Shadowland

by Peter Straub

  She never told him about the gun, he realized. She knew but she didn't tell him. It kept him from passing out.

  8

  Snail's fingers were steel bars thrust into his muscles. As the man carried him like a weightless doll down the corridor to the theaters, he bent his head forward and whispered into Tom's ear. 'My daddy used to whup me — my daddy used to near take the skin off my back — oh, how my daddy whupped me — ' he made a coarse oily noise Tom realized a second later was a chuckle. Then he put his lips on Tom's ear. ' — and I didn't have skin near as white as yours.' He bellowed with laughter.

  Tom kicked backward and hit Snail's legs with his heels. The troll responded by shaking him hard enough to break his neck.

  'Play pretty, now,' Snail said, setting him down outside the door to the little theater. The brass plaque still read:

  Wood Green Empire

  27 August, 1924

  Collins opened the door and Snail hauled Tom in.

  One whole wall was gone. The two theaters were joined into a single massive space. Mr. Peet was up at the back of the pitched seats, looking at his picture in the mural.

  'Hey, this is pretty good,' he called down to Collins. 'That guy looks just like me.' He sounded almost childishly, egotistically pleased.

  'Are you an idiot?' Collins barked. 'Get away from there.'

  Mr. Peet looked surly and insulted, then lounged down the bank of steps.

  'Take him up to the back,' Collins said. 'Once we get started, I want him to be able to see. And turn the lights off.'

  'Hey, you're not really — ?' Tom began, but Snail slapped him, stinging a whole side of his face. 'Used to whup me real good,' he said, grinning. 'Damn near ventilated me.' Like Seed, he too was missing some teeth. He jerked Tom across the smaller stage and into the larger space. The overhead spots died, and only faint amber light from the stage showed Tom the rows of empty seats. Snail pulled him forward and up.

  'What's going to happen to me?' Tom asked.

  'I just work here,' Snail said. 'But what do you think Root's doing to your buddy?' Tom hesitated, and Snail said, 'Don't try any of that crazy stuff. You do, and I pull your legs off.'

  That crazy stuff-Snail meant levitating. But that area in him was lost anyhow. He was too frightened to find that key. They reached the last row of seats. Crucified? He remembered the dream from long ago, the vulture hop­ping forward and rending his hands with its yellow beak.

  A wooden frame in the shape of a large X had beeq screwed to the wall. It had a temporary, provisional look, the look of something thrown up in a hurry, easily dismantled after it had been used. From the center of the X hung a leather cinch. On the carpet beneath it lay two long nails and a wooden mallet.

  'He can't really do that,' Tom said.

  'As long as he don't do it to me, he can,' Snail said.

  'Stop talking and pick him up,' Collins ordered. 'He'll fight, so get a good grip.'

  Tom jumped sideways and tried to run back down the stairs, but Thorn put an arm around his chest and yanked him backwards. He kicked, and Thorn hit him on the top of his head with his knuckles.

  'Get a grip on him, I said.' Collins bent over to pick up the nails. When he touched them, they shimmered on the carpet, and when they were in his hands, they glowed a pale silver, as if lit from within.

  Pease grabbed a leg with each doughy hand. Snail took his wrists, and he could not move: Tom strained against their touch, but Thorn increased the pressure on his chest and drove all the breath out of him. Mr. Peet wandered off and sat down on the aisle seat, where he twisted around to watch. Thorn's sour breath washed directly over Tom's face.

  'Observe the nails,' Collins said. Now he held the mallet in his right hand. The long nails had turned a molten golden-red, and seemed to pulse in the magician's hand.

  'Good trick,' said Thorn.

  'You stink,' Tom said, and Thorn rapped him on the head again; a sharp jarring pain. With only half his strength, Thorn could break his skull.

  'This boy is a magician. We need something extra to hold him.' Collins held the nails in front of Tom's eyes. 'Understand? You'll never coax these out of the boards. I think you'll be content to wait for the performance.' He turned to Pease and Snail. 'Hoist him up.'

  The three trolls carried Tom to the frame, Thorn walking backward. 'Keep a hold on those arms,' Thorn said, and freed his arms so that he could grip Tom's waist with both hands. 'Come along with me — I'll belt him in.' He lifted Tom, and pinned him with one hand stuck hard into his belly while he worked the cinch. Tom wriggled, but Thorn's hand pushed his stomach against his spine.

  The belt closed around his belly. The men sprang away. He was firmly held and four feet above the ground. The clasp bit at his skin; the old pistol chewed the small of his back.

  Collins held the nails up again. They shone out bands of color, like prisms. 'All right. We will proceed. Thorn, kneel down and hold his feet against the wall.' Thorn bent down and rammed Tom's heels against the green.

  'Snail, you hold the right arm. Pease, you take the left. Palm out against the brace.'

  They seized his arms and pulled them out, stretching them until his elbows threatened to turn inside out. Tom howled, 'You can't! You can't!'

  'That is your opinion,' Collins said, and approached, one shining nail between thumb and forefinger, the mallet already lifted in his right hand.

  'NOOO!' Tom bellowed. Pease flattened his fingers back, exposing the palm.

  'The pain won't be as bad as you anticipate,' Collins said, and pressed the point of the first nail into Tom's left palm.

  Tom clamped his eyes shut and fought against every­thing — the men holding him spread-eagled, the buckle sawing at his skin.

  Collins hammered the mallet against the head of the nail. There was a grunt immediately before the impact: and then incredible pain, as if not just the nail but the mallet itself had thrust itself through his palm. He screamed, and heard the scream in a disembodied, hallucinatory way: it was as visible as a flag.

  'You ain't paying us enough,' he heard Pease say.

  'Now you, Snail. Get those fingers back.'

  Tom's right fingers uncurled by themselves. My hands, he thought. Will I ever. . . ?

  The pinprick of the nail's point: the muffled grunt of effort of concentration; the rape of his right hand.

  My hands! They seemed the size of his whole body, and burning. He saw his own screams rippling away from him.

  'Not too much blood,' Collins said with satisfaction.

  Tom went out of his body and floated among the bright screams.

  9

  Sometime later the pain in his enormous hands brought him back. Sweat dripped down his nose, itching like a dozen ants. His throat had been sand-blasted. His muscles screeched; his ears pounded. At intervals a loud crump! from the outside rattled the frame on which he was suspended, and he deliriously thought that bombs were falling, that Shadowland was being shelled, and then realized that the explosions were fireworks. One after the other, single explosions, double and triple explosions, like wordless sentences commanding and insisting and insist­ing again. Ka-bang! Ka-bang whamp!

  He was afraid to look at his hands. The three trolls lay across the seats in the last row, now and then looking at him without curiosity, as if he were a picture they found wanting. One of the nails kept a bone from being where it wanted to be, and the pressure, which faded in and out, made all the other pains increase. He tried to push his hands flatter against the wood, and for as long as he could hold them there — not a long time — the agony lessened.

  When his hands sagged, the fire returned. Pease and Snail glanced up at him with real interest. 'Sings good,' Pease said, and Thorn snickered.

  'The kid's right,' Pease said. 'You do stink.'

  'Kiss my ass,' Thorn said.

  Tom risked a peek at his left hand, and was relieved that he could see no farther than its heel. A little drying blood crusted the strap of his watch.

  You'
re a magician, aren't you?

  I never wanted to be.

  But you are?

  Yes.

  Then use your mind to pull out the nails.

  I can't.

  That's what you thought when he told you to raise the log. Just try.

  He tried. He saw the nails slipping out of the wood, gently easing from his hands, sliding out easy and slow . . .

  and it felt like wires had been suddenly thrust into the wounds; he could see the nails glowing, turning gold and blue and green . . . he uttered a high floating falsetto wail, and saw that too, a thin rag ascending to the ceiling.

  'Kid sounds like a female alcoholic,' Pease said.

  See the odd things you learn? If you hadn't tried that, you'd never have known that Pease is the trolls' wit.

  'We ain't gettin paid enough for this,' Pease said, as he had before. 'Badgers is one thing, this is something else.'

  'You tell me how,' Thorn growled.

  'Blow your mouth some other way when you talk at me.'

  Tom sagged against the cinch.

  When he looked up, M. was sitting beneath him, his knees drawn up, his back resting on Thorn's seat. He was back in the prep-school costume. 'Did I call it, or did I call it? Give me a little credit.'

  Tom closed his eyes.

  'I can't save you from this, obviously, but I can save you from the rest,' M. said. 'Open your eyes. Aren't you at least prepared to admit that you've been had?'

  'Leave me alone,' Tom said.

  'It talks!' Pease roared.

  'I can still do you a lot of good,' M. went on calmly. 'Those nails, now — I could slip those out for you. Wouldn't you like that?'

  'Why?' Tom asked.

  'He wants to know why,' Pease said.

  'Because I'd hate to see you wasted. Simple as that. Your mentor has done us a fair amount of good over the years, but you — you'd be extraordinary. Should I try those nails? It's a simple matter, I assure you.'

  'Go away,' Tom sobbed. 'Get out of here. I turn my face away from you. I revile you. I can't stand the smell of you — you are these nails.' His voice broke down. Sweat burst from every pore of his body. He was freezing to death. M. disappeared, still smiling up.

  'Kid gets on my fuckin' nerves,' Thorn said.

  'Give him a break,' Pease said, 'he's in a tough spot. Ain't you, kid? Let's go farther down.'

  'What the hell, he's crazy,' Snail said. 'He's out of his gourd.' He stood up. The three of them loafed down the stairs to the first row. Tom closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the wall.

  'Look, we can even go outside, hey?' he heard Thorn say. 'Who's to say we can't?'

  Tom passed out again.

  When he came around again, he thought it was night. He was alone in the vast dark theater. A plum-colored glow emanated from the curtains. He was soaked in sweat, he was ice-cold, and his hands were soaring and sobbing. The bone fought the pressure of the nail, lost, and bounced in his hand. Hundreds of nerves sang.

  'Tom,' came a velvety voice he knew.

  'No more,' Tom said, and rolled his head back to look down the aisle in the direction of the voice. Bud Copeland was standing like a deeper shadow in the dark aisle. 'That's not really you,' he said.

  'No, not really. I can't really do anything but talk to you.'

  'I guess you're Speckle John,' Tom said. 'I should have known.'

  'I used to be Speckle John. But he took my magic away. He thought that was worse than death.' Bud drew nearer. Tom realized that he could see through him, see the line of seat backs and the dark wall at the end of the aisle through Bud's snowy shirt and gray suit. 'But I had enough left to hear Del when the little boy was born. Just like I had enough to know you when I saw you for the first time. And to hear you now.'

  'Am I going to die?' Tom said; wept a few stinging tears.

  'If you don't get down,' Bud's shade told him. 'But you're strong, boy. You don't know yet how strong you are. That's why they make all this fuss about you, you know. You're strong as an elephant — strong enough to fetch me here. Only wish I could do more than talk.' Bud shifted uncomfortably, and his transparency grew cloudy. 'He did the Wandering Boys just like he did you — in the cellars of the Wood Green Empire. Mr. Peet and all . . . all those stupid men who thought they'd get a free ride for life off him. Oh, he gave a show: he gave a real show, boy. He's still proud of it. Made a scandal big enough to drive him out of Europe.'

  'What did he do to Rose?'

  'Rosa? Don't bother with that, boy. Just get yourself off that brace. Outside, they're fooling with Del. They're liable to kill him if you don't get down.'

  'I can't,' Tom wailed.

  'You got to.' Tom screamed.

  'That's not the way. There's only one way, boy. You got to use that strength. You got to pull your hands off. That's the way it works.'

  'Nooo!' Tom screamed.

  'You do it with one hand, the other one will come easier. You got to choose your song — you got to choose your skills. You already tried wings, and that didn't work. You can't run from him.'

  Tom leaned his head back against the wall and looked at Bud through red eyes; asked a silent question.

  'I tried song, Tom. But he was stronger than me. After that the most I could do was try to keep Del safe from him. I knew he wanted that boy — until he heard about you, he wanted him anyhow. Now it's your turn. And you have to do more than save Del. You know what you have to do.'

  'Kill him,' Tom said weakly,

  'Unless you want him to kill you. Do what I say, now. Push your left hand forward. Just keep on pushing. It's going to hurt like blazes, but. . . shit, son, doesn't it hurt already? When you get that one free, push with your right hand. Those nails can't stop that. They can only stop you doing it the easy way.'

  'Just push.'

  'Push with all you got, son. If you don't, worse than that is going to happen to you. And there won't be enough of Del left to worry about. Hear that? You hear him?'

  Then Tom did hear Del: heard a piping, anguished eeee, like a sound he had made himself not long before.

  He concentrated on his left hand; and pushed. A hundred mallets hit a hundred nails, and he nearly fainted again.

  You're strong.

  He pushed as hard as he could, and his hand flew free of the nail in a spray of blood.

  'Sweet Jesus, son, you did it! Now, push the other one . . .please God, boy, push that other one . . . push the hell out of it. . . don't even think about it, just slam it out of there.'

  Tom filled his chest with air, unable to think about the agony in his left hand, opened his mouth with the full force of his lungs, arched his back as the yell began, and jerked his right hand forward.

  It flew. Blood spurted out over the row of seats before him.

  . . . now you know why I took that job, boy . . . Bud's voice faded; the rest of him was already gone.

  Sobbing, Tom slumped over the cinch. The buckle: the buckle worked on a catch. It was trying to saw him in half. And 'for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen . . . He raised his left hand and pushed the base of the thumb against the catch. Blood smeared on his shirt, soaked through to his belly. My next trick is the never-before-attempted the Falling Boy. He urged the base of his thumb around the catch. His hand pounded, but his thumb rested against the catch. He shoved, blood gouted from his hand, and he tumbled out of the strap and fell like a sack to the carpet.

  10

  Del. That was where he had to go. Del was outside, being killed by the trolls. Tom crawled toward the steps, using elbows and knees, ignoring the blood streaking down his arms. Could he flex his fingers? When he reached the top of the stairs, he tried the left hand, and the pain made his eyes mist, but the fingers twitched. How about you, right hand? Mr. Thorpe: chapel on a sunny morning: raising his right hand: boys, that brave young man took out his pocketknife and carved a cross in the palm of his right hand! Bet he did too, the jerk. Tom clenched his teeth and made his fingers move.

 
And for my next trick . . . the Amazing Falling Boy will now attempt to go down a flight of stairs.

  Tom crawled to the edge of the steps. Facefirst? He saw himself falling, knocking his head against the metal sides of seats, rolling on his hands . . . he turned over, sat up, put his legs over the edge and went down like a one-year-old, on the seat of his pants.

  Now do something really difficult, Tom, old boy. Walk. His feet were on the floor, his bottom on the second step. Well, don't rush into it — stand up first, do it the easy way. He flailed out with his dripping arms, his back knotted and ached, and he was on his feet. Immediately his head went fuzzy, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall for support. Funny how much pain your body, can hold — it can be just like a bucket filled up with pain. You'd think you'd spill some of it along the way, but the bucket just gets bigger.

  Come outside now, boys, we are going to witness a miracle. Skeleton hiding at the back of the stage, waiting for the piano player to leave so he could check his stolen exams, take a look at the Ventnor owl and see if it had anything special to say to him today. , . . It just broke, Mr. Robbin. Yassuh, just up and broke on us.

  Gee, you monkeys are clumsy.

  That's us, sir, clumsy all over today, all we can do just to stand up . . .

  He made himself go forward, pushing the door open with his shoulder. Yeah, the old bucket just keeps on getting bigger. Tom staggered out into the darkened corridor, knocked into the opposite wall with his shoul­der, and paused to rest.

  This is not an easy school. Not! Not an easy school!

  You had to admit they weren't liars.

  He leaned forward, and his feet followed him down the corridor. As long as he rested his right shoulder on the wall, he could keep moving and stay upright. Blood dripped steadily down his fingers and onto the brown carpet. Past the forbidden room, past the kitchen.

  He heard Del screaming again — repeated, hopeless screams, the screams of someone who knows he is lost.