The Tightrope Walker

by Dorothy Gilman

  I opened the door to the attic and propped it wide with a brick in spite of its having neither lock nor key. I walked up the several steps to the box room, which Bob Tuttle had left unlocked, and opened the door and walked in, closing it behind me to shut out the darkness and the sounds of wind.

  Hannah, I said silently, I've come back.

  It was dim and silent in here; I switched on my flashlight and placed it on the bureau, and then with the screwdriver I'd brought I began to remove the rear panel of the bureau. This didn't take long because the back had been made of cheap wood that began to splinter before I'd removed two of its screws. I felt a little foolish when it was done: the bureau was quite simply a bureau, and empty at that.

  Carrying the flashlight with me I went down on my hands and knees and started examining the wide oak floor boards, but I succeeded only in adding a decade of dust to my skirt and hands. The floor had been well made and I couldn't even find a squeaky board or a telltale scratch. With a sigh I gave up on the floor as a repository and turned my attention to the bed. I pulled aside the flannel cover to the mattress and ran my hands over its break-neck lines: there were holes, bulges, and a complete redistribution of whatever cheap mattresses are stuffed with: an atrocious thing to lie on. My hands explored every deviation; I turned the mattress over and began again.

  Suddenly as I probed a particularly devilish hole in the mattress my fingers encountered resistance down near the foot; there was a difference in texture here, too, from the wads of compacted stuffing I'd groped through. I thought, It has to be, it has to be, dear God please let it be.... My suspense was so unbearable that I gave up my polite tuggings and feverishly ripped the surface of the mattress into shreds.

  And there it was: perhaps two hundred sheets of white paper tightly rolled up and bound by string. I tore off the string, unrolled the pages and saw neatly typed on the first sheet: In the Land of the Golden Warriors, by H. M. Gruble.

  I had found Hannah's sequel. I was actually holding it in my hands.

  I sank down on the remains of the mattress and ran the flashlight over the first few pages. Colin's name occupied almost every paragraph, which delighted me, because Hannah could have jumped ahead in time to Colin's children, or chosen another character from the first book, like the prince of Gait, or Serena, but my beloved Colin was here, and apparently only two years older. I couldn't wait to read it. I began eagerly, "One morning in the country of Gait, when the grass was silver with dew and the primroses scarlet in the meadows, a messenger on horseback rode up to Colin's door with a message from the prince. Colin was...."

  At that moment I heard the lock on the door to the box room snap with a strange ping! sound, and as I looked up in astonishment a floor board creaked on the landing and I heard the very definite sound of the outer door to the attic closing.

  Someone was in the house with me.

  I had been in a different world, totally immersed in Hannah's book, and it took a moment to apply intelligence to this improbable discovery. My mind, for instance, absolutely rejected it and yet I noticed that my hands were trembling. My mind told me it was inconceivable that I was not alone; I had entered an empty house, no one had known I was coming here, no one-knew that I was here, and therefore I was alone. I had to be alone.

  My senses knew better: my heart was racing and thudding, my hands shaking and I was slowly breaking out into a cold sweat. I laid aside Hannah's manuscript, tiptoed to the door and gently tugged at the knob. It resisted and I pulled harder—very hard—and now there was no doubt about it, I was locked inside. I put my head against the door and listened. I had the distinct feeling that someone was there, and I wondered if he or she were listening on the other side of the door. A faint sound reached my ears that I couldn't quite identify, a crackling noise, as if someone was crumpling up very stiff paper, and then I heard a floor board creak some distance away, as of someone leaving. My mind told me that I should call out, scream, shout, there had to have been a mistake, possibly a caretaker or the real estate agent checking the house, but my senses told me to be quiet and think, because I was in grave danger.

  I am not proud of the several minutes that followed: I must have given a great deal of nourishment to Amman Singh's demons who feed on violence because my thoughts were dark and grim. I paced, wept, and apologized profusely to Joe, who must have guessed I might do something irrational like this. It did not escape me that my mother had died in an attic and now, irony of ironies, I was to die in an attic, too, and in exactly the room where Hannah....

  But Hannah hadn't died here, I remembered. Nor had she, I realized, suddenly galvanized by the thought, possessed a tool kit for breaking and entering.

  This punctured my spasm of self-pity. My hysteria subsided and I crept to the door and listened again to find out whether anyone was waiting around to learn what I'd do. This time there was only silence and I set to work at once. Pulling the bureau over to the door I climbed on top of it, carrying screwdriver and hammer, and looked over the possibilities. I found the top hinge of the door and applied my screwdriver to its screws but they'd been painted over so many times that the tool found no leverage. I gave this up and inserted the blade of the screwdriver into the dry wood under the hinge, hammered away at the handle until it prised up one corner of the hinge, and at last saw the hinge pull loose from the wall.

  As the door shuddered from the loss of the one hinge I smelled smoke for the first time.

  "Smoke!" I cried furiously, and felt my hands begin to shake again.

  It was, of course, a very shrewd maneuver to set Hannah's house on fire; there had always been the possibility that the real estate agent would find me before I died of thirst. Obviously I had only an ordinary criminal mind, given to common things like burglary; I lacked the cunning of a killer, and whoever had locked me into the box room wanted me dead. This in itself was a shock.

  The smoke, I saw, was seeping lazily in under the door now. I realized that this was the sound I'd heard earlier, not paper but the kindling of a fire somewhere outside, and now the smoke had found me. A very thorough killer, I thought, enraged by his ruthlessness. It seemed a miracle to me now that I'd only broken a glass to get into the house; if he'd known about the tool kit he would never have gone off and left me.

  I tore off the scarf around my throat, tied it over my nose and mouth and went to work with a fury on the remaining hinge. When I freed it, the door sagged open, and then nearly fell on top of me as it tore away the lock as well. The landing was thick with smoke. Choking and gagging I grabbed Hannah's manuscript and my purse, found the attic door, and pushed it open. Here I nearly fell over the large pile of flaming rags on the threshold. Nothing beyond it appeared to be burning, but the stench of gasoline and smoke set me coughing wildly again. I made one flying leap through the fire and raced for the stairs.

  I had taken only two steps down when I heard the crackling noises below, and saw an astonishing brilliance illuminating the walls of the living room. I turned back and raced through the second-story hall until I found a bedroom overlooking the sunporch. I wrenched open a window, unhooked the screen, climbed over the sill, and jumped down to the roof. Here I paused for a better grip on manuscript and purse before I crept to the farthest corner of the roof and jumped again, landing in a bush on the ground and rolling over once. I picked myself up and ran around the corner of the house to my car.

  The van was gone.

  I stood staring blankly at the space where I had parked the van with its ignition locked. Here was still another shock to my already dazed mind: my van had completely disappeared.

  A small explosion inside of the house—no more than a muffled blop reminded me that at any minute the house could blow up; I ducked and ran for cover.

  From a copse of trees I looked back: the house still stood, inviolate, its exterior untouched, but from where I'd paused I could see the intense brightness of flames raging behind the windows. When I saw a tongue of flame curl out of one window and lick the c
lapboards I turned and ran. I had reached the intersection when I heard the scream of the town's fire alarm.

  The thunderstorm struck before I had walked a mile, and I had five more miles to go. It didn't occur to me to ask for help or call a taxi; I was officially dead and I knew I had to stay that way. Whoever had tried to kill me had carried away with him the assumption that my charred body wouldn't be found until the firemen sifted the ashes but I thought that he couldn't possibly have followed me to Hannah's house without a car. He would have taken my van to confuse both firemen and police but eventually he would have to come back to retrieve his car from whatever hiding place he'd found, and I didn't intend him to see me, still alive, limping along the highway. I walked at the very edge of the road, and ducked behind a tree whenever I heard a car approaching.

  I had been drenched a few seconds after the rain began, but this proved a minor irritant; worse, I had twisted my ankle when I jumped from the porch roof and now it began to throb painfully. I nursed it as well as I could, but most of all I nursed my anger. I had very nearly been dead and I still couldn't adjust to the fact. I mean, how many people get locked into an empty house which is then set on fire? To be the object of so much hostility is difficult for one person to assimilate.

  It took me almost two hours to limp to the motel and it was nearly dark when I reached it. My van was parked precisely in front of unit 18. Not in front of 16 or 20, or even the motel office, but squarely in front of number 18.

  I had planned a hot bath; I had planned a dinner— after all, we'd eaten nothing but stale peanut butter crackers since breakfast—but finding the van at the motel, in exactly the right place, pushed me beyond reason. I unlocked the back of the van, made certain no one was hiding inside, climbed into the front seat, started the engine, and drove away. I had no idea where I was going; I only knew I was getting away from the Golden Kingfisher Motel, and from Anglesworth, as quickly as possible. I was leaving behind my suitcase with half of my clothes in it, my toothbrush, and an unpaid bill; I was dripping wet, shivering from cold and terror, and my ankle throbbing, but at least I was still alive.

  I stopped at a gas station five miles out of Angles-worth and while the tank was filled I noted the few cars that passed. Nobody seemed interested in either the van or me. In the back of the van I found a sweater and my blue jeans; I went into the ladies' room, took off my dripping corduroy suit, rubbed myself dry, and changed into clean clothes. I bought a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the gas station and climbed back into the van. By the time I'd driven fifteen more miles I felt a little safer but utterly wrung out. I stopped at a motel called the Bide-a-Wee that had a restaurant attached to it, and ordered a large dinner which I proceeded to eat because I knew I must. After that I rented a room in the motel, paid in advance, and fell into an exhausted sleep as soon as I dropped across the bed.

  When I woke up the rain had stopped and my watch told me it was midnight. By some curious adjustment of time I was now back inside of my own skin again and able to look sanely at what had happened to me during the past few hours. I decided that back there in Hannah's box room, when my mind had tried to rationalize away the shock and my senses had shouted don't listen, some kind of split had taken place, blocking off every emotion except what was needed for survival. Now as I emerged from shock I began to feel quite benevolent toward that Amelia; she was all right, she had behaved very soundly. With my mind no longer bruised but able to think again, I could even put aside the idea that a tramp had followed me into the house in Carleton, had playfully locked me into the box room and then set fire to the house. It had been a possibility worth cherishing but I could no longer think why. After all, there was no getting around the fact that Joe and I had come to Maine to look for a murderer, and it was just possible that we had flushed him out. Certainly whoever had followed me into the house had murder on his mind; it was a coincidence that I couldn't afford to overlook.

  I tried looking at it now but I wasn't ready for it yet, it only brought a gravelike chill. I walked into the bathroom, ran steaming hot water into the tub and climbed in carrying with me Hannah's manuscript, which was damp from the rain, anyway. Savoring warmth again, and fortified against any new chills, I resumed my reading of In the Land of the Golden Warriors.

  The story was startling, to say the least.

  In the book Colin makes another journey, this time at the request of the Prince of Gait, who has heard of a country far away where the people are wise, their strength great, and their wealth so bountiful that their helmets are lined with gold leaf and shine like the sun. This is the Land of the Golden Warriors. To reach this country Colin must go back through the country he left when he entered the maze at the heart of the castle, a place the Gaits call the Old Territory.

  Colin sets out alone, but along the way he collects three young people who have been abandoned by the Old Territory people, now grown insulated and selfish. The names of these three young people, scarcely out of their teens, are Rolphe, Jaspar, and Sara, and this is where I began reading with fascination and then horror.

  As I watched their characters unfold I read faster and faster, feverishly turning the pages.

  Rolphe was thin and serious, with "rusty hair like a squirrel," fascinated by the tales Colin told each night at the camp fire about his earlier journey through the maze. ("Is there really such a country? How I hunger for it!" cries Rolphe.)

  Jaspar was at first glance the heroic figure of the three, a handsome lad, and strong, but ever so subtly it emerged that Jaspar was interested in accompanying Colin to the Land of the Golden Warriors only to steal the gold and bring it back.

  And Sara... Sara was beautiful and a delight to Colin, grateful for every kindness, but always her eyes remained fixed upon Jaspar. She followed him everywhere, longing to be noticed, competing with him and then submitting to him, trying every means to gain his approval, desperate for a clue to his affections. There was a vivid scene in a forest where they met a witch and Sara begged for a few minutes alone with her. Colin, worried, followed them into the wood and overheard Sara ask the witch for a spell to make Jaspar love her. "Only if you sell me your soul," the witch told her. In horror Colin rushed forward to stop them but a tree root tripped him, and before he could reach Sara, the transaction had taken place: Sara had sold the witch her soul in return for a spell that rendered her and Jaspar inseparable.

  The ending was poignant: they had many adventures in the Land of the Golden Warriors but, when the time came to leave, a greedy Jaspar was discovered with gold in his travel bags and he was banished to a prison in that country. Because of the witch's spell Sara was doomed to sit outside that prison, perhaps for an eternity, waiting and waiting, a captive herself. Only Rolphe rode off with Colin; he had chosen to search for the maze in the heart of the castle so that one day he might join Colin in the land of the Gaits.

  When I had finished reading I sat very still, the steam rising around me in swirls, and then I carefully placed the manuscript out of reach on the floor.

  I know that to other people who have read the book by now it is simply a very exciting and beautifully written adventure story with three characters more realistically and compassionately drawn than any of those in her first book. But for me it was a revelation. Hannah was, as Joe had said, no fool: she had insight, and this was her story of three young people whose lives she had shared and observed. If this was Nora when she was young, if this was what Hannah had seen, had she looked ahead to where such obsession could take Nora, and written of it to warn her? Warn her, too, that the boy she loved was equally obsessed, but with gold?

  I had tried so hard to be kind as I struggled to explain Nora's presence in the house while Hannah was being killed but she had been an accomplice from the beginning, I knew that now. She must have loved John Tuttle with a passion so unhealthy that it turned into obsession, which allows no choice, is need-gone-wild, displacing morality and judgment, reducing vision and awareness to one exclusive object. When John
Tuttle had become important to Nora everyone else had stopped existing for her. He had totally possessed her.

  The horror of it rocked me, and yet at the same time I was aware of a compassion for her that I didn't want to admit. A part of me was still back in that forest hearing the witch question Sara, and Sara say, "Jaspar is the sun and the moon and the stars, the mother I never had, the father who never loved me. He is all that I ever want. Make him see me, make him mine."

  The mother I never had, the father who never loved me.... The resemblance to my own past was acute. I would have preferred to hate or despise Nora, but at this moment I discovered that I understood and pitied her. If this was wisdom it also frightened me.

  I wondered what Hubert Holton's obsession might have been.

  I wondered why Jay Tuttle hadn't married Nora once she was rich. I thought of her growing old at Green-acres, I remembered her ravaged face, and I said aloud, fiercely, "Oh Nora, why couldn't you have gotten angry just once at what was being done to you?"

  As I was angry now at whoever had tried to kill me in the box room. I still didn't know who, and it was time to find out.

  I climbed out of the tub, dressed, tied up Hannah's two hundred pages of story, and resolutely put aside my thoughts of Nora. I knew that of the cozy foursome who had killed Hannah, two were now accounted for but two were distressingly not: John Tuttle and Hubert Holton. I had to assume that it was one of them who had tried to kill me, except that I couldn't puzzle out how they'd learned about Joe and me. Unless Garwin Mason had told one of them. Or Mrs. Morneau.