by Peter Straub
'Rose?' he called again, and finally looked at his watch. It was eleven in the morning. 'Rose! Come back!' He stood up, looked into the trees and did not see her, and for a moment was sick with the thought that she had returned to the house.
But that could not be: the house no longer existed. Rubble would have fallen into the entrance of the tunnel and blocked it off for good. A few boards jutted up, one chimney stood in a blackened column. Everything else was gone. Rose was freed from that.
As was he. For the first tune he looked at his hands in daylight and saw the round pads of scar tissue.
He sat down to wait for her. Even then, he knew that if he waited until his beard grew to his waist and men danced on the moon and stars, she would never come back. He waited anyhow. He could not leave.
Tom waited for her all day. The minutes crawled — he was back, in common time, and no one could fold the hours together like a pack of cards. He watched the lake change color as the sun crossed, changing from deep blue to paler blue to light green and back to blue. In the late afternoon he gently moved the glass sparrow onto the sand and opened the leather-bound book. He read the first words: These are the secret teachings of Jesus the son of God, as told by him to his twin, Judas Thomas. He closed the book. He remembered what Rose had said to his frantic speculation that they might have to go back through the destroyed house. No you won't. Not: no we won't. She would not go down the path to the gate with him: she would not trek into the village, holding his hand, or stand at his side while they waited for a train.
Tom waited until the brightness drained from the air. Shadowland still smoldered, and a few sparks drifted down the bluff, falling toward a thin layer of ash the rain would take in the fall. When the falling sparks glowed like tiger's eyes, he stood up.
He walked toward the water, carrying the glass sparrow and the book. He went to his knees on the damp sand just before the edge of the water. He set down the sparrow and looked at it. At its center hung a deep blue light. He wanted to say something profound, but profundity was beyond him: he wanted to say something emotional, but the emotion itself held his tongue in a vise. 'Here you go,' was what came out of him. He gave the sparrow a push into the water. It glided an inch or so along the bottom, then a ripple passed over it on the surface of the lake and the sparrow seemed to move against the motion of the ripple, going deeper into the lake. The blue in the glass was identical to the blue of the water. Another unseen ripple took it with it, and the sparrow went — flew — so far ahead under the water he could not see it.
Tom stood up, pushed the book into his belt, and walked back across the beach. Soon he was parting the delicate brush.
The End of the Century
is in Sight
The end of the century is in sight and Tom Flanagan's story was about events more than twenty years back in time. I listened to it here and there about the world, and wondered what sort of story it was and how much of it was invention. I also constantly wondered about what Tom had been reading. His imagination had surely concocted those radical illusions — the speeding of time, the transformations and the sudden dislocations of space, also the people with animal faces, which were straight from the works of symbolist painters like Puvis de Chavannes — and I thought that he had been steeping himself in lurid and fantastic novels. He had wanted to give me good value.
The idea that Laker Broome had been a minor devil was a ripe example of this. It was true that I, like all the new boys, had assumed he had been at Carson for years. Yet Broome had been the Carson headmaster for our freshman year only — when we returned in September a capable man named Philip Hagen had his job, and we assumed that Broome's breakdown and his conduct during the fire had blessedly got him out of the way.
1 wrote to the Association of Secondary School Headmasters, and found that they had no information about Laker Broome. He was not in their files. One night, still trying to find what had become him, I called up Fitz-Hallan and asked him if he remembered what had happened to Broome. Fitz-Hallan thought he had managed to get a post at . . . He named a school as obscure as Carson. When I wrote to the school, I got back a letter saying that they had had the same headmaster from 1955 to 1970, and that no one named Laker Broome had ever been on their staff. However, a penciled note at the bottom said that a Carl Broome had come to them in 1959 as a Latin teacher and had stayed only one year; might I have the wrong name? Why was Carl Broome released after a year? I wrote back on a long shot, but was informed that such matters 'are a part of the confidence which any school of repute must retain with respect to former employees.' This was very fishy — didn't they give recommendations? — but it was clear that they did not wish to tell me what I wanted to know; and anyhow, I was fairly certain that Laker was not Carl Broome, so there was no point in continuing. Lake the Snake had lost his job and disappeared. That was all I knew about him.
Tom's story had abandoned Steven Ridpath as he (presumably) crept out the front door and wriggled through the bars of the gate, and I imagined that a conversation with Ridpath would immediately tell me how much of Tom's story had been fiction. Here I had much more luck than with Laker Broome. Skeleton had gone to Clemson, and universities keep wonderful records. The Alumni Office told me that one Ridpath, Steven, had graduated near the bottom of his class in 1963. From there he had gone to a theological college in Kentucky.
A theological college? A Kentucky Bible school?
It seemed impossible, but it was true — the Headley Theological Institute in Frankfort told me that Mr. Ridpath had attended from 1963 to 1964, when he had converted to Catholicism and left them for a seminary in Lexington. The Lexington seminary, run by an order of monks, eventually wrote me that Steven Ridpath had become Brother Robert, and had been placed in a monastery near Coalville, Kentucky.
I drove from Connecticut down to Coalville to see if he would talk to me.
Coalville was a run — down hamlet — no other word would fit — of three hundred people. Unhappy buildings sat in an unhappier landscape. Wherever a stand of trees grew, behind it was a wasteland of slag heaps and abandoned mining buildings. There was a motel, but I was the only guest. I sent a note to the monastery. Would Brother Robert agree to discuss with me whatever had led him to this unlikely destination? I let the assumption stand that I was doing an article or a book about the decision to enter the church.
Come if you must, came a note by return mail. I expect you have made a useless journey.
I appeared at the monastery gates at the time he had named. It was still early enough for roosters to be crowing within the grounds — there was a farm there, and the brothers raised their own food. I swung the clapper in the big bell and waited and shivered in the early chill.
Eventually a monk pulled open the gates. He wore a coarse brown robe and the hood shaded his face. 'Brother Robert?' I said, startled by this apparition.
'Brother Theo,' he said. 'Brother Robert is waiting for you in the garden.' He turned about without another word and preceded me up a stony path.
We went around the side of a red brick dormitory. 'Our farm,' Brother Theo said, and gestured with a flap of his sleeves. I looked to the left and saw a red barn disgorging cows after their morning milking. It still seemed impossible that Skeleton Ridpath was in such a place. 'The chicken coop,' said Brother Theo. 'We have sixty-eight hens! Good sound layers.'
At last we came to another gate. Over a brick fence I could see massed rosebushes. The brothers would soon have to begin pruning, for the roses were crowded together, fulsome and blowsy. My guide opened the gate. A gravel path led between banks of roses. 'Follow the path,' he said. 'In fifteen minutes I shall see you out.'
'Fifteen minutes?' I asked. 'Can't I have a little more time?'
'The time was specified by Brother Robert.' He turned away.
I set off down the path. It led me around a comer, and when I turned into the garden proper, I nearly gasped. It was set out like a medieval garden, parceled into small plots where va
rying herbs and flowers grew, and it was a place of great order and serenity, much larger than I had expected. A monk sat on an iron bench before another bank of the overgrown roses. Beside him on the bench something glinted in the early sun: secateurs. When he heard my footsteps on the gravel, he looked up and swept the hood off his head.
It was Skeleton: no one could have mistaken him for anyone else. His hair had been cropped down to graying bristle, and a little wire-brush beard filled out his cheeks, but he still was Skeleton Ridpath. 'Do you like our garden?' he asked.
'Very much,' I said. 'It's beautiful, in fact. Do you tend it?'
He ignored the question. 'I must get occupied with the roses. They are in a sorry state.' He picked up the secateurs and nodded gloomily, indicated that I could be seated. 'I can give you fifteen minutes,' he said, 'but I must tell you now that you are wasting your time.'
'I'd better decide that,' I said, 'but in any case, I'd better also plunge right in, if you don't mind. Why did you decide to attend Headley Theological Institute after Clemson? It can hardly be what you had in mind when you started college.' I took out a pen and notebook.
'You would not understand,' he said, and clicked the secateurs shut.
'Since you've given me fifteen minutes, why not test me?' I asked. 'Otherwise your time is wasted too. I understand at least that you are a talented gardener.'
He scowled at me, refusing the compliment.
'Was there a crisis — a spiritual crisis of some kind?'
'There was a crisis,' he said. 'You might call it spiritual.'
'Could you describe it in any way?'
He sighed: he was really itching to get back at the roses.
'You could do some of your work while you talk to me,' I said.
He promptly left the bench, mumbling 'Thank you,' and began on the roses. Snick-snick: a thick brown rope laden with heavy blossoms collapsed, and petals showered on the bench.
'In my second year at college,' he said, and for some reason my chest tightened, 'I nearly dropped out. I had a disturbing vision. One that subsequently was shown to be prophetic.'
'And what was that?' I asked.
'The vision was of one of our classmates.' He turned to glare at me. 'I had a vision of Marcus Reilly. I saw his death. Not once, but many times.' I think I stopped breathing. 'He was in his car. He removed a pistol from his pocket. He placed the pistol beside his ear. Do I have to go on?'
'No,' I breathed. 'I know how Marcus died.'
Snick: another cluster of roses flopped. More petals drifted to the bench.
'That is what I have to tell you. You would not understand the rest. I'm sure the rest was all conventional anyhow. I accepted Christ first, and later I accepted the Church. It is unusual only in that I am a converted Catholic.'
'You gave up your wings, didn't you?' I asked. 'I will never leave this place. And I will never want to. If that is what you mean.'
He suddenly seemed very agitated.
'Brother Robert, what happened in Vermont?' I dared to ask; unwisely.
'I'm sure our time is up,' he said, not looking at me. 'I am sorry lever agreed to speak to you.' Now the roses were tumbling all over the bench, lolling over and rolling onto the path.
'If I brought Tom Flanagan here, would you agree to meet him?' That suddenly seemed to me a brilliant solution.
Brother Robert stopped pruning the roses. He stood stock-still for a second', with his arm frozen where it had been when I had uttered Tom's name. 'Under no circumstances whatsoever. Also, I will never see you again, under any circumstances whatsoever. Is that clear?' He lopped off another tangle of roses, and our interview was ended. He would not let me see his face.
'Thank you for what you've told me,' I said, and went back to the gate, where Brother Theo waited. He had the air of a man who wished he had been eavesdropping; he asked me if I had enjoyed my visit.
Later that year I visited friends in Putney, Vermont, and before I left them I looked up Hilly Vale on an old Sunoco map and made a hundred-and-ten-mile detour on my way home.
The town was much as Tom had described it. Few changes had happened to Hilly Vale in twenty years. I parked on Main Street and went into a health-food shop — it must have been one of the changes. A young man with shoulder-length hair and a striped apron stood behind the counter eating a carob bar. He put the final touches to my theory about change in Hilly Vale. 'I'm looking for the site of the old Collins place,' I said. 'Can you help me?'
He grinned at me. 'Been here only a year and a half,' he said. 'Maybe Mrs. Brewster knows it.' He nodded to a fiftyish woman in a down jacket lingering over a display of purses in plastic bags.
'Mrs. Brewster!' he called. 'This guy here wants. . . ?' he raised his eyebrows at me.
'The old Collins place, Mrs. Brewster,' I said. 'Where they had the big fire. In 1959, it would have been. At the end of the summer.'
'Why, sure,' she said, and again I felt that tightening of the chest. 'Nobody even knew about it until the whole place was gone. We didn't even know for weeks after. Terrible thing. Mr. Collins died there. He was a famous magician once, you know.' She gave me a sly look. 'You wouldn't be Mr. Flanagan, now, would you?'
'Why, no,' I said, startled. 'Why do you ask?'
'Thought you'd know. That's the Flanagan place now. 'Course, it isn't a place, not that way. And that's a shame, too. Valuable land sitting like that — some folks here would like to buy some of that land. You're not from the real-estate people, are you?'
'No,' I said. 'I'm just a friend of Mr. Flanagan's. But I didn't know he owned it.'
'All of it,' she said. 'Right clear around the lake. He never comes here. Probably thinks he's too good for the likes of us. He's a magician too — oh, you know that. But he's not the equal of Mr. Collins. He's not like Mr. Collins. Lived here from 1925 on,'Mr. Collins did. And he kept to himself.' She nodded firmly.
'No, I gather he's not like Mr. Collins,' I said.
'Couldn't hold a candle to him, in my opinion.'
'Did you actually see Collins perform?' I asked her, barely able to credit it.
'Never even met him,' she said. 'But I can tell you how to get to the place, since you're so curious.'
I followed her directions out of town, and soon found myself in the peculiar position of being in a landscape I had written about without ever having seen. Here was the fork in the road; here was the ascending unpaved track through the trees; and here was the pasture where Tom had seen the horses. It was overgrown with chicory and burdock: it needed Brother Robert's talents.
And here, finally, was the loop of a drive.
I parked my car and walked down. It had once been paved. Now weeds and grass had pushed aside and broken the asphalt all the way to the gates. Someone, probably a party of teenagers, had broken them open, and they had rusted over the years. Vines trailed through the bars. The wall around Shadowland still stood, though, and other vines twisted happily through the brick, clumping and blossoming where the top layer had broken off. The barbed wire was long gone — I supposed some thrifty fanner had rolled it up and trucked it off.
I walked down the broken drive, slipping a little on the loose stones, wondering when I would see the house. I left the treacherous drive and walked into tall grass. It was a lie, I saw — all of it a beautiful and whopping lie. There was no house. There never had been.
Then my foot connected with a brick, and I realized with a great thumping shock that I was actually standing in the house. Mossy bricks lay scattered randomly through the grass; after a little more prowling, I came across the ruin of a brick fireplace tipped over on its side, its opening half-filled with dirt and rubble. O. Henry and Snickers wrappers; a beer bottle poking out through weeds; an old comic book gone to pulp. I was standing in Shadowland's basement, where everything had fallen. Now it was just a little dip in the land — it could have been a glacial hollow. I bent down and picked up a brick and brushed off ants. It was discolored: fire-blackened.
But the
bluff was still there, and so was the lake. I went through the tall grass, pursued by the eerie feeling that I was walking with Tom Flanagan and Rose Armstrong as they fled the burning house, and came up out of the hollow. The land fell away spectacularly for a hundred yards or more, dropping down a thickly overgrown cliff. The lake winked back sunlight. Tom's woods blanketed the sides. I'd had no idea of the scale, that it was all so large and the woods so extensive — they looked forbiddingly thick — and the lake so long. It must have been nearly a mile across.
Rose Armstrong, I thought, and then I saw a tiny strip of gold at the lake's far end and my heart stopped. I nearly fell down the bluff. At that moment I believed everything Tom had said to me.
I could almost see them there, Tom and his Rose, curled together on the tiny strip of sand beside a book and a glass bird; could almost see her whispering whatever she had whispered into his ear before she . . . what? Slipped into the water and left all that was human behind her, welded into Tom Flanagan's memory?
A warm wind came from nowhere: mustard flower; gin; cigar smoke. I could have told myself that I caught all those odors. The surface of the lake darkened and belled under the shadow of a cloud, and I turned back to walk across the ruins of Shadowland to my car.
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Peter Straub
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