The Hypnotist

by Laurence Anholt

Lost in a confusion of flailing white sheets and strong grappling arms, Pip glimpsed Hannah and the dog pause and turn as if to help.

  ‘RUN!’ he screamed. ‘Run, run, run!’

  The urgency in his voice must have convinced her. With a look of despair at his plight, Hannah and Amigo disappeared like phantoms in the night.

  ‘Wal, lookee here!’ panted the Klansman, forcing Pip’s head against the ground. ‘We been out huntin’ all over the damned country, and jes’ when ah thunk every snake an’ possum is hidin’ in its hole, I catch mahself a rabbit!’

  Another horseman galloped over. ‘The li’l Injun gal jes’ disappeared into thin air, Lyle.’

  ‘No matter. Lookee here! Git a sheet ’n some cord outta ma saddlebag. He’s a slippy devil – best truss him up real taight. Make a special offering fer Exalted Cyclops.’

  The Klansman sat on Pip’s chest, and in spite of his terror, the boy bit and spat and kicked and scratched. But the ghost-rider only laughed. He had more strength in one arm than Pip had in his entire body.

  ‘Boy, you fight like a bobcat . . . Guess ah’ll have t’ truss yer mouth up too.’

  Perhaps the rider was used to working with cattle or sheep, because, with expert skill, he wrapped Pip tightly in a robe and encircled him from head to foot with rope, rolling him about and tugging on ropes until Pip lay bound as tight as an Egyptian mummy, barely able to breathe, let alone see or speak.

  Despite the heat of the night, his blood had turned to ice. Now he was hauled upright and tossed across the strong man’s shoulder like a rolled-up carpet. As he was carried up the hill towards the burning cross, Pip heard the Klansman mutter, ‘Ah got some freends ah want you t’ meet. Summa them laike t’ practise their skills on li’l black rabbits. Kinda sport, ah guess . . . an’ ever’one needs a li’l sport in their laives . . .’

  Pip heard the crackle of flames. He smelled burning wood. He heard the cruel shouts and laughter grow.

  ‘That you, Klansman Lyle? What you got there? Looks laike the biggest maggot ah evah dun see!’

  ‘Hee, hee, hee!’

  ‘Lyle caught hisself a li’l critter. You bringin’ him up t’ the fire?’

  ‘Damn raight ah am. Ah’m goin’ cook him till he’s tender.’

  The stench of burning gasoline stuck in Pip’s throat. Amidst howls of laughter he was thrown down on the hard ground like a log. Then he heard a cry.

  ‘Y’all gotta noose? Who brung a noose?’

  Blindfolded and unable to move, Pip smelled the earth beneath his face, and for a moment the world seemed to turn below him.

  In the blackness he heard his kidnapper, Lyle, call out, ‘Klansmen, I greet you! Exalted Cyclops, I brung you a li’l gift to celebrate the Gatherin’ of the Klans.’

  ‘KIGY, Klansman Lyle. Glad y’all could join us. You gonna unpackage that thang or am ah gonna toss it straight on the fire?’

  Strong hands grabbed Pip and he was hauled upright. He felt the cords bite into his limbs, until knots were loosened and the white sheet removed from his face. He stood blinking in the firelight, and for a moment he struggled to find his balance; then he managed to kick free of the tangle of ropes and robes around his feet.

  Standing on the hilltop, trembling with fear, Pip had never felt smaller than he did now, beside those huge robed men, the towering cross and the vast steel pylon that stretched up to the sky.

  Further out in the shadows, white-clad horses grazed on silver grass without a care in the world. There must have been sixty or more robed Klansmen around the blazing cross, and ten feet away, the crimson leader stood infinitely taller than the others; Pip had the strong impression of eyes staring at him from the vacant sockets of that mask. Two knights seized Pip’s arms and dragged him before their leader. And now they forced him, shivering, to kneel before the towering figure of the Exalted Cyclops.

  ‘You wanna noose, Cyclops? Or you gotta another plan?’

  For a long time the Exalted Cyclops studied the boy. And then, very slowly and very quietly, he said, ‘That’s Pip! You brung me Pip!’

  The men began to mutter in confusion.

  ‘Jus’ a Negro boy, Exalted Cyclops. Ah reck’n he was spyin’ on us. The Injun girl got away . . .’

  ‘No. No, you ain’t listening . . . You brung me Pip . . . He’s mah freend.’

  ‘Your freend?’

  ‘Did Cyclops say the Negro wus his freend?’

  ‘What’s Cyclops say?’

  ‘He say the boy is his freend!’

  ‘That’s raight, Klansmen! Awl o’ you listen, an’ listen real good. Ah wan’ you t’ meet Pip. Ah love this boy. Don’ y’all wanna squeeze him taight?’

  Pip stared upwards in astonishment as the red giant raised his hood to reveal Erwin’s lantern face, illuminated by flames and spread in that weird pumpkin grin.

  The meeting disintegrated into confusion.

  ‘Cyclops, we ain’t hearin’ yer. We brung you a boy – a Coloured boy, see?’

  ‘Ah’ll say it one last taime – This is Pip . . . He’s mah freend.’

  ‘Ha! Ah reck’n ol’ Cyclops is havin’ a joke, boys!’

  There was awkward laughter, but Pip sensed that Exalted Cyclops was not known for his jokes. One of the bravest of the men stepped forward.

  ‘Wal, joke or no joke, this here’s a Negro boy, bin spyin’ on the Klavern. Tonaight’s the meetin’ of the Klans an’ we got a reputation to uphold. Ah’m real sorry, Cyclops – but wi’ awl doo respec’, ah’m gonna take this boy an’ string ’im up. Tha’s mah sworn duty, an’ yours too, if ah may be so bold.’

  Erwin seemed baffled. His head was twitching in grotesque convulsions, as if caught in some inner battle.

  ‘Ah seed . . . Ah seed, Pip is mah freend. Any o’ you touch him, you gotta settle wi’ me.’

  There was a long, awkward rumble of muttering. On his knees, Pip felt cold sweat streaming down his forehead.

  It was clear that Erwin was still under the influence of Jack’s hypnotic suggestions, but the spell seemed fragile. Erwin was a natural killer – a man who took life as easily as taking salt at the table . . . Could he really be restrained by a thought?

  Another man stepped forward, holding something in white-gloved hands. With a terrible shudder, Pip realized that it was a neatly fashioned noose.

  ‘Cyclops, you know ah serve you every way ah can. Ah carried out many difficult orders, ’cos ah respict you. But tonaight, Cyclops, ah feel you ain’t well. Yo’ sickenin’ or summat. You ‘member what you tawt us? Hate, hate, hate! Keel, keel, keel! Don’ think, act!’

  ‘HATE, HATE, HATE!’ went up the cry. ‘KEEL, KEEL, KEEL!’

  The man stepped forward and, seizing Pip by the neck, hauled him to his feet. ‘As second in command, ah’m takin’ it ’pon mahself to deal with this boy in the ’propriate manner as you trained us t’ do.’

  He was a huge, powerful man who reeked of sweat and alcohol. Now he forced Pip under his arm, so that his neck was twisted in an unnatural, painful manner.

  He heard a general shout of approval, and then Pip understood that Jack had been wrong. The hypnotist had overestimated the power of the mind against brute force and evil. To his horror, he felt the noose slip about his neck. The sensation of that cool cord was uniquely chilling, and his breathing changed to short desperate gasps as the knot slowly tightened.

  A crowd of Klansmen had gathered. In his robes, with hood hanging from one gloved hand, Erwin towered over them, but still his head was jerking with indecision. Pip was close enough to hear his strange mumbling words.

  ‘Hate . . . hate . . . love . . . Wait a minute, hate . . . keel . . . love . . .!’

  And then, choking from asphyxiation and desperation, Pip found his voice and cried, ‘Erwin . . . Erwin, I’m your friend. You love me, remember? I’m your best friend in the whole world, an’ I make you happy, don’ I? You remember your happy place. You wanna be a good soldier, don’t you . . .?’

  It was a crude attempt to
imitate Jack’s hypnotic tricks. But something got through – Pip saw the weird smile return to Erwin’s face and his hand floated vacantly to the side of his head in that same dreamy salute.

  ‘Yes, sir. Ah wanna be good, sir.’

  The man with the noose had seen enough. He slapped a gloved hand over Pip’s mouth and dragged him towards the barn. Pip sensed that he had one last squeal at life. With all his might he bit the man’s fingers, and when he swore with pain, Pip managed to wail, ‘Erwin, Erwin, these people are tryin’ to hurt your friend Pip right now! That’s wrong, ain’t it? You know that ain’t right . . .’

  Erwin walked slowly towards them. ‘You hurtin’ mah freend . . . He maked me happy . . . Ah love Pip . . .’

  His captor swung Pip round, so that he was placed between him and Erwin. And then, as easily as a man might toss a bundle of twigs, Erwin grabbed the man by his robes, lifted him above his head, and hurled him to the ground.

  Then Erwin was hugging Pip so hard it almost forced the breath from his body. The giant planted a cold wet kiss on his forehead and, gently patting his back, sent him on his way down the hillside.

  Pip did not wait for further debate. He ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him; and all the while, to his horror and disgust, he felt the tight noose around his neck, its end trailing like some foul umbilical cord in the night.

  Fighting back nausea, heart convulsing, bloodstream churning, he stumbled towards the path. At the same time his fingers fumbled to release that appalling knot. At last he managed to haul the hateful thing over his head and fling it to the ground.

  He turned once to make sure he was not followed, and saw Erwin one more time against the skyline, a great conical red shape, pointed hood in hand, scratching the side of his face in bewilderment.

  Propelled by fear, Pip hurtled past the twisted apple trees. He was beaten, terrified and abused . . . But he was alive!

  On that starlit night, and still in his thirteenth year, Pip joined the most elite society in the world – those who feel the hangman’s noose, but live to tell the tale.

  What he did not see was that, far away, behind the line of high-voltage towers, another cross burned on a hilltop. And beyond that another. And all across the countryside, as far as the mauve mountains, a chain of flaming crosses stretched far into the stifling night.

  18

  Summer Insomnia

  Do you know the feeling when your sleep is so troubled that you are glad when something wakes you?

  That something was a quiet but urgent tapping on my front door.

  The girl, Hannah, was standing on the porch, wearing her usual grubby T-shirt and ragged jeans, with bare feet below; but her expression was wild with alarm.

  I grabbed her wiry arm and pulled her into the living room, locking the door firmly. As I did so, I recalled the sounds that had disturbed my dreams – the engines and the shouting. I remembered that throughout the night I had half woken again and again. There had been all kinds of shenanigans up at the barn – some sort of devilish party, it sounded like . . . But surely it wasn’t possible that Hannah had been caught up in that madness!

  ‘What’s going on, Hannah?’

  She stared at me.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake . . . I suppose I’ll have to find pen and paper . . .’

  I fumbled around searching for a notepad and pencil, realizing that it could take the rest of the night for her to write the story. When I returned she was standing by the window, gazing into the moonlight.

  One of the fascinating things about people who have been mute for many years – either physically or electively mute, as I knew Hannah to be – is that their faces become incredibly expressive. Before she had written a word I understood that Pip was out there and he was in profound danger.

  In a civilized society a fellow would get straight on the phone and call the police. But with a feeling of absolute dismay, I recalled the patrol cars amongst the night convoy.

  I threw down the notepad and grabbed a coat. ‘Hannah, now listen. You’re going to wait here and I’m going to take a walk and see if I can spot him. Is that all right?’

  She turned towards me, and I read her thoughts again as if she were shouting in my face: There’s nothing you can do out there alone!

  I sat her at the table and gently placed a cardigan around her shoulders. Then I went to the kitchen to make her a warm drink, and all the time my mind was whirling as I struggled to formulate a plan . . .

  And that’s when I heard it!

  I stood at the door with a mug in each hand – and simply froze in my tracks. At first I thought it was the radio or a voice outside, but then I saw her head bent sadly and realized that Hannah was singing again – quietly and tremulously in that beautiful, natural voice.

  It was a song called ‘Strange Fruit’, which they were playing a lot on the radio those days. ‘Strange Fruit’ was a protest song, but it wasn’t an angry song. Oh no. What made it so disturbing was that it was sung softly like a sad, sleepy lullaby. Every time I heard it, it made my skin crawl. And it happened again that night as I heard Hannah sing. Because, you see, ‘Strange Fruit’ is a lullaby about lynching. Go and listen to it sometime . . . listen carefully to the words and maybe you’ll shudder like me when you realize that the strange fruits in the poplar trees are nothing less than lynched Black bodies with bulging eyes and twisted mouths, swaying gently amidst the sweet fragrance of magnolia.

  I restrained myself from moving until the last pure notes had died away, then I walked quietly to her side and placed a mug in her hand.

  ‘Ah, that’s a wonderful song, Hannah. One of my favourites. Was it Billie Holiday?’

  She nodded, and I was completely taken aback when she whispered, ‘Don’ tell no one, Jack.’ Her voice was cracked and hoarse.

  ‘Hannah, I won’t tell a living soul. Not until you’re ready. But I loved hearing you. It’s a gorgeous voice you have there.’

  It was a precious moment, as we sat side by side watching the timid rays of morning creeping into the room.

  At one point I asked her a question, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer. ‘It’s the Klan, isn’t it, Hannah? It’s the bloody Ku Klux Klan!’

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Of course, I knew a little about the KKK. Who didn’t know something? The papers were full of their despicable lynchings and beatings and the unexplained ‘disappearances’. In segregated states like this, Black people were not allowed to serve on juries, so on the few occasions when Klansmen were brought to justice they were released within hours, and TV footage sometimes showed them smoking cigars and laughing arrogantly with police officers outside the courts. So if a Black orphan like Pip went missing . . . well, it would barely get a mention in the barber shop on a Saturday morning.

  My mind was in turmoil and, although I hate myself for admitting it, there was fear too. It was not the same fear as when Erwin had confronted me; this was something far darker and more sinister. It was the realization that the world I thought I knew did not exist at all – the word ‘justice’ had been torn from the dictionary. There was nowhere to turn and no one to complain to. Perhaps this was the same feeling of overwhelming helplessness that decent law-abiding Jewish families felt when the Nazis came to power.

  This must be the world that Pip and his family had always known. How could anyone sleep safely in their bed in this stifling climate of dread?

  And what about Hannah? Where were her family? Where was her tribe? On my way to the university I had often seen those dispossessed Native American people sitting sadly and silently on benches around the town, with an empty expression or an empty bottle.

  That’s why Hannah is here in the hypnotist’s tale. This mute girl represents those proud and noble indigenous people who hunted these mauve mountains long before it was taken from them.

  As I was thinking these sad thoughts, the boy appeared quietly on the deck, staring in at us with eyes aflame. He looked taller and
older than the last time I had seen him, and a little more harrowed.

  Hannah ran to the door and fumbled with the key. I saw his shoulders drop with exhaustion as she smothered him in her embrace. The relief I felt was like a loosening of every muscle in my body and a warmth flowing through my veins.

  It was 5.30 a.m., and the glow of the moon was melting into daylight. I left the children huddled beneath a blanket on the swing seat. Something had changed between them; Hannah now rested her head affectionately on Pip’s shoulder.

  I washed and dressed and prepared eggs and bagels and muffins. I saw Finnegan return from his night’s hunting and crawl onto Hannah’s lap. I carried out the food and we ate together on the veranda, like three washed-up refugees.

  In brief sentences Pip told me the incredible story of what had taken place. I must admit that at various times I wondered if the story was a little far-fetched but, as if to chasten me for my doubts, we heard the familiar drone of engines coming down from the fields. A look of dread spread across Pip’s face, and we had the sickening experience of watching that slow-moving convoy roll down the dirt track by Dead River Farm. They filed past my bungalow – the pickup trucks, the customized four-wheel drives, the farmers’ vehicles, the patrol cars, the Harley Davidsons, two or three Cadillacs, a Thunderbird . . . As they passed, every head of every driver and every passenger turned and stared directly at me as I sat with my two young friends. A patrol car slowed. The stony-faced cop leaned his head out of the window – he touched his eyes with two fingers then rotated his hand and pointed them aggressively at me. I understood what it meant all right – ‘I see you, fellah . . . I see you.’

  When the last vehicle had gone I stood up, my heart belting, my body aching with fatigue. I looked at Pip and Hannah curled up beneath the blanket, and suddenly my thoughts came into focus. ‘Pip . . . Hannah . . . Did you ever go on holiday?’

  They stirred a little and stared at me blankly.

  ‘A vacation, I mean. You know what? I’ve got a feeling we’d all benefit from getting away from this infernal place. And I’ve an interesting destination in mind. Call it Jack Morrow’s Mystery Tour if you like!’