Shadowland

by Peter Straub

  And instead of birds, now there were frogs on the windowsills, frogs on the railings, frogs hopping on the stones.

  Fortunately the king witnessed this transformation and understood what had happened. He raised his arms in thanksgiving and said that from that day forth all frogs in his kingdom would be protected, for once they had been sparrows who had gone to the wizard to return the life of his daughter.

  ''And that is why frogs croak, and why they hop,' said one sparrow to another on a branch in the wood. 'They were once birds, but were tricked by a great wizard, and now they are still trying to sing and still trying to fly. But they can only croak and hop.''

  11

  'Well, that's your second bedtime story,' the magician said. 'Now I am afraid I must leave you. You'll be able to find your way back to bed soon enough, I'm sure.' He began to stand up on the matted grass, but the expression on Tom's face stopped him. 'What are you thinking, Tom?'

  'On Registration Day in our school,' Tom began, his face flushed angrily, 'the headmaster kept Del and another boy in his office. He told each of them a kind of fairy tale. You knew about that.'

  The magician stood, put his hands in the small of his back, and stretched from the balls of his feet. 'Think about one thing, Tom. What would you give to save a life? Your wings, or your song? Would you be a sparrow . . . or a frog?'

  He grinned dazzlingly at the boy, lifted both arms in the air, and vanished.

  'No!' Tom yelled, and jumped forward — on hands and knees, he scrabbled to the spot where Collins had been standing, and felt only grass and earth. He looked wildly around, expecting to see Collins running through the forest, but saw only the dying fire and the trees. Far off in the woods he saw one of the lights burning over an impromptu stage. There was no sign of Collins. Tom let himself down on the coarse grass, groaning: his mind spun. A dead Rose, sparrows into frogs, the old wizard, what he had done with the log . . . While you are here I am your parent.

  Tom picked himself up off the grass; he supposed he could stumble back to the house. But with the first step he took, the forest around him seemed to melt.

  At first he thought he was going to lose consciousness again, and find himself in the wrecked train with screams and the rending of metal thick and palpable in the air about him —

  and the coffee scorching his back —

  (Didn't stain your clothes, all that coffee flying about?)

  and he realized that the magician had known at the Hilly Vale station that he was going to put him on the wrecked train (Not just a little spilled coffee, a little bump on the tracks, a little messy commotion?), and in the second before the forest disappeared as finally as Coleman Collins, Tom had time to think that Collins had somehow caused that wreck in order to put him inside it six hours later.

  This is Level One. Any good magician knows when to break the rules.

  He could have screamed as loudly as any poor soul on the train, but his fear pinned his screams to his tongue. The trees had blurred like watercolors held under a tap; everything slid and dissolved into a pane of meltingly pale green. Green mist enveloped him, abstract and cool, and he felt as though he were falling from an airplane.

  White fluted pillars took shape as suddenly as if blown into being. The ground shifted, became harder, less resilient. With his next step forward, he whanged his leg against the metal back of a padded chair.

  'Oh, my God,' he whispered. He was standing in a large vaultlike room with a curtained stage at one end. Tom himself was halfway up a pitched bank of seats, in the middle of a row. Misty green walls inset with white pillars led down to the stage. A few lights burned high above him.

  He was in the big theater where Collins was going to teach them to fly.

  'Oh, God,' he said. 'I wasn't even outside.'

  Tom blindly went down the side of the rows of seats and let himself out into the hall. Here too a few lights burned. He was only five feet from the entry to the Little Theater. He clicked the door behind him and looked for its brass plate: Le Grand Theatre des Illusions. Beneath it was a white sheet of paper on which had been written: Go to bed, son.

  He weaved down the hall and the lights clicked off behind him. All he wanted to do was to roll into sleep as fast and hard as he could: now he could not begin to puzzle out the hoops within hoops through which Collins had made him jump. And that is why frogs croak and why they hop. They were once birds, but were tricked by a great wizard, and now they are still trying to sing and still trying to fly.

  12

  'You answer my question first.'

  'No, you answer mine. Tell me about Rose Arm­strong.'

  'Not until you tell me what you did last night.'

  'I can't.'

  'Did Uncle Cole tell you not to?'

  'No.'

  'Then you can tell me. Did you go downstairs? Did you go outside?' Del pushed his spoon back and forth in a bowl of oatmeal. 'Did anyone see you?'

  'All right. I went downstairs. Then I followed all those guys outside.' —

  'You did what?' Del had completely lost his self-possession. He virtually goggled at Tom.

  'I went out. I think I did. Then everything went funny. I wound up back in the big theater.' 'Oh.' Del relaxed. 'So you were supposed to go out.' 'You know that right off?'

  'Sure,' Del said. They were eating breakfast in Del's

  room. A tray had appeared outside the door at nine. 'I've

  been through this about a million times, remember? He

  did some magic on you. You can't even really tell me

  what happened because it's all mixed up in your head.

  That's normal. That's part of what we're here for. So now

  I can relax. I thought you might get us both kicked out.'

  'Well, now that you're relaxed, tell me about Rose

  Armstrong.'

  'What do you want to know about her?'

  'Why does she do what your uncle wants her to do? I mean, why would she go out there and sit on a rock in the middle of the night? Doesn't she have better things to do?'

  Del pushed his plate away. 'Well, I guess she wants to help Uncle Cole. Why else?'

  'But why would she want to?'

  'Because he's great.' Del looked at him as if he had confessed an inability to multiply six by two. 'She respects him. She likes working for him.'

  'Does he pay her?'

  'Look, I don't know, okay? I know that her parents are dead. She lives in town with her grandmother. You have to know that Uncle Cole is famous up here — he used to travel all around, a long time ago, and up here they still remember that. He's Hilly Vale's celebrity. They love him. Did you read his posters downstairs?'

  'No,' Tom said. 'I want to look at them today.'

  'Well, you'll see. He went everywhere. Then he decided he was wasting his talent, and he came here.'

  'How old is she?'

  'About our age. Maybe a year older.'

  'Do you like her?'

  'Sure I like her.'

  'Do you like her a lot?'

  'What do you mean, a lot?'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'Okay. I like her a lot.'

  'Do you ever go out with her?'

  'You don't understand,' Del said. 'It's not like that.'

  'Well, is she ever around so you can just talk to her? Can she tell you what your uncle is up to?'

  'Yes, she's around and you can talk to her. But she doesn't know the reasons for the things he asks her to do. It's like . . . a big puzzle. She's just one of the little pieces.'

  'Well, do you kiss her and stuff like that?'

  'That's my business,' Del said.

  'Do you make out with her? She's a year older, huh? Does she let you make out with her?'

  'I guess,' Del said. 'Sometimes.'

  'Is she good-looking?'

  'You can decide for yourself.'

  'You're a real snake in the woodpile, Nightingale,' Tom said. He was delighted. 'All this time you never told me? She's your girlfri
end? You spend all summer making out with a girl a year older than us? Wow.'

  'We have to go downstairs,' Del said sternly. 'Didn't you ever make out with Jenny Oliver? Or with Diane Darling?' These were girls from Phipps-Burnwood Semi­nary; Tom had taken both of them to school dances.

  'Sometimes,' Tom said. 'Sure, sometimes.'

  'Okay,' Del said, and stood up.

  'You old snake in the woodpile,' Tom said. He rose too, and they went out into the sunny hall. As they went down the stairs, he said, 'Tell me what she looks like. Is she a blond?'

  'Yep.'

  'Well?'

  'She's a blond, she has two eyes and a nose and a mouth. She's about as tall as you are. Her face is . . . oh, how do you describe someone's face?'

  'Try.'

  They stopped together just outside the living room. It was immaculate, Tom saw, as if Mr. Feet's trolls had never been in the house.

  'Well, she looks kind of . . . ' Del hesitated. 'Kind of . . . well, hurt.'

  'Hurt?' This was far indeed from anything Tom had expected, and he laughed.

  'I knew I couldn't explain it,' Del said. 'Let's go. He'll be waiting.'

  Tom glanced over his shoulder at the series of posters on the wall, saw only that they were printed in a variety of old-fashioned typefaces and that none of the names immediately visible were familiar. Then he set off after Del. His mood had risen: full of breakfast, rested, and on a sunny morning he could see the fun of what Shadowland offered, a game more challenging than any he had ever played. He had not been threatened or injured the night before: he had merely been tricked, and tricked in a way only a great illusionist could have managed.

  The handwritten sheet of paper was gone from the door. But had it been there at all? Tom wondered, and thought that now he was getting into the spirit of Shadowland.

  'Have you ever heard the name Herbie — does it mean anything special to you?' he asked.

  'Herbie? You'll see Herbie,' Del promised from ahead of him.

  Inside the long theater, the walls hung misty and green between the fluted pillars, the seats stood like rows of open mouths; the lighting had been dialed low. Del, in his seat in the front row when Tom entered, laughed at whatever was on stage. Tom turned to see, and was startled by the spectacle of a department-store dummy propped stiffly on a tall chair. The arms jutted out, the legs stuck forward. The mannequin had been dressed in black evening clothes; its face had been powdered or painted white. A curly red wig sat on its crown.

  'That's Herbie,' Del said as Tom slid into the seat next to him. 'Herbie Butter.'

  'A doll?'

  'Shh.'

  One of the doll's hands jerked forty-five degrees up. The movement was a robot's, not human. The head swiveled, blank and perfect, first to one side, then the other. The other arm jerked up with the same robot's angular sudden­ness. Tom relaxed into his seat, enjoying this.

  'The Amazing Mechanical Magician and Acrobat,' Del whispered.

  One leg, then its fellow, bent; the robot-mannequin came out of the chair, and Tom could almost hear the working of gears. It began to slide ridiculously about the stage, at one moment almost tumbling off the edge, then walking with great dignity into the curtains and grinding away in place until the gears shifted again and spun it away.

  'Is that your uncle?'

  'Of course it is,' Del whispered.

  'He's great.'

  Del rolled his eyes. The greatness was beyond question.

  For some minutes, Coleman Collins, Herbie Butter, moved — hilariously about the stage, always on the verge of destruction, or surely, it seemed, on the way to it. His eyes were perfectly round and blank, his movements those of a wound-up toy: the face, covered with powder, was sexlessly young — but for the male formal dress, the white face and red hair could have been those of a pretty young woman in her twenties.

  Collins then demonstrated another of his capacities.

  He strode jerkily to a halt in the middle of the stage, swiveled to face the boys, and remained stock-still for no longer than a second and a half.

  'Get this,' Del said.

  Before Del had finished, the robotlike figure was whipping up into the air: it turned over in midair and landed on its. hands. Then it ticked over to one side, spread its legs, and executed a series of flawless cart­wheels.

  Landing on its hands again, the figure sprang over backward and came down on its feet; then over again, turning in the air, blindingly fast. Then Collins came out. of a crouch and fell face forward on the stage — a robot turned off by remote control. With what must have been a terrific effort of muscular skill, he seemed to bounce back upright, arms and legs never changing their position, so slowly it was like a fall in reverse slow motion.

  'Boy,' Tom muttered.

  Herbie Butter bowed and twinkled offstage; a second later he was back, pushing a magician's table on which rode a tall silk hat.

  'Imagine a bird,' he said, and the voice was not Coleman Collins', but lighter, younger.

  A pass of a white silken scarf, and a white dove came out of the hat.

  'Imagine a cat'; a white cat slipped over the brim of the hat. The cat began immediately to stalk the terrified bird.

  Herbie Butter did one of his astounding backflips, coming to rest on his fingertips, then flipped forward to land where he had been, and dropped the white scarf over the cat.

  The scarf fluttered to the surface of the table.

  'And that's it, isn't it? Cat and bird. Bird and cat.'

  It was that first morning that he told Tom and Del the story which ended with the words 'Then I am the King of the Cats!'

  'Can I ask you a question?' Tom said, his arm up as if he were back in Latin class.

  'Of course.' The magician sat on a little table; the voice was still light and sexless.

  'How can you do those things — those gymnastic things — when you limp?'

  He felt Del's disapproval pouring from him, strong as a scent, but the magician was not ruffled.

  'A good question, and too frank to be rude, nephew, so don't take offense. The real answer is 'because I have to,' but that won't be specific enough for you. I intend to tell you more completely, Tom, in a short while — because I will expect you to do something very similar. I promise you. You will know. Is that all?'

  Tom nodded.

  'Come on up and shake my hand. Please.'

  Mystified, Tom stood and went toward the magician, who slipped off the table and went to the edge of the stage. Herbie Butter bent down to take his hand; but instead, his fingers closed about Tom's wrist. Tom jerked his head up and looked into the white anonymous face. He could see nothing of Coleman Collins in it.

  'For your benefit.' The fingers tightened around his wrist. 'Everything you will see here, and you will see many odd things, comes from your own mind — from within you. From the reaction of your mind with mine. None of it exists elsewhere.'

  Herbie Butter released Tom's wrist. 'For three months, for as long as you stay, this is the world for you. Which you will help to create.' He smiled. 'That is one of the meanings of the King of the Cats.'

  Yes, Tom thought.

  'Give yourself to it. I ask you because you are one of the rare ones who can.'

  Yes I am, Tom thought. He was aware of Del giving him a sharp look.

  'And you are alone this summer. Your mother goes to England tomorrow. Her cousin Julia is getting married to . . . a barrister, is it? And after the wedding, your mother will travel in England? Isn't that right?'

  'But how . . . ?'

  'So this is the summer of Tom Flanagan's growth as well as the summer of my unburdening. You are a very special boy, Tom. As you showed me last night.'

  He would have been worried by the expression now on Del's face, which was dark and considering, but he was looking into the white asexual face and seeing Coleman Collins there — the robust Collins of the night before. 'Thank you,' he said.

  13

  'Shall we have some fun?' the magician
said. 'It will be necessary to close your eyes.' '

  Tom shut his eyes, still feeling the roughness of Collins' fingers about his wrist, still glowing from the praise, and heard the magician say, 'This is Level Two.'

  He snapped his eyes open, remembering the wrecked train and angry with himself for being duped so easily: Del, he supposed, had opened his eyes too. He turned to see, but Del avoided his eyes.

  They were still in the big theater. On the stage before them was not the single table, but a large complicated wooden construction like an illustration from a book — so foreign, it seemed to Tom. Some tinny happy music played over them: to two fifteen-year-olds in 1959, this peppy simple jazz was irresistibly like the soundtracks to the old cartoons they saw on television on Saturday mornings. The building was at once complicated and comfortable, full of odd angles and tiny windows. On the big front window had been painted in black: apothe­cary.

  'Well, let's look inside,' Collins said; now he wore half-glasses and a striped apron. His face shone bare of powder — he looked like everybody's favorite old uncle.

  The building swung open, turning itself inside out. The sides pulled back and revealed rows of bottles and jars, a serving counter, a high black register.

  'You wouldn't happen to require any cough medicine, my young men?'

  A row of jars labeled cough syrup coughed and bounced on their shelf. 'Sleeping pills?'

  Another row of bottles snored loudly — almost sending up zzzz in white balloons. 'Reducing tonic?' Two bottles shrank to half their size. 'Rubber bands?'

  A box of rubber bands on the counter stood up and played cheery music: the same tinny happy jazz that had begun as soon as, they had closed their eyes. Tom saw the bell of a trumpet, the slide of a trombone . . . 'Vanishing cream?'

  A jar next to the rubber bands slowly disappeared. Del was giggling beside him; and he giggled too. 'Greeting cards?'

  The corny joke fulfilled itself: A rack of cards be­fore the counter shouted 'Hi!' and 'Hey, how you doin'?' 'Hello, neighbor!' 'God be with you!' 'Get well soon!' 'Have a good trip!' 'Take it easy!' 'Bon-jour!' 'Shalom!'