His life consisted of sleep, three meals, three naps, an afternoon stroll through the brimming, bursting springtime, and hour after hour of a single pinpoint of light.
Rama said nothing.
One night Benson awoke, a rare occurrence. He lay in darkness and looked straight at the gibbous moon. By it he saw on his chest his right hand; he held it up before his eyes, flexing it, staring at it as though seeing it for the first time in his life. It seemed a miraculous thing, and he lay quietly on his bed watching it perform like a puppet before his eyes, one of the great works of the universe.
He became aware, however, that something besides his hand had awakened him and now waited on the fringes of his consciousness. He had been summoned.
He sat up and tried to sort out the feeling, to identify the impulse he felt. He walked across the room and opened the door. The hallway was dark. It felt empty—all the creatures that had peopled it, that had whispered in it, had terrified him in it were gone. He was alone in the dark. He felt summoned to the other room. He walked down the hall and opened the door. The faint light of the moon barely illuminated the curtain.
He crossed to his customary spot before the wall and sat down, gathering himself into a center of concentration that focused on a point of light. He concentrated on rolling himself up.
Hearing a far, faint, shrill noise, he concentrated on blotting it out. It persisted. So high-pitched it was almost beyond his auditory range, it grew louder and louder until it seemed to pierce him. It was painful, and he felt himself lifting as though trying to rise above it. Abruptly, something intruded between him and the point of light. It was himself.
He was out.
He realized that he was floating near the ceiling, looking down at his own body seated cross-legged in his white robe, hands limp in his lap. It was totally dark, yet he could see clearly. The shrill noise had ceased.
From the back of his head a silver cable trailed around his neck and down his chest. It glowed like moonlight.
Two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously: How did he get out, by what exit; and how was he to get back in? Now he was above and behind his body, gazing over its shoulder. To his left he sensed a darkness within the darkness. A black silhouette but not a shadow; not unlike the black presence that had slithered freezing through his fist that night on his stair landing, but larger, darker, hulking—a disembodied figure without definite boundaries. As he watched, it moved closer.
He was abruptly and without volition back in his body, and the black form was gone. He sensed, however, that it was still there: simply not visible to his bodily form. He got up and walked to the location of the black form but felt nothing. There was no coldness. It disturbed him greatly; he felt he’d seen something he shouldn’t have.
He returned to his seat and stared at the black wall and pondered the astonishing experience. He slept seated.
Sometime later he awoke and, as though instructed, concentrated on a point of imaginary light. Almost instantly, a shrill short whistle raised him from his body again, and he looked down at it from the ceiling. Suddenly he was in the dark streets of the warehouse district in Philadelphia, in front of Kheim’s House of Peace. He was a faintly luminescent mass, and from the back of his head, also glowing, projected the cable that trailed away through the streets. He stepped through the wall into the large first floor room of the House of Peace.
The young beggars were illuminated only by a dangling kerosene lamp. He could make out a bare arm here, a pale cheek there. He could hear the slow, deep breathing: the room was filled with the peace of sleep. The metal rims of the tambourines glowed faintly in the lamplight.
He saw Renni sleeping, her familiar hair and cheek. The bracelet shone on her wrist. To Renni on her sixth birthday with all our love. Mom and Dad.
He had no idea how long he was gone. A click, and he was back in his body, facing the wall, the glow of dawn in the room. When he turned, he fund Sanjay Nullatumbi and Rama seated patiently behind him.
“Where did you go?”
“I was at Kheim’s.”
“How did you get out?”
“I—” Benson pondered the question. “I left by the top of my head and I floated over my body. There was something here to my left.”
“Describe it.”
“Big. Black. Formless. Like a ball of tar.”
“What did it do? Anything?”
“It seemed to be moving toward me. It was very close.”
Nullatumbi glanced at Rama.
“Go on.”
“I reentered and it disappeared, but I felt it was still there.”
“It is. It is always there. It is death. Go on.”
“I seemed to sleep sitting here. When I woke I concentrated and I left again, up near the ceiling. Then without thinking about it, I was at Kheim’s.”
“What did you look like?”
“I was a softly glowing mass—like a large pillow with three blunt corners. And I had a thin cord attached to me. It glowed.”
“Silver? It glowed silver?”
“Yes. Silver.”
Nullatumbi looked at Rama. He nodded his head. With a barely visible smile, Rama looked at Benson.
Benson understood and glanced at the wall.
His training was over.
After dressing, Benson visited Nullatumbi in his sitting room for the last time.
“I don’t know what I’ve done, Mr. Benson. I may have saved you, I may have destroyed you. This Kheim is such a powerful opponent. You will have to be very fortunate to conquer him. However, right now you have a weapon of overwhelming power. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Surprise. He does not know that you leave your body. If you can attack him in the astral plane, you will have a tremendous initial advantage. You must seize his silver cord and break it. Surprise is essential.”
“Ambush.”
“Yes. Ambush, Mr. Benson. This matter cannot rest until one of you dies. I wish you success.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not let him carry you into the deep night. He can lose you there or destroy you. Stay close to the earth. If he breaks your cord you will be lost forever, wandering through the universe. For eternity, Mr. Benson.”
Benson nodded.
“I am surprised you have succeeded thus far, Mr. Benson. I thought you were going to break, several times. But you have great strength.”
“How do I fight him?”
“His strength is greater than yours. You would have to tire him, wear him out, make him spend his strength. But surprise is still your greatest weapon. Do what you must do suddenly, and with great speed.”
“What do you think my chances are?”
Nullatumbi looked at him sadly. “Not good, my friend.”
CHAPTER 8
It was a brilliant sun-flushed day, and it made Benson feel like a man let out of a dungeon, a ship’s hold, a mine shaft, a mental institution. After staring at a featureless wall for uncounted days, after dealing in feet and inches in subdued, curtained light, the blindingly lit outside world seemed made on a gigantic scale.
Confidence and anger warred with doubt and fear as he drove into town. He was eager to have done with it all.
It didn’t take him long to locate them. They were doing their repetitive shuffling on the wide sidewalk before a large bank building at Broad and Chestnut. The advance of spring warmth was evident: they’d shed their orange blankets and now, in their saffron sheets, they seemed thinner, more childlike.
Their mood seemed to have changed along with their attire. The boys hung back more, routinely clapping their hands; the girls swayed in their orange gowns in a mechanical way, rapping their tambourines and cymbals, clinking their metal bowls; and Bobby banged a dull drum.
As usual, the coins came, pecked from hands into hands or from hands to bowls. Occasionally an insult was flung at them, while at all times the police nudged the band along to the next street, next beat, next patrolman.<
br />
Benson was sure he detected a loss of energy. The liveliness of their step had abated. They seemed more like fellow prisoners than fellow conspirators.
He watched them for a few minutes from the opposite corner. Bobby Custis seemed more withdrawn, staring at the sidewalk as his hands spanked each end of the conga. Dr. Sing’s daughter wore absolutely no expression; her face was round and bland in a veil of black hair. Pammy seemed angry. Renni had lost her cheerfulness.
Goaded by the policeman’s waving hand, they moved across Broad Street in a clot, the late-afternoon sun behind them, ready to begin their daily walk homeward.
As they crossed, Renni saw him. She turned away, shocked, put a hand over her mouth and spoke to Pammy. Pammy’s eyes searched the crowd and found his face. The two girls walked on now, heads down, as Benson followed them along Chestnut from the other side of the street, past department-store windows, record shops, dress shops, shoe stores, five-and-tens, restaurants, past the public library and the post office to Independence Hall. Periodically, Renni turned and cast a frightened glance at him.
At Chestnut and Sixth, a man with a Bible stepped away from a building and began to shout at them. “Christ teaches the word of God! The Lord said: ‘I will have no false gods before me.’”
The group seemed used to the harangue. They fell into a tight band and began a loud, rhythmical chant, banging the drum, the cymbals, the tambourines. Now they stepped along briskly, followed by the arm-waving man who frequently raised his right hand high, then slapped it down on his black- covered Bible to emphasize a word. They all passed in front of Independence Hall, the group chanting, the man shouting. At the corner the man stopped and, still calling imprecations after them in the name of Jesus Christ the Deliverer, watched them pass the Wax Museum on Fifth. Like a neighborhood watchdog, he seemed to mark the corner as the boundary of his territory.
Sunset was still several hours distant when they shuffled past Christ Church and entered the wholesale district. Renni seemed increasingly agitated. She followed at the rear of the procession, turning now and then to watch Benson half a block behind her.
As he turned at Christ Church, she waved him away, causing the silver bracelet on her wrist to flash. She walked sideways and backwards, waiting for him to comply. Benson kept strolling along behind them. She pressed her hands together prayerfully and shook them at him. He ignored her.
Tugs and barges moved along the river under the Ben Franklin Bridge, reminding him of the last night he’d come down this street following the strolling band in the biting early spring air at dusk. How long ago that seemed.
Benson stopped short of the alley where they lived. The smell of curry and rice filled the street. As he turned away, he heard the wrought-iron gate slam. The lambs were locked into the sheepfold for the night.
In the evening traffic around City Hall he drove toward home, out Vine to the Expressway. It had been a long time since he’d gone home, really home to family and mirth and unconcerned sleep. And it seemed to him it would be a long time yet before he did again—if ever.
As he stood by the car and pondered his house in the evening sunlight, it seemed unfamiliar to him. Was it empty? Was someone waiting inside?
There was just enough daylight left to set the stage.
When he unlocked the front door, he stood in the hallway and listened.
It was all as he’d left it weeks before, all the debris of battle—the fallen armoire, the netting on the steps, the pulley and plaster and rope. Unmoved, as raffish as ever, the witch, Signora Strega, lay beside the piece of broken banister.
Benson rolled up the net and stowed it in the car trunk. Then he unbolted a two-by-four frame in his bedroom and carried the pieces to the garage. He got a stepladder and replaced the hanging hall lamp, cleaned up the plaster. He even managed to stand up the armoire and push it against a wall.
He walked around the landing, settling his mind, gathering himself like a weight lifter. Then he sat down on the landing, fixed his mind on a point of light and concentrated. For a moment nothing happened. Then he felt himself leaving his body.
Moments later, Signora Strega stirred. She arose, stepped clear of her tangled control strings and clambered down two steps to the landing. She bent over, picked up her cudgel and swung it down at the carpeted step. Benson was not surprised that the blow shook the house. He exulted in the enormous physical strength he commanded. The banister pounded on the carpet again. It was practically effortless; he felt he could have easily destroyed the whole house.
A moment later Benson stood up and looked thoughtfully at the witch marionette he’d just occupied. There was just one more piece to the stage setting. He went into Renni’s room and at her games table he set up the chess set.
Once again he considered his plan: he had to wait until Kheim appeared. Then, under that tremendous distraction—under attack even—he had to concentrate deeply enough to leave his body. He had to seize Kheim’s silver cord and part it. If his concentration failed him, he wouldn’t get out; he’d die trapped in his own body. And once out, what if he failed to break Kheim’s cable? He wondered if it would snap like a piece of butcher’s string.
He glanced out of Renni’s window. There was no chance to change the plan now. His time was up: it was completely dark outside.
In 1805, Harry N. Pillsbury, the U.S. Chess Champion, met the Chess Master Siegbert Tarrasch at Hastings to play what has been called the most important game in the history of chess. For in it, Pillsbury not only destroyed Tarrasch, he destroyed forever the then-mandatory defense position called the Queen’s Gambit Declined.
Benson sat over the chess pieces in the little circle of light and concentrated on setting up the Pillsbury attack from memory, starting with P-Q4 right through to (14), P-B4. Benson wondered if Kheim had ever played chess. At (14) it was Kheim’s move.
He put his head sidewise down on his arms, shut his eyes in an imitation of sleep and waited, the bait in his own trap.
A sense of anxiety arose in his mind. It came in waves, flowing then ebbing, then flowing again, impeding his ability to concentrate.
Abruptly he became alert. From somewhere inside the house he’d heard a muffled sound. A bump. It could have been a knee against an unseen chair. It could have been a large cat springing down onto a wooden floor. It could have been only a tree bough tapping on the roof.
Listening, he heard only his pulse beating in his ears.
Later he heard a car pass along the lane. It hesitated near his driveway, then slowly moved on.
Still later, glancing through Renni’s window, he saw a light moving through the woods, as though circling the house.
He sat without moving. Then, though he heard no noise, saw no movement, he sensed a presence. It seemed to be very near. His head turned, listening, trying to locate it.
He heard a sharp click, followed by a sweeping sound. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he stood and crept over to the bedroom door. He peered down the stairs at the front entrance.
The door had swung open and something stood on the doorsill, unmoving, looking back at him.
It seemed to be a figure—a mannequin from a store window, limbs and body in a frozen pose to show off the latest style. It held a short cudgel in its hand. Then it moved. And for a moment the hall light blinded him.
“Sue?”
The figure leaned back against the doorjamb and exhaled.
“Oh Eddie!”
Quickly he shut the front door and put out the hall light.
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “I was so sure you were dead.” And with that she put her arms around his waist.
Her hair, her shoulders, her slight form, her head against his chest—he encircled it all. He held her and still longer he held her.
At last he took her by the hand and seated her on the stairs.
Impulsively, she hugged him again. “Don’t let this be a dream.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Sharon called me. She saw the car in the drive. Oh, Eddie. Where have you been? You didn’t go to Africa. You just disappeared. Why didn’t you call me? Why did you let me think you were dead?”
“You were supposed to think I was in Africa.” He took the flashlight from her hand. “That was you walking through the trees?”
“Of course. I parked in Sharon’s driveway. I didn’t know what to expect. All of a sudden our car turns up in our driveway. After two weeks. And the house dark. I was terrified.”
He hefted the flashlight. “Great protection, Sue.”
“Eddie.”
“The last time I saw you, we parted good friends.”
“How else could I get you to go to Africa?” She sat back. “I thought … Mother and I thought that if we could get you mad enough at me you’d go to Africa where you’d be safe for a while.”
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
“To send me somewhere safe, you practically broke up our marriage?”
“Only for a short time, Eddie. It was better than having a funeral, and that’s where you were heading.”
“I was willing to go to Africa with you and Top. I offered that to you.”
“But not without us. Someone had to stay and watch for Renni.”
He pondered that. It was the same reason Cecelia Garman had given for not going to Bermuda.
“I thought you were dead, Eddie. I was sure of it. I thought you died angry with me. I lost you without even saying good-bye. And all I could think of was all those marvelous things you dreamed of doing.”
“We’ll do them, Sue.” He brushed her hair away from her face. “Listen, you can’t stay here.”
“I’m not leaving, Eddie. I’m staying right here—with you and Top in this house.”
“No, I mean tonight.”
She hadn’t heard him. “When I was in bed tonight, I was staring at the darkness, trying to turn it off. It was like a tape recorder—my mind—playing the same things over and over, tormenting me. And then the phone rang. I lay there in the dark and let it ring. I pretended it was you. And as long as I didn’t answer it, it was you. But Top woke up and answered it and it was Sharon. And she said, ‘Sue, did you know that Eddie’s car is in your driveway?’ And I said, ‘When?’ and she said, ‘Now.’ I couldn’t believe it. I just sat down and I couldn’t believe it. And I thought, Dear God, I love him so much, don’t let this be a false alarm. I lost him once. Don’t let me lose him again.” And now she was weeping.
Keeper of the Children Page 13