Shadowland

by Peter Straub

  He went to the nearest tall surface to lean against it, put his hands on the glass of the cabinet. He looked in. The figurines were moving. He saw the porcelain boy sprawled on the polished wood of the shelf, the drunken men with misshapen faces kicking him again and again. The bearded Elizabethan holding a beer mug looked on and smiled. They were killing the boy, kicking in his ribs and head. The boy rolled over, exposing the pulp that had been his face. Blood pooled on the wood. 'Oh, yes,' Tom said. 'Oh, yes. Shadowland.' The blast of heat returned with triple force, and he staggered out toward the hall bathroom.

  8

  He was feverishly ill for three or four days: he did not know how long. His body felt as though it would crack and fissure like a salt flat — so dried out — and even the softest sheet chafed and burned against his skin. People appeared and talked incomprehensibly, like mirages, disappeared. Del moved in front of him, looking very worried. 'Don't fret,' Tom wanted to say. 'I'm just being punished, that's all.' But when he said it, he was speaking to Rose, who held his hand. 'No, you're just sick,' Rose said. 'You're wrong,' he said to Elena. She scowled at him and pushed soup into his mouth. Then: 'You didn't mail my letter.' Old King Cole gazed down at him with false sympathy. 'Of course I didn't,' he said. 'I burned it in front of you. Like this.' He held up his right hand, and flames coursed along his index finger. 'Make me better,' Tom pleaded, but he was talking to startled Del and glum Elena. His only coherent con­versation during the illness was with the devil.

  'I know who you are,' he said, and was troubled by a recollection: hadn't he said the same thing to someone else, when he was still new to Shadowland?

  The devil sat on the edge of his bed and smiled at him. He was a short ginger-haired man with a thin, intelligent face — the face of a nightclub comedian. 'Of course you do,' the devil said. He was dressed like a prep-school teacher, in a light brown tweed jacket and gray wool slacks. When he drew up one foot to cock it on his knee, Tom saw that he wore Bass Weejuns. 'After all, we've met before.'

  'I remember.'

  'I'd introduce myself, but you would never remember my name. If you like, you can call me by my initial, which is M.'

  'Was it you who made me get sick?'

  'It was really the only way I could speak to you directly. And I wanted to get a better look at you than I could the other night. You fret too much about things, you know. You fight against the natural course of events. You'll just wear yourself out. If I hadn't made you ill, you would have done it to yourself quite soon. In short, Tom, I worry about you.'

  'I wish you wouldn't,' Tom said.

  'But it's my job.' M. brought his hand to the area of the tweed jacket that represented his heart. 'My job is to care about you. To care for you, if you like.' The hands opened like a sunburst. 'There is so much we could do for each other. All you have to do is stop fretting. You have a large and remarkable talent, after all. And I must point out, my boy, that you and your talent are at a crossroads. I'd hate to see you waste yourself. So would your mentor.'

  'He's not my mentor,' Tom said, and saw the devil's face shine forth his frustrated greed.

  'Well, you see, there are only two ways to go,' said the devil. 'You could take the high road, which I definitely recommend. That way, you become the master of Shadowland — or not, as you choose. But the option is open to you. You become stronger and stronger as a magician. Your life is full, varied, and satisfying. Everything you could want comes to you on a high tide of blessings. Or you could take the low road. Not advisable. You run into trouble almost immediately. You endanger your happi­ness. Whatever happens, I can offer you very little help. I really think that's the way it is, Tom. You see why I had to talk to you. I want you to spare yourself a considerable amount of nastiness.'

  'I'll have to think about it,' Tom said. The devil's conversation was making him very thirsty.

  'Now you're being reasonable,' M. said. 'I know you'll make the right decision.'

  Was it because he not only dressed like a teacher but also talked like one? Why would that make him thirsty?

  M. winked at him.

  'Did you make those porcelain things come alive?' Tom said. But M. was gone. He groaned and lay back against the pillows, and when he opened his eyes, Del was before him.

  'You look a lot better today,' Del said. 'But I still don't understand what you're talking about.'

  'Could I please have some water?' Tom asked.

  Del went into the bathroom and returned with a brim­ming glass. 'Rose was here a lot,' he said, giving Tom the glass. The water had the ripest roundest most satisfy­ing taste Tom had ever known — it was astonishing that something so delicious came out of a tap.

  'I could see that she likes you, Tom.'

  'Yes. I like her, too.'

  'She saw how worried I was about you. I couldn't figure out what happened — you got sick so fast.'

  'It was . . . ' Tom began, and did not finish. 'It was because I got tired. I picked up some bug while I was swimming.'

  'I guess so. Anyhow, I talked to Rose.' He said no more, but his mood rang like a clarion.

  'That's good.'

  'I guess we do have to get her out of here. And I was thinking — I bet if I come back and explain everything to Uncle Cole, he'll let me keep on working with him. He'll understand. Are you well enough for me to be telling you this?'

  Tom smiled. Del was so impatient to tell him that trying to stop him would have been like holding up a hand before a tidal wave. 'I feel better already,' he said.

  'Well, see, he's my uncle. He'll be mad at me, but it'll work out. He's my uncle.'

  'We're going to take the low road,' Tom said, grin­ning. 'You fret about things too much.'

  'Is there a low road?'

  'Never mind. I have to sleep, Del.' He closed his eyes and heard Del tiptoeing away.

  9

  As soon as Tom was able to get out of bed, he went to the cabinet in the living room. The china figures stood in their old places, the girl with the crook, the boy, the Eliz­abethan, the revelers. The boy's face was undamaged: that horrific vision had been inspired by his fever, a hallucination forced on him by the same tension which had made him ill. Tom's legs felt like those of a baby, unused to carrying his weight. Muscles he had never noticed before grumped and ached.

  At dinner that night the magician complimented him on his recovery. 'I feared we might lose you, my boy. What do you think it was? Touch of the flu?'

  'Something like that,' Tom said. And shied from the magician's glowing eyes.

  'Would have been a terrible irony if you died, don't you think?'

  'I can't see it that objectively.'

  Collins smiled and sipped at his wine. 'At any rate, you look splendid now. Don't you think he looks splendid, Del?'

  Del mumbled assent.

  'Simply splendid. Has a look of the young Houdini about him, wouldn't you agree? Bursting with strength and health and craft. Unassailable. Do you feel unassail­able, Tom?'

  'I feel pretty good,' Tom said, hating that Collins could make him feel like a fool.

  'Superb. Wonderful.' The last of the wine went past his lips. 'Since you have been resurrected to us, tomor­row you shall have the penultimate episode of my life story. Do you feel up to it, little bird?'

  'Sure,' Tom said.

  'Tomorrow, then. Not at the regular time. Ten at night, I think. By the sixth light. I'll look for you there.'

  10

  Tom tested and strengthened his muscles by swimming; besides the exercise, which he needed, it gave him solitude. Collins was nearing the end of his unburdening. As the story neared its end, so did their time at Shadowland. Tom hoped every hour for a message from Rose. He prayed that she would not actually delay their escape until the day of the final performance. Now that Del was at least theoretically prepared to desert his uncle, the sooner they left, the better.

  The weather was still warm, but the moisture in the air had concentrated and darkened. Fog hung over the middle of the l
ake and stole out of the forest. The air seemed to melt indivisibly into cloud. Against his skin, the water was almost bath-warm.

  Sounds of hammering came to him: tock-tock-tock: each blow of the hammer threatened to nail him into Shadowland.

  Knowing it was in vain, he hoped that Rose would get word to them this afternoon.

  Instead of that, he saw her. She came alone out of the woods in a curl of fog, unbuttoned a plaid shirt which engulfed her like a serape, and in the black bathing suit waded into the water like a doe.

  He swam toward her, his heart half-sick with love.

  Rose heard him splashing — emotion made his swim­ming even less expert — and retreated into water shallow enough for her to stand. Tom plowed toward her through heavy warm water. Only her head and neck were visible above the surface.

  'Thanks for coming to visit me,' he said. 'I remember seeing you there a couple of times.'

  'Well, I would have been there all the time, but I didn't want to upset Mr. Collins.' Rose was looking directly into his eyes with a quiet, deadly frankness.

  Tom pushed his way through the water closer to her. 'It's so good to see you,' he said, and her face tightened down into itself again. She said, 'Me too.'

  'Can't we get out of here soon? Today, maybe? He's going to tell us some more of his story tonight — it kind of makes me nervous.'

  'They'd catch us today,' she said. 'Those men are all over the place. It's too early. Anyhow, you're okay until the big performance. Just be patient. I'm doing what I can.'

  'I trust you, Rose,' he said. 'It's just that I'm getting . . . I don't know. This waiting is driving me crazy. I think that's why I got sick.'

  Her hands, warmed by the water, lifted and rested on his shoulders. She linked her hands behind his neck. 'You won't be foolish when you see me tonight, will you?'

  'Tonight?'

  'During his story. I'm supposed to do some work then.'

  'Oh. One of those scenes.'

  'Sort of. But don't . . . you know. Say anything.'

  'I won't,' he said. He was trembling.

  Her face swam closer; the touch of her mouth ex­tinguished his words. Then she spoke again. 'Tom, don't listen to anything he says about me. I think he knows I love you. You can't hide anything from him. But if he talks about me, it'll all be lies. Everything here is a lie.'

  Rose hugged him tightly, and then gave him a comradely little pat on the back. 'Be patient,' she said. 'I have to go now.' Her head went under water, her body jackknifed, and she executed a smooth strong stroke which carried her away from him.

  Tom turned around, his heart full, and saw a tall lean figure standing on the pier looking straight toward him. Coleman Collins. He glanced back to find Rose, but she was still under water. Tom felt a sudden unreasonable terror, as if the tiny figure on the dock had overheard what he and Rose had said. Collins was beckoning to him. He began to sidestroke back to Shadowland through the warm water.

  Collins motioned him toward the pier, chopping with his hand. When Tom was only a few feet from the pier, he looked up at the magician's steely face. 'So you know our little Rose better than any of us realized,' Collins said. 'Come up here.'

  'I just met her by accident,' Tom said. 'Get on the pier.'

  Tom dog-paddled nearer, and Collins bent and reached down. Tom raised his own hand, and the magician lifted him onto the pier as if he weighed nothing. Dripping and frightened, Tom stood before him.

  'I cannot recommend any distractions for you at this time,' Collins said.

  It took Tom a moment to understand what he meant. 'In fact, excessive distraction from your task could prove dangerous, Tom. Do you understand? I will need your entire concentration.' 'Yes, sir.'

  ''Yes, sir.' Like a little schoolboy. Is it possible that you still do not understand the seriousness of what you are involved in?'

  'I think I understand,' Tom said. The magician ap­peared sober but very angry.

  'You think you do. I hope you know that you cannot put any credence in any word Rose utters. She is not — repeat — not — to be trusted. If you allow yourself to be led astray by that girl, you will be ruined. Is that clear?' Tom nodded. 'I see you still do not understand. So I will tell you one of my secrets. That delightful child you were embracing in the water has never seen the town of Hilly Vale. She has no grandmother, and she never had parents. She is my creation. She has no notion of morality, and less of love.'

  Tom looked at him sullenly, hating him.

  'Oh, dear me. I see I better tell you a story,' the magician said. 'Sit down and listen.'

  11

  'The Mermaid'

  Many years ago, when we all lived in the forest and nobody lived anywhere else, a lonely old king lived by the side of a lake in a drafty castle which had seen better days. Once it had been the most beautiful castle, and he the most powerful king, in the entire forest, which covered half the continent. Once tapestries had glowed from the walls, gold plates had shone from the table, and all of the castle had seemed to sparkle with a light which was the image of the great king's glory. But the queen had died, and the princesses had married princes from lands far away, other kings in the forest had taken territory in battles, and the old king lived alone and bitter, without glory or affections. His army had died of old age or been taken from him or simply faded into the forest, and so he could not increase his treasury by conquest. Only a few woodsmen and hunters remained to pay his taxes, and they paid chiefly out of loyalty to what had once been.

  One of the old king's few pleasures was to walk at evening along the shore of the lake near the castle. The water was deep and blue, and from time to time he could see a bass jump, disturbing the gloomy quiet with a splash loud as cannon fire and causing ripples to spread all the way to the shore. At such times, the king would mourn, remembering when his own power was such that its rumors and effects rippled and widened a hundred miles in every direction. The old times of love and power — how he ached for them!

  One night, taking his melancholy walk beside the lake, he saw a mighty bass leap out of the water, and was so moved by longing that he mumbled quietly to himself, 'Oh, I do wish . . . '

  Then he heard a voice as ancient and cracked as his own. 'Do wish for what, your Majesty?'

  The king whirled about and saw a wrinkled old man with a crafty face and a threadbare robe seated on a fallen log half — concealed by overgrown vegetation. He did not immediately recognize the old man, for he had not seen him since the days he had just been mourning.

  'Oh, it's you, wizard,' the king said. 'I thought you were dead.'

  'I die fresh every morning,' said the wizard. 'Cough­ing brings me back.'

  'Tricks and confusion, that's all I ever had from you,' said the king, turning away from the lake in irritation. In truth he was pleased to see the wizard again, despite the accuracy of what he had just said.

  'Halvor is very important now in the north,' said the wizard, as if to himself, 'and Bruno has made a name for himself in the south, and Lester the Ambitious in the west, and — '

  'Shut up,' grumped the king. 'I know all that. I suppose you sold yourself to them, like everyone else. I suppose you work your evil tricks for reptiles like Lester, who gained power by poisoning most of his relatives.' The great bass rose out of the water again, smacked back down with a silvery thrash of his tail, and the king's heart folded with loss.

  'They have their own wizards — upstarts who think only of money. If I worked for them, wouldn't I at least have new robes?'

  'Umph,' the king said. 'You do look rather seedy, wizard.'

  'No more than I feel. But didn't I hear you wishing a moment ago? For old times' sake, I'd be pleased to help you.'

  'And bamboozle me the way you did everyone else you aided.'

  'Wizards must be paid, like everyone else,' said the ancient creature on the log. 'What were you wishing for? A vast army? A treasury full of gold?' Then he gave the king an extremely shrewd look, and all his wrinkles seemed to smooth o
ut for a moment. 'Or was it a beautiful young wife to warm your bones? A young wife, perhaps, with the power to restore your kingdom and return to you all that you have lost?'

  The king's face darkened.

  'I think I could find a wife for you,' mused the wizard, 'who could bewitch the armies of Halvor and Bruno so that you could subjugate the territories that were once yours, then raise enough treasure to invade the province of Lester the Ambitious — and who, though incapable of giving you children, would give you the illusion of love.'

  'Only the illusion,' said the disappointed king.

  'Look at it from my point of view,' said the wizard. 'All love is illusion to a wizard. And to possess this great blessing from which the others would flow, you need only tell me that you would sacrifice your gray hair and wear a beard instead. It is a better bargain than I gave the sparrows. It is a bitter truth, your Majesty, that you have less to surrender than they.'

  Though old, the king was still vain, and he hated the thought of baldness. 'Will it be a full beard?' he asked.

  'A very noble beard,' the wizard said. 'Need I point out that you do not require your hair to enjoy the fruits of love? And the wife I shall give you will make you a young man again.'

  'Where will you get her from?' asked the king. 'Some foul contraption of wax and bear grease?'

  'Not at all.' The wizard smiled. 'I will get her from there.' He nodded to the lake, and on the instant the great bass again broke the surface. 'She will be as beautiful as beautiful, with the power to enchant armies, but she will have the cold heart of a fish. Yet as long as you are king, you will believe in her love.'

  'A strong back and firm flesh,' said the king. 'And the power to enchant armies.' He trembled on the edge of his decision for a moment, fearing that he was about to make a great mistake, but then thought of a woman as beautiful as beautiful, with the power to turn the armies of Halvor and Bruno against them, and his blood stirred, and he whispered, 'I take your bargain, wizard.'

  'You must be on this spot at midnight,' said the wizard, all his wrinkles deepening as he grinned and disappeared.