'Yes,' Bill said, and opened his mouth to ask about the bike in the window. But before he could speak, his mind was suddenly filled with a single haunting sentence, words that drove away all other thought: He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. What in the name of God? (thrusts) 'Looking for anything in particular?' the proprietor asked. His voice was polite enough, but he was looking at Bill closely. He's looking at me, Bill thought, amused in spite of his distress, as if he's got an idea I've been smoking some of that stuff that gets the jazz musicians high. 'Yes, I was ih-ih-interested ih-in — ' (his fists against the posts) ' — in that puh-puh-post — ' 'The barber pole , you mean?' The proprietor's eyes now showed Bill something which, even in his present confused state, he remembered and hated from his childhood: the anxiety of a man or woman who must listen to a stutterer, the urge to jump in quickly and finish the thought, thus shutting the poor bastard up. But I don't stutter! I beat it! I DON'T FUCKING STUTTER! I — (and still insists) The words were so clear in his mind that it seemed someone else must be speaking in there, that he was like a man possessed by demons in Biblical times — a man invaded by some presence from Outside. And yet he recognized the voice and knew it was his own. He felt sweat pop out warmly on his face. 'I could give you (he sees the ghosts) a deal on that post,' the proprietor was saying. 'Tell you the truth, I can't move it at twofifty. I'd give it to you for one-seventy-five, how's that? It's the only real antique in the place.' (post) 'POLE,' Bill almost screamed, and the proprietor recoiled a little. 'Not the pole I'm interested in.' 'Are you okay, mister?' the proprietor asked. His solicitous tone belied the expression of hard wariness in his eyes, and Bill saw his left hand leave the desk. He knew, with a flash of something that was really more inductive reasoning than intuition that there was an open drawer below Bill's own sight-line, and that the proprietor had almost surely put his hand on a pistol of some type. He was maybe worried about robbery; more likely he was just worried. He was, after all, clearly gay, and this was the town where the local juveniles had given Adrian Mellon a terminal bath. (he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts) It drove out all thought; it was like being insane. Where had it come from? (he thrusts) Repeating and repeating. With a sudden titanic effort, Bill attacked it. He did this by forcing his mind to translate the alien sentence into French. It was the same way he had beaten the stutter as a teenager. As the words marched across his field of thought, he changed them . . . and suddenly he felt the grip of the stutter loosen. He realized that the proprietor had been saying something. 'P-P-Pardon me?' 'I said if you're going to have a fit, take it out on the street. I don't need shit like that in here.' Bill drew in a deep breath. 'Let's start o-over,' he said. 'Pretend I just came i-in.' 'Okay,' the proprietor said, agreeably enough. 'You just came in. Now what?' 'The b-bike in the window,' Bill said. 'How much do you want for the bike?' 'Take twenty bucks.' He sounded easier now, but his left hand still hadn't come back into view. 'I think it was a Schwinn at one time, but it's a mongrel now.' His eye measured Bill. 'Big bike. You could ride it yourself.' Thinking of the kid's green skateboard, Bill said, 'I think my bike-riding days are o-o-over.' The proprietor shrugged. His left hand finally came up again. 'Got a boy?' 'Y-Yes.' 'How old is he?' 'Eh-Eh-Eleven.' 'Big bike for an eleven-year-old.' 'Will you take a traveller's check?' 'Long as it's no more than ten bucks over the amount of the purchase.' 'I can give you a twenty,' Bill said. 'Mind if I make a phone call?' 'Not if it's local.' 'It is.' 'Be my guest.' Bill called the Derry Public Library. Mike was there. 'Where are you, Bill?' he asked, and then immediately: 'Are you all right?' 'I'm fine. Have you seen any of the others?' 'No. We'll see them tonight.' There was a brief pause. That is, I presume. What can I do you for, Big Bill?' 'I'm buying a bike,' Bill said calmly. 'I wondered if I could wheel it up to your house. Do you have a garage or something I could store it in?' There was silence. 'Mike? Are you — ' 'I'm here,' Mike said. 'Is it Silver?' Bill looked at the proprietor. He was reading his book again . . . or maybe just looking at it and listening carefully. 'Yes,' he said. 'Where are you?' 'It's called Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes.' 'All right,' Mike said. 'My place is 61 Palmer Lane. You'd want to go up MainStreet — ' 'I can find it.' 'All right, I'll meet you there. Want some supper?' 'That would be nice. Can you get off work?' 'No problem. Carole will cover for me.' Mike hesitated again. 'She said that a fellow was in about an hour before I got back here. Said he left looking like a ghost. I got her to describe him. It was Ben.' 'You sure?' 'Yeah. And the bike. That's part of it, too, isn't it?' 'Shouldn't wonder,' Bill said, keeping an eye on the proprietor, who still appeared to be absorbed in his book. 'I'll see you at my place,' Mike said. 'Number 61. Don't forget.' 'I won't. Thank you, Mike.' 'God bless, Big Bill.' Bill hung up. The proprietor promptly closed his book again. 'Got you some storage space, my friend?' 'Yeah.' Bill took out his traveller's checks and signed his name to a twenty. The proprietor examined the two signatures with a care that, in less distracted mental circumstances, Bill would have found rather insulting. At last the proprietor scribbled a bill of sale and popped the traveller's check into his old cash register. He got up, put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, then walked to the front of the store. He picked his way around the heaps of junk and almost-junk merchandise with an absent delicacy Bill found fascinating. He lifted the bike, swung it around, and rolled it to the edge of the display space. Bill laid hold of the handlebars to help him, and as he did another shudder whipped through him. Silver. Again. It was Silver in his hands and (he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts) he had to force the thought away because it made him feel faint and strange. 'That back tire's a little soft,' the proprietor said (it was, in fact, as flat as a pancake). The front tire was up, but so bald the cord was showing through in places. 'No problem,' Bill said. 'You can handle it from here?' (I used to be able to handle it just fine; now I don't know) 'I guess so,' Bill said. 'Thanks.' 'Sure. And if you want to talk about that barber pole, come back.' The proprietor held the door for him. Bill walked the bike out, turned left, and started toward Main Street. People glanced with amusement and curiosity at the man with the bald head pushing the huge bike with the flat rear tire and the oogah-horn protruding over the rusty bike-basket, but Bill hardly noticed them. He was marvelling at how well his grownup hands still fitted the rubber handgrips, was remembering how he had always meant to knot some thin strips of plastic, different colors, into the holes in each grip so they would flutter in the wind. He had never gotten around to that. He stopped at the corner of Center and Main, outside of Mr Paperback. He leaned the bike against the building long enough to strip off his sportcoat. Pushing a bike with a flat tire was hard work, and the afternoon had come off hot. He tossed the coat into the basket and went on. Chain's rusty, he thought. Whoever had it didn't take very good care of (him) it. He stopped for a moment, frowning, trying to remember just what had happened to Silver. Had he sold it? Given it away? Lost it, perhaps? He couldn't remember. Instead, that idiotic sentence (his fists against the posts and still insists) resurfaced, as strange and out of place as an easy chair on a battlefield, a record-player in a fireplace, a row of pencils protruding from a cement sidewalk. Bill shook his head. The sentence broke up and dispersed like smoke. He pushed Silver on to Mike's place. 6 Mike Hanlon Makes a Connection But first he made supper — hamburgers with sauteed mushrooms and onions and a spinach salad. They had finished working on Silver by then and were more than ready to eat. The house was a neat little Cape Cod, white with green trim. Mike had just been arriving when Bill pushed Silver up Palmer Lane. He was behind the wheel of an old Ford with rusty rocker panels and a cracked rear window, and Bill remembered the fact Mike had so quietly pointed out: the six members of the Losers' Club who left Derry had quit being losers. Mike had stayed behind and was still behind. Bill rolled Silver into Mike's garage, which was floored with oiled dirt and was every bit as neat as the house proved to be. Tools hung from pegs, and the lights, shielded with tin cones, looked like the lights which hang over pool tables. Bill leaned the bike against the wall. The two of them looked at it without speaking for a bit, hands in pockets. 'It's Silver, all right,' Mike said at last. 'I thought you might have been wrong. But it's him. What are you going to do with him?' 'Fucked if I know. Have you got a bicycle pump?' 'Yeah. I think I've got a tire-patching kit, too. Are those tubeless tires?' 'They always were.' Bill bent down to look at the flat tire. 'Yeah. Tubeless.' 'Getting ready to ride it again?' 'Of c-course not,' Bill said sharply. 'I just don't like to see it si-hi-hitting there on a flat.' 'Whatever you say, Big Bill. You're the boss.' Bill looked around sharply at that, but Mike had gone to the garage's back wall and was taking down a tire-pump. He got a tin tire-patching kit from one of the cabinets and handed it to Bill, who looked at it curiously. It was as he remembered such things from his childhood: a small tin box of about the same size and shape as those kept by men who roll their own cigarettes, except the top was bright and pebbled — you used it for roughing the rubber around the hole before you put on the patch. The box looked brand-new, and there was a Woolco price sticker on it that said $7.23. It seemed to him that when he was a kid such a kit had gone for about a buck-twenty-five. 'You didn't just have this hanging around,' Bill said. It wasn't a question. 'No,' Mike agreed. 'I bought it last week. Out at the mall, as a matter of fact.' 'You've got a bike of your own?' 'No,' Mike said, meeting his eyes. 'You just happened to buy this kit.' 'Just got the urge,' Mike agreed, his eyes still on Bill's. 'Woke up thinking it might come in handy. The thought kept coming back all day. So . . . I got the kit. And here you are to use it.' 'Here I am to use it,' Bill agreed. 'But like they say on the soaps, what does it all mean, dear?' 'Ask the others,' Mike said. 'Tonight.' 'Will they all be there, do you think?' 'I don't know, Big Bill.' He paused and added: 'I think there's a chance that all of them won't be. One or two of them may decide to just creep out of town. Or . . . 'He shrugged. 'What do we do if that happens?' 'I don't know.' Mike pointed to the tire-patching kit. 'I paid seven bucks for that thing. Are you going to do something with it or just look at it?' Bill took his sportcoat out of the basket and hung it carefully on an unoccupied wallpeg. Then he turned Silver upside down so that he rested on his seat and began to carefully rotate the rear tire. He didn't like the rusty way the axle squeaked, and remembered the almost silent click of the ball-bearings in the kid's skateboard. A little 3-in-1 oil would fix that right up, he thought. Wouldn't hurt to oil the chain, either. It's rusty as hell . . . And playing cards. It needs playing cards on the spokes. Mike would have cards, I bet. The good ones. Bikes, with the celluloid coating that made them so stiff and so slippery that the first time you tried to shuffle them they always sprayed all over the floor. Playing cards, sure, and clothespins to hold them — He stopped, suddenly cold. What in the name of Jesus are you thinking of? 'Something wrong, Bill?' Mike asked softly. 'Nothing.' His fingers touched something small and round and hard. He got his nails under it and pulled. A small tack came out of the tire. 'Here's the cuh-cuh-culprit,' he said, and it rose in his mind again, strange, unbidden, and powerful: He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. But this time the voice, his voice, was followed by his mother's voice, saying: Try again, Billy. You almost had it that time. And Andy Devine as Guy Madison's sidekick Jingles yelling, Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me! He shivered. (the posts) He shook his head. I couldn't say that without stuttering even now, he thought, and for just a moment he felt that he was on the edge of understanding it all. Then it was gone. He opened the tire-patching kit and went to work. It took a long time to get it just right. Mike leaned against the wall in a bar of late-afternoon sun, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his tie yanked down, whistling a tune which Bill finally identified as 'She Blinded Me with Science.' While he waited for the tire cement to set, Bill had — just for something to do, he told himself — oiled Silver's chain, sprocket, and axles. It didn't make the bike look any better, but when he spun the tires he found that the squeak was gone, and that was satisfying. Silver never would have won any beauty-contests anyway. His one virtue was that he could go like a blue streak. By that tune, five-thirty in the afternoon, he had nearly forgotten Mike was there; he had become completely absorbed in small yet utterly satisfying acts of maintenance. He screwed the nozzle of the pump onto the rear tire's valve and watched the tire fatten, shooting for the right pressure by guess and by gosh. He was pleased to see that the patch was holding nicely. When he thought he had it right, he unscrewed the pump-nozzle and was about to turn Silver over when he heard the rapid snap-flutter of playing cards behind him. He whirled, almost knocking Silver over. Mike was standing there with a deck of blue-backed Bicycle playing cards in one hand. 'Want these?' Bill let out a long, shaky sigh. 'You've got clothespins, too, I suppose?' Mike took four from the flap pocket of his shirt and held them out. 'Just happened to have them around, I suh-huppose?' 'Yeah, something like that,' Mike said. Bill took the cards and tried to shuffle them. His hands shook and the cards sprayed out of his hands. They went everywhere . , . but only two landed face-up. Bill looked at them, then up at Mike. Mike's gaze was frozen on the littered playing cards. His lips had pulled back from his teeth. The two up cards were both the ace of spades. 'That's impossible,' Mike said. 'I just opened that deck. Look.' He pointed at the swill-can just inside the garage door and Bill saw the cellophane wrapper, 'How can one deck of cards have two aces of spades?' Bill bent down and picked them up. 'How can you spray a deck of cards all over the floor and have only two of them land face up?' he asked. 'That's an even better que — ' He turned the aces over, looked, and then showed them to Mike. One of them was a blueback, the other a redback. 'Holy Christ, Mikey, what have you got us into?' 'What are you going to do with those?' Mike asked in a numb voice. 'Why, put them on,' Bill said, and suddenly he began to laugh. 'That's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? If there are certain preconditions for the use of magic, those preconditions will inevitably arrange themselves. Right?' Mike didn't reply. He watched as Bill went to Silver's rear wheel and attached the playing cards. His hands were still shaking and it took awhile, but he finally got it done, drew in one tight breath, held it, and spun the rear wheel. The playing cards machine-gunned loudly against the spokes in the garage's silence. 'Come on,' Mike said softly. 'Come on in, Big Bill. I'll make us some chow.' They had scoffed the burgers and now sat smoking, watching dark begin to unfold from dusk in Mike's back yard. Bill took out his wallet, found someone's business card, and wrote upon it the sentence that had plagued him ever since he had seen Silver in the window of Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes. He showed it to Mike, who read it carefully, lips pursed. 'Does it mean anything to you?' Bill asked. '"He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."' He nodded. 'Yes, I know what that is.' 'Well then, tell me. Or are you going to give me some more cuh-cuh-crap about figuring it out for myself?' 'No,' Mike said, 'in this case I think it's okay to tell you. The phrase goes back to English times. It's a tongue-twister that became a speech exercise for lispers and stutterers. Your mother kept trying to get you to say it that summer. The summer of 1958. You used to go around mumbling it to yourself.' 'I did?' Bill said, and then, slowly, answering his own question: 'I did.' 'You must have wanted to please her very much.' Bill, who suddenly felt he might cry, only nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. 'You never made it,' Mike told him. 'I remember that. You tried like hell but your tang kept getting all tungled up.' 'But I did say it,' Bill replied. 'At least once.' 'When?' Bill brought his fist down on the picnic table hard enough to hurt. 'I don't remember!' he shouted. And then, dully, he said it again: 'I just don't remember.'

Location: an unknown sector in the Galavax Galaxy a groundbreaking A.S.T.R.A(Advanced Space Technologies and Reconnaissance Administration) ship was able to exit the milky way after 2 decades with professor Luke's groundbreaking technology with long lasting oxygen tech that can last for at least 56 years in space they were able to explore the great unknown but after another decade they stumbled into the Galvanax galaxy where and alien mother ship owned by the Varnkogh alien race caputerd the team on the ship and imprisoned then murdered the team on the ship except for one…Professor Luke. To them Professor Luke was useful to the race so they kept him on the mothership to create a weapon of war to defeat the big bad Kaiju race. After another decade Luke had finished his invention and called it Blue. as it was a blue nano alien. With the IQ of 261,826,048 and being able to turn non existence to raw energy all blue needed to be activated was a pilot, a vessel to use and after the Varnkogh picked their strongest and most loyal warrior the Varnkogh race was using the weapon and destroying the kaiju race chunk by chunk and soon enough they wanted more…another weapon stronger than the last. So professor Luke got started on his creation and this time striving to be perfect with this creation with due time he created BLACK. With an IQ exceeding 500 million and the power to steal life essence, read people minds to know their next move and even their weakness and being able to use void weapons, BLACK was truly the perfect creation…but sadly the kaiju stole the invention and black was being used by the kaiju race to fight back. After blue was defeated and locked away the pilot of Blue was executed as he was the strongest warrior in the Varnkogh race and in a rush and panic Luke Created Red his IQ is 2 points lower than blue but he has the ability to create any weapon in the Cosmos and can turn into a giant mech and after bonding with a pilot tProfessor Luke a scientist kept on a Varnkogh mothership was imprisoned  after heir bond would power RED to become beyond the strongest warrior in the whole cosmos. Alas before Varnkogh could even pick a pilot the mothership Luke was working on and RED was born was destroyed by a nuclear bomb….but professor luke isn't an imbecile he created an emergency protocol and when red activated it he was sent billions of lightyears away from the explosion point and landed. In. earth. And the Varnkogh race was extinguished and wiped from existence and Luke…nowhere to be seen.

Is anyone still active here? I'm interested in stories and wondering if anyone is interested in joining another book club, to write and to read.  This may be a chess site, but it's fun to share our passion for stories and creativity for others to enjoy.  We encourage people to share their creativity.  Stories, Poems, Art, Songs that they have made.  If anyone is interested, please dm me and I will send you an invite.  I am working on organizing the stories there, so if you have trouble finding anything, you can always ask me for assistance.

CHAPTER 3 Early on the morning of April 11, Chris made a telephone call to her doctor in Los Angeles- and asked him for a referral to a local psychiatrist for Regan. "Oh? What's wrong?" Chris explained. Beginning on the day after Regan's birthday--- and following Howard's failure to call--- she had noticed a sudden and dramatic change in her daughter's behavior and disposition. Insomnia. Quarrelsome. Fits of temper. Kicked things. Threw things. Screamed. Wouldn't eat. In addition, her energy seemed abnormal. She was constantly moving, touching, turning; tapping; running and jumping about. Doing poorly with schoolwork. Fantasy playmate. Eccentric attention-getting tactics. "Such as what?" the physician inquired. She started with the rappings. Since the night she'd investigated the attic, she'd heard them again on two occasions. In both of these instances, she'd noticed, Regan was present in the room; and the rappings would tease at the moment Chris entered. Secondly, she told him, Regan would "lose" things in the room: a dress; her toothbrush; books; her shoes. She com-plained about "somebody moving" her furniture. Finally, on the morning following the dinner at the White House, Chris saw Karl in Regan's bedroom pulling a bureau back into place from a spot that was halfway across the room. When Chris had inquired what he was doing, he repeated his former "Someone is funny," and refused to elaborate any further, but shortly thereafter Chris had found Regan in the kitchen complaining that someone had moved all herfurniture during the night when she was sleeping. This was the incident, Chris explained, that had finally crystallized her suspicions. It was clearly her daughter who was doing it all. "You mean somnambulism? She's doing it in her sleep?" "No, Marc, she's doing it when she's awake. To get attention." Chris mentioned the matter of the shaking bed, Which had happened twice more and was always followed by Regan's insistence that she sleep with her mother. "Well, that could be physical," the internist ventured. "No, Marc, I didn't say the bed is shaking. I said that she says that it's shaking." "Do you know that it isn't shaking?""No" "Well, it might be clonic spasms; he murmured. "Who?" "Any temperature?" "No. Listen, what do you think?" she asked. "Should I take her to a shrink or what?" "Chris, you mentioned her schoolwork. How is she doing with her math?" 'Why'd you ask?" "How's she doing?" he persisted. "Just rotten. I mean, suddenly rotten." He grunted. "Why'd you ask?" she repeated "Well, it's part of the syndrome." "Of what?"'Nothing serious. I'd rather not guess about it oven the phone. Got a pencil?" He wanted to give her the name of a Washington internist. "Marc, can't you come out here and check her yourself?" Jamie. A lingering infection. Chris's doctor at that time had prescribed a new, broad-spectrum antibiotic. Refilling a prescription at a local drugstore, the pharmacist was wary. "I don't want to alarm you, ma'am, but this... Well, it's quite new on the market, and they've found that in Georgia it's been causing aplastic anemia in..." Jamie. Jamie. Dead. And ever since, Chris had never trusted doctors. Only Marc. And that had taken years. "Marc, can't you?" Chris pleaded. "No, I can't, but don't worry. This man is brilliant. The best. Now get a pencil." Hesitation. Then, "Okay." She wrote down the name. "Have him look her over and then tell him to call me," the internist advised. "And forget the psychiatrist for now." "Are you sure?" He delivered a blistering statement regarding the readiness of the general public to recognize psychosomatic illness, while failing to recognize the reverse: that illness of the body was often the cause of seeming illness of the mind. "Now what would you say," he proposed as an instance, "if you were my internist, God forbid, and I told you I had headaches, recurring nightmares, nausea, insomnia and blurring of the vision; and also that I generally felt unglued and was worried to death about my job? Would you say I was neurotic?""I'm a bad one to ask, Marc; I know that you're crazy." "Those symptoms I gave you are the same as for brain tumor, Chris. Check the body. That's first. Then well see." Chris telephoned the internist and made an appointment for that afternoon. Her time was her own now. The filming was over, at least for her. Burke Dennings continued, loosely supervising the work of the "second unit;" a generally less expensive crew that was filming scenes of lesser importance, mostly helicopter shots of various exteriors around the city; also stunt work; scenes without any of the principal actors. But he wanted each foot of film to be perfect. ********** The doctor was in Arlington. Samuel Klein. While Regan sat crossly in an examining room, Klein seated her mother in his office and took a brief case history. She told him the trouble. He listened; nodded; made copious notes. When she mentioned the shaking of- the bed, he appears to frown. But Chris continued: "Marc seemed to think it was kind of significant that Regan's doing poorly with her math. Now why was that?" "You mean schoolwork?" "Yes, schoolwork, but math in particular, though. What's it mean?" "Well, let's wait until I've looked at her, Mrs. MacNeil."He then excused himself and gave Regan a complete examination that included taking samples of urine and her blood. The urine was for testing of her liver and kidney functions; the blood for a number of checks: diabetes; thyroid function; red-cell blood count looking for possible anemia, White-cell blood count looking for exotic diseases of the blood. After he finished, he sat for a while and talked to Regan, observing her demeanor, and then returned to Chris and started writing a prescription. "She appears to have a hyperkinetic behavior disorder." "A what?" "A disorder of the nerves. At least We think it is. We don't know yet exactly hgw it works, but its often seen in early adolescence. She shows all the symptoms: the hyperactivity; the temper; her performance in math." "Yeah, the math. Why the math?" "It affects concentration." He ripped the prescription from the small blue pad and handed it over, "Now this is for Ritalin." "What?" "Methylphenidate." "Oh." "Ten milligrams, twice a day, I'd recommend one at eight A.M., and the other at two in the afternoon."She was eyeing the prescription. "What is it? A tranquilizer?" "A stimulant." "Stimulant? She's higher'n a kite right now." "Her condition isn't quite what it seems," explained Klein. "It's a form of overcompensation. An overreaction to depression." "Depression?" Klein nodded. "Depression..." Chris murmured. She was thoughtful. "Well, you mentioned her father," said Klein. Chris looked up. "Do you think I should take her to see a psychiatrist?" "Oh, no. I'd wait and see what happens with the Ritalin. I think that's the answer. Wait two or three weeks." "So you think it's all nerves." "I suspect so.""And those lies she's been telling? This'll stop it?" His answer puzzled her. He askedd her if she'd ever known Regan to swear or use obscenities. "Never," Chris answered. "Well, you see, that's quite similar to things like her lying--- uncharacteristic, from what you tell me, but in certain disorders of the nerves it can---" "Wait a minute," Chris interrupted, perplexed. "Where'd you ever get the notion she uses obscenities? I mean, is that what you were saying or did I misunderstood?" For a moment, he eyed her rather curiously; considered; then cautiously ventured, "Yes, I'd say that she uses obscenities. Weren't you aware of it?" "I'm still not aware of it. What are you talking about?" "Well, she let loose quite a string while I was examining her, Mrs. MacNeil." "You're kidding! Like what?" He looked evasive. "Well, I'd say her vocabulary's rather extensive." "Well, what, for instance? I mean, give me an example!" He shrugged."You mean 'sh**?' Or 'f**k'?" He relaxed. "Yes, she used those words," he said. "And what else did she say? Specifically." "Well, specifically, Mrs. MacNeil, she advised and to keep my goddam finger away from her cunt." Chris gasped with shock. "She used those words?" "Well, it isn't unusual, Mrs. MacNeil, and I really wouldn't worry about it at all. It's a part of the syndrome." She was shaking her head, looking down at her shoes. "It's just hard to believe." "Look, I doubt that she even understood what she was saying," he soothed. "Yeah, I guess," murmured Chris. "Maybe not" 'Try the Ritalin," he advised her, "and we'll see what develops. And I'd like to take a look at her again in two weeks." He consulted a calendar pad on his desk. "Let's see; let's make it Wednesday the twenty-seventh. Would that be convenient?" he asked, glancing up. "Yeah, sure," she murmured, getting up from the chair. She crumpled the prescription in a pocket of hercoat. "The twenty-seventh would be fine." "I'm quite a big fan of yours," Klein said, smiling as he opened the door leading into the hall. She paused in the doorway, preoccupied, a fingertip pressed to her lip. She glanced to the doctor. "You don't think a psychiatrist, huh?" "I don't know. But the best explanation is always the simplest one. Let's wait. Let's wait and see." He smiled encouragingly. "In the meantime, try not to worry." "How?" She left him. ********** As they drove back home, Regan asked her what the doctor had said. "That you're nervous." Chris had decided not to talk about her language. Burke. She picked it up from Burke. But she did speak to Sharon about it later, asking if she'd ever heard Regan use that kind of obscenity. "Why, no," replied Sharon. "I mean, not even lately. But you know, I think her art teacher made a remark." A special tutor who came to the house."You mean recently?" Chris asked. "Yes, it was just last week. But you know her. I just figured maybe Regan said 'damn' or 'crap.' You know, something like that." "By the way, have you been talking to her much about religion, Shar?" Sharon flushed. "Well, a little; that's all. I mean, it's hard to avoid. You see, she asks so many questions, and--- well... " She gave a helpless little shrug. "It's just hard. I mean, how do I answer without telling what I think is a great big lie?" "Give her multiple choice." ********** In the days that preceded her scheduled party, Chris was extremely diligent in seeing that Regan took her dosage of Ritalin. By the night of the party, however, she had failed to observe any noticeable improvement. There were subtle signs, in fact, of a gradual deterioration: increased forgetfulness; untidiness; and one complaint of nausea. As for attention-getting tactics, although the familiar ones failed to recur, there appeared to be a new one: reports of a foul, unpleasant "smell" in Regan's bedroom. At Regan's insistence, Chris took a whiff one day and smelled nothing. "You don't?" "you mean, you smell it right now?" Chris had asked her."Well, sure!" "What's it smell like?" She'd wrinkled her nose. "Well, like something burny." "Yeah?" Chris had sniffed. "Don't you smell it?" "Well, yes, hon," she'd lied. "Just a little. Let's open up the window for a while, get some air in." In fact, she'd smelled nothing, but had made up her mind that she would temporize, at least until the appointment with the doctor. She was also preoccupied with a number of other concerns. One was arrangements for the dinner party. Another had to do with the script. Although she was very enthusiastic about the prospect of directing, a natural caution had prevented her from making a prompt decision. In the meantime, her agent was calling her daily. She told him she'd given the script to Dennings for an opinion, and hoped he was reading and not consuming it. The third, and the most important, of Chris's concerns was the failure of two financial ventures: a purchase of convertible debentures through the use of prepaid interest; and an investment in an oil-drilling project in southern Libya. Both had been entered upon for the sheltering of income that would have been subject to enormous taxation. But something even worse had developed: the wells had come up dry and rocketing interest rates had prompted a sell-off in bonds. These were the problems that her gloomy business manager flew into town to discuss. He arrived on Thursday. Chris had him charting and explaining through Friday. At last, she decided on a course of action that the manager thought wise. He nodded approval. But he frowned when she brought up the subject of buying a Ferrari. "You mean, a new one?""Why not? You know. I drove one in a picture once. If we write to the factory, maybe, and remind them, it could be they'd give us a deal. Don't you think?" He didn't. And cautioned that he thought a new car was improvident. "Ben, I made eight hundred thou last year and you're saying I can't get a freaking car! Don't you think that's ridiculous? Where did it go?" He reminder her that most of her money was in shelters. Then he listed the various drains on her gross; federal income tax; projected federal income tax; her state tax, tax on her real estate holdings; ten percent commission to her agent; five to him; five to her publicist; one and a quarter taken out as donation to the Motion Picture Welfare Fund; an outlay for wardrobe in tune with the fasbion; salaries to Willie and Karl and Sharon and the caretaker of the Los Angeles home; various travel costs; and, finally, her monthly expenses. "Will you do another picture this year?' he asked her. She shrugged. "I don't know. Do I have to?" "Yes, l think you'd better." She cupped her face in both her hands and eyed him moodily. "What about a Honda?" He made no reply. Later that evening, Chris tried to put all of her worries aside; tried to keep herself busy with making preparations for the next night's party. "Let's serve the curry buffet instead of sit-down," she told Willie and Karl. "We can set up a table at the end of the living room. Right?""Very good, madam," Karl answered quickly. "So what do you think, Willie? A fresh fruit salad for dessert?" "Yes, excellent!" said Karl. "Thanks, Willie." She'd invited an interesting mixture. In addition to Burke ("Show up sober, dammit!") and the youngish director of the second unit, she expected a senator (and wife); an Apollo astronaut (and wife); two Jesuits from Georgetown; her next-door neighbors; and Mary Jo Perrin and Ellen Cleary. Mary Jo Perrin was a plump and gray-headed Washington seeress whom Chris had met at the White House dinner and liked immensely. She'd expected to find her austere and forbidding, but "You're not like that at all!" she'd been able to tell her. Bubbly-warm and unpretentious. Ellen Cleary was a middle-aged State Department secretary who'd worked in the U.S. Embassy in Moscow when Chris toured Russia. She had gone to considerable effort and trouble to rescue Chris from a number of difficulties and encumbrances encountered in the course of her travels, not the least of which had been caused by the redheaded actress' outspokenness. Chris had remembered her with affection over the years, and had looked her up on coming to Wash-ington. "Hey, Shar," she asked, "which priests are coming?" "I'm not sure yet. I invited the president and the dean of the college, but I think that the president's sending an alternate. His secretary called me late this morning and said that he might have to go out of town." "Who's he sending?" Chris asked with guarded interest."Let me see." Sharon rummaged through scraps of notes. "Yes, here it is, Chris. His assistant- Father Joseph Dyer." "You mean from the campus?" "Well, I'm not sure." "Oh, okay" She seemed disappointed. "Keep an eye on Burke tomorrow night," She instructed. "I will." "Where's Rags?" "Downstairs." "You know, maybe you should start to keep your typewriter there; don't you think? I mean, that way you can watch her when you're typing. Okay? I don't like her being alone so much." "Good idea." "Okay, later. Go home. Meditate. Play with horses."The planning and preparations at an end, Chris again found herself turning worried thoughts toward Regan. She tried to watch television. Could not concentrate. Felt uneasy. There was a strangeness in the house. Like settling stillness. Weighted dust. By midnight, all in the house were asleep. There were no disturbances. That night.

CHAPTER 2 He stood at the edge of the lonely subway platform, listening for the rumble of a train that would still the ache that was always with him. Like his pulse. Heard only in silence. He shifted his bag to the other hand and stared down the tunnel. Points of light. They stretched into dark like guides to hopelessness. A cough. He glanced to the left. The gray-stubbled derelict numb on the ground in a pool of his urine was sitting up. With yellowed eyes he stared at the priest with the chipped, sad face. The priest looked away. He would come. He would whine. Couldjya help an old altar boy, Father? Wouldjya? The vomit-flaked hand pressing down on the shouder. The fumbling for the medal. The reeking of the breath of a thousand confessions with the wine and the garlic and the stale mortal sins belching out all together, and smothering... smothering... The priest heard the derelict rising. Don't come! Heard a step. Ah, my God, let me be! "Hi ya, Faddah." He winced. Sagged. Couldn't turn. He could not bear to search for Christ again in stench and hollow eyes; for the Christ of pus and bleeding excrement, the Christ who could not be. In absent gesture, he felt at his sleeve as if for an unseen band of mourning. He dimly remembered another Christ. "Hey, Faddah!"The hum of an incoming train. Then sounds of stumbling. He looked to the tramp. He was staggering. Fainting. With a blind, sudden rush. the priest was to him; caught him; dragged him to the bench against the wall. "I'm a Cat'lic," the derelict mumbled. "I'm Cat'lic." The priest eased him down; stretched him out; saw his train. He quickly pulled a dollar from out of his wallet and placed it in the pocket of the derelict's jacket. Then decided he would lose it. He plucked out the dollar and stuffed it into a urine-damp trouser pocket, then he picked up his bag and boarded the train. He sat in a corner and pretended to sleep. At the end of the line he walked to Fordham University. The dollar had been meant for his cab. When he reached the residence hall for visitors, he signed his name on the register. Damien Karras, he wrote. Then examined it. Something was wrong. Wearily he remembered and added, S.J. He took a room in Weigel Hall and, after an hour, was able to sleep. The following day he attended a meeting of the American Psychiatric Association. As principal speaker, he delivered a paper entitled "Psychological Aspects of Spiritual Development." At the end of the day, he enjoyed a few drinks and a bite to eat with some other psychiatrists. They paid. He left them early. He would have to see his mother. He walked to the crumbling brownstone apartment building on Manhattan's East Twenty-first Street. Pausing by the steps that led up to the door, he eyed the children on the stoop. Unkempt. Ill-clothed. No place to go. He remembered evictions: humiliations: -walking home with a seventh-grade sweetheart and encountering his mother as she hopefully rummaged through a garbage can on the corner. He climbed the steps and opened the door as if it were a tender wound. An odor like cooking. Like rotted sweetness. He remembered the visits to Mrs. Ghoirelli and her tiny apartment with the eighteen cats. He gripped the banister and climbed, overcome by a sudden, draining weariness that he knew was caused by guilt. He should never have left her. Not alone.Her greeting was joyful A shout. A kiss. She rushed to make coffee. Dark. Stubby, gnarled legs. He sat in the kitchen and listened to her talk, the dingy walls and soiled floor seeping into his bones. The apartment was a hovel. Social Security. Each month, a few dollars from a brother. She sat at the table. Mrs. This. Uncle That. Still in immigrant accents. He avoided those eyes that were wells of sorrow, eyes that spent days staring out of a window. He should never have left her. He wrote a few letters for her later. She could neither read nor write any English Then he spent time repairing the tuner on a crackling, plastic radio. Her world. The news. Mayor Lindsay. He went to the bathroom. Yellowing newspaper spread on the tile. Stains of rust in the tub and the sink. On the floor, an old corset. Seeds of vocation. From these he had fled into love. Now the love had grown cold. In the night, he heard it whistling through the chambers of his heart like a lost, crying wind. At a quarter to eleven, he kissed her good-bye; promised to return jest as soon as he could. He left with the radio tuned to the news. ********** Once back in his room in Weigel Hall, he gave some thought to writing a letter to the Jesuit head of the Maryland province. He'd covered the ground with him once before: request for a transfer to the New York province in order to be loser to his mother; request for a teaching post and relief from his duties. In requesting the latter, he'd cited as a reason "unfitness" for the work. The Maryland Provincial had taken it up with him during the course of his annual inspection tour of Georgetown University, a function that closely paralleled that of an army inspector general in the granting of confidential hearings to those who had grievances or complaints. On the point of Damien Karras' mother, the Provicial had nodded and expressed his symphathy; but the question of the priest's "unfitness" he thought contradictory on its face. But Karras had pursued it: "Well, it's more than psychiatry, Torn. You know that. Some of their problems come down to vocation,to the meaning of their lives. Hell, it isn't always sex that's involved, it's their faith, and I just can't cut it, Tom, it's too much. I need out. I'm having problems of my own. l mean, doubts" "What thinking man doesn't, Damien?" A harried man with many appointments, the Provincial had not pressed him for the reasons for his doubt. For which Karras was grateful. He knew that his answers would have sounded insane: The need to rend food with the teeth and then defecate. My mother's nine First Fridays. Stinking socks. Thalidomide babies. An item in the paper about a young altar boy waiting at a bus stop; set on by strangers; sprayed with kerosene; ignited. No. Too emotional. Vague. Existential. More rooted in logic was the silence of God. In the world there was evil. And much of the evil resulted from doubt; from an honest confusion among men of good will. Would a reasonable God refuse to end it? Not reveal Himself? Not speak?" "Lord, give us a sign...." The raising of Lazarus was dim in the distant past. No one now living had heard his laughter. Why not a sign? At various times the priest would long to have lived- with Christ: to have sin; to have touched; to have probed His eyes. Ah, my God, let me see You! Let me know! Come in dreams! The yearning consumed him. He sat at the desk now with pen above paper. Perhaps it wasn't time that had silenced the Provincial. Perhaps he understood that faith was finally a matter of love. The Provincial had promised to consider the requests, but thus far nothing had bees done. Karras wrote the letter and went to bed. He sluggishly awakened at 5 A.M. and went to the chapel in Weigel Hall, secured a Host, then returnedto his room and said Mass. " 'Et clamor meus ad te veniat,' " he prayed with murmured anguish. " 'Let my cry come unto Thee...' " He lifted the Host in consecration with an aching remembrance of the joy it once gave him; felt once again, as he did each morning, the pang of an unexpected glimpse from afar and unnoticed of a longlost love. He broke the Host above the chalice. " 'Peace I leave you. My peace I give you....' " He tucked the Host inside his mouth and swallowed the papery taste of despair. When the Mass was over, he polished the chalice and carefully placed it in his bag. He rushed for the seven-ten train back to Washington, carrying pain in a black valise.

CHAPTER ONE The Beginning Like the brief doomed flare of exploding suns that registers dimly on blind men's eyes, the beginning of the horror passed almost unnoticed; in the shriek of what followed, in fact, was forgotten and perhaps not connected to the horror at all. It was difficult to judge. The house was a rental. Brooding. Tight. A bride colonial gripped by ivy in the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C. Across the street was a fringe of campus belonging to Georgetown University; to the rear, a sheer embankment plummeting steep to busy M Street and, beyond, the muddy Potomac. Early on the morning of April 1, the house was quiet. Chris MacNeil was propped in bed, going over her lines for the neat day's filming; Regan, her daughter, was sleeping down the hall; and asleep downstairs in a room off the pantry were the middle-aged housekeepers, Willie and Karl. At approximately 12:25 A.M., Chris glanced from her script with a frown of puzzlement. She heard rapping sounds. They were odd. Muffed. Profound. Rhythmically clustered. Alien code tapped out by a dead man. Funny. She listened for a moment; then dismissed it; but as the rappings persisted she could not concentrate. She slapped down the script on the bed. Jesus, that bugs me! She got up to investigate. She went out to the hallway and looked around. It seemed to be coming from Regan's bedroom. What is she doing? She padded down the hall and the rappings grew suddenly louder, much faster, and as she pushed on the door and stepped into the room, they abruptly ceased. What the heck's going on? Her pretty eleven-year-old was asleep, cuddled tight to a large stuffed round-eyed panda. Pookey. Faded from years of smothering; years of smacking, warm, wet kisses. Chris moved softly to her bedside and leaned over for a whisper. "Rags? You awake?" Regular breathing. Heavy. Deep. Chris shifted her glance around the room. Dim light from the hall fell pale and splintered on Regan's paintings; on Regan's sculptures; on more stuffed animals.Okay, Rags. Old mother's ass is draggin'. Say it. "April Fool!" And yet Chris knew it wasn't like her. The child had a shy and very diffident nature. Then who was the trickster? A somnolent mind imposing order on the rattlings of heating pipes or plumbing? Once, in the mountains of Bhutan, she had stared for hours at a Buddhist monk who was squatting on the ground in meditation. Finally, she thought she had seen him levitate. Perhaps. Recounting the story to someone, she invariably added "perhaps." And perhaps her mind, that untiring raconteur of illusion, had embellished the rappings. Bullshit! I heard it! Abruptly, she flicked a quick glance to the ceiling. There! Faint scratchings. Rats in the attic, for pete's sake! Rats! She sighed. That's it. Big tails. Thump, thump. She felt oddly relieved. And then noticed the cold. The room. It was icy. She padded to the window. Checked it. Closed. She touched the radiator. Hot. Oh, really? Puzzled, she moved to the bedside and, touched her hand to Regan's cheek. It was smooth as thought and lightly perspiring. I must be sick! She looked at her daughter, at the turned-up nose and freckled face, and on a quick, warm impulse leaned over the bed and kissed her cheek. "I sure do love you," she whispered, then returned to her room and her bed and her script. For a while, Chris studied. The film was a musical comedy remake of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. .A subplot had been added dealing with campus insurrections. Chris was starring. She played a psychology teacher who sided with the rebels. And she hated it. It's dumb! This scene is absolutely dumb! Her mind, though untutored, never mistook slogans for truth, and like a curious bluejay she would peck relentlessly through verbiage to find the glistening, hidden fact. And so the rebel cause, to her, was "dumb." It didn't make sense. How come? she now wondered. Generation gap? That's a crock; I'm thirty-two. It's just plain dumb, that's all, it's...! Cool it. One more week. They'd completed the interiors in Hollywood. All that remained were a few exterior scenes on the campus of Georgetown University, starting tomorrow. It was Easter vacation and the students were away. She was getting drowsy. Heavy lids. She turned to a page that was curiously ragged. Bemused, she smiled. Her English director. When especially tense, he would tear, with quivering, fluttering hands, a narrow strip from the edge of the handiest page and then chew it, inch by inch, until it was all in a ball in his mouth. Dear Burke. She yawned, then glanced fondly at the side of her script. The pages looked gnawed. She remembered the rats. The little bastards sure got rhythm. She made a mental note to have Karl set traps for them in the morning. Fingers relaxing. Script slipping loose. She let it drop. Dumb. It's dumb. A fumbling hand groping out to the light switch. There. She sighed. For a time she was motionless, almost asleep; and then kicked off her covers with a lazy leg. Too freaking hot. A mist of dew clung soft and gentle to the windowpanes.Chris slept. And dreamed about death in the staggering particular, death as if death were still never yet heard of while something was ringing, she gasping, dissolving, slipping off into void, thinking over and over, I am not going to be, I will die, I won't be, and forever and ever, oh, Papa, don't let them, oh, don't let them do it, don't let me be nothing forever and melting, unraveling, ringing, the ringing--- The phone! She leaped up with her heart pounding, hand to the phone and no weight in her stomach; a core with no weight and her telephone ringing. She answered. The assistant director. "In makeup at six, honey." "Right." "How ya feelin'?" "If I go to the bathroom and it doesn't burn, then I figure I'm ahead." He chuckled. "I'll see yon.' "Right. And thanks." She hung up. And for moments sat motionless, thinking of the dream. A dream? More like thought in the half life of waking. That terrible clarity. Gleam of the skull. Non-being. Irreversible. She could not imagine it. God, it can't be!She considered. And at last bowed her head. But it is. She went to the bathroom, put on a robe, and padded quickly down to the kitchen, down to life in sputtering bacon. "Ah, good morning, Mrs. MacNeil." Gray, drooping Willie, squeezing oranges, blue sacs beneath her eyes. A trace of accent. Swiss, like karl's. She wiped her hands on a paper towel and started moving toward the stove. "I'll get it, Willie." Chris, ever sensitive, had seen her weary look, and as Willie now grunted and turned back to the sink, the actress poured coffee, then moved to the breakfast nook. Sat down. And warmly smiled as she looked at her plate. A blush-red rose. Regan. That angel. Many a morning, when Chris was working, Regan would quietly slip out of bed, come down to the kitchen and place a flower, then grope her way crusty-eyed back to her sleep. Chris shook her head; rueful; recalling: she had almost named her Goneril. Sure. Right on. Get ready for the worst. Chris chuckled at the memory. Sipped at her coffee. As her gaze caught the rose again, her expression turned briefly sad, large green eyes grieving in a waiflike face. She'd recalled another flower. A son. Jamie. He had died long ago at the age of three, when Chris was very young and an unknown chorus girl on Broadway. She had sworn she would not give herself ever again as she had to Jamie; as she had to his father, Howard MacNeil. She glanced quickly from the rose, and as her dream of death misted upward from the coffee, she quickly lit a cigarette. Willie brought juice and Chris remembered the rats.. "Where's Karl?" she asked the servant. "I am here, madam!" Catting in lithe through a door off the pantry. Commanding. Deferential. Dynamic. Crouching. A fragment of Kleenex pressed tight to his chin where he'd nicked himself shaving. "Yes?" Thickly muscled, he breathed by the table. Glittering eyes. Hawk nose. Bald head. "Hey, Karl, we've got rats in the attic. Better get us some traps." "Where are rats?""I just said that." "But the attic is clean." "Well, okay, we've got tidy rats!" "No rats." "Karl, I heard them last night," Chris said patiently, controlling. "Maybe plumbing," Karl probed; "maybe boards." "Maybe rats! Will you buy the damn traps and quit arguing?" "Yes, madam!" Bustling away. "I go now!" "No not now, Karl! The stores are all closed!" 'They are closed!" chided Willie. "I will see." He was gone.Chris and Willie traded glances, and then Willie shook her head, turning back to the bacon. Chris sipped at her coffee. Strange. Strange man. Like Willie, hard-working; very loyal; discreet. And yet something -about him made her vaguely uneasy. What was it? His subtle air of arrogance? Defiance? No.Something else. Something hard to pin down. The couple had been with her for almost six years, and yet Karl was a mask--- a talking, breathing, untranslated hieroglyph running her errands on stilted legs. Behind the mask, though, something moved; she could hear his mechanism ticking like a conscience. She stubbed out her cigarette; heard the front door creaking open, then shut. "They are closed," muttered Willie. Chris nibbled at bacon, then returned to her room, where she dressed in her costume sweater and skirt. She glanced in a mirror and solemnly stared at her short red hair, which looked perpetually tousled; at the burst of freckles on the small, scrubbed face; then crossed her eyes and grinned idiotically. Hi, little wonderful girl next door! Can I speak to your husband? Your lover? Your pimp? Oh, your pimp's in the poorhouse? Avon calling! She stuck out her tongue at herself. Then sagged. Ah, Christ, what a life! She picked up her wig box, slouched downstairs, and walked out to the piquant tree-lined street. For a moment she paused outside the house and gulped at the morning. She looked to the right. Beside the house, a precipitous plunge of old stone steps fell away to M Street far below. A little beyond was the upper entry to the Car Barn, formerly used for the housing of streetcars: Mediterranean, tiled roof; rococo turrets; antique brick. She regarded it wistfully. Fun. Fun street. Dammit, why don't I stay? But the house? Start to live? From somewhere a bell began to toll. She glanced toward the sound. The tower clock on the Georgetown campus. The melancholy resonance echoed on the river; shivered; seeped through her tired heart. She walked toward her work; toward ghastly charade; toward the straw-stuffed, antic imitation of dust. She entered the main front gates of the campus and her depression diminished; then grew even less as she looked at the row of trailer dressing rooms aligned along the driveway close to the southern perimeter wall; and by 8 A.M. and the day's first shot, she was almost herself: She started an argument over the script. "Hey, Burke? Take a look at this damned thing, will ya?" "Oh, you do have a script, I see! How nice!" Director Burke Dennings, taut and, elfin, left eye twitching yet gleaming with mischief, surgically shaved a narrow strip from a page of her script with quivering fingers "I believe I'll munch," he cackled. They were standing on the esplanade that fronted the administration building and were knotted in the center of actors; lights; technicians; extras; grips. Here and there a few spectators dotted the lawn, mostly Jesuit faculty. Numbers of children. The cameraman, bored, picked up Daily Variety as Dennings put thepaper in his mouth and giggled, his breath reeking faintly of the morning's first gin. "Yes, I'm terribly glad you've been given a script." A sly, frail man in his fifties, he spoke with a charmingly broad British accent so clipped and precise that it lofted even crudest obscenities to elegance, and when he drank, he seemed always on the verge of guffaw; seemed constantly struggling to retain his composure. "Now then, tell me, my baby. What is it? What's wrong?" The scene in question called for the dean of the mythical college in the script to address a gathering of students in an effort to squelch a threatened "sit-in." Chris would then run up the steps to the esplanade, tear the bullhorn away from the dean and then point to the main administration building and shout, "Let's tear it down!" "It just doesn't make sense," said Chris. "Well, it's perfectly plain," lied Dennings. "Why the heck should they tear down the building, Burke? What for?" "Are you sending me up?" "No, I'm asking 'what for?' " "Because it's there, loves!" "In the script?""No, on the grounds!" "Well, it doesn't make sense, Burke. She just wouldn't do that." "She would." "No, she wouldn't." "Shall we summon the writer? I believe he's in Paris!" "Hiding?" "F*ck!ng!" He'd clipped it off with impeccable diction, fox eyes glinting in a face like dough as the word rose crisp to Gothic spires. Chris fell weak to his shoulders, laughing. "Oh, Burke, you're impossible, damm!t!" "Yes." He said it like Caesar modestly confirming reports of his triple rejection of the crown. "Now then, shall we get on with it?" Chris didn't hear. She'd darted a furtive, embarrassed glance to a nearby Jesuit, checking to see if he'd heard the obscenity. Dark, rugged face. Like a boxer's. Chipped. In his forties. Something sad about the eyes; something pained; and yet warm and reassuring as they fastened on hers. He'd heard. He was smiling. He glanced at his watch and moved away. "I say, shall we get on with it!"She turned, disconnected. "Yeah, sure, Burke, let's do it." "Thank heaven." "No, wait!" "Oh, good Christ!" She complained about the tag of the scene.. She felt that the high point was reached with her line as opposed to her running through the door of the building immediately afterward. "It adds nothing," said Chris. "It's dumb." "Yes, it is, love, it is," agreed Burke sincerely. "However, the cutter insists that we do it," he continued, "so there we are. You see?" "No, I don't." "No, of course not. It's stupid. You see, since the following scene"--- he giggled--- "begins with Jed coming at us through a door, the cutter feels certain of a nomination if the scene preceding ends with you moving off through a door." "That's dumb." "Well, of course it is! It's vomit! It's simply cunting puking mad! Now then, why don't we shoot it and trust me to snip it from the final cut. It should make -a rather tasty munch." Chris laughed. And agreed. Burke glanced toward the cutter, who was known to be a temperamental egotist given to time-wasting argumentation. He was busy with the cameraman. The director breathed asigh of relief. Waiting on the lawn at the base of the steps while the lights were warming, Chris looked toward Dennings as he flung an obscenity at a hapless grip and then visibly glowed. He seemed to revel in his eccentricity. Yet at a certain point in his drinking, Chris knew, he would suddenly explode into temper, and if it happened at three or four in the morning, he was likely to telephone people in power, and viciously abuse them over trifling provocations. Chris remembered a studio chief whose offense had consisted in remarking mildly at a screening that the cuffs of Dennings' shirt looked slightly frayed, prompting Dennings to awaken him at approximately 3 A.M. to describe him as a "cunting boor" whose father was "more that likely mad!" And on the following day, he would pretend to amnesia and subtly radiate with pleasure when those he'd offended described in detail what he had done. Although, if it suited him, he would remember. Chris thought with a smile of the night he'd destroyed his studio suite of offices in a gin-stoked, mindless rage, and how later, when confronted with an itemized bill and Polaroid photos detailing the damage, he'd archly dismissed them as "Obvious fakes, the damage was far, far worse than that!" Chris did not believe that Dennings was either an alcoholic or a hopeless problem drinker, but rather that he drank because it was expected of him: he was living up to his legend. Ah, well, she thought; I guess it's a kind of immortality. She turned, looking over her shoulder for the Jesuit who had smiled. He was walking in the distance, despondent, head lowered, a lone black cloud in search of the rain. She had never liked priests. So assured. So secure. And yet this one... "All ready, Chris?" Dennings. "Yeah, ready." "All right, absolute quiet!" The assistant director "Roll the film," ordered Burke. "Speed.""Now action!" Chris ran up the steps while extras cheered and Dennings watched her, wondering what was on her mind. She'd given up the arguments far too quickly. He turned a significant look to the dialogue coach, who padded up to him dutifully and proffered his open script like an aging altar boy the missal to his priest at solemn Mass. ********** They worked with intermittent sun. By four, the overcast of roiling clouds was thick in the sky, and the assistant director dismissed the company for the day. Chris walked homeward. She was tired. At the corner of Thirty-sixth and O she signed an autograph for an aging Italian grocery clerk who had hailed her from the doorway of his shop. She wrote her name and "Warm Best Wishes" on a brown paper bag. Waiting to cross, she glanced diagonally across the street to a Catholic church. Holy Something-or-other. Staffed by Jesuits. John F. Kennedy had married Jackie there-, she had heard; had worshiped there. She tried to imagine it: John F. Kennedy among the votive lights and the pious, wrinkled women; John F. Kennedy bowed in prayer; I believe... a detente with the Russians; I believe, I believe... Apollo IV among the rattlings of the beads; I believe... the resurrection and the life ever--- That. That's it. That's the grabber. She watched as a beer truck lumbered by with a clink of quivering warm, wet promises. She crossed. As she walked down O and passed the grade-school auditorium, a priest rushed by from behind her, hands in the pockets of a nylon windbreaker. Young. Very tense. In need of a shave. Up ahead, he took a right, turning into an easement that opened to a courtyard behind the church. Chris paused by the easement, watching him, curious. He seemed to be heading for a white frame cottage. An old screen door creaked open and still another priest emerged. He looked glum; very nervous. He nodded curtly toward the young man, and with lowered, eyes, he moved quickly toward adoor that led into the Church. Once again the cottage door was pushed open from within. Another priest. It looked--- Hey, it is! The one who was smiling when Burke said "fuck"! Only now he looked grave as he silently greeted the new arrival, his arm around his shoulder in a gesture that was gentle and somehow parental. He led him inside and the screen door closed with a slow, faint squeak. Chris stared at her shoes. She was puzzled. What's the drill? She wondered if Jesuits went to confession. Faint rumble of thunder. She looked up at the sky. Would it rain?... the resurrection of the... Yeah. Yeah, sure. Next Tuesday. Flashes of lightning crackled in the distance. Don't call us, kid, we'll call you. She tugged up her coat collar and slowly moved on. She hoped it would pour. ********** In a minute she was home. She made a dash for the bathroom. After that, she walked into the kitchen. "Hi, Chris, how'd it go?" Pretty blonde in her twenties sitting at the table. Sharon Spencer. Fresh. From Oregon. For the last three years, she'd been tutor to Regan and social secretary to Chris. "Oh, the usual crock." Chris sauntered to the table and began to sift message. "Anything exciting?" "Do you want to have dinner next week at the White House?" "Oh, I dunno, Marty; whadda you feel like doin'?""Eating candy and getting sick." Chris chuckled. "Where's Rags, by the way?" "Downstairs in the playroom." "'What doin'?" "Sculpting. She's making a bird, I think. It's for you." "Yeah, I need one," Chris murmured. She moved to the stove and poured a cup of hot coffee. "Were you kidding me about that dinner?" she asked. "No, of course not," answered Sharon. "It's Thursday." "Big party?" "No, I gather it's just five or six people." "No kidding!" She was pleased but not really surprised. They courted her company: cab drivers; poets; professors; kings. What was it they liked about her? Life? Chris sat at the table. "How'd the lesson go?" Sharon lit a cigarette, frowning. "Had a bad time with math again.""Oh? Gee, that's funny." "I know; it's her favorite subject," said Sharon. "Oh, well, this 'new math,' Christ, I couldn't make change for the bus if---" "Hi, Mom!" She was bounding through the door, slim arms outstretched. Red ponytail. Soft, shining face full of freckles. "Hi ya, stinkpot!" Beaming, Chris caught her in a bearhug, squeezing, then kissed the girl's cheek with smacking ardor. She could not repress the full flood of her love. "Mmum-mmum-mmum!" More kisses. Then she held Regan out and probed her face with eager eyes. "What'djya do today? Anything exciting?" "Oh stuff." "So what kinda stuff?" "Oh, lemme see." She had her knees against her mother's, swaying gently back and forth. "Well, of -course, I studied." "Uh-huh." "An' I painted." "Wha'djya paint?""Oh, well, flowers, ya know. Daisies? Only pink. An' then--- Oh, yeah! This horse!" She grew suddenly excited, eyes widening. "This man had a horse, ya know, down by the river? We were walking, see, Mom, and then along came this horse, he was beautiful! Oh, Mom, ya should've seen him, and the man let me sit on him! Really! I mean, practically a minute!" Chris twinkled at Sharon with secret amusement. "Himself?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. On moving to Washington for the shooting of the film, the blonde secretary, who was now virtually one of the family, had lived in the house, occupying an extra bedroom upstairs. Until she'd met the "horseman" at a nearby stable. Sharon needed a place to be alone, Chris then decided, and had moved her to a suite in an expensive hotel and insisted on paying the bill. "Himself." Sharon smiled in response to Chris. "It was a gray horse!" added Regan. "Mother, can't we get a horse? I mean, could we?" "We'll see, baby." "When could I have one?" "We'll see. Where's the bird you made?" Regan looked blank for a moment; then turned around to Sharon and grinned, her mouth full of braces and shy rebuke. "You told." Then, "It was a surprise," she snickered to her mother. "You mean...?" "With the long funny nose, like you wanted!""Oh, Rags, that's sweet. Can I see it?" "No, I still have to paint it. When's dinner, Mom?" "Hungry?" "I'm starving." "Gee, it s not even five. When was lunch?" Chris asked Sharon. "Oh, twelvish," Sharon answered. "When are Willie and Karl coming back?" She had given their the afternoon off. "I think seven," said Sharon. "Mom, can't we go to the Hot Shoppe?" Regan pleaded. "Could we?" Chris lifted her daughter's hand; smiled fondly; kissed it. "Run upstairs and get dressed and we'll go." "Oh, I love you!" Regan ran from the room."Honey, wear the new dress!" Chris called out after her. "How would you like to be eleven?" mused Shalom. "That an offer?" Chris reached for her mail, began listlessly sorting through scrawled adulation, "Would you take it?" asked Sharon. "With the brain I've got now?" All the memories?" "Sure." "No deal." "Think it over." "I'm thinking." Chris picked up a script with a covering letter clipped neatly to the front of it. Jarris. Her agent. "Thought I told them no scripts for a while." "You should read it," said Sharon. "Oh, yeah?" "Yes, I read it this morning.""Pretty good?" "It's great." "And I get to play a nun who discovers she's a lesbian, right?" "No, you get to play nothing." "Shit, movies are better than ever. What the hell are you talking about, Sharon? What's the grin for?" "They want you to direct," Sharon exhaled coyly with the smoke from her cigarette. "What!" "Read the Letter." "My God, Shar, you're kidding!" Chris pounced on the letter with eager eyes snapping up the words in hungry chunks: "...new script... a triptych... studio wants Sir Stephen Moore... accepting role provided---" "I direct his segment!" Chris flung up her arms, letting loose a hoarse, shrill cry of joy. Then with both her hands she cuddled the letter to her chest. "Oh, Steve,- you angel, you remembered!" Filming in Africa. Drunk. In camp chairs. Watching the blood-hush end of day. "Ah, the business is bunk! For the actor it's crap, Steve!""Oh, I like it." "It's crap! Don't you know where it's at in this business? Directing!" "Ah, yes." "Then you've done something, something that's yours; I mean, something that lives!" "Well, then do it." "I've tried; they won't buy it." "Why not?" "Oh, come on, you know why: they don't think I can cut it." Warm remembrance. Warm smile. Dear Steve... "Mom, I can't find the dress!" Regan called from the landing. "In the closet!" Chris answered. "I looked!" "I'll be up in a second!" Chris called. For a moment she examined the script. Then gradually wilted. "So its probably crap." "Oh, come on, now. I really think it's good." "Oh, you thought Psycho needed a laugh track." Sharon laughed. "Mommy?" "I'm coming!" Chris got up slowly. "Got a date, Shar?" "Yes."Chris motioned at the mail. "You go on, then. We can catch all this stuff in the morning." Sharon got up. "Oh, no, wait," Chris amended, remembering something. "There's a letter that's got to go out tonight." "Oh, okay." The secretary reached for her dictation pad. "Moth-therrr!" A whine of impatience. "Wait'll I comes down," Chris told Sharon. She started to leave the kitchen, but stepped as Sharon eyed her watch. "Gee; it's time for me to meditate, Chris," she said. Chris looked at her narrowly with mute exasperation. In the last six mouths, she had watched her secretary suddenly turn "seeker after serenity." It had started in Los Angeles with self-hypnosis, which then yielded to Buddhistic chanting. During the last few weeks that Sharon was quartered in the room upstairs, the house had reeked of incense, and lifeless dronings of "Nam myoho renge kyo" ("See, you just keep on chanting that, Chris, just that, and you get your wish, you got everything you want...") were heard at unlikely and untimely hours, usually when Chris was studying her lines. "You can turn on TV," Sharon had generously told her employer on one of these occasions, "It's fine. I can chant when there's all kinds of noise. It won't bother me a bit." Now it was transcendental meditation. "You really think that kind of stuff is going to do you any good, Shar?" Chris asked tonelessly. "It gives me peace of mind," responded Sharon. "Right," Chris said dryly. She turned away and said good-night. She said nothing about the letter, and as she left the kitchen, she murmured, "Nam myoho renge kyo.""Keep it up about fifteen or twenty minutes," said Sharon. "Maybe for you it would work." Chris halted and considered a measured response. Then gave it up. She went upstairs to Regan's bedroom, moving immediately to the closet. Regan was standing in the middle of the room staring up at the ceiling. "What's doin'?" Chris asked her, hunting for the dress. It was a pale-blue cotton. She'd bought it the week before, and remembered hanging it in the closet. "Funny noises," said Regan. "I know. We've got friends." Regan looked at her. "Huh?" "Squirrels, honey; squirrels in the attic." her daughter was squeamish and terrified of rats. Even mice upset her. The hunt for the dress proved fruitless. "See, Mom, it's got there." "Yes, I see. Maybe Willie picked it up with the cleaning." "It's gone.""Yeah, well, put on the navy. It's pretty." ********** They went to the Hot Shoppe. Chris ate a salad while Regan had soup, four rolls, fried chicken, a chocolate shake, and a helping and a half of blueberry pie with coffee ice cream. Where does she put it, Chris wondered fondly, in her wrists? The child was slender as a fleeting hope. Chris lit a cigarette over her coffee and looked through the window on her right. The river was dark and currentless, waiting. "I enjoyed my dinner, Mom." Chris turned to her, and as often happened, caught her breath and felt again that ache on seeing Howard's image in Regan's face. It was the angle of the light. She dropped her glance to Regan's plate. "Going to leave that pie?" Chris asked her. Regan lowered her eyes. "I ate some candy." Chris stubbed out ber cigarette and chuckled. "Let's go." ********** They were back before seven. Willie and Karl had already returned. Regan made a dash for the basement playroom, eager to finish the sculpture for her mother. Chris headed for the kitchen to pick up the script. She found Willie brewing coffee; coarse; open pot. She looked irritable and sullen. "Hi, Willie, how'd it go? Have a real nice time?""Do not ask." She added an eggshell and a pinch of salt to the bubbling contents of the pot. They had gone to a movie, Willie explained. She had wanted to see the Beatles, but Karl had insisted on an art-house film about Mozart. "Terrible," she simmered as she lowered the flame. "That dumbhead!" "Sorry 'bout that." Chris tucked the script underneath her arm. "Oh, Willie, have you seen that dress that I got for Rags last week? The blue cotton?" "Yes, I see it in her closet. This morning." "Where'd you put it?" "It is there." "You didn't maybe pick it up by mistake with the cleaning?" "It is there." "With the cleaning?" "In the closet." "No, it isn't. I looked." About to speak, Willie tightened her lips and scowled at the coffee. Karl, had walked in. "Good evening, madam." He went to the sink for a glass of water."Did you set those traps?" asked Chris. "No rats." "Did you set them?" "I set them, of course; but the attic is clean." "Tell me, how was the movie, Karl?" "Exciting." His back, like his face, was a resolute blank. Chris started from the kitchen, humming a song made famous by the Beatles. But the she turned. Just one more shot! "Did you have any trouble getting the traps, Karl?" "No; no trouble." "At six in the morning?" "All-night market." Jesus!********** Chris took a long and luxurious bath, and why she went to the closet in her bedroom for her robe, she discovered Regan's missing dress. It lay crumpled in a heap on the floor of the closet. Chris picked it up. What's it doing in here? The tags were still on it. For a moment, Clues thought back. Then remembered that the day that she'd purchased the dress, she had also bought two or three items for herself. Must've put 'em all together. Chris carried the dress into Regan's bedroom, put it on a hanger and slipped it on the rack. She glanced at Regan's wardrobe. Nice. Nice clothes. Yeah, Rags, look here, not there at the daddy who never writes. As she turned from the closet, she stubbed her toe against the base of a bureau. Oh, Jesus, that smarts! As she lifted her foot and massaged her toe, she noticed that the bureau was out of position by about three feet. No wonder I bumped it, Willie must have vacuumed. She went down to the study with the script from her agent. Unlike the massive double living room with its large bay windows and view, the study had a feeling of whispered density; of secrets between rich uncles. Raised brick fireplace; oak paneling; crisscrossed beams of a wood that implied it had once been a drawbridge. The room's few hints of a time that was present were the added bar, a few bright pillows, and a leopardskin rug that belonged to Chris and was spread on the pinewood floor by the fire where she now stretched out with her head and shoulders propped on the front of a downy sofa. She took another look at the letter from her agent. Faith, Hope and Charity: three distinct segments, each with a different cast and director. Hers would be Hope. She liked the idea. And she liked the title. Possibly dull, she thought; but refined. They'll probably change it to something like "Rock Around the Virtues."The doorbell chimed. Burke Dennings. A lonely man, he dropped by often. Chris smiled ruefully, shaking her head, as she heard him rasp an obscenity at Karl, whom he seemed to detest and continually baited. "Yes, hullo, where's a drink!" he demanded crossly, entering the room and moving to the bar with eyes averted, hands in the pockets of his wrinkled raincoat. He sat on a barstool. Irritable. Shifty-eyed. Vaguely disappointed. "On the prowl again?" Chris asked. "What the hell do you mean?" he sniffed. "You've got that funny look." She had seen it before when they'd worked on a picture together in Lausanne. On their first night there, at a staid hotel overlooking Lake Geneva, Chris had difficulty sleeping. At 5 A.M., she flounced out of bed and decided to dress and go down to the lobby in search of either coffee or some company. Waiting far an elevator out in the hall, she glanced through a window and saw the director walking stiffly along the lakeside, hands deep in the pockets of his coat against the glacial winter cold. By the time she reached the lobby, he was entering the hotel. "Not a hooker in sight!" he snapped bitterly, passing her with eyes cast down; and then entered the elevator and went up to bed. When she'd laughingly mentioned the incident later, the director had, grown furious and accused her of promulgating "gross hallucinations" that people were "likely to believe just because you're a star!" He had also referred to her as "simply canting mad," but then pointed out soothingly, in an effort to assuage her feelings, that "perhaps" she had seen someone after all, and had simply mistaken him for Dennings. "After all," he'd pointed out at the time, "my great-great-grandmother happens to have been Swiss." Chris moved behind the bar now and reminded him of the incident. "Oh, now, don't be so silly!" snapped Dennings. "It so happens that I've spent the entire evening at a bloody tea, a faculty tea!" Chris leaned on the bar. "You were just at a tea?""Oh, yes, go ahead; smirk!" "You got smashed at a tea," she said dryly, "with some Jesuits." "No, the Jesuits were sober." "They don't drink?" "Are you out of your cunting mind?'" he shouted. "They swilled! Never seen such capacities in all my life!" "Hey, come on, hold it down, Burke! Regan!" "Yes, Regan," Dennings whispered "Where the hell is my drink?" "Will you tell me what you were doing at a faculty tea?" "Bloody public relations; something you should be doing." Chris handed him a gin on the rocks. "God, the way we've been mucking their grounds," the director muttered; pious; the glass to his lips. "Oh, yes, go ahead, laugh! That's all that you're good for, laughing and showing a bit of bum." "I'm just smiling." "Well, someone had to make a good show.""And how many times did you say 'fuck,' Burke?" "Darling, that's crude," he rebuked her gently. "Now tell me, how are you?" She answered with a despondent shrug. "Are you glum? Come on, tell me." "I dunno." "Tell your uncle." "Shit, I think I'll have a drink," she said, reaching for a glass. "Yes, it's good for the stomach. Now, then, what?" She was slowly pouring vodka. "Ever think A dying?" "I beg your---" "Dying," she interrupted. "Ever think about it, Burke? What it means? I mean, really what it means?" Faintly edgy, he answered, "I don't know. No, I don't. I don't think about it at all. I just do it. What the hell'd you bring it up for?"She shrugged. "I don't know," she answered softly. She plopped ice into her glass; eyed it thoughtfully. "Yeah... yeah, I do," she amended. "I sort of... well, I thought about it this morning... like a dream... waking up. I don't know. I mean, it just sort of hit me... what it means. I mean, the end--- the end!--- like I'd never even heard of it before." She shook her head. "Oh, Jesus, did that spook me! I felt like I was falling off the goddam planet at a hundred million miles an hour." "Oh, rubbish. Death's a comfort," Dennings sniffed. "Not for me it isn't, Charlie." 'Well, you live through your children." "Oh, come off it! My children aren't me." "Yes, thank heaven. One's entirely enough." "I mean, think about it, Burke! Not existing--- forever! It's---" "Oh, for heaven sakes! Show your bum at the faculty tea next week and perhaps those priests can give you comfort!" He banged down his glass. "Let's another." "You know, I didn't know they drank?" "Well, you're stupid." His eyes had grown mean. Was he reaching the point of no return? Chris wondered. She had the feelingshe had touched a nerve. Had she? "Do they go to confession?" she asked him. "How would I know!" he suddenly bellowed. "Well, weren't you studying to be a---" "Where's the bloody drink!" "Want some coffee?" "Don't be fatuous. I want another drink." "Have some coffee." "Come along, now. One for the road." "The Lincoln Highway?" "That's ugly, and I loathe an ugly drunk. Come along, dammit, fill it!" He shoved his glass across the bar and she poured more gin. "I guess maybe I should ask a couple of them over," Chris murmured."Ask who?" "Well, whoever." She shrugged. 'The big wheels; you know, priests." "They'll never leave; there fucking plunderers," he rasped, and gulped his gin. Yeah, he's starting to blow, thought Chris and quickly changed the subject: she explained about the script and her chance to direct. "Oh, good," Dennings muttered. "It scares me." "Oh, twaddle. My baby, the difficult thing about directing is making it seem as if the damned thing were difficult. I hadn't a clue my first time out, but here I am, you see. It's child's play." "Burke, to be honest with you, now that they've offered me my chance, I'm really not sure I could direct my grandmother across the street. I mean, all of that technical stuff." "Come along; leave all that to the editor, the cameraman and the script girl, darling. Get good ones and theyll see you through. What's important is handling the cast, and, you'd be marvelous, just marvelous at that. You could not only tell them how to move and read a line, my baby, you could show them. Just remember Paul Newman and Rachel, Rachel and don't be so hysterical." She still looked doubtful. "Well, about this technical stuff," she worried. Drunk or sober, Dennings was the best director in the business. She wanted his advice. "For instance," he asked her.For almost an hour she probed to the barricades of minutiae. The data were easily found in tests, but reading tended to fray her patience. Instead; she read people. Naturally inquisitive, she juiced them; wrung them out. But books were unwringable. Books were glib. They said "therefore" and "clearly" when it wasn't clear at all, and their circumlocutions could never be challenged. They could never be stopped for a shrewdly disarming, "Hold it, I'm dumb. Could I have that again?" They could never be pinned; made to wriggle; dissected. Books were like Karl. "Darling, all you really need is a brilliant cutter," the director cackled, rounding it off. "I mean someone who really knows his doors." He'd grown charming and bubbly, and seemed to have passed the threatened danger pointy. "Beg pardon, madam. You wish something?" Karl stood attentively at the door to the study. "Oh, hullo, Thorndike," Dennings giggled. "Or is it Heinrich? I can't keep it straight." "It is Karl." "Yes, of course it is. Damn. I'd forgotten. Tell me, Karl, was it public relations you told me you did for the Gestapo, or was it community relations? I believe there's a difference." Karl spoke politely. "Neither one, sir. I am Swiss." "Oh, yes, of course." The director guffawed. "And you never went bowling with Goebbels, I suppose." Karl, impervious, turned to Chris."And never went flying with Rudolph Hess!" "Madam wishes?" "Oh, l don't know. Burke, you want coffee?" "Fuck it!" The director stood up abruptly and strode belligerently from the room and the house. Chris shook her head, and then turned to Karl. "Unplug the phones," she ordered expressionlessly. "Yes, madam. Anything else?" "Oh, maybe some Sanka. Where's Rags?" "Down in playroom. I call her?" "Yeah, it's bedtime. Oh, no, wait a second, Karl. Never mind. I'd better go see the bird. Just get me the Sanka, please." "Yes, madam." "And for the umpty-eighth time, I apologize for Burke." "I pay no attention.""I know. That's what bugs him." Chris walked to the entry hall of the house, pulled open the door to the basement staircase and started downstairs. "Hi ya, stinky, whatchya doin' down there? Got the bird?" "Oh, yes, come see! Come on down, it's all finished!" The playroom was paneled and brightly decorated. Easels. Paintings. Phonograph. Tables for games and a table for sculpting. Red and white bunting left over from a party for the previous tenant's teenaged son. "Hey, that's great!" exclaimed Chris as her daughter handed her the figure. It was not quite dry and looked something like a "worry bird," painted orange, except for the beak, which was laterally striped in green and white. A tuft of feathers was glued to the head. "Do you like it?" asked Regan. "Oh, honey, I do, I really .do. Got a name for it?" "Uh-uh." "What's a good one?" "I dunno," Regan shrugged."Let me see, let me see." Chris tapped fingertips to teeth. "I don't know. Whaddya think? Wqiaddya think about 'Dumbbird'? Huh? just 'Dumbbird.' " Regan was snickering, hand to her mouth to conceal the braces. Nodding. " 'Dumbbird' by a landslide! I'll leave it here to dry and then I'll put him in my room." Chris was setting flown the bird when she noticed the Ouija board. Close. On the table. She'd forgotten she had it. Almost as curious about herself as she was about others, she'd originally bought it as a possible means of exposing clues to her subconscious. It hadn't worked. She'd used it a time or two with Sharon, and once with Dennings, who had skillfully steered the plastic planchette ("Are you the one who's moving it, ducky?") so that all of the "messages" were obscene, and then afterward blamed it on the "fucking spirits!" "You playin' with the Ouija board?" "Yep." "You know how?" "Oh, well, sure. Here, I'll show you." She was moving to sit by the board. "Well, I think you need two people, honey." "No ya don't, Mom; I do it all the time." Chris was pulling up a chair. "Well, let's both play, okay" Hesitation. "Well, okay." She had her fingertips positioned on the white planchette and as Chris reachedout to position hers, the pianchette made a swift, sudden move to the position on the board marked No. Chris smiled at her slyly. "Mother, I'd rather do it myself? Is that it? You don't want me to play?" "No, I do! Captain Howdy said 'no.' " "Captain who?" "Captain Howdy." "Honey, who's Captain Howdy?" "Oh, ya know. I make questions and he does the answers." "Oh?" "Oh, he's nice." Chris tried not to frown as she felt a dim and sudden concern. The child had loved her father deeply, yet never had reacted visibly to her parents' divorce. And Chris didn't like it. Maybe she cried in her room; she didn't know. But Chris was fearful she was repressing and that her emotions might one day erupt in some harmful form. A fantasy playmate. It didn't sound healthy. Why "Howdy"? For Howard? Her father? Pretty close. "So how come you couldn't even come up with a name for a dum-dum bird, and then you hit me with something like 'Captain Howdy'? Why do you call him 'Captain Howdy'?"" 'Cause that's his name, of course," Regan snickered."Says who?" "Well, him." "Of course." "Of course." "And what else does he say to you?" "Stuff." "What stuff?" Regan shrugged. "Just stuff." "For instance." "I'll show you. I'll ask him some questions." "You do that" Her fingertips on the planchette, Regan stared at the board with eyes drawn tight in concentration. "Captain Howdy, don't you think my mom is pretty?"A second... five... ten... twenty... "Captain Howdy?" More seconds. Chris was surprised. She'd expected her daughter to slide the planchette to the section marked Yes. Oh, for pete's sake, what now? An unconscious hostility? Oh, that's crazy. "Captain Howdy, that's really not very polite," chided Regan. "Honey, maybe he's sleeping." "Do you think?" "I think you should be sleeping." "Already?" "C'mon, babe! Up to bed!" Chris stood up. "He's a poop," muttered Regan, then followed her mother up the stairs. Chris tucked her into bed and then sat on the bedside. "Honey, Sunday's no work. You want to do somethin'?" "What?" When they'd first come to Washington, Chris had made an effort to find playmates for Regan. She'duncovered only one, a twelve-year-old girl named Judy. But Judy's family was away for Easter, and Chris was concerned now that Regan might be lonely. "Oh, well, I don't know," Chris replied. "Somethin'. You want to go see the sights? Hey, the cherry blos-soms, maybe! That's right, they're out early! You want to go see 'em?" "Oh, yeah, Mom!" "And tomorrow night a movie! How's that?" "Oh, I love you!" Regan gave her a hug and Chris hugged her back with an extra fervor, whispering, "Oh, Rags, honey, I love you." "You can bring Mr. Dennings if you like." Chris pulled back for an appraisal. "Mr. Dennings?" "Well, I mean, it's okay." Chris chuckled. "No, it isn't okay. Honey, why would I want to bring Mr. Dennings?" "Well, you like him." "Oh, well, sure I like him, honey; don't you?"She made no answer. "Baby, what's going on?" Chris prodded her daugh-ter. "You're going to many him, Mommy, aren't you." It wasn't a question, but a sullen statement. Chris exploded into a laugh. "Oh, my baby, of course not! What on earth are you talking about? Mr. Dennings? Where'd you get that idea?" "But you like him." "I like pizzas, but I wouldn't ever marry one! Honey, he's a friend, just a crazy old friend!" "You don't like him like Daddy?" "I love your daddy, honey; I'll always love your daddy. Mr. Dennings comes by here a lot 'cause he's lonely, that's all; he's a friend." "Well, I heard..." "You heard what? Heard from who?" Whirling slivers of doubt in the eyes; hesitation; then a shrug of dismissal "I don't know. I just thought." "Well, it's silly, so forget it." "Okay.""Now go to sleep." "Can I read? I'm not sleepy." "Sure. Read your new book, hon, until you get tired." "Thanks, Mommy." "Good night, hon." "Good night." Chris blew her a kiss from the door and them closed it. She walked down the stairs. Kids! Where do they get their ideas! She wondered if Regan connected Dennings to her filing for divorce. Oh, come on, that's dumb. Regan knew only that Chris had filed. Yet Howard had wanted it. Long separations. Erosion of ego as the husband of a star. He'd found someone else. Regan didn't know that. Oh, quit all this amateur psychoanalyzing and try to spend a little more time with her! Back to the study. The script. Chris read. Halfway through, she saw Regan coming toward her. "Hi, honey. What's wrong?" "There's these real funny noises, Mom." "In your room?""It's like knocking. I can't go to sleep." Where the hell are those traps! "Honey, sleep in my bedroom and I'll see what it is." Chris led her to the bedroom and tucked her in. "Can I watch TV for a while till I sleep?" "Where's your book?" "l can't find it. Can I watch?" "Sure; okay." Chris tuned in a channel on the bedroom portable. "Loud enough?" "Yes, Mom." "Try to sleep." Chris turned out the light and went down the hall. She climbed the narrow, carpeted stairs that led to the attic. She opened the door and felt for the light switch; found it; flicked it, stooping as she entered. She glanced around. Cartons of clippings and correspondence on the pinewood floor. Nothing else, except the traps. Six of them. Baited. The room was spotless. Even the air smelled clean and cool. The attic was unheated. No pipe. No radiator. No little holes in the roof."There is nothing." Chris jumped from her skin. "0h, good Jesus!" she gasped, turning quickly with her hand to a fluttering heart. "Jesus Christ, Karl, don't do that!" He was standing on the steps. "Very sorry. But you see? It is clean." "Yeah, it's clean. Thanks a lot." "Maybe cat better." "What?" "To catch rats." Without Waiting for an answer, he nodded and left. For a moment, Chris stared at the doorway. Either Karl hadn't any sense of humor whatever, or he had one so sly it escaped her detection. She couldn't decide which one it was. She considered the rappings again, then glanced at the angled roof. The street was shaded by various trees, most of them gnarled and interwined with vines; and the branches of a mushrooming, massive basswood umbrellaed the entire front third of the house. Was it squirrels after all? It must be. Or branches. Right. Could be branches. The nights had been windy." "Maybe cat better."Chris glanced at the doorway again. Pretty smartass? Abruptly she smiled, looking pertly mischievous. She went downstairs to Regan's bedroom, picked something up, brought it back to the attic, and then after a minute went back to her bedroon. Regan was sleeping. She returned her to her room, tucked her Into her bed, then went back to her own bedroom, turned off the television set and went to sleep. The house was quiet until morning. Eating her breakfast, Chris told Karl in an offhand way that she thought she'd heard a trap springing shut during the night. "Like to go and take a look?" Chris suggested, sipping coffee and pretending to be engrossed in the morning paper. Without any comment, he went up to investigate. Chris passed him in the hall on the second floor as he was returning, staring expressionlessly at the large stuffed mouse he was holding. He'd found it with its snout clamped tight in a trap. As she walked toward her bedroom, Chris lifted an eyebrow at the mouse. "Someone is funny," Karl muttered as he passed her. He returned the stuffed animal to Regan's bedroom. "Sure a lot of things goin' on," Chris murmured, shaking her head as she entered her bedroom. She slipped off her robe and prepared to go to work. Yeah, maybe cat better, old buddy. Much better. Whenever she grinned, her entire face appeared to crinkle. ********** The filming went smoothly that day. Later in the morning, Sharon came by the set and during breaksbetween scenes, in her portable dressing room, she and Chris handled items of business: a letter to her agent (she would think about the script); "okay" to the White House; a wire to Howard reminding him to telephone on Regan's birthday; a call to her business manager asking if she could afford to take off for a year; plans for a dinner party April twenty-third. Early in the evening, Chris took Regan out to a movie, and the following day they drove around to points of interest in Chris's Jaguar XKE. The Lincoln Memorial. The Capitol. The cherry blossom lagoon. A bite to eat. Then across the river to Arlington Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Regan turned solemn, and later, at the grave of John F. Kennedy, seemed to grow distant and a little sad. She stared at the "eternal flame" for a time; them mutely reached for Chris's hand. "Mom, why do people have to die?" The question pierced her mother's soul. Oh, Rags, you too? You too? Oh, no! And yet what could she tell her? Lies? Slue couldn't. She looked at her daughter's upturned face, eyes misting with tears. Had she sensed her own thoughts? She had done it so often... so often before. "Honey, people get tired," she answered Regan tenderly. "Why does God let them?" For a moment, Chris stared. She was puzzled. Disturbed. An atheist, she had never taught Regan re-ligion. She thought it dishonest "Who's been telling you about God?" she asked. "Sharon." "Oh." She would have to speak to her. "Mom, why does God let us get tired?" Looking down at those sensitive eyes and that pain, Chris surrendered; couldn't tell her what she believed. "Well, after a while God gets lonesome for us, Rags. He wants us back." Regan folded herself into silence. She stayed quiet during the drive home, and her mood persisted all the rest of the day and through Monday.On Tuesday, Regan's birthday, it seemed to break. Chris took her along to the filming and when the shooting day was over, the cast and crew sang "Happy Birthday" and brought out a cake. Always a kind and gentle man when sober, Dennings had the lights rewarmed and filmed her as she cut it. He called it a "screen test," and afterwards promised to make her a star. She seemed quite gay. But after dinner and the opening of presents, the mood seemed to fade. No word from Howard. Chris placed a call to him in Rome, and was told by a clerk at his hotel that he hadn't been there for several days and couldn't be reached. He was somewhere on a yacht. Chris made excuses. Regan nodded, subdued, and shook her head to her mother's suggestion that they go to the Hot Shoppe for a shake. Without a word, she went downstairs to the basement playroom, where she remained until time for bed. The following morning when Chris opened her eyes, she found Regan in bed with her, half awake. "Well, what in the.... What are you doing here?" Chris chuckled. "My bed was shaking." "You nut." Chris kissed her and pulled up her covers. "Go to sleep. It's still early." What looked like morning was the beginning of endless night.

1 The will to truth, wich is still going to tempt us to many a hazardous enterprise ; that celebrated veracity of wich all philosophers have hitherto spoken with reverence : what questions this will to truth has already set before us ! What strange, wicked, questionable questions ! It is already a long story - yet does it not seem as if it has only just begun? Is it any wonder we should at last grow distrustful, lose our patience, turn turn impatiently away? That this sphinx should teach us too to ask questions? Who really is it that here questions us? What really is it in us that wants "the truth"? - We did indeed pause for a long time before the question of the origin of this will - until finally we came to a complete halt before an even more fundamental question. We asked after the value of this will. Granted we want truth : why not rather untruth? And uncertainty ? Even ignorance? - The problem of the value of truth stepped before us - or was it we who stepped before this problem? Wich of us is Oedipus here? Which of us sphinx? It is, it seems, a rendez-vous of questions and questions-marks. - And, would you believe it, it has finally almost come to seem to us that this problem has never before been posed - that we have been the first to see it, to fix our eye on it, to hazard it? For there is a hazard in it and perhaps there exists no greater hazard. 2 "How could something originate in this antithesis? Truth in error, for example? Or will to truth in will to deception? Or the unselfish act in self-interest? Or the pure radiant gaze of the sage in covetousness? Such origination is impossible ; he who dreams of it is a fool, indeed worse than a fool ; the things of the highest value must have another origin of their own - they cannot derivable from this transitory, seductive, deceptive, mean little world, from this confusion of desire and illusion! In the womb of being, rather, in the intransitory, in the hidden god, in the 'thing in itself' - that is where their cause must lie and nowhere else!" This mode of judgement constitues the typical prejudice by which metaphysicians of all ages can be recognized ; this mode of evaluation stands in the background of all their logical procedures ; it is on account of this their 'faith' that they concern themselves with their 'knowledge', with something that is at last solemnly baptized 'the truth'. The fundamental faith of the mataphysicians is the faith in antithetical values. It has not occured to even the most cautious of them to pause and doubt here on the threshold, where however it was most needful they should : even if they had vowed to themselves 'de omnius dubitandum'.For it may be doubted, firstly wheter there exist any antitheses at all, and secondly wheter these popular evaluations and value-antitheses, on which the metaphysicians have set their seal, are not perhaps merely foreground valuations, merely provisional perspectives, perhaps moreover the perspectives of a hole-and-corner, perhaps from below, as it were frog-perspectives, to borrow an expression employed by painters. With all the value that may adhere to the true, the genuine, the selfless, it could be possible that a higher and more fundamental value for all life might have to be ascribed to appearance, to the will to deception, to selfishness and to appetite. It might even be possible that what constitutes the value of those good and honoured things resides precisely in their being artfully related, knotted and crocheted to these wicked, apparently antithetical things, perhaps even in their being essentially identical with them. Perhaps ! - But who is willing to concern himself with such dangerous perhapses! For that we have to await the arrival of a new species of philosopher, one which possesses tastes and inclinations opposite to and different from those of its predecessors - philosophers of the dangerous 'perhaps' in every sense.- And to speak in all seriousness : I see such new philosophers arising.

Supposing truth to be a woman - what? Is the suspicion not well founded that all philosophers, when they have been dogmatists, have had a little understanding of women? That the gruesome earnestness, the clumsy importunity with wich they have hitherto been in the habit of approaching truth have been inept and improper means for winning a wench? Certainly she has not let herself be won - and today every kind of dogmatism stands sad and discouraged. If it continues to stand at all! For there are scoffers who assert it has fallen down, that dogmatism lies on the floor, more, that dogmatism is at its last gasp. To speak seriously, there are good grounds for hopping that all dogmatizing in philosophy, the solemn air of finality it has given itself notwithstanding, may none the less have been no more than a noble childishness and tyronism ; and the time is perhaps very close at hand when it will be grasped in case after case what has been sufficient to furnish the foundation-stone for such sublime and unconditional philosopher's edifices as the dogmatists have hitherto been constructing - some popular superstition or other from time immemorial (such as the soul superstition wich, as the subject-and-ego superstition, has not yet ceased to do mischief even today), perhaps some play on words, a grammatical seduction, or an audacious generalization on the basis of very narrow, very personal, very human, all too human facts. Let us hope that dogmatic philosophy was only a promise across millennia ; as, in a still earlier age, was astrology, in the service of wich more labour, money, ingenuity and patience has perhaps been expended than for any real science hitherto - we owe to it and to its "supra-terrestrial" claims the grand style of architecture in Asia and Egypt. It seems that, in order to inscribe themselves in the hearths of humanity with eternal demands, all great things have first to wander the earth as monstrous and fear-inspiring grotesques : dogmatic philosophy, the doctrine of the Vedanta in Asia and Platonism in Europe for example, was a grotesque of this kind. Let us not be ungrateful to it, even tough it certainly has to be admitted that the worst, most wearisomely protracted and most dangerous of all errors hitherto has been a dogmatist's error, namely Plato's invention of pure spirit and the good in itself. But now, when that has been overcome, when Europe breathes again after this nightmare and can enjoy at any rate a healthier sleep, we whose task is wakefulness itself have inherited all the strength wich has been cultivated by the struggle against this error. To be sure, to speak of spirit and the good as Plato did meant standing truth on her head and denying perspective itself, the basic condition of all life ; indeed, one may ask as a physician : "How could such a malady attack this loveliest product of antiquity, Plato? Did the wicked Socrates corrupt him after all? Could Socrates have been a corrupter of youth after all? And have deserved his hemlock?" But the struggle against Plato, or, to express it more plainly and for "the people", the struggle against the Christian-ecclesiastical pressure of millenia - for Christianity is Platonism for "the people" - has created in Europe a magnificent tension of the spirit such as has never existed on earth before : with so tense a bow one can now shoot for the most distant targuet. European man feels this tension as a state of distress, to be sure ; and there have already been two grand attempts to relax the bow, once means democratic enlightenment - wich latter may in fact, with the aid of freedom of the press and the reading of newspapers, achieve a state of affairs in wich the spirit would no longer so easily feel itself to be a "need"! (The Germans invented gunpowder - all credit to them! But they evened the score again - they invented the press.) But we who are neither Jesuits nor democrats, nor even sufficiently German, we good Europeans and free, very free spirits - we have it still, the whole need of the spirit and the whole tension of its bow! And perhaps also the arrow, the task and, who knows? The target... Sils-Maria, Upper Engadine. June 1885

“Concentrate.” “I am trying!” “Then try harder!” Lara grits her teeth, pushes with her mind, reaching out to grab the air channels and force them where she wills. She feels the shift of the currents tug at her hair, throws her arms out for effect. The slight breeze strengthens into a gale that billows from behind her, toses her a few feet into the air. Like a wild animal on a lead, the wind tugs and tries to escape from her bidding, but Lara holds on tight, struggling to hang on, to ride the currents. The wind, she pictures this one as a large wolf, slips one way, and Lara hauls it back. It snaps at her mind and she fends it off. It tries to grow still and die, disappear. She lashes out to make it move. Through sheer willpower, she keeps it underneath her, keeping herself aloft, hovering above the ground and getting steadier by the second. “You are doing it wrong,” Griffith frowns. “I have told you how to do it. Guide it, become one with it, make it want what you want.” “I prefer my way, it is more fun,” Lara replies, releasing the reins of control, her boots touching the ground again, the wind dying and fading away, free to do as it pleases. "Like training a beast." She brushes locks of shoulder-length hair from of her face, straitens her blue Wind Whisperer Apprentice cloak over her shoulders. “And yet it is less efficient,” Griffith scowls. "If you trained as I teach, you would likely be the most skilled apprentice I have ever had." Master Griffith was a tall, willowy man with greying blond hair that seemed always to be neatly groomed, even in the strongest of winds. Lara was only a bit jealous of that. Her own hair, brown on one side and bleached on the other, was always in a jumbled mess no matter how hard she tried to calm it. She didn’t mind most of the time though, it displayed her personality. “If you truly want to become a Wind Whisperer, you will accept that this is the right way.” His voice was dry and gruff, as it always seemed to be when he spoke to or of her, like he was trying to find fault with everything she did. “Whatever,” Lara huffs, “can I try again? I want to get higher this time.” Griffith waves his hand affirmatively and stalks off to the shade of a tree, swearing under his breath. Lara takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, seeking the power within. It comes to her easily and she stretches it out like invisible limbs. The probing tendrils weave and curl through the air, snagging it and pulling it in, building up its energy, thrusting it underneath her. Lara shoots up, higher than before, much higher. Up over the trees, over the house. She starts to feel giddy. To the South, Lara can see the city with all its large buildings, the people looking like swarms of ants. Around it, beautiful spring-green hills roll. The air feels soft and cool, continuously buffeting her body. She feel like she could fall asleep up here if only it didn’t take so much concentration to keep herself afloat. Lara looks down at her master, barely registrable so high up, and spots another figure slowly making their way along the winding road to the house. Now who could that be?... Probably just a messenger bringing Master Griffith a new job. Still, she was interested. Taking advantage of her distraction, the air bucks underneath her like a horse, and that is what she starts to view it as, as she wrestles for control, sinking faster and faster to the ground the more it struggles away. A cry breaks from her lips and is whisked away, unheard. She finally loses all command over the wind and plummets. She flings out her invisible arms again, trying to build a net from the air, though her focus is disorientated. The hard earth soars to meet her; she covers her face with her arms in a futile attempt to protect herself... then stops. Uncurling, she finds herself hovering barely a metre up. Master Griffith stands with his arms crossed, glaring at her. “What. Did I tell you?” He fumes. Lara says nothing, too relieved at not being a pile of broken bones to come up with her usual snazzy response. Griffith snorts and deposits her in a heap on the grass, then turns to the messenger as he approaches. “Well?” He asks, no surprise evident in his voice at his sudden arrival. Lara found quite early on that it was impossible to sneak up on Griffith. The messenger, a boy of about Lara’s age, draws in a breath before he speaks. “Mornin' Sir, got a letter from up North, an’ it was marked as urgent.” Griffith nods, holds out his hand. The messenger stands straighter, pulls a brown parchment envelope from his coat and gives it to Griffith. “There you go, sir.” Griffith opens it and starts to read aloud. “Mister Griffith, I find myself in dire need of your skill and service as a Wind Whisperer. My task for you is simple yet urgent. My little daughter has grown ill, extremely ill. She has caught the worst case of Yellow Pipe I have ever seen, and fear that she has not long left. Unless I can get a Wind Whisperer to purge it from her. Your skills are widespread and highly praised around the country, so I beg you; make haste on your journey. We dwell on a farm outside the town of Beddgetern, to the North of where you live. I am well known among my people, so finding me shall be no trial. The life of my daughter is now resting in your hands. -William Dermott.” Lara notices that the boy’s gaze drifted over to her a few times while Master Griffith read. She gives him a small grin, and he quickly looks away. Lara clambers to her feet and stands beside her teacher, again readjusting her appearance. “So, are we going?” She asks brightly. “I don’t see that I have much choice. I’ll head out in an hour. You, however, are staying here.” Lara glares at him, injustice clear on her face. “And why is that?” “This is not something you want to see.” “What, Yellow Pipe? I have seen it before.” She scoffs. Sure, it hadn’t been a very pleasant thing to witness, but it hadn’t been that horrible. “That is true, though you have never seen it purged. I think you had better stay here, and consider whether you want to continue being my apprentice, or keep on with your reckless ways,” He says the last part with a glare of his own. Lara purses her lips angrily but stands down. “Good. Now go pack my bag.” *** Lara wakes to the sound of knocking. Her first instinct is to ignore it and let Master Griffith deal with whoever it was, before remembering that he was out and that she was the mistress of the house. Groaning groggily, she pulls on her cloak and makes her way to the front door. “Yeah, what is it?” She blinks against the morning rays and peers at the boy on her doorstep. “Morning, miss,” the messenger says. “Got another important message for your master. ‘S he in?” Lara shakes her head. “He is still out since the last message.” “That’s unfortunate, miss, this one is very important. I guess I better deliver it to you then. There ain’t any specific wordin’, I was just told to tell the Wind Whisperer that there was this huge storm comin’ in, that it would likely just destroy the whole city if it passed through.” Lara stared at him. This has to be a joke. “How... How far off is it?” She asks. “I don’t know, miss, but I reckon it ain’t too long. Comin' at great speeds, they said.” Lara stares at him for a moment longer, letting it soak in. “You seem awfully calm about this,” she finally says. “Comes with the job, miss. If I started bawling my eyes out every time I delivered some bad news, I wouldn’t get half done now, would I?” He replies with a smirk. “Suppose. Well, thank you for your service,” Lara says, beginning to close the door. The messenger doffs his cap and turns to leave. Lara groans and slides down the door. This was not a good way to start the day. There was no point sending after Griffith because he had a good day’s head start. And she couldn’t just sit around and wait for him; she didn’t know how long she had. Maybe she could get the message to him in a different way. Lara recalled him once talking about a way of communication called projecting. He had gone over the basics with her, but never taught her how to actually do it. Projecting was basically picturing yourself in your head and displaying that image through the air to whoever you wanted to see it, along with sound and whatever else you required. Simple, right? Well, as often the case with Wind Whispering, it wasn’t, and after about an hour of reading through her master’s books on the matter, Lara felt no closer to cracking it. Outside, large grey clouds had already gathered, and rain was pounding on the windows. Gazing out, Lara thought she could already see the storm on the horizon. It was now or never. Or preferably yesterday. Lara wasn’t even sure that if she was successful, Griffith would make it home in time. Breathing deeply, Lara closes her eyes. She pictures her face in her mind, imagining that image travelling at high speeds on the wind towards her master. She reaches within herself, probing for the power that was so familiar to her now, using it to throw her image like a ball. “Master Griffith! I need your help, there is a big storm heading for the city, and it will destroy it if it gets there! Come at once!” She opens her eyes. If she had succeeded, he would probably project back to her. Nothing happens. Lara sighs, closed her eyes and tries again. *** She had failed. The city was going to be obliterated because she was its only line of defence, and she wasn’t good enough. Hovering high above the house, thankfully there had been no lightning yet, she could see the storm, much closer than before. Ginormous didn’t do it justice. It was ripping up fields, throwing around trees like they were pebbles. She was going to have to face that. But she couldn’t, mustn't give up hope, it wasn’t who she was. Despite the cold air, Lara was panting with the effort of using her powers by the time she was back on the ground. She knew what she had to do to have any hope of succeeding. She had to follow Master Griffith’s advice, but the truth was, she was scared. Everyone she had ever met who did Wind Whispering was... different somehow. As if once to become one with the wind, there was no going back. She didn’t want to change; she wanted to be herself when she used her power. If she didn’t do it though, the whole city would collapse. Anyway, first thing first, she had to get as many people out of the city as possible, even if it couldn’t be all. Walking down the street, the hard rain battering at the wall of air she cast in front and around her, she notices that some people had caught wind of the storm already, and were evacuating. Other people huddled in their homes, unaware of the danger they were in. Lara couldn’t do this on her own. The candles flicker on the desk as the cold air rushes into the Messenger Office through the open door. The clerk looks up from her papers and smiles. “Hello miss, how may I hel-” Lara shushes her with a wave of her hand. “Are you aware of the storm coming our way?” She demands. The clerk blinks in surprise. “Well, yes, but we have already called for the Wind Whisperer this morning. No need to panic, he’ll sort it out.” Lara leans in. “Well panic, because the Wind Whisperer is not here.” The clerk registers Lara’s blue clothes and puts two and two together. She pales. “I need you to send every messenger you have out there, spread the word, get as many people you can to get out of here. Evacuate the city.” The clerk stutters. “I-I’m not-” Lara leans in even closer. “In just a few hours, that storm is gonna hit, and this whole city is going to be torn down. Get. Everyone. Out there.” The clerk nods, sweat glistening on her brow, spectacles sliding down her nose. The gale outside picks up, anything not stuck to the ground is swept away in the currents. The building creaks and groans as it stands against the torrent. A body slams into the door and it bursts inward. The clerk screams, flees the room. Lara throws up a cushioning wall around herself and reaches out to snatch the figure, then blocks the empty doorway with a clear wall. Breathing deeply, she looks at the boy she just caught, expecting the worst. “Ello there, miss,” The messenger from earlier says. There are several cuts over his face and arms, but other than that, he seems fine. “Manage to speak to your master?” Lara shakes her head. “It is just me.” The boy frowns. “That again is very unfortunate, miss. Think you can fill his shoes?” Lara nods, shakes her head, shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe. Hopefully.” “Well, know this. I believe in you...” He waits expectantly, obviously hoping for her name. “Lara,” she smiles, holding out her hand, knowing full well how silly it was to be making acquaintances while the storm grew closer with every breath. “Colby,” he replies, accepting her handshake. “Now you probably should be heading out there to kick that storm’s ass,” he grins, “but I think I’ll go find somewhere to crouch and hope my guardian angel ain't sleeping. I don’t think I've ever said this with so much feelin’ before, but good luck.” Lara stares after him as he follows in the clerk’s wake, taking a moment to compose herself. This was it, she was going to have to stop running from the inevitable, face her fear, become one with her element. Save the city. She takes a deep, shaky breath and holds it. She can feel every connection to the air within her. Every one she has ever held, all the ones she currently has. One by one, she lets them go. And though she starts to feel heavy with the loss of those bonds, it is like a great weight is lifting from her shoulders at the same time. She hasn’t felt this... Open, free, unburdened, not since she discovered her powers hidden away inside her, buried deep within the unknown depths of her mind. She feels like she is sinking into the ground and floating high above the clouds all at once. The wind is pouring in through the open, unblocked doorway, the rain, hard as bullets clashing against her skin and on the ground. One struggling step at a time, Lara moves forward to the outside. The gales sweep her up instantly, throwing her down the road. She feels feeble next to the strength of this raging dragon, her mind itches to use her powers against it, but she knows she can’t, she has left that behind her now. Flinging out her invisible arms as far and wide as she can, time seems to slow down for Lara. She can feel the wind rippling through her clothes and hair, slapping them harshly to her body and face. She can feel the rain, like knives upon her skin as they try to rip her flesh. She can feel the doors in her mind, ones she had never noticed before, and pushes them open, knowing that they could never again be closed. She welcomes the wind in. Join me and I will join you, let us be one. And the wind complies. Just like that she has found a new, more efficient way of Wind Whispering, the way Griffith had been telling her the whole time. How naive she had been, fighting for complete control when this was so much better, easier, more powerful. Time rushes back in as if trying to make up for its previous speed. Help me! Lara cries directly to the wind, to its energy, its spirit. And the wind does. It catches her, halts her fall, blocks the rain. Take me up, I- we have to save the city. And the wind obeys, lifting her high into the clouds. Floating effortlessly in the sky, she can now see the full scale of what she has to stop. And she sees that this storm is not the enemy. It is but a weary traveller stepping on an ant hill, unaware of the damage it is causing. Lara stretches her arms out as wide as she can, both invisible and real, engulfing the storm to her full extent. “Stop,” she whispers. The storm tries to ignore her, carrying on with its journey to nowhere. “Stop, please!” This gives it pause. And what would you have me do? She can almost feel it ask. What would you have me do? “Turn around, go back to the sea where you came from, where you can rage freely without dealing harm.” Lara presses her mind at it, willing it to want what she asks. Her arms are aching, slipping back to her. She cannot hold this much longer. “Please!” And by some miracle, it listens. Lara watches it go. Her vision is dimming, black spots appearing at the edges. She is aware of herself slipping slowly to the ground. But it doesn’t matter, because she did it. She stopped the storm and saved her city. The clouds are still circling, the rain is still falling, but normally now. And finally, the world goes black.

Book: Into the Wild Author: Erin Hunter Series: Warriors A half moon glowed on smooth granite boulders, turning them silver. The silence was broken only by the ripple of water from the swift black river and the whisper of trees in the forest beyond. There was a stirring in the shadows, and from all around lithe dark shapes crept stealthily over the rocks. Unsheathed claws glinted in the moonlight. Wary eyes flashed like amber. And then, as if on a silent signal, the creatures leaped at each other, and suddenly the rocks were alive with wrestling, screeching cats. At the center of the frenzy of fur and claws, a massive dark tabby pinned a bracken-colored tom to the ground and drew up his head triumphantly. "Oakheart!" the tabby growled. "How dare you hunt in our territory? The Sunningrocks belong to ThunderClan!" "After tonight, Tigerclaw, this will be just another RiverClan hunting ground!" the bracken-colored tom spat back. A warning yowl came from the shore, shrill and anxious. "Look out! More RiverClan warriors are coming!" Tigerclaw turned to see sleek wet bodies sliding out of the water below the rocks. The drenched RiverClan warriors bounded silently up the shore and hurled themselves into battle without even stopping to shake the water from their fur. The dark tabby glared down at Oakheart. "You may swim like otters, but you and your warriors do not belong in this forest!" He drew back his lips and showed his teeth as the cat struggled beneath him. The desperate scream of a ThunderClan she-cat rose above the clamor. A wiry RiverClan tom had pinned the brown warrior flat on her belly. Now he lunged toward her neck with jaws still dripping from his swim across the river. Tigerclaw heard the cry and let go of Oakheart. With a might leap, he knocked the enemy warrior away from the she-cat. "Quick, Mousefur, run!" he ordered, before turning on the RiverClan tom who had threatened her. Mousefur scrambled to her paws, wincing from a deep gash on her shoulder, and raced away. Behind her, Tigerclaw spat with rage as the RiverClan tom sliced open his nose. Blood blinded him for an instant, but he lunged forward regardless and sank his teeth into the hind leg of his enemy. The RiverClan cat squealed and struggled free. "Tigerclaw!" The yowl came from a warrior with a tail as red as fox fur. "This useless! There are too many RiverClan warriors!" "No, Redtail. ThunderClan will never be beaten!" Tigerclaw yowled back, leaping to Redtail's side. "This is our territory!" Blood was welling around his broad black muzzle, and he shook his head impatiently, scattering scarlet drops onto the rocks. "ThunderClan will honor your courage, Tigerclaw, but we cannot afford to lose any more of our warriors," Redtail urged. "Bluestar would never expect her warriors to fight against these impossible odds. We will have another chance to avenge this defeat." He met Tigerclaw's amber-eyed gaze steadily, then reared away and sprang onto a boulder at the edge of the trees. "Retreat, ThunderClan! Retreat!" he yowled. At once his warriors squirmed and struggled away from their opponents. Spitting and snarling, they backed toward Redtail. For a heartbeat, the RiverClan cats looked confused. Was this battle so easily won? Then Oakheart yowled a jubilant cry. As soon as they heard him, the RiverClan warriors raised their voices and joined their deputy in caterwauling their victory. Redtail looked down at his warriors. With a flick of his tail, he gave the signal and the ThunderClan cats dived down the far side of the Sunningrocks, then disappeared into the trees. Tigerclaw followed last. He hesitated at the edge of the forest and glanced back at the bloodstained battlefield. His face was grim, his eyes furious slits. Then he leaped after his Clan into the silent forest. ********************* In a deserted clearing, an old gray she-cat sat alone, staring up at the clear night sky. All around her in the shadows she could hear the breathing and stirrings of sleeping cats. A small tortoiseshell she-cat emerged from a dark corner, her pawsteps quick and soundless. The gray cat dipped her head in greeting. "How is Mousefur?" she meowed. "Her wounds are deep, Bluestar," answered the tortoiseshell, settling herself on the night-cool grass. "But she is young and strong; she will heal quickly." "And the others?" "They will all recover, too." Bluestar sighed. "We are lucky not to have lost any of our warriors this time. You are a gifted medicine cat, Spottedleaf." She tilted her head again and studied the stars. "I am deeply troubled by tonight's defeat. ThunderClan has not been beaten in its own territory since I became leader," she murmured. "These are difficult times for our Clan. The season of newleaf is late, and there have been fewer kits. ThunderClan needs more warriors if it is to survive." "But the year is only just beginning," Spottedleaf pointed out calmly. "There will be more kits when greenleaf comes." The gray cat twitched her broad shoulders. "Perhaps. But training our young to become warriors takes time. If ThunderClan is to defend its territory, it must have new warriors as soon as possible." "Are you asking StarClan for answers?" meowed Spottedleaf gently, following Bluestar's gaze and staring up at the swath of stars glittering in the dark sky. "It is at times like this we need the words of ancient warriors to help us. Has StarClan spoken to you?" Bluestar asked. "Not for some moons, Bluestar." Suddenly a shooting star blazed across the treetops. Spottedleaf's tail twitched and the fur along her spine bristled. Bluestar's ears pricked but she remained silent as Spottedleaf continued to gaze upward. After a few moments, Spottedleaf lowered her head and turned to Bluestar. "It was a message from StarClan," she murmured. A distant look came into her eyes. "Fire alone can save our Clan." "Fire?" Bluestar echoed. "But fire is feared by all the Clans! How can it save us?" Spottedleaf shook her head. "I do not know," she admitted. "But this is the message StarClan has chosen to share with me." The ThunderClan leader fixed her clear blue eyes on the medicine cat. "You have never been wrong before, Spottedleaf," she meowed. "If StarClan has spoken, then it must be so. Fire will save our Clan."

It was very dark. Rusty could sense something was near. The young tomcat's eyes opened wide as he scanned the dense undergrowth. This place was unfamiliar, but the strange scents drew him onward, deeper into the shadows. His stomach growled, reminding him of his hunger. He opened his jaws slightly to let the warm smells of the forest reach the scent glands on the roof of his mouth. Musty odors of leaf mold mingled with the tempting aroma of a small furry creature. Suddenly a flash of gray raced past him. Rusty stopped still, listening. It was hiding in the leaves less than two tail-lengths away. Rusty knew it was a mouse--he could feel the rapid pulsing of a tiny heart deep within his ear fur. He swallowed, stifling his rumbling stomach. Soon his hunger would be satisfied. Slowly he lowered his body into position, crouching for the attack. He was downwind of the mouse. He knew it was not aware of him. With one final check on his prey's position, Rusty pushed back hard on his haunches and sprang, kicking up leaves on the forest floor as he rose. The mouse dived for cover, heading toward a hole in the ground. But Rusty was already on top of it. He scooped it into the air, hooking the helpless creature with his thorn-sharp claws, flinging it up in a high arc onto the leaf-covered ground. The mouse landed dazed, but alive. It tried to run, but Rusty snatched it up again. He tossed the mouse once more, this time a little farther away. The mouse managed to scramble a few paces before Rusty caught up with it. Suddenly a noise roared nearby. Rusty looked around, and as he did so, the mouse was able to pull away from his claws. When Rusty turned back he saw it dart into the darkness among the tangled roots of a tree. Angry, Rusty gave up the hunt. He spun around, his green eyes glaring, intent on searching out the noise that had cost him his kill. The sound rattled on, becoming more familiar. Rusty blinked open his eyes. The forest had disappeared. He was inside a hot and airless kitchen, curled in his bed. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting shadows on the smooth, hard floor. The noise had been the rattle of hard, dried pellets of food as they were tipped into his dish. Rusty had been dreaming. Lifting his head, he rested his chin on the side of his bed. His collar rubbed uncomfortably around his neck. In his dream he had felt fresh air ruffling the soft fur where the collar usually pinched. Rusty rolled onto his back, savoring the dream for a few more moments. He could still smell mouse. It was the third time since full moon that he'd had the dream, and every time the mouse had escaped his grasp. He licked his lips. From his bed he could smell the bland odor of his food. His owners always refilled his dish before they went to bed. The dusty smell chased away the warm scents of his dream. But the hunger rumbled on in his stomach, so Rusty stretched the sleep out of his limbs and padded across the kitchen floor to his dinner. The food felt dry and tasteless on his tongue. Rusty reluctantly swallowed one more mouthful. Then he turned away from the food dish and pushed his way out through the cat flap, hoping that the smell of the garden would bring back the feelings from his dream. Outside, the moon was bright. It was raining lightly. Rusty stalked down the tiny garden, following the starlit gravel path, feeling the stones cold and sharp beneath his paws. He made his dirt beneath a large bush with glossy green leaves and heavy purple flowers. Their sickly sweet scent cloyed the damp air around him, and he curled his lip to drive the smell out of his nostrils. Afterward, Rusty settled down on top of one of the posts in the fence that marked the limits of his garden. It was favorite spot of his, as he could see right into the neighboring gardens as well as into the dense green forest on the other side of the garden fence. The rain had stopped. Behind him, the close-cropped lawn was bathed in moonlight, but beyond his fence the woods were full of shadows. Rusty stretched his head forward to take a sniff of the damp air. His skin was warm and dry under his thick coat, but he could feel the weight of the raindrops that sparkled on his ginger fur. He heard his owners giving him one last call from the back door. If he went to them now, they would greet him with gentle words and caresses and welcome him onto their bed, where he would curl, purring, warm in the crook of a bent knee. But this time Rusty ignored his owners’ voices and turned his gaze back to the forest. The crisp smell of the woods had grown fresher after the rain. Suddenly the fur on his spine prickled. Was something moving out there? Was something watching him? Rusty stared ahead, but it was impossible to see or smell anything in the dark, tree-scented air. He lifted his chin boldly, stood up, and stretched, one paw gripping each corner of the fencepost as he straightened his legs and arched his back. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of the woods once more. It seemed to promise him something, tempting him onward into the whispering shadows. Tensing his muscles, he crouched for a moment. Then he leaped lightly down into the rough grass on the other side of the garden fence. As he landed, the bell on his collar rang out through the still night air. “Where are you off to, Rusty?” meowed a familiar voice behind him. Rusty looked up. A young black-and-white cat was balancing ungracefully on the fence. “Hello, Smudge,” Rusty replied. “You’re not going to go into the woods, are you?” Smudge’s amber eyes were huge. “Just for a look,” Rusty promised, shifting uncomfortably. “You wouldn’t get me in there. It’s dangerous!” Smudge wrinkled his black nose with distaste. “Henry said he went into the woods once.” The cat lifted his head and gestured with his nose over the rows of fences toward the garden where Henry lived. “That fat old tabby never went into the woods!” Rusty scoffed. “He’s hardly been beyond his own garden since his trip to the vet. All he wants to do is eat and sleep.” “No, really. He caught a robin there!” Smudge insisted. “Well, if he did, then it was before the vet. Now he complains about birds because they disturb his dozing.” “Well, anyway,” Smudge went on, ignoring the scorn in Rusty’s mew, “Henry told me there are all sorts of dangerous animals out there. Huge wildcats who eat live rabbits for breakfast and sharpen their claws on old bones!” “I’m only going for a look around,” Rusty meowed. “I won’t stay long.” “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” purred Smudge. The black-and-white cat turned and plunged off the fence back down into his own garden. Rusty sat down in the coarse grass beyond the garden fence. He gave his shoulder a nervous lick and wondered how much of Smudge’s gossip was true. Suddenly the movement of a tiny creature caught his eye. He watched it scuttle under some brambles. Instinct made him drop into a low crouch. With one slow paw after another he drew his body forward through the undergrowth. Ears pricked, nostrils flared, eyes unblinking, he moved toward the animal. He could see it clearly now, sitting up among the barbed branches, nibbling on a large seed held between its paws. It was a mouse. Rusty rocked his haunches from side to side, preparing to leap. He held his breath in case his bell rang again. Excitement coursed through him, making his heart pound. This was even better than his dreams! The a sudden noise of cracking twigs and crunching leaves made him jump. His bell jangled treacherously, and the mouse darted away into the thickest tangle of the bramble bush. Rusty stood very still and looked around. He could see the white tip of a red bushy tail trailing through a clump of ferns up ahead. He smelled a strong, strange scent, definitely a meat-eater, but neither cat nor dog. Distracted, Rusty forgot about the mouse and watched the red tail curiously. He wanted a better look. All of Rusty’s senses strained ahead as he prowled forward. Then he detected another noise. It came from behind, but sounded muted and distant. He swiveled his ears backward to hear it better. Pawsteps? he wondered, but he kept his eyes fixed on the strange red fur up ahead, and continued to creep onward. It was only when the faint rustling behind him became a loud and fast-approaching leaf-crackle that Rusty realized he was in danger. The creature hit him like an explosion and Rusty was thrown sideways into a clump of nettles. Twisting and yowling, he tried to throw off the attacker that had fastened itself to his back. It was gripping him with incredibly sharp claws. Rusty could feel spike teeth pricking at his neck. He writhed and squirmed from whisker to tail, but he couldn’t free himself. For a second he felt helpless; then he froze. Thinking fast, he flipped over onto his back. He knew instinctively how dangerous it was to expose his soft belly, but it was his only chance. He was lucky--the ploy seemed to work. He heard a “hhuuffff” beneath him as the breath was knocked out of his attacker. Thrashing fiercely, Rusty managed to wriggle free. Without looking back he sprinted toward his home. Behind him, a rush of pawsteps told Rusty his attacker was giving chase. Even though the pain from his scratches stung beneath his fur, Rusty decided he would rather turn and fight than let himself be jumped on again. He skidded to a stop, spun around, and faced his pursuer. It was another kitten, with a thick coat of shaggy gray fur, strong legs, and a broad face. In a heartbeat, Rusty smelled that it was a tom, and sensed the power in the sturdy shoulders underneath the soft coat. Then the kitten crashed into Rusty at full pelt. Taken by surprise by Rusty’s turnabout, it fell back into a dazed heap. The impact knocked the breath out of Rusty, and he staggered. He quickly found his footing and arched his back, puffing out his orange fur, ready to spring onto the other kitten. But his attacker simply sat up and began to lick a forepaw, all signs of aggression gone. Rusty felt strangely disappointed. Every part of him was tense, ready for battle. “Hi there, kittypet!” meowed the gray tom cheerily. “You put up quite a fight for a tame kitty!’ Rusty remained on tiptoe for a second, wondering wether to attack anyway. Then he remembered the strength he had felt in this kitten’s paws when he had pinned him to the ground. He dropped onto his pads, loosened his muscles, and let his spine unbend. “And I’ll fight you again if I have to,” he growled. “I’m Graypaw, by the way,” the gray kitten went on, ignoring Rusty’s threat. “I’m training to be a ThunderClan warrior.” Rusty remained silent. He didn’t understand what this Graywhatsit was meowing about, but he sensed the threat had passed. He hid his confusion by leaning down to lick his ruffled chest. “What’s a kittypet like you doing out in the woods? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?” asked Graypaw. “If you’re the most dangerous thing the woods has to offer, then I think I can handle it,” Rusty bluffed. Graypaw looked up at him for a moment, narrowing his big yellow eyes. “Oh, I’m far from the most dangerous. If I were even half a warrior, I’d have given an intruder like you some real wounds to think about.” Rusty felt a thrill of fear at these ominous words. What did this cat mean by “intruder”? “Anyway,” meowed Graypaw, using his sharp teeth to tug a clump of grass from between his claws, “I didn’t think it was worth hurting you. You’re obviously not from one of the other Clans.” “Other Clans?” Rusty echoed, confused. Graypaw let out an impatient hiss. “You must have heard of the four warrior Clans that hunt around here! I belong to ThunderClan. The other Clans are always trying to steal prey from our territory, especially ShadowClan. They’re so fierce they would have ripped you to shreds, no questions asked.” Graypaw paused to spit angrily and continued: “They come to take prey that is rightfully ours. It’s the job of the ThunderClan warriors to keep them out of our territory. When I’ve finished my training, I’ll be so dangerous, I’ll have the other Clans shaking in their flea-bitten skins. They won’t dare come near us then!” Rusty narrowed his eyes. This must be one of the wildcats Smudge had warned him about! Living rough in the woods, hunting and fighting each other for every last scrap of food. Yet Rusty didn’t feel scared. In fact, it was hard not to admire this confident kitten. “So you’re not a warrior yet?” he asked. “Why? Did you think I was?” Graypaw purred proudly; then he shook his wide, furry head. “I won’t be a real warrior for ages. I have to go through the training first. Kits have to be six moons old before they even begin training. Tonight is my first night out as an apprentice.” “Why don’t you find yourself an owner with a nice cozy house instead? Your life would be much easier,” Rusty meowed. “There are plenty of housefolk who’d take in a kitten like you. All you have to do is sit where they can see you and look hungry for a couple of days--” “And they’d feed me pellets that look like rabbit droppings and soft slop!” Graypaw interrupted. “No way! I can’t think of anything worse than being a kittypet! They’re nothing but Twoleg toys! Eating stuff that doesn’t look like food, making dirt in a box of gravel, sticking their noses outside only when the Twolegs allow them? That’s no life! Out here it’s wild, and it’s free. We come and go as we please.” He finished his speech with a proud spit, then meowed mischievously, “Until you’ve tasted a fresh-killed mouse, you haven’t lived. Have you ever tasted mouse?” “No,” Rusty admitted, a little defensively. “Not yet.” “I guess you’ll never understand.” Graypaw sighed. “You weren’t born wild. It makes a big difference. You need to be born with warrior blood in your veins, or the feel of the wind in your whiskers. Kitties born into Twoleg nests could never feel the same way.” Rusty remembered the way he had felt in his dream. “That’s not true!” he mewed indignantly. Graypaw did not reply. He suddenly stiffened midlick, one paw still raised, and sniffed the air. “I smell cats from my Clan,” he hissed. “You should go. They won’t be pleased to find you hunting in our territory!” Rusty looked around, wondering how Graypaw knew any cat was approaching. He couldn’t smell anything different on the leaf-scented breeze. But his fur stood on end at the note of urgency in Graypaw’s voice. “Quick!” hissed Graypaw again. “Run!” Rusty prepared to spring into the bushes, not knowing which way was safe to jump. He was too late. A voice meowed behind him, firm and menacing. “What’s going on here?” Rusty turned to see a large gray she-cat strolling majestically out from the undergrowth. She was magnificent. White hairs streaked her muzzle, and an ugly scar parted the fur across her shoulders, but her smooth gray coat shone like silver in the moonlight. “Bluestar!” Beside Rusty, Graypaw crouched down and narrowed his eyes. He crouched even lower when a second cat--a handsome, golden tabby--followed the gray cat into the clearing. “You shouldn’t be so near Twolegplace, Graypaw!” growled the golden tabby angrily, narrowing his green eyes. “I know, Lionheart, I’m sorry.” Graypaw looked down at his paws. Rusty copied Graypaw and crouched low to the forest floor, his ears twitching nervously. These cats had an air of strength he had never seen in any of his garden friends. Maybe what Smudge had warned him about was true. “Who is this?” asked the she-cat. Rusty flinched as she turned her gaze on him. Her piercing blue eyes made him feel even more vulnerable. “He’s no threat,” mewed Graypaw quickly. “He’s not another Clan warrior, just a Twoleg pet from beyond our territories.” Just a Twoleg pet! The words inflamed Rusty, but he held his tongue. The warning look in Bluestar’s stare told him that she had observed the anger in his eyes, and he looked away. “This is Bluestar; she’s leader of my Clan!” Graypaw hissed to Rusty under his breath. “And Lionheart. He’s my mentor, which means he’s training me to be a warrior.” “Thank you for the introduction, Graypaw,” meowed Lionheart coolly. Bluestar was still staring at Rusty. “You fight well for a Twoleg pet,” she meowed. Rusty and Graypaw exchanged confused glances. How could she know? “We have been watching you both,” Bluestar went on, as if she had read their thoughts. “We wondered how you would deal with an intruder, Graypaw. You attacked him bravely.” Graypaw looked pleased at Bluestar’s praise. “Sit up now, both of you!” Bluestar looked at Rusty. “You too, kittypet.” He sat up immediately and held Bluestar’s gaze evenly as she addressed him. “You reacted well to the attack, kittypet. Graypaw is stronger than you, but you used your wits to defend yourself. And you turned to face him when he chased you. I’ve not seen a kittypet do that before.” Rusty managed to nod his thanks, taken aback by such unexpected praise. Her next words surprised him even more. “I have been wondering how you would perform out here, beyond the Twolegplace. We patrol this border frequently, so I have often seen you sitting on your boundary, staring out into the forest. And now, at last, you have dared to place your paws here.” Bluestar stared at Rusty thoughtfully. “You do seem to have a natural hunting ability. Sharp eyes. You would have caught that mouse if you had not hesitated so long.” “R-really?” Rusty stammered. Lionheart spoke now. His deep meow was respectful but insistent. “Bluestar, this is a kittypet. He should not be hunting in ThunderClan territory. Send him home to his Twolegs!” Rusty prickled at Lionheart’s dismissive words. “Send me home?” he mewed impatiently. Bluestar’s words had made him glow with pride. She had noticed him; she had been impressed by him. “But I’ve only come here to hunt for a mouse or two. I’m sure there’s enough to go around.” Bluestar had turned her head to acknowledge Lionheart’s words. Now her gaze snapped back to Rusty. Her blue eyes were blazing with anger. “There’s never enough to go around,” she spat. “If you didn’t live such a soft, overfed life, you would know that!” Rusty was confused by Bluestar’s sudden rage, but one glance at the horrified look on Graypaw’s face was enough to tell him he had spoken too freely. Lionheart stepped to his leader’s side. Both warriors loomed over him now. Rusty looked into Bluestar’s threatening stare and his pride dissolved. These were not cozy fireside cats he was dealing with--they were mean, hungry cats who were probably going to finish what Graypaw had started.

“Well?” hissed Bluestar, her face only a mouse-length from his now. Lionheart remained silent as he towered over Rusty. He flattened his ears and crouched under the golden warrior’s cold stare. His fur prickled uncomfortably. “I am no threat to your Clan,” he mewed, looking down at his trembling paws. “You threaten our Clan when you take our food,” yowled Bluestar. “You have plenty of food in your Twoleg nest already. You come here only to hunt for sport. But we hunt to survive.” The truth of the warrior queen’s words pierced Rusty like a blackthorn, and suddenly he understood her anger. He stopped trembling, sat up, and straightened his ears. He raised his eyes to meet hers. “I had not thought of it that way before. I am sorry,” he meowed solemnly. “I will not hunt here again.” Bluestar let her hackles fall and signaled to Lionheart to step back. “You are an unusual kittypet,” she meowed. Graypaw’s sigh of relief made Rusty’s ears twitch. He heard the approval in Bluestar’s voice and noticed as she swapped a meaningful glance with Lionheart. The look made him curious. What flashed between the two warriors? Quietly he asked, “Is survival here really so hard?” “Our territory covers part of the forest,” answered Bluestar. “We compete with other Clans for what we have. And this year, late newleaf means prey is scarce.” “Is your Clan very big?” Rusty meowed, his eyes wide. “Big enough,” replied Bluestar. “Our territory can support us, but there is no prey left over.” “Are you all warriors, then?” Rusty mewed. Bluestar’s guarded answers were just making him more and more curious. Lionheart answered him. “Some are warriors. Some are too young or too old or too busy caring for kits to hunt.” “And you all live and share prey together?” Rusty murmured in awe, thinking a little guiltily of his own easy, selfish life. Bluestar looked again at Lionheart. The golden tabby stared back at her steadily. At last she returned her gaze to Rusty and meowed, “Perhaps you should find out these things for yourself. Would you like to join ThunderClan?” Rusty was so surprised, he couldn’t speak. Bluestar went on: “If you did, you would train with Graypaw to become a warrior of ThunderClan.” “But kittypets can’t be warriors!” Graypaw blurted out. “They don’t have warrior blood!” A sad look clouded Bluestar’s eyes. “Warrior blood,” she echoed with a sigh. “Too much of that has been spilled lately.” Bluestar fell silent and Lionheart meowed, “Bluestar is only offering you training, young kit. There is no guarantee you would become a full warrior. It might prove too difficult for you. After all, you are used to a comfortable life.” Rusty was stung by Lionheart’s words. He swung his head around to face the golden tabby. “Why offer me the chance, then?” But it was Bluestar who answered. “You are right to question our motives, young one. The fact is, ThunderClan needs more warriors.” “Understand that Bluestar does not make this offer lightly,” warned Lionheart. “If you wish to train with us, we will have to take you into our Clan. You must either live with us and respect our ways, or return to your Twolegplace and never come back. You cannot live with a paw in each world.” A cool breeze stirred the undergrowth, ruffling Rusty’s fur. He shivered, not with the cold, but with excitement at the incredible possibilities opening up in front of him. “Are you wondering if it’s worth giving up your comfortable kittypet life?” asked Bluestar gently. “But do you realize the price you will pay for your warmth and food?” Rusty looked at her, puzzled. Surely his encounter with these cats had proved to him just how easy and luxurious his life was. “I can tell you are still a tom,” Bluestar added, “despite the Twoleg stench that clings to your fur.” “What do you mean--still a tom?” “You haven’t yet been taken by the Twolegs to see the Cutter,” meowed Bluestar gravely. “You would be very different then. Not quite to keen to fight a Clan cat, I suspect!” Rusty was confused. He suddenly thought of Henry, who had become fat and lazy since his visit to the vet. Was that what Bluestar meant by the Cutter? “The Clan may not be able to offer you such easy food or warmth,” continued Bluestar. “In the season of leaf-bare, nights in the forest can be cruel. The Clan will demand great loyalty and hard work. You will be expected to protect the Clan with your life if necessary. And there will be many mouths to feed. But the rewards are great. You will remain a tom. You will be trained in the ways of the wild. You will learn what it is to be a real cat. The strength and the fellowship of the Clan will always be with you, even when you hunt alone.” Rusty’s head reeled. Bluestar seemed to be offering him the life he had lived so many times, and so tantalizingly, in his dreams, but could he live like that for real? Lionheart interrupted his thoughts. “Come, Bluestar, let’s not waste any more time here. We must be ready to join the other patrol at moonhigh. Tigerclaw will wonder what has become of us.” He stood up and flicked his tail expectantly. “Wait,” Rusty meowed. “Can I think about your offer?” Bluestar looked at him for a long moment and nodded. “Lionheart will be here tomorrow at sunhigh,” she told him. “Give him your answer then.” Bluestar murmured a low signal, and in a single movement the three cats turned and disappeared into the undergrowth. Rusty blinked. He stared--excited, uncertain--up past the ferns that encircled him, through the canopy of leaves, to the stars that glittered in the clear sky. The scent of the Clan cats still hung heavy in the evening air. And as Rusty turned and headed for home, he felt a strange sensation inside him, tugging him back into the depths of the forest. His fur prickled deliciously in the light wind, and the rustling leaves seemed to whisper his name into the shadows.

I am a foundling. But until I was eight years old, like all other children, I believed I had a mother, for when I wept there was a woman who took me in her arms and pressed me against her bosom until my tears ceased to flow. I was never put to bed but a woman gave me a kiss, and when the December wind drove the snowflakes against the frosted windows, she took my feet in both her hands to warm them, and then she sang a song whose tune and some words have not yet been erased from my memory. When I was tending our cow on the grasses by the roads or under the trees and was caught in a downpour, she came to meet me and forced me into shelter in her woolen coat, which she lifted to cover my head and shoulders. When I had a quarrel with one of my comrades, she let me give my heart and she always knew how to comfort me and to agree with me with a single word. From all this and from other reasons, also from the way in which she spoke to me and looked at me for her caresses and for the gentleness with which she scolded me, I believed that she was my mother. Suddenly, however, I came to know that she was only my nurse. See how here. My village, or rather the village where I was brought up, for of my village I cannot speak: a place of birth I have as little as a father or mother—the village in which I spent my first childhood is called Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in the south of France. This poverty is not the result of the indifference or laziness of the inhabitants, but of the barrenness of the region in which it is situated. The soil is only covered with a thin layer of topsoil, and to get a good harvest one would have to fertilize it heavily or make improvements which the land does not yield. One finds therefore, or at least one found in the time of which I speak, very few cultivated fields, but everywhere great expanses of undergrowth and brambles. Where the moors ended, the marshes began; and over those high swamps the shrill wind blows and withers the foliage of the groves of a few trees, stretching hither and thither their gnarled and crooked branches. To find more beautiful trees, one must leave the heights and seek the places sheltered from the wind, on the banks of the rivers, where large chestnut trees and sturdy oaks grow on narrow strips of pasture. In one of those half-hidden places, at the edge of a brook, whose swift-flowing waves lose themselves in one of the arms of the Loire, lay the house where I spent my first years of life. Until I was eight years old I had never seen a man in that house. Yet my mother was not a widow, but her husband was a stonemason and, like most other workmen of this region, he made his living in Paris and had not come back since I was old enough to understand what I heard and saw. Only now and then did he speak up when one of his comrades came into the village. Mistress Barberin, your husband is well; he has asked me to tell you that he has a lot of work and has given me this money for you. Do you want to count it. That was all. Madame Barberin was satisfied with these reports; her husband was healthy; the work was well paid; he earned his living. Though Barberin had remained so long in Paris, it must not be inferred that he was not on good terms with his wife. That permanent absence was not at all due to a lack of agreement. He lived in Paris because he had his work there; no more. When he had reached his age, he would return to his old wife, and with the money they would have deposited, they would be free from poverty when the time had come when strength and health had failed them. One November day, when evening was already falling, a man whom I did not recognize stopped in front of our gate. I was standing in front of our house eating a sandwich. He didn't open the gate, but sticking his head over it, he asked me if Mrs Barberin didn't live here. I asked him to come in. He opened the gate, which creaked on the hinges, and approached the house. I had never seen anyone so covered with mud. Entire placards of mud, some still wet, others already dried, covered him from head to foot, and it was inferred that he had followed very bad roads. Hearing his voice, Mrs. Barberin stepped forward, and the moment he reached the threshold she stood directly opposite him. "I bring news from Paris," he said. I had often heard those simple words, but the manner in which they were pronounced had none of that which formerly accompanied communication.—"Your husband is well; he is busy." Ah God! exclaimed Madame Barberin, wringing her hands, "there's been a misfortune with Jérôme." "Well, yes, but you needn't die of fright. He's hurt, that's all: but he's not dead. However, he may be mutilated. At the moment he is in hospital; my bed was next to his, and as I was going hither, he begged me to tell you this in passing. I cannot stay any longer, for I have three more miles to go and night is already falling. Mrs. Barberin, desiring to know more, urged him to have supper with us, for the roads were bad, and wolves were said to have appeared in the neighbourhood. He could go on the next morning. He sat down in a corner by the hearth, and as he ate he told us how the accident had happened. Barberin had been half crushed by a scaffolding which had collapsed, and as it had been proved that he ought not to have been at the place where he was injured, the contractor refused him any compensation. "He's not lucky, poor Barberin," said he; he is not lucky; others would have found a way to draw a nice annual allowance for life, but your husband gets nothing. And as he dried the legs of his trousers, which had become stiff and hard with the layer of mud, he repeated: "he's not lucky." It was evident enough from the way he said this that he would gladly have been mutilated for himself in the hope that he would get a good annuity. "Yet," he concluded, "I advised him to sue the contractor." -A process! that costs a lot of money. "Yes, but one can win it." Madame Barberin had wanted to go to Paris, but it was no small matter, such a long and costly journey. The next morning we went to the village to consult the priest. He would not let her go until he knew whether she could be of any service to her husband. He wrote to the chaplain of the hospital into which Barberin had been admitted, and a few days later he received a reply that his wife should not undertake the journey, but rather send him a certain sum, as her husband was the contractor for whom he worked, wanted to sue. Days and weeks passed, and from time to time letters came, asking for money again and again. The last letter was the most urgent, and stated that if there was no money left, the cow should be sold. Only those who have lived in the country know what misfortune and misery are contained in those three words, "sell the cow." To the physicist the cow is a ruminant animal; to the walker it is a beast that does good to the landscape, when it sticks its black, dewy muzzle above the green; for the urban youth it is the source of milk, cream and cheese; but to the farmer it is something quite different. However poor he may be and however numerous his family, he is sure that he will not go hungry as long as he has a cow in his stable. With a rope or only a simple hemp rope around the horns, a child lets a cow graze along the grassy roads, whose grazing rights are not leased by anyone, and in the evening the whole family has butter for their soup and milk to put the potatoes in. weeks: father, mother and all the children, big as well as small, live off the cow. We lived so entirely on it, Mrs Barberin and I, that I had never tasted meat at that time. But she was not only our nurse, but also our companion and friend, for the cow must not be believed to be a stupid animal; on the contrary, she is a sensible beast and she has good qualities, which become even better when she has been trained and developed. We caressed ours, we talked to her and she understood us and, for her part, she knew very well what she wanted or felt with her big round eyes, so good-natured and soft. In short, we loved her and she loved us. That's all said. But we had to divorce her; for only by selling the cow could Barberin be satisfied. A merchant came, and after looking and touching Roussette from all sides, and shaking her head dissatisfied, and saying a hundred times that he really didn't want them, that she was a poor people's cow, and that he didn't want it. would come off; that she gave scarcely any milk and bad butter, he ended by saying that he would take them, but only out of pity and to please Madame Barberin, because she was a good person. As if poor Roussette had understood what was happening to her, she would not leave the stable and began to moo. "Go after her and hunt her down," said the merchant, raising his whip. "No, not that," said Mrs. Barberin, and she herself took the line, and spoke to the animal in low words, which it willingly followed. When it came out, it was tied behind the chariot and forced to follow the horse. When we had returned to the house, we heard the lowing for a long time. No milk, no butter; in the morning a piece of bread, in the evening potatoes with a little salt. Shrovetide came soon after selling Roussette; the previous year Mrs. Barberin had baked apple dumplings and waffles for me on that occasion; I had eaten so much of it, so much that she was happy with it. But then we had Roussette, who had given the milk to make the batter and the butter to put in the pot. Now that we missed her, there was no milk and no butter, and it wasn't Shrovetide either, I thought to myself. But Mrs. Barberin had prepared a little surprise for me; as a rule she did not borrow, but this time she had asked a neighbor for a cup of milk and another for butter, and when I came home in the afternoon I found her pouring flour into a large earthen pot. -Hey! flour, I exclaimed, approaching. "Yes, yes," she replied with a kind smile, "that is flour,Rémi, and nice wheat flour too; just smell how good it smells.If I had dared I would have asked what the flour was for, but precisely because I wanted to know so badly I dared not talk about it. On the other hand, I didn't want to admit that I knew it was Shrovetide, because this might grieve Lady Barberin. —What is made of flour? she asked, looking at me with a knowing look. -Bread. -And what else? -Soup. —And then something else. —I really don't know. —Oh, you know; but because you are a sweet boy, you dare not say it. You know today is Shrovetide, the night of apple dumplings and waffles. But because you also know that we have no more butter and no milk, you dare not speak of it. isn't it so? —Oh, Mother Barberin….. —Now that I've made sure that Shrovetide wouldn't be too bare after all. Look in the food box. I lifted the lid and was amazed to see milk, butter, eggs and three apples. "Give me the eggs," she said, and while I scramble them, you must peel the apples. I peeled and sliced ​​the apples; she broke the eggs and plunged them into the flour, and then began to scramble, adding a spoonful of milk now and then. When the batter was ready, Mrs. Barberin put the pot on the hot ashes, and now we only had to wait for the evening; because we would have the apple dumplings and the waffles for dinner. Frankly speaking, the day lasted a very long time for me, and more than once I went to the pot to lift the cloth that hung over it. "You'll get the batter cold," said Mrs. Barberin, "and then it won't rise." But it did rise and blisters were seen to appear at several points and burst on the surface. From the rising dough rose a delicious smell of eggs and milk. "Break another bunch of fagots," she said; we must have a bright fire without smoke. Finally the candle was lit. "Throw the wood on the fire," she said. She didn't have to tell me this twice, because I had been waiting for that for a long time. Presently a great flame rose up the chimney and lit up the whole kitchen. Then Fru Barberin took a large skillet from the wall and held it over the flame. "Give me the butter." She then took a piece of butter the size of a nut with the point of a knife and placed it in the pan, where it instantly melted with a hiss. It was a nice smell, which made us so much the more pleasant, as we hadn't smelled it for a long time. And it was sweet music too, that which was produced by the hissing and bubbling of the butter. But, though I was quite an ear for this pleasant sound, I thought I heard a rumor in the square in front of the house. Who would disturb us so late at night? Certainly a neighbor who came to ask for some fire. But I thought no more of it, for Mrs. Barberin had dipped the spoon into the pot and poured a broad stream of the white batter into the pan, and this occupied me too much to pay attention to anything else. There was a banging on the door with a stick, and immediately it was jerked open. -Who is there? asked Mrs. Barberin without turning. Someone had come in, and by the flames, which fully lit him, I saw a man with a white smock and a thick stick in his hand. "Well, you're celebrating again." Now go ahead, he said roughly. "Lord in heaven, art thou there!" cried Mrs. Barberin, suddenly placing her pot beside her. Jerome! Then she took me by the arm and pushed me towards the man who had stopped on the threshold. "That's your father."

Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone. Written by : JK Rowling Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it.They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that. When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive. It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swoop- ing past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. “The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —” “— yes, their son, Harry —” Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . . He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door. “Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!” And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination. As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. “Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife. Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: “And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?” “Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.” Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters . . . Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?” As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister. “No,” she said sharply. “Why?” “Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . .” “So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley. “Well, I just thought . . . maybe . . . it was something to do with . . . you know . . . her crowd.” Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?” “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly. “What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?” “Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.” He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did . . . if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear it. The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. . . . He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them. . . . How very wrong he was. Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.” He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it. “Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.” He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled. “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.” “You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor McGonagall. “All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.” Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. “Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls . . . shooting stars. . . . Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.” “You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.” “I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.” She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?” “It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?” “A what?” “A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.” “No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —” “My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.” “I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.” “You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.” “Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.” “It’s lucky its dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.” Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?” It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer. “What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.” Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. “Lily and James . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh, Albus . . .” Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know . . . I know . . .” he said heavily. Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why he’s gone.” Dumbledore nodded glumly. “It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done . . . all the people he’s killed . . . he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding . . . of all the things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?” “We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.” Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?” “Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?” “I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.” “You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!” “It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.” “A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know his name!” “Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?” Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it. “Hagrid’s bringing him.” “You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?” “I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore. “I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what was that?” A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets. “Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?” “Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.” “No problems, were there?” “No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. “Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall. “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” “Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?” “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well — give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.” Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house. “Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. “Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!” “S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —” “Yes, yes, its all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out. “Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.” “Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir.” Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night. “I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. “Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. . . . He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!” _______________________________________

That morning, as Rusty slept off his night’s wanderings, the mouse dream cane again, even more vivid than before. Free of his collar, beneath the moon, he stalked the timid creature. But this time he was aware of being watched. Shining from the shadows of the forest he saw dozens of yellow eyes. The Clan cats had entered his dream world. Rusty woke, blinking in the bright sunshine that was streaming across the kitchen floor. His fur felt heavy and thick with warmth. His food bowl had been topped up, and his water bowl rinsed out and filled with bitter-tasting Twoleg water. Rusty preferred drinking from puddles outside, but when it was hot, or he was very thirsty, he had to admit it was easier to lap up the water indoors. Could he really abandon this comfortable life? He ate, then pushed his way out of the cat flap into the garden. The day promised to be warm, and the garden was heavy with the smell of early blossoms. “Hello, Rusty!” mewed a voice from the fence. It was Smudge. “You should have been awake an hour ago. The baby sparrows were out stretching their wings.” “Did you catch any?” Rusty asked. Smudge yawned and licked his nose. “Couldn’t be bothered. I’d already eaten enough at home. Anyway, why weren’t you out earlier? Yesterday you were complaining about Henry sleeping his time away, and today you’re not much better yourself.” Rusty sat down on the cool earth beside the fence and curled his tail neatly over his front paws. “I was in the woods last night,” he reminded his friend. At once he felt the blood stir in his veins and his fur stiffen. Smudge looked down at him, his eyes wide. “Oh, yes, I forgot! How was it? Did you catch anything? Or did anything catch you?” Rusty paused, not sure how to tell his old friend what had happened. “I met some wild cats,” he began. “What!” Smudge was clearly shocked. “Did you get into a fight?” “Sort of.” Rusty could feel the energy surging through his body again as he recalled the strength and power of the Clan cats. “Were you hurt? What happened?” Smudge prompted him eagerly. “There were three of them. Bigger and stronger than any of us.” “And you fought all three of them!” Smudge interrupted, his tail twitching with excitement. “No!” Rusty mewed hastily. “Just the youngest one; the other two came later.” “How come they didn’t shred you to pieces?” “They just warned me to leave their territory. But then…” Rusty hesitated. “What!” mewed Smudge impatiently. “They asked me to join their Clan.” Smudge’s whiskers quivered disbelievingly. “They did!” Rusty insisted. “Why would they do that?” “I don’t know,” Rusty admitted. “I think they need extra paws in their Clan.” “Sounds a bit odd to me,” Smudge mewed doubtfully. “I wouldn’t trust them if I were you.” Rusty looked at Smudge. His black-and-white friend had never shown any interest in venturing into the woods. He was perfectly content living with his housefolk. He would never understand the restless longing that Rusty’s dreams stirred in him night after night. “But I do trust them,” Rusty purred softly. “And I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to join them.” Smudge scrambled down from the fence and stood in front of Rusty. “Please don’t go, Rusty,” he mewed in alarm. “I might never see you again.” Rusty nudged him affectionately with his head. “Don’t worry. My housefolk will get another cat. You’ll get on with him fine. You get along with everyone!” “But it won’t be the same!” Smudge wailed. Rusty twitched his tail impatiently. “That’s just the point. If I stay around here till they take me to the Cutter, I won’t be the same either.” Smudge looked puzzled. “The Cutter?” he echoed. “The vet,” Rusty explained. “To be altered, like Henry was.” Smudge shrugged and stared down at his paws. “But Henry’s all right,” he mumbled. “I mean, I know he’s a bit lazier now, but he’s not unhappy. We could still have fun.” Rusty felt his heart fill with sadness at the thought of leaving his friend. “I’m sorry, Smudge. I’ll miss you, but I have to go.” Smudge didn’t reply, but stepped forward and gently touched Rusty’s nose with his own. “Fair enough. I can see I can’t stop you, but at least let’s spend one more morning together.” ********************* Rusty found himself enjoying the morning even more than usual, visiting his old haunts with Smudge, sharing words with the cats he had grown up with. Every one of his senses felt supercharged, as if he were poised before a huge jump. As sunhigh approached, Rusty grew more and more impatient to see if Lionheart would really be waiting for him. The idle buzz of meows from his old friends seemed to fade into the background as all his senses strained toward the woods. Rusty jumped down from his garden fence for the last time and crept into the woods. He had said his good-byes to Smudge. Now all his thoughts were focused on the forest and the cats who lived in it. As he approached the spot where he had met with the Clan cats the night before, he sat down and tasted the air. Tall trees shielded the ground from the midday sunshine, making it comfortably cool. Here and there a patch of sunlight shone through a gap in the leaves and lit up the forest floor. Rusty could smell the same cat-scent as last night, but he had no idea wether it was old or new. He lifted his head and sniffed uncertainly. “You have a lot to learn,” meowed a deep voice. “Even the tiniest Clan kit knows when another cat is nearby.” Rusty saw a pair of green eyes glinting from beneath a bramble bush. Now he recognized the scent: it was Lionheart. “Can you tell if I am alone?” asked the golden tabby, stepping into the light. Hastily, Rusty sniffed again. The scents of Bluestar and Graypaw were still there, but not as strong as the previous night. Hesitantly, he mewed, “Bluestar and Graypaw aren’t with you this time.” “That’s right,” meowed Lionheart. “But someone else is.” Rusty stiffened as a second Clan cat strode into the clearing. “This is Whitestorm,” purred Lionheart. “One of ThunderClan’s senior warriors.” Rusty looked at the tom and felt his spine tingle with cold fear. Was this a trap? Long-bodied and muscular, Whitestorm stood in front of Rusty and gazed down at him. His white coat was thick and unmarked and his eyes were the yellow of sunbaked sand. Rusty flattened his ears warily, and tensed his muscles in preparation for a fight. “Relax, before your fear-scent brings unwanted attention,” growled Lionheart. “We are here only to take you to our camp.” Rusty sat very still, hardly daring to breathe, as Whitestorm stretched his nose forward and gave him a curious sniff. “Hello, young one,” murmured the white cat. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Rusty dipped his head in greeting. “Come, we can speak more once we are in the camp,” ordered Lionheart, and, without pausing, he and Whitestorm leaped away into the undergrowth. Rusty jumped to his paws and followed as quickly as he could. The two warriors made no allowances for Rusty as they sped through the forest, and before long he was struggling to keep up. Their pace barely slowed as they led him over fallen trees that they cleared in a single leap, but which Rusty had to scramble over paw by paw. They passed through sharply fragrant pine trees, where they had to jump across deep gullies churned up by a Twoleg tree-eater. From the safety of hid garden fence, Rusty had often heard it roaring and snarling in the distance. One gully was too wide to jump, half-filled with slimy, foul-smelling water. The Clan cats waded through without hesitating. Rusty had never put a paw in water before. But he was determined not to show any signs of weakness, so he narrowed his eyes and followed, trying to ignore the uncomfortable wetness that soaked his belly fur. At last Lionheart and Whitestorm paused. Rusty skidded to a halt behind them and stood panting while the two warriors stepped onto a rock that rested on the edge of a small ravine. “We are very close to our camp now,” meowed Lionheart. Rusty strained to see any signs of life--moving leaves, a glimpse of fur among the bushes below, but his eyes saw nothing except the same undergrowth that covered the rest of the forest floor. “Use your nose. You must be able to scent it,” hissed Whitestorm impatiently. Rusty closed his eyes and sniffed. Whitestorm was right. The scents here were very different from the cat-scent he was used to. The air smelled stronger, speaking of many, many different cats. He nodded thoughtfully and announced, “I can smell cats.” Lionheart and Whitestorm exchanged amused looks. “There will come a time, if you are accepted into the Clan, when you will know each cat-scent by name,” Lionheart meowed. “Follow me!” He led the way nimbly down the boulders to the bottom of the ravine, and pushed his way through a thick patch of gorse. Rusty followed, and Whitestorm took up the rear. As his sides scraped against the prickly gorse, Rusty looked down and noticed that the grass beneath his paws was flattened into a broad, strong-smelling track. This must be the main entrance into the camp, he thought. Beyond the gorse, a clearing opened up. The ground at the center was bare, hard earth, shaped by many generations of pawsteps. This camp had been here a long time. The clearing was dappled by sunshine, and the air felt warm and still. Rusty looked around, his eyes wide. There were cats everywhere, sitting alone or in groups, sharing food or purring quietly as they groomed one another. “Just after sunhigh, when the day is hottest, is a time for sharing tongues,” Lionheart explained. “Sharing tongues?” Rusty echoed. “Clan cats always spend time grooming each other and sharing the news of the day,” Whitestorm told him. “We call it sharing tongues. It is a custom that binds the members of the Clan together.” The cats had obviously smelled Rusty’s foreign scent, for heads began to turn and stare curiously in his direction. Suddenly shy of meeting any cat’s gaze directly, Rusty looked around the clearing. It was edged with thick grass, dotted with treestumps and a fallen tree. A thick curtain of ferns and gorse shielded the camp from the rest of the woods. “Over there,” meowed Lionheart, flicking his tail toward an impenetrable-looking tangle of brambles, “is the nursery, where the kits are cared for.” Rusty swiveled his ears toward the bushes. He couldn’t see through the knot of prickly branches, but he could hear the mewling of several kittens from somewhere inside. As he watched, a ginger she-cat squirmed out through a small gap in the front. That must be one of the queens, Rusty thought. A tabby queen with distinctive black markings appeared around the bramble bush. The two she-cats exchanged a friendly lick between the ears before the tabby slipped inside the nursery, murmuring to the squealing kits. “The care of our kits is shared by all of the queens,” meowed Lionheart. “All cats serve the Clan. Loyalty to the Clan is the first law in our warrior code, a lesson you must learn quickly if you wish to stay with us.” Here comes Bluestar,” meowed Whitestorm, sniffing the air. Rusty sniffed the air too, and was pleased that he was able to recognize the scent of the gray she-cat a moment before she appeared from the shadow of a large boulder that lay beside them at the head of the clearing. “He came,” Bluestar purred, addressing the warriors. Whitestorm replied, “Lionheart was convinced he would not.” Rusty noticed the tip of Bluestar’s tail twitch impatiently. “Well, what do you think of him?” she asked. “He kept up well on the return journey, despite his puny size,” Whitestorm admitted. “He certainly seems strong for a kittypet.” “So it is agreed?” Bluestar looked at Lionheart and Whitestorm. Both cats nodded. “Then I shall announce his arrival to the Clan.” Bluestar leaped up onto the boulder and yowled, “Let all those cats old enough to catch their own prey join here beneath the Highrock for a Clan meeting.” Her clear call brought all the cats trotting toward her, emerging like liquid shadows from the edges of the clearing. Rusty stayed where he was, flanked by Lionheart and Whitestorm. The other cats settled themselves below the Highrock and looked expectantly up at their leader. Rusty felt a rush of relief as he recognized Graypaw’s thick gray fur among the cats. Beside him sat a young tortoiseshell queen, her black-tipped tail tucked neatly over small white paws. A large dark gray tabby crouched behind them, the black stripes on his fur looking like shadows on a moonlit forest floor. When the cats were still, Bluestar spoke. “ThunderClan needs more warriors,” she began. “Never before have we had so few apprentices in training. It has been decided that ThunderClan will take in an outsider to train as a warrior…” Rusty heard indignant mutterings erupt among the Clan cats, but Bluestar silenced them with a firm yowl. “I have found a cat who is willing to become an apprentice of ThunderClan.” “Lucky to become an apprentice,” caterwauled a loud voice above the ripple of shock that spread through the cats. Rusty craned his neck and saw a pale tabby cat standing up and glaring defiantly at the leader. Bluestar ignored the tabby and addressed all of her Clan. “Lionheart and Whitestorm have met this young cat, and they agree with me that we should train him with the other apprentices.” Rusty looked up at Lionheart, then back at the Clan, to find all eyes were on him now. His fur prickled and he swallowed nervously. There was silence for a moment. Rusty was sure they must all be able to hear his heart pulsing and smell his fear-scent. Now a deafening crescendo of caterwauling rose from the crowd. “Where does he come from?” “Which Clan does he belong to?” “What a strange scent he carries! That’s not the scent of any Clan I know!” Then one yowl in particular sounded out above the rest. “Look at his collar! He’s a kittypet!” It was the pale tabby again. “Once a kittypet, always a kittypet. This Clan needs wildborn warriors to defend it, not another soft mouth to feed.” Lionheart bent down and hissed into Rusty’s ear, “That tabby is Longtail. He smells your fear. They all do. You must prove to him and the other cats that your fear won’t hold you back.” But Rusty couldn’t move. How could he ever prove to these fierce cats that he wasn’t just a kittypet? The tabby continued to jeer at him. “Your collar is a mark of the Twolegs, and that noising jingling will make you a poor hunter at best. At worst, it will bring the Twolegs into our territory, looking for the poor lost kittypet who fills the woods with his pitiful tinkling.” All the cats yowled in agreement. Longtail went on, well aware that he had the support of his audience. “The noise of your treacherous bell will alert our enemies, even if your Twoleg stench doesn’t!” Lionheart hissed into Rusty’s ear once more: “Do you back down from a challenge?” Rusty still did not move. But this time he was trying to pinpoint Longtail’s position. There he was, just behind a dusky brown queen. Rusty flattened his ears, narrowed his eyes, and, hissing, leaped through the startled cats to fling himself onto his tormentor. Longtail was completely unprepared for Rusty’s attack. He staggered sideways, loosing his footing on the hard-baked earth. Filled with rage and desperate to prove himself, Rusty dug his claws deep into the tabby cat’s fur and sank in his teeth. No subtle rituals of swiping and boxing preceded this fight. The two cats were locked in a screaming, writhing tussle that flipped and somersaulted around the clearing at the heart of the camp. The other cats had to spring out of the way to avoid the screeching whirlwind of fur. As Rusty scratched and struggled, he was suddenly aware that he felt no fear, only exhilaration. Through the roaring of the blood in his ears, he could hear the cats around them wailing with excitement. Then Rusty felt his collar tighten around his neck. Longtail had gripped it between his teeth and was tugging, and tugging hard. Rusty felt a terrible pressure at his throat. Unable to breath, he started to panic. He writhed and twisted, but each movement only made the pressure worse. Retching and gulping for air, he summoned up all his strength and tried to pull away from Longtail’s grip. And suddenly, with a loud snap, he was free. Longtail tumbled away from him. Rusty scrambled to his paws and looked around. Longtail was crouching three tail-lengths away. And, dangling from Longtail’s mouth, Rusty saw his collar, mangled and broken. At once, Bluestar leaped down from the Highrock and silenced the noisy crowd with a thunderous caterwaul. Rusty and Longtail remained fixed to the spot, gasping for breath. Clumps of fur hung from their ruffled coats. Rusty could feel a cut stinging above his eye. Longtail’s left ear was badly torn, and blood dripped down his lean shoulders onto the dusty ground. They stared at each other, their hostility not yet spent. Bluestar stepped forward and took the collar from Longtail. She placed it on the ground in front of her and meowed, “The newcomer has lost his Twoleg collar in a battle for his honor. StarClan has spoken its approval--this cat has been released from the hold of his Twoleg owners, and is free to join ThunderClan as an apprentice.” Rusty looked at Bluestar and solemnly nodded his acceptance. He stood up and stepped forward into a shaft of sunshine, welcoming the warmth on his sore muscles. The pool of light blazed bright on his orange pelt, making his fur glow. Rusty lifted his head proudly and looked at the cats that surrounded him. This time no cat argued or jeered. He had shown himself to be a worthy opponent in battle. Bluestar approached Rusty and placed the shredded collar on the ground in front of him. She touched his ear gently with her nose. “You look like a brand of fire in this sunlight,” she murmured. Her eyes flashed briefly, as if her words had more meaning for her than Rusty knew. “You have fought well.” Then she turned to the Clan and announced, “From this day forward, until he has earned his warrior name, this apprentice will be called Firepaw, in honor of his flame-colored coat.” She stepped back and, with the other cats, waited silently for his next move. Without hesitating, Rusty turned around and kicked dust and grass over his collar as though burying his dirt. Longtail growled and limped out of the clearing toward a fern-shaded corner. The cats split into groups, murmuring to each other excitedly. “Hey, Firepaw!” Rusty heard Graypaw’s friendly voice behind him. Firepaw! A thrill of pride surged through him at the sound of his new name. He turned to greet the gray apprentice with a welcoming sniff. “Great fight, Firepaw!” mewed Graypaw. “Especially for a kittypet! Longtail is a warrior, although he only finished his training two moons ago. That scar you left on his ear won’t let him forget you in a hurry. You’ve spoiled his good looks, that’s for sure.” “Thanks, Graypaw,” Firepaw replied. “He put up quite a fight, though!” He licked his front paw and began to wipe clean the deep scratch that stung above his eye. As he washed he heard his new name again, echoing among the meows of the cats. “Firepaw!” “Hey, Firepaw!” “Welcome, young Firepaw!” Firepaw closed his eyes for a moment and let the voices wash over him. “Good name, too!” Graypaw mewed approvingly, jolting him awake. Firepaw looked around. “Where did Longtail creep off to?” “I think he was heading toward Spottedleaf’s den.” Graypaw tipped his head toward the fern-enclosed corner Longtail has disappeared into. “She’s our medicine cat. Not bad-looking either. Younger and a lot prettier than most--” A low yowl next to the two cats stopped Graypaw mid-speech. They both turned, and Firepaw recognized the powerful gray tabby cat who had sat beside Graypaw earlier. “Darkstripe,” mewed Graypaw, dipping his head respectfully. The sleek tom looked at Firepaw for a moment. “Lucky your collar snapped when it did. Longtail is a young warrior, but I can’t imagine him being beaten by a kittypet!” He spat the word kittypet scornfully, then turned and stalked off. “Now Darkstripe,” Graypaw hissed to Firepaw under his breath, “is neither young, nor pretty…” Firepaw was about to agree with his new friend when he was interrupted by a warning yowl from an old gray cat sitting at the edge of the clearing. “Smallear smells trouble!” Graypaw meowed, immediately alert. Firepaw barely had time to look around before a young cat crashed through the bushes and into the camp. He was skinny and--apart from the white tip of his long, thin tail--jet black from head to toe. Graypaw gasped. “That’s Ravenpaw! Why is he alone? Where’s Tigerclaw?” Firepaw looked at Ravenpaw staggering across the floor of the clearing. He was panting heavily. His coat was ruffled and dusty, and his eyes were wild with fear. “Who are Ravenpaw and Tigerclaw?” Firepaw whispered to Graypaw, as several other cats raced past him to greet the new arrival. “Ravenpaw’s an apprentice. Tigerclaw’s his mentor,” Graypaw explained quickly. “Ravenpaw went out with Tigerclaw and Redtail at sunrise on a mission against RiverClan, the lucky furball!” “Redtail?” Firepaw echoed, thoroughly confused by all these names. “Bluestar’s deputy,” hissed Graypaw. “But why on earth has Ravenpaw come back alone?” he added to himself. He lifted his head to listen as Bluestar stepped forward. “Ravenpaw?” The she-cat spoke calmly, but a look of worry clouded her blue eyes. The other cats drew back, curling their lips with anxiety. “What has happened?” Bluestar jumped onto the Highrock and looked down at the trembling cat. “Speak, Ravenpaw!” Ravenpaw was still struggling for breath, and his sides heaved fitfully while the dust around him turned red with blood, but still he managed to scramble up onto the Highrock and stand beside Bluestar. He turned to the crowd of eager faces that surrounded him, and summoned enough breath to declare, “Redtail is dead!”

CHAPTER 8 A Talk At Home On sunday morning Mr. and Mrs. Arable and F em were sitting at breakfast in the kitchen. Avery had finished and was upstairs looking for his slingshot. "Did you know that Uncle Homer's goslings had hatched?" asked Fern. "How many?" asked Mr. Arable. "Seven," replied Fern. "There were eight eggs but one egg didn't hatch and the goose told Templeton she didn't want it any more, so he took it away." "The goose did what?" asked Mrs. Arable, gazing at her daughter with a queer, worried look. "Told Templeton she didn't want the egg any more," repeated Fern. "Who is Templeton?" asked Mrs. Arable. "He's the rat," replied Fern. "None of us like him much." "Who's 'us'?" asked Mr. Arable. "Oh, everybody in the barn cellar. Wilbur and the sheep and the lambs and the goose and the gander and the goslings and Charlotte and me. " 53. A Talk At Home "Charlotte? " said Mrs. Arable. "Who's Charlotte?" "She's Wilbur's best friend. She's terribly clever." "What does she look like?" asked Mrs. Arable. "Weil-l," said Fern, thoughtfully, "she has eight legs. All spiders do, I guess." "Charlotte is a spider?" asked Fern's mother. Fern nodded. "A big grey one. She has a web across the top of Wilbur's doorway. She catches flies and sucks their blood. Wilbur adores her." "Does he really?" said Mrs. Arable, rather vaguely. She was staring at Fern with a worried expression on her face. "Oh, yes, Wilbur adores Charlotte," said Fern. "Do you know what Charlotte said when the goslings hatched?" "I haven't the faintest idea," said Mr. Arable. "Tell us." "Well, when the first gosling stuck its little head out from under the goose, I was sitting on my stool in the corner and Charlotte was on her web. She made a speech. She said: 'I am sure that every one of us here in the barn cellar will be gratified to learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the part of the goose, she now has something to show for it.' Don't you think that was a pleasant thing for her to say?" 54 Charlotte's Web "Yes, I do," said Mrs. Arable. "And now, Fern, it's time to get ready for Sunday School. And tell Avery to get ready. And this afternoon you can tell me more about what goes on in Uncle Homer's barn. Aren't you spending quite a lot of time there? You go there almost every afternoon, don't you?" "I like it there," replied Fern. She wiped her mouth and ran upstairs. After she had left the room, Mrs. Arable spoke in a low voice to her husband. "I worry about Fern," she said. "Did you hear the way she rambled on about the animals, pretending that they talked?" Mr. Arable chuckled. "Maybe they do talk," he said. "I've sometimes wondered. At any rate, don't worry about Fern-she's just got a lively imagination. Kids think they hear all sorts of things." "Just the same, I do worry about her," replied Mrs. Arable. "I think I shall ask Dr. Doriap about her the next time I see him. He loves Fern almost as much as we do, and I want him to know how queerly she is acting about that pig and everything. I don't think it's normal. You know perfectly well animals don't talk." Mr. Arable grinned. "Maybe our ears aren't as sharp as Fern's," he said.

Chapter 14 COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. 'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. 'It is gone, you see.' 'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why have they taken it away?' 'It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,' rejoined the old lady. 'Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I liked to see it. I quite loved it.' 'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.' This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-andtwenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. 'Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!' Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better. Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives. 'There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. 'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I never saw so many.' 'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,--that is, some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.' 'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding. 'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?' 'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver. 'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old gentleman. Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was. 'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features. 'Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to. 'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, 'I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.' 'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!' 'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.' 'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver. 'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.' As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still. 'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, 'I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.' Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig. 'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow. 'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.' Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know. 'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver. 'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.' At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice. 'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!' All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence. 'And when are you going to hear at full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject. 'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear.' 'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him. 'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; 'he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend.' 'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly. 'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll--' and down went the stick. 'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table. 'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also. 'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger. 'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; 'we will.' As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstallkeeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room. 'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr. Brownlow; 'there is something to go back.' 'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin. 'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.' The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him. 'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; 'I particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.' 'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; 'he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.' 'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver. 'I'll run all the way, sir.' The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at least: at once. 'You SHALL go, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.' Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take. 'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; 'you are to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.' 'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart. 'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I can't bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.' At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back, to her own room. 'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,' said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. 'It will be dark by that time.' 'Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr. Grimwig. 'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling. The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast, at the moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile. 'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I'll eat my head.' With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them. It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back. It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.

I want to share with you an interesting story from my friend. Although this hasn't done but you can write your comments here to support my friend. Origination: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3+4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Author: @Tuanannh190 Translated: Google Translate Advised changes: @thenomalnoob Shared: @thenomalnoob Chapter 1 Alex, a young and enthusiastic astronaut, had always dreamed of taking on challenging adventures and discovering new things in the universe. Finally, the lucky day came when he received a message from the Space Center, inviting him to join a trip to discover a new planet. The unbelievable feeling of having his dream come true made Alex extremely excited and nervous. He began to prepare for his journey and continued to train to be ready to face the toughest challenges. After completing the preparations, Alex boarded the spacecraft "Aurora" with a team of astronauts and other scientists. Together they headed to the new planet, where they hoped to find something new and exciting. On this path of discovery, Alex and his teammates would face with unexpected challenges and uncover the mysteries of the universe, to bring progress and new understanding to humanity. This journey was not only an opportunity for Alex to fulfill his dream, but also a door that opened the one to endless discoveries and possibilities in the vast universe. Chapter 2 After reaching the new planet, the crew of the spacecraft "Aurora" began to prepare for their first discovery. Alex and his teammates, including professional astronauts and scientists, planned to explore an area of the ocean floor of the planet. Team members equipped themselves with the necessary protective suits and equipment to carry out the mission. Alex was thrilled to be part of this adventure and also curious about what they would find at the bottom of the ocean. After reaching the ocean floor, the team began to drop the discovery devices underwater. The automated robots were equipped with sensors and cameras to record images and data about the area. While the robots were on their mission, Alex decided to take a different route to explore the area. He felt curious about what could be found in previously unexplored places. The deeper he went into this area, the more Alex felt he was entering a strange and dangerous space. The surrounding water became deep and dark, and strange creatures began to emerge from the darkness. However, Alex did not falter and continued to go deeper. After walking for a while, he found a large door in the ocean. The door had been made from metal and been larger than any door he had ever seen. Alex felt curious and decided to approach the door. When he touched it, a sparkling blue light suddenly appeared and the door began to open. Alex couldn't believe his eyes when he saw inside a large room filled with advanced technology and strange creatures. Chapter 3 While Alex was diving deep into the ocean floor, he began to feel an anomaly in the space around him. The protective equipment and sensors on his body began to detect strange signals. Alex felt like he was being drawn into another world, one he had never experienced before. He continued deeper into the area, until he found a giant door embedded deep into the ocean floor. This door looked very ancient and had been made of a type of stainless metal that Alex had never seen before. He felt like he was witnessing a miracle and felt nervous thinking about what might be behind this door. Alex decided to move closer to the door to explore it. As he got closer, he realized that there was a control device near the door. Alex used his skills to activate the device and the door began to open. When the door opened, Alex discovered a whole new world, one that was completely new to him. A giant city built inside the ocean, with skyscrapers and wide roads. Alex couldn't believe his eyes, he had discovered a completely new civilization, a civilization that had been hidden in the ocean for millions of years. Chapter 4 Alex walked along the path in this space, and step by step he discovered strange things. On the walls, there were strange drawings and symbols, unlike anything he had ever seen before. These images seemed like a completely new language and were very difficult to decipher in human language. While continuing to move, Alex encountered a large machine in the middle of this space. It made weird sounds and had LEDs that light up to the rhythm. Alex felt like he was being summoned to this place, and his consciousness was drawn into the machine. As he approached the machine, a metal arm slowly lifted and touched Alex's forehead. A strange stream of information flowed into his mind, and he suddenly understood the meaning of the surrounding drawings and symbols. This was an intelligent machine of an ancient civilization, named "Xeltron". It existed millions of years ago and had been used to store knowledge and information of that civilization. Alex understood that the machine was sending him a message - the existence of this civilization had been destroyed and they wanted to entrust their knowledge to another, more advanced civilization. Alex felt a heavy responsibility on his shoulders. He decided to continue exploring and learn more about this civilization and what they might have left behind for humanity. Chapter 5 Alex felt like a door opened in his mind. New images and information began to pop into his head, and he felt like he was being guided by an alien force. He continued to move in this space, and realized that it was a giant laboratory. The equipment and machines were arranged in a way he had never seen before, and it appeared that they were used for research on alien species. While exploring the lab, Alex encountered another astronaut from his team. This astronaut had been trapped in this laboratory for a long time, and had been attacked by strange creatures. Alex felt very shocked when he saw this astronaut. He tried to rescue him, but was attacked by strange creatures. Alex used his skills to fight with these creatures and rescue him. After rescuing the astronaut, Alex found the necessary equipment to activate the exit doors and escape from the laboratory. He and the team's other astronaut approached the escape hatches and activated them. The emergency doors opened, and Alex and the team's other astronauts escaped the lab. However, he felt that there were strange things going on around and needs to learn more about them. Chapter 6 After activating the exit doors, Alex and his companions continue their adventurous journey to leave the laboratory. However, they faced with strange creatures and had to fight bravely to continue towards the exit door. When they finally reached their goal, Alex and the astronaut discovered an escape hatch leading to another spacecraft. They boarded the ship, their teammates happily welcomed them, and began analyzing the newly collected data. While the scientists were researching, Alex was invited to an important meeting with the ship's leaders. They discussed what happened and decided to continue their exploration on the new planet. With excitement in his heart, Alex was ready to participate in the upcoming adventure and explore interesting things in outer space.

Once upon a time there was ten queens in the Chinese forest, where the nine tailed creatures live and control their own powers, the China symbol was in one peace and must never be broken in two, or the poisonous storm will be freed and will spread poison all over China until there is no living thing left, hopefully every week a newborn comes to life and enters China, the ten queens discovered the ultimate Chinese temple, where no creature must go, for the magic waterfall is in there with the symbol and the moon and sun fish or the rain and sun fish as you like to call it, it is full of traps to take care of anything that wants to go inside the temple, the wishing dragons themselves do not go there either, they wish for peace and harmony, the leader of all the wishing dragons keeps himself hidden in the China temple, with his mighty powers he can blow away any one who comes near the temple, the ten queens enter the temple calling out, leader of the wishing dragons come out and reveal your face, they saw his shadow and yelled out once more but not the same thing, we see your shadow, when the he reveal himself he was no boy, he was a full grown man but not that old, he was like nineteen or eighteen, but he sounded like a young boy in a deep voice when he spoke, what?! Why are you here?! the queen spoke with her rich voice, we have come to see the beasts, the boy had a cruel smile, and he started laughing as if they were a joke to him, ha ha ha ha ha! You came here for that?! Why what if they eat you it's not like you can do anything to the China beasts! And you are not from here, your majesties! The queens were not surprised to see him this way, and then one queen started speaking, well then? Will you take us or not? The boy was stronger than all then queens and he knows how to steal their powers from them, ha don't you understand? the queen had about enough of his talks and wanted to attack him, understand what!? The boy did not like any one who yells at him, you are no match for me fools! Your not even the queens in the China lands! You come from the American forest! the queen took her wand and pointed it at him, show us the way boy! the boy yells, Fine! But if you get eaten then it's on you! Thank you, the queen murmurs, the boy knows about all in the temple of China, and the boy has a plan and looked over his shoulder at the queens, they were watching the creatures bite the bones of the creatures who went in their cage, when suddenly! Something spot the queens eye, it was a little skeleton wolf, it had purple drops leaking from it's skeleton body, poison, the queen murmurs, stop! The queen yelled, how do we know this is not a trap? The boy turned around to see the queens eyes, you wanted me to take you here, and here you are! And I have the right thing to show you, The boy's cruel smile got back on his face, he pointed his figure to a very old pot, there was a bid blood in it, the queen stepped a bit closer and ask, what is this? This my lady is the birth pot, the boy said, every week we come here and make a newborn, why did you take us here the queen asked, because I wanted to show you why no one messes with me, the boy knocked his foot hard against the ground and then a hole appeared out of nowhere, and the ten queens fall, and they yelled like you would do when you're falling, have a nice trip! The boy yelled, and the hole closed, he said in his head, that will teach them a lesson. How does it feel to be lying in the trees mother? I guess it's not that bad, but I have to go Celestial, why mother? Because I have to go to your father and help him with the celebration, ok mother, bye Celestial, bye, it's always spoiled, hey Celestial! yes my Bellovich kitten? Did you hear? hear what Nima? The prince is going to choose a girl soon! When?! Like in a hour! Nima you're the best, no problem Celestial, what if he chooses me? If you want him to choose you then go get dressed! Ok, thanks you Nima! Thanks you! Celestial ran of to her small house, she picked a pink dress, it had glitter all over it and at least four ribbons, and she threw herself on her bed holding a photo of the prince, she hugged it tight in her arms and started laughing, a-ha ha ha ha ha ha! He will see how pretty I am and he'll choose me to be his wife and then we will have kids and we will be together forever, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, Celestial open up, Celestial! I'm coming I'm coming, door goes open * what? Are you going to the festival? Yes because the prince is going to be there and he is dreamy, Celestial! What, me and your father told you to stop bragging about this prince, I know but I mean why can't I just go to him? Because you're not old enough mother you said that seven years ago when I was alevin, now I'm eighteen, ok Celestial you got me, just don't do anything weird in front of him ok? Yeah sure whatever, thanks Celestial, door goes shut* ugh! My mother always do this to me, why can't she just forget of me, well that prince will be mine. Festival starts* Celestial you made it! I did Nima, say Nima have you see the prince, yeah he is dressing up, good, Celestial murmurs, are you going to go dancing Celestial? Yes, he'll se my dancing skills and will fall in love with me, how about you Nima? Me I'm a cat, if there is one thing I like to do is hang out with my friend so yeah, I got some cat skills, you're funny Nima so are you Celestial. prince Hellen? Yes father, are you ready to go? Yes father, door goes open* are you sure you want to go in that? Yes father, ok, Hellen? Yes father, choose the girl you want carefully, I will father, good. horns gets blown* Celestial it's time for the prince to leave the castle, ok get on my shoulder Nima, ok, golden gates open* all hail prince Hellen! Celestial, yes? Look! There is a woman walking up to him, don't worry Nima she must be his butler or something, ok, prince Hellen starts speaking, thank you, thank you, thank you for coming to the festival, I will choose one of you ladies to be my wife and will soon be queen, crowd goes wild* let the festival begin! Music starts* Celestial go to him, ok but Idk what if he hates me, or what if I embarrass myself in front of all of those creatures, you will be fine this is your chance, ok, wait look! What? Food! Really Nima? Hey don't mind me I need food, Nima you should stay with me I can't do this alone, you can I will be back just give me ten minutes, fine Nima just ten, yay thank you! Cats, why is she taking his hand? Oh no what if she is going to marry him, Nima attack her! Nima? Oh wait your there, is she dancing with him? No she is! No why is this happening! I'm prettier than her! No this can't be happening! No! No! No! tears falls from Celestial's cheeks, Why? Why! I was the post to be his lady! This was my only chance and I blew it, why was I so stupid to think he'll choose me, cries* hey Celestial I told you Just ten minutes then I'll be back and, hey what's wrong? Cannot you see! he chose a lady and it wasn't me, I was so stupid to think he'll choose me but he did not, maybe he'll see you and choose you I mean just go to him, shut up Nima! You were not there for me, but? But! No I had enough of you, runs into forest while crying, wait! Celestial! Oh this is all my fault why did I choose food instead of helping Celestial. this isn't fair if only Hellen would come to me, he would have fell in love with me why did this happen to me, what have I done wrong? Sounds coming from behind a bush, what's that? Hello, sh! What why? just be quiet, are you a boy? Yes now shush, ok, ..., ok it's gone, what's gone who are you? My name is Kiaba, yours Celestial, hm would you reveal yourself? Ok, just don't freak out, ok? When the old boy revealed himself Celestial could see his muscles his face his tails his weapon and all, what are you a fox of course, who was chasing you? Musika was chasing me, who is Musika? He is a panda a very strong panda, why was he chasing you? Because he wanted to eat me of course, ok? Anyway what's a beautiful lady like you doing out here? I was sad so I came for lonely time, ok? And why were you sad? No reason! ok, ok. want to come with me? No, sheesh! Why are you women so hard to understand, excuse me! Celestial yells, I am not the one who just tells a fine woman to sh! Yeah I was saving your life because if that panda just came because you did no shush then we would both be dead, so your welcome, whatever! Boys are the weird ones anyway, hey! Boys are the protecters! Girls are the complainers! No we're not! Oh a girl is complaining about complaining! No I'm not! Oh but you are! would you just shut up! Kaiba said, Ugh! Who do you think you are woman? I am Celestial! Ok whatever, get down! what? Get down Celestial now! That's an arrow! I know, A very poisonous arrow too, who shot this? They did, why, because they want to kill us, us? Yes us, what did I do, you met me of course, follow me Celestial, wait but Nima is down there, leave your friend just run! Ok, ow my ear, is it off? Yes! What! Just kidding, you are so going to pay for that, yeah no I'm not, follow me in here, I'm coming, this is the cave I stay in, yeah it's kind of dark in here yeah ok. ten hours later, look at the stars Kiaba, what no are you kidding me? Sheesh you're such an weirdo Kiaba, yeah ok, how the stars fly high in the sky, I just wish I was in outer space, ok Celestial but we have to go to sleep it's very late in the night, fine but once I'll be loved by a man and the prince will be like why did not I choose her I hope, well goodnight Celestial goodnight, both yawns and falls asleep* To be continued.

Chapter 15 SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict. 'Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously. Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head. 'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. 'Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?' The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast. This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the claspknife in his hands. There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share in the quarrel to the new comer. 'What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes, with a fierce gesture. 'I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new comer. 'Didn't know, you white-livered thief!' growled Sikes. 'Couldn't you hear the noise?' 'Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,' replied the Jew. 'Oh no! You hear nothing, you don't,' retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. 'Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.' 'Why?' inquired the Jew with a forced smile. 'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven't half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,' replied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; 'that's why.' The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however. 'Grin away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt; 'grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it's behind a nightcap. I've got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d--me, I'll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.' 'Well, well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know all that; we--we--have a mutual interest, Bill,- -a mutual interest.' 'Humph,' said Sikes, as if he though the interest lay rather more on the Jew's side than on his. 'Well, what have you got to say to me?' 'It's all passed safe through the melting-pot,' replied Fagin, 'and this is your share. It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you'll do me a good turn another time, and--' 'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. 'Where is it? Hand over!' 'Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' replied the Jew, soothingly. 'Here it is! All safe!' As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast; and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained. 'This is all, is it?' inquired Sikes. 'All,' replied the Jew. 'You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have you?' inquired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on an injured look at the question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.' These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance. Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to him. 'Is anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground. 'Dot a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart or not: made their way through the nose. 'Nobody?' inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth. 'Dobody but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney. 'Nancy!' exclaimed Sikes. 'Where? Strike me blind, if I don't honour that 'ere girl, for her native talents.' 'She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,' replied Barney. 'Send her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. 'Send her here.' Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew reamining silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete. 'You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquired Sikes, proffering the glass. 'Yes, I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; 'and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat's been ill and confined to the crib; and--' 'Ah, Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up. Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eye-brows, and a half closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes' time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together, followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight. The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry. Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm. He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud. 'Oh, my dear brother!' And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck. 'Don't,' cried Oliver, struggling. 'Let go of me. Who is it? What are you stopping me for?' The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand. 'Oh my gracious!' said the young woman, 'I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!' With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not. 'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; 'I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!' 'Oh, ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart.' 'Young wretch!' said one woman. 'Go home, do, you little brute,' said the other. 'I am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville.' 'Only hear him, how he braves it out!' cried the young woman. 'Why, it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment. 'You see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. 'He can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!' 'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly.' 'I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help! cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp. 'Help!' repeated the man. 'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here.' With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. 'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!' 'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garretwindow. 'It'll do him good!' said the two women. 'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. 'Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!' Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. * * * * * * * * The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.