“Deal.”
The changeling rises. His hair is dripping mud on his shoulders and down the back, making it look painted. And he already stinks of the swamp.
“Let’s go,” Saära says, backing into the narrow opening of the burrow. “It’s right here.”
In the Dogheads’ cave, with the condensation of their breath dripping from the ceiling, torches sputtering, and the Chinese lanterns melting from the heat, Spotted Face addresses the throng.
“Tighten the collar on him! Four more holes! Who’s with me?”
They whine and shuffle their paws.
“Two more! Four! No, one! All of them!”
“Casting of lots!” someone shouts, springing up and knocking the torch out of the bracket with his head. “The lot shall decide!”
They put out the torch, spraying the burning crumbs around.
The tin can lands on the floor. They impatiently bump their heads trying to distinguish the number on top of it.
“Four,” the youngest one giggles. He’s no more than a puppy.
Dogheads exchange confused glances. The fat white-and-tan breathes loudly, tongue hanging out. His collar is already tightened so much that there is precious little breathing room. Four more holes will rob him of it completely. They look at him ravenously and start advancing. He drops in a faint, with very little effort. They bark at him with disdain.
In the cramped burrow encrusted lovingly with shells, Saära sleeps blissfully, having had his fill of the visitor’s blood. The visitor gave it up voluntarily, so it cannot be said that Saära breached the code of hospitality. The guest sits next to him, drunk with the songs.
He touches sleeping Saära and says, “Hey, wake up . . .”
But the owner of the burrow sleeps. The guest gets on all fours and scrambles out. His frozen eyes reflect the light of the moon. He heads back through the swamp and through the Forest, he walks on and on until he’s tired. Then he finds a hole dug up by someone and lies down in it, hiding from the prying eyes under some branches and leaves. Once inside he starts remembering the songs he bought with his blood. He needs to repeat them before he forgets. His back is caked in drying mud. He sits up and puts his arms around his knees. The long white stems of his fingers intertwine. He recalls all the songs, from the first words to the very last ones, and falls asleep, satisfied. The Forest waves its dark branches over him.
Shielded by the darkness, the lovers kiss with wounded mouths. They have their own songs. The Forest, invisible, rustles over them too.
The short, squat creature reaches the locked door and scratches at it, whining pitifully.
The cat that is Smoker screams. Loudly and hopelessly. The dark glasses hanging in the air tremble slightly from his yells.
“Oh, come on,” a voice says testily. “Not another one. Is it ever going to end? I’m so tired of this!”
Smoker closes his mouth. At the edge of the trash bin he sees two large gray cats. They look dangerous, for some reason. He tries to say “Here, kitty, kitty,” but doesn’t seem to manage it. The cats look at him with obvious loathing. Smoker has never been able to discern cat emotions before, but now they are crystal clear to him. The trash smells more and more beguiling, but it appears that a good rummage in it is out of the question. Too many gawkers. He tries to put his thoughts into words once more.
“Help!”
“Quit shouting!” one of the cats snaps. “Pull yourself together. Get up here.”
The cat’s voice goes directly inside Smoker’s head. He jumps up obediently, only to flop back down into the trash. He jumps again. Same result. On the third try he manages to find purchase on the bin’s curving edge, pull himself up, and sit down uneasily, doing his best to prevent either his front paws or his bottom from slipping.
“Shameful,” the cat nearest to him hisses. The other one flows fluidly down the front side of the bin and darts into the bushes. There is some commotion there. Smoker leans over the edge, trying to see what’s going on, and nearly falls.
“Is he trying to catch something? Someone?”
“Of course he is, you stupid human,” the cat who remained with him replies. “Your shadow. You weren’t planning to die a cat, were you? Especially seeing as you make such a lousy one.”
I do not, Smoker thinks, offended, and remembers his reflection in the dark glasses. I’m a nice kitty.
The gray one snorts. Then suddenly shoots up, spreading his paws awkwardly, and plunges down. Come on, hurry up! his thoughts reach up to Smoker. Jump here, you goof!
Smoker glances down and sees the cats splayed on the ground, kneading it with their paws. They are tearing up a small patch of shadow, unaccountably darker than their own shadows.
“Jump!” they shout in unison, so loud that Smoker’s almost swept off the edge of the bin. “Jump into the shadow!”
He paces uneasily on the narrow strip of metal, not daring to make the jump that looks suicidal. The cats growl menacingly. It’s only the thought of what they would do to him if he doesn’t do as they say that makes Smoker jump. He yowls and tumbles down, aiming for the stretched dark spot of the shadow. The hard landing on all four paws knocks the breath out of him. Everything goes black.
Smoker opens his eyes. He is inside the stuffy tent. The blinking colorful lights are almost blinding. The flap is half-open, and his motionless legs stretch out through it. Smoker’s head is propped up by Tabaqui’s distended backpack. He feels sick. He moans, and Tabaqui and Noble, both holding the cards, turn their heads to look at him.
“I was a cat,” he whispers, his lips barely moving.
“That’s nice,” Tabaqui says. “Now get some sleep.”
Squib, Solomon, and Don pursue Red, illuminating their way with flashlights. Solomon is sweating and out of breath. Red, glancing cautiously about, knocks at Ralph’s door. The door is locked and there seems to be no one inside. Red crouches down and freezes. The three hunters stop to discuss the situation. Red listens to the emptiness of the room behind the door and gnaws at his fingernails, paralyzed with terror.
Elephant is asleep back in the Nesting, sucking his thumb. He dreams of the strange phosphorescent violet, like a small blue flame. He found it by accident on the Crossroads windowsill.
Ralph opens the door to the counselors’ hallway, illuminating the doleful eyes blinking in the sudden light.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?”
Tubby tries to crawl past him, into the opened door. Ralph intercepts him and picks him up.
“No, you’re coming with me.”
He starts descending the steps. Tubby twitches and grunts in his arms.
“Quiet,” Ralph says. “None of this nonsense. I’m going to have a word with your minders.”
Solomon switches off the flashlight, looks at Squib, and nods at the door of the teachers’ bathroom.
Red is trapped inside, between the sinks and the urinals, slipping on the wet tiles. He has nowhere to run. There are only stalls here, and they are unlikely to have locks. He tries one door, then another . . . Then he’s blinded by bright light. He doesn’t see who’s behind it, but he doesn’t have to. He knows. The light is getting closer.
Butterfly, on the seat in the sixth stall from the door, listens to the sounds. He was just about to flush, but then decided not to. He snuffs out the burner and sits there in the dark. He’s afraid that he’ll be betrayed by the smell.
Smoker and Tabaqui crawl out of Vulture’s tent. Vulture himself follows them and assists Smoker with climbing into his wheelchair. Smoker is too weak to refuse his help.
“Good luck,” Vulture says. “Do not get lost in the dark.”
“Lost? Us?” Jackal says indignantly.
Bird waves them good-bye and dives back inside the tent. Smoker has only one thing on his mind—get back to the dorm as soon as possible.
“I was a cat,” he whispers, steering his wheelchair in the wake of Tabaqui’s flashlight. “Nice kitty . . .”
“Look, it’s time you got unstuck from that,” Jackal sighs. “So you were, so what? You’re obviously not a cat anymore.”
There’s a bloodcurdling scream. Tabaqui drops the flashlight.
Red closes his eyes, shrinking away from the light hitting his face. Then flips open the knife. One thing he regrets is that he didn’t think to put the green shades on. But then again, who knew? He forces himself to face the flashlights. A dark bulk hurtles at him. Red jumps away and thrusts with the knife at random. Someone grabs his arm. A razor slash burns his cheek. The next one opens a gash on his collarbone. Red shrieks. Two hands jerk his head back. He breaks free, kicking out with his feet but meeting only emptiness. He manages to shield his neck, and the razor splits open his hand. Red sinks his teeth into one of the hands holding him, wiggles out of his jacket, and flops down. The flashlight beams dance on the floor. He crawls inside the nearest stall, slams the door shut, and gropes for the latch. To his surprise, he finds it and manages to fasten the door before it starts shaking under the assault from the other side. He takes a step backward and trips over a leg. Someone is lying there, between the commode and the wall separating the stalls. Red yelps.
The prostrate figure raises its head.
“Stop screaming.”
Red lowers himself down on the seat, shaking. His blood appears black in the light that trickles through the door.
Blind sits up.
“It’s still night, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Red says, sniffling. “They’re killing me. Three against one!”
As if in confirmation of his words, the door flies off the hinges. Blind rises unsteadily to meet Squib and Solomon. In the next stall the water rushes down noisily.
“Damn!” Squib says, taking a step back. “There’s someone else over there! And here is Blind!”
“Where did Red get to, then?” Solomon says, shining the flashlight in from over Squib’s shoulder.
“He’s here too. What do we do now?”
The flashlight carriers pause. Red slides down on the floor and presses against the wall, trailing blood.
Don, on the lookout, emits a piercing whistle, warning of the coming danger.
“Run!”
Solomon grabs Squib’s sleeve. They turn around and run into Ralph coming in the door.
Ralph is hampered by the flashlight, so he only manages to grab Squib. With a wave of the razor, Squib escapes. Ralph swears, picks up the flashlight that fell on the floor, and sweeps the beam around. The broken stall door. The tiles stained with blood.
First came the screams. Then, from out of nowhere, R One appeared with Tubby in his arms, put him down on the floor, told them to hold on to him, and ran back. Now Tabaqui and Smoker guard Tubby, who drones quietly, drools, and constantly attempts to crawl away.
“Something’s happened,” Tabaqui whispers. “We need to investigate. What did you think you were doing? Have you lost your mind?” He pinches Tubby and turns to Smoker. “Listen. We’re going to put him on top of you and you’re going to drive ahead with him. But you’ll have to hold him tight, or he’ll fall.”
“What about you? I don’t want to hold him.”
“I can’t. I’m too fragile.”
They struggle to pull Tubby up to sit on Smoker’s knees, and then Tabaqui quickly splits. Smoker attempts to wheel after him, but finds it impossible with Tubby in the way. He’s so uncomfortable that when Tubby again begins to wiggle, Smoker pushes him off, turns on the flashlight, and observes him speedily crawling away into the darkness.
There’s already a sizable throng by the doors to the teachers’ bathroom. Everyone shines their flashlights away from their faces, so it’s hard to tell who’s here. They all mostly illuminate the doorframe. Finally R One appears. He’s hauling someone who can’t walk by himself, and that someone is dripping. A sickening sound.
“Someone with a light, to the hospital wing!” Ralph shouts, adjusting his burden.
One of the spectators steps forward, casting a hook-nosed shadow on the wall. Vulture leaves, lighting Ralph’s way.
“Well, I’ll be! That was Red,” Tabaqui hisses, fiddling with Smoker’s shirt. “Where’s Tubby? Where did you drop him?”
Butterfly crawls out, shielding his eyes.
“Get your shiners away!” he says testily.
The beams point to the floor.
“My wheelchair was supposed to be here somewhere. Where is it?”
Butterfly scuttles in a circle, like a singed moth. Tabaqui bumps him with his backpack.
“Hey! What just happened?”
Butterfly mumbles something indistinctly. Tabaqui bumps harder. Butterfly hisses and tries to swat away the backpack.
“How would I know? I was taking a dump! I’ve got diarrhea! I haven’t seen anything. I was sitting on the can the whole time. Could be that Red got cut. Or maybe it wasn’t Red. I don’t know nothing. Get me my wheelchair!”
Tabaqui leaves him to his troubles.
“Useless,” he complains to Smoker. “He’s playing dumb.”
“Let’s go,” Smoker pleads. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Honest. I’m done.”
Tabaqui looks around, aiding himself with the flashlight.
“Still, where’s Tubby? I thought I told you to keep an eye on him!”
“I don’t know. He crawled off somewhere. Let’s go.”
Tabaqui shines the light in Smoker’s eyes accusingly.
“We were supposed to take care of him. And you failed. We have to find him.”
“All right. Let’s go find him.”
Tabaqui is in no hurry. He directs the beam at the departing stragglers.
“Wait a minute,” he mutters. “Now this is interesting. Look . . .”
Something heavy flies at them out of a dark corner. Tabaqui takes a hint and reluctantly switches off the flashlight.
“Have you seen that?”
“Tabaqui, what are you doing here?” says a familiar voice. “And why did you have to bring this . . .”
Tabaqui fidgets guiltily.
“Smoker and I just went out for a stroll. Couldn’t sleep, for some reason. And then—shouting, Ralph, commotion. So we came to look. Who wouldn’t?”
“All right, we’ll talk later. Take him back to the dorm.”
“We need to find Tubby first! Ralph told us. Tubby ran away. No wheelchair, no nothing. I mean, no anything.”
“Go back. I’ll look for him myself.”
“All right. As you wish, Blind,” Tabaqui says, turning around his wheelchair. “We’re going.”
They are not the only ones. Tires squeak somewhere in front of them. Those in front pick up speed from time to time, apparently confident that they are driving down the middle, and immediately crash into the wall. The noise they are making allows Tabaqui to correct his trajectory. Smoker, heartened by Blind’s order, dutifully struggles to reach the dorm as quickly as possible. If Tabaqui could have his way he’d linger gladly, but he’s not sure that Blind isn’t following them. So he’s in a hurry too. Butterfly, some distance ahead, wheezily brags that his diarrhea has just saved someone’s life.
Ralph walks out of the hospital wing and sees Vulture waiting for him on the landing. He is amusing himself with painting zigzags on the ceiling with the flashlight.
“You didn’t have to wait,” Ralph says.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to go back in the dark. I’ll walk you over.”
“Thanks.”
Ralph heads for his office. Vulture limps by his side, shining light on the floorboards underfoot. They stop at the door. Vulture directs the beam at the keyhole.
“You may go,” Ralph says, unlocking the door. “Thanks for your help.”
“Take this, R One,” Vulture says. He rummages in his pocket and hands Ralph something. “You’re going to need it.”
It’s a joint. Ralph takes it without a word.
“Good night,” Vulture says.
Ralph slams the door behind
him and turns on the light. He studies his face in the wardrobe mirror. It features a strip of surgical tape, all the way down his cheek. The cut is superficial, but Ralph can’t stop thinking that he’s gotten away with something. Half an inch to the left and it would have been good-bye, eye.
“Sons of bitches,” Ralph says to his reflection. He walks to the window, pulls up the blind, and looks out. Then looks at his watch. Then shakes it. By his reckoning it should be morning already. The darkness outside is still impenetrable. But that’s not what’s frightening. Winter nights have a habit of lingering. What’s scary is the way the watch hands seem to be stuck permanently on one minute before two. And it’s the same with the wall clock.
“Calm down,” Ralph says. “There probably is a reasonable explanation.”
Except he can’t find it. He could swear that when he was leaving Sheriff’s room—the Rat Shepherd had a birthday bash, and it was a proper one—he looked at the watch and it was quarter to two. A lot of time has passed since then. It couldn’t have been less than half an hour for the hospital wing alone. Ralph stares at the long hand, hypnotizing it. The watch runs on batteries. Batteries run out. But . . . what about the clock, then? It keeps ticking, lulling him, enveloping in domestic comfort.
Ralph draws the blinds and takes a magazine off the desk. Thumbs through it standing up. Stumbles on an article about a popular singer, notes the time, and starts reading. The article about the singer, then three more—the world of algae, this winter’s fashions, sheep husbandry. He skims through the sports section and flings the magazine on the floor. The clock deigned to move to two exactly. The watch still insists on one minute to. Ralph looks at it, for what seems like another eternity, and then finally decides, with a sigh of relief, that it must be broken. And the clock as well. Yes, simultaneously. Well, it could happen, and it clearly did.
Ralph carefully takes the watch off his wrist and lowers it into the desk drawer. Vulture’s present sits untouched on the armrest of the sofa. Were he to smoke it, many things would become markedly less sinister.
“Something’s wrong with the time,” Ralph says loudly.
A faint scratching noise makes him spin around. He notices a slip of paper being pushed under the door. He reaches the door in a single bound and throws it open. Then curses himself and opens the outer one, but it’s too late. The night visitor has vanished. Ralph stands there for a moment, peering into the darkness, then goes back and picks up the sheet marked with the ridged print of his own shoe. The letters, evidently scrawled in a rush, straggle up and down and barely fit on the scrap.
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