by Yancey, Rick
“That day was the beginning.”
“I was fifteen, and my first monster had the same name as me,” Jacob Torrance said. “He came home after a night with his mistress and a bottle of rotgut and started beating my mother with the business end of a joiner’s mallet. So I picked up the closest thing at hand—just happened to be his Springfield musket—and blew a hole the size of a turnip through the back of his head. Been killing monsters ever since.”
Von Helrung was frowning. “Thomas Arkwright was no monster until you made him one.”
“Thomas Arkwright was an agent for the British intelligence service.”
“How do you know this? Did Arkwright tell you? No! You assume it. You guess at it!”
“Besides Kearns, there are at least two sets of players at this poker table, Meister Abram. Three, counting us. There’s the set Arkwright was afraid would kill him if he showed his hand, and the set that was going to hang us if we harmed one little hair on his thinning scalp. I don’t know who that first set could be, but I’m betting the second is Her Majesty’s government. Makes good sense to me. If I were Kearns and knew where the magnificum roosted, I could demand a hefty asking price. A nidus would fetch a pretty penny, sure, but compare that to having the momma whose one drop of spit turns grown men’s brains into jelly. He could expect a king’s ransom—or a queen’s!”
“Why would the English send a spy to infiltrate our ranks if Kearns holds the key to the magnificum?” asked von Helrung.
“Getting to that. Arkwright obviously knew Warthrop had the nidus. Will figured that one out all by himself. And the only way he could have known that, is from Kearns. Unless this first set of people, whoever they are, told him—or another set we don’t know about yet, but I don’t think so. I think Kearns told him. Well, not Kearns personally—the British government, the blokes who sent him. And they sent him because they needed Warthrop for something.”
“Needed him… for what?” Von Helrung appeared confused.
“Not sure. But I’m pretty sure that Jack Kearns had the nidus, but he didn’t know where it came from. That’s why they infiltrated our ranks. If you know where it comes from, you don’t need an expert monster hunter. You just go straight to the monster. But if you don’t know where it comes from, then you’re up the proverbiaanstalk. So what does our boy Jack do if he has the golden egg but not the goose that laid it? He’ll need a goose hunter. And not just any ol’ goose hunter. This ain’t no ordinary goose; it’s the goose, the goose of all gooses—eh, geese. Not just any goose hunter but the best goose hunter in the world, in the whole history of the world. You don’t dare play it straight with him. You don’t tell him why you want it hunted; he’s got it in his goose-hunting head somehow that morals apply to monstrumology.”
Von Helrung thought for a moment, and then snorted with disgust.
“And Arkwright is sent here to track Warthrop tracking the magnificum? It is absurd, Torrance. Once Pellinore discovered the hiding place of the magnificum, the British would have no reason to pay Kearns a penny.”
“That’s where I think the first set of players comes in. Kearns went to someone else, another government—maybe the French, no love lost there—and he’s playing them off each other.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Warthrop does. That’s the next step. And I say we don’t waste time taking it. They’ll be expecting Arkwright back soon, and Arkwright isn’t coming back… soon or any other time.”
“Because you killed him,” I piped up. I was still furious at him. “You didn’t have to do what you did.”
“Think so? And anyway, I killed him in only the loosest definition of the word.”
“Why did you kill him, Jacob?” von Helrung asked quietly. “What did you fear?”
Torrance said nothing at first; he played with his signet ring. Nil timendum est.
“Well, he did threaten to have me hanged, but never mind that. It’s like you stepping into that Gypsy’s tent, Meister Abram. Once we had him tied up, alea iacta est, the die had been cast. Stick to Will’s plan, and we get arrested—or worse—for the kidnapping and torture of a British officer, and Warthrop rots where they’ve stuck him until he’s older than you.”
“And what if they didn’t stick him there?” I shouted at him. “What if Arkwright lied? You didn’t have to kill him, and you shouldn’t have killed him. Now we may never find the doctor!”
Torrance stared stone-faced at me for a long moment, and then shrugged. Shrugged! I hurled myself toward him. I was going to pummel him to death with my bare hands. I was going to choke the life out of him. Von Helrung saved his life. He grabbed my arm and yanked me back, pulled my head to his chest and stroked my hair.
“So you are at peace with his self-destruction?” von Helrung asked Torrance. “The one you conveniently staged?”
“Everyboshould have a choice when it comes down to it—and, yes, I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”
“I envy you this once, Jacob, for I will not.”
I waited until Torrance had retired to the guest bedroom, to rest from the night’s labor, before I approached von Helrung with my request. I call it a request; it was more like a demand.
“I’m coming with you,” I told him.
“It is too dangerous,” he returned, not unkindly.
“I won’t be left behind again. If you try, I’ll stow away on the boat. And if I can’t stow away, I’ll swim there. I am the one who found him out. I have earned the right.”
He placed a hand upon my shoulder. “I fear it is more burden than right, mein Freund Will Henry.”
That afternoon I said good-bye to Adolphus Ainesworth, who was in a very foul mood, even for him.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” he snarled at me, his false teeth snapping in fury. “Someone has been inside the Locked Room! I always hang my ring with the outside key on the inside, and this morning how do you think I find it facing?”
“Toward the outside?”
“You took them.”
“No, Professor Ainesworth, I did not,” I answered honestly. It had been Torrance who’d entered the Locked Room.
“Well, what do I expect? You are a child, and children are natural-born liars. Some grow out of it; some don’t! And what do you mean, you’re leaving?”
“I am sailing to England in the morning with Dr. von Helrung.”
“Dr. von Helrung! Why is Dr. von Helrung going to England? And why are you going to England?” He was a very old man, but his intellect had not faded with his youth. It took only a moment for him to piece the puzzle together. “The magnificum! You have found it.”
“No, but we’ve found Dr. Warthrop.”
“You’ve found Dr. Warthrop!”
“Yes, Professor Ainesworth. We have found Dr. Warthrop.”
“He isn’t dead?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why are you smiling like that?” He bared his dead son’s teeth to mock my grin. “Well, I will be sorry to miss the joyous reunion. His gain is my gain, I will say.”
“Sir?”
“I said his gain is my gain!” He leaned across the desk to shout in my face. “Don’t you know I’m the one who’s supposed to be deaf? Well. Good-bye!”
He bver some papers on his desk and shooed me toward the door with a wave of his gnarled hand.
I paused in the doorway. It occurred to me that I might not see him again.
“I enjoyed working for you, Professor Ainesworth,” I said.
He did not look up from his work. “Keep moving, William James Henry. Always keep moving, like the proverbial stone, or you’ll end up an old mossback like Adolphus Ainesworth!”
I started into the hall. He called me back.
“You are a slave,” he said. “Or you must think you are, not to be asking for your pay. Here,” he added gruffly, shoving two crumpled dollar bills across the desk.
“Professor Ainesworth—”
“Take it! Don’t be a f
ool when it comes to money, Will Henry. Be a fool about everything else—religion, politics, love—but never be a fool about money. That bit of wisdom is your bonus for your long minutes of heavy toil!”
“Thank you, Professor Ainesworth.”
“Shut up. Go. Wait. Why the devil are you going again?”
“To save the doctor.”
“Save him from what?”
“Whatever he needs saving from. I’m his apprentice.”
As I packed my things that evening, Lilly approached me with her request. Oh, very well, I shall admit it: It wasn’t a request.
“I am going with you.”
I did not choose the answer von Helrung had given me. I was tired and anxious, my nerves were shot, and the last thing I wanted was a row.
“Your mother won’t let you.”
“Mother says she won’t let you.”
“The difference is that she isn’t my mother.”
“She’s already been to Uncle, you know. I’ve never seen her so angry. I thought her head might burst—literally burst and roll off her shoulders. I’m very curious to see what happens.”
“I don’t think her head will burst.”
“No, I meant with you. I’ve never known her not to get her way.”
She flopped onto the bed and watched me shove clothing into my little bag. Her frank stare unnerved me. It always did.
“How did you find him?” she asked.
“Another monstrumologist found him.”
“How?”
“I—I am not sure.”
She laughed—spring rain upon the dry earth. “I don’t know why you lie, William James Henry. You’re very bad at it.”
“The doctor says lying is the worst kind of buffoonery.”
“Then, you are the worst kind of buffoon.”
I laughed. It brought me up short. I could not remember the last time I had laughed. It felt good to laugh. And good to see her eyes and smell the jasmine in her hair. I had the impulse to kiss her. I’d never experienced that particular urge before, and the feeling was not unlike standing on the edge of an abyss of an entirely different sort. This was no knot in my chest unwinding; this was the air itself, the whole atmosphere, expanding at speeds unimaginable. I didn’t know quite what to do about it all—except perhaps to kiss her, but actually kissing Lilly Bates entailed… well, kissing her.
“Will you miss me?” she asked.
“I will try.”
She found my answer to be extraordinarily witty. She rolled onto her back and howled with laughter. I blushed, not knowing whether to be flattered or offended.
“Oh!” she cried, sitting up and digging into her purse. “I nearly forgot! Here, I have something for you.”
It was her photograph. Her smile was slightly unnatural, I thought, though I liked her hair. It had been styled into corkscrew ringlets, which more than made up for the smile.
“Well, what do you think? It’s for luck, and for when you get lonely. You’ve never told me, but I think you are lonely a great deal of the time.”
I might have argued; bickering was our normal mode of discourse. But I was leaving, and she had just given me her photograph, and a moment before I’d thought of kissing her, so I thanked her for the present and went on with my packing—that is, rearranging what was already packed. Sometimes, when Lilly was around me, I felt like an actor who did not know what to do with his hands.
“Write me,” she said.
“What?”
“A letter, a postcard, a telegram… write to me while you’re away.”
“All right,” I said.
“Liar.”
“I promise, Lilly. I will write to you.”
“Write me a poem.”
“A poem?”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a poem, I suppose.”
“That’s good.”
“Why is that good? You don’t want to write a poem?” She was pouting.
“I’ve just never written one. The doctor has. The doctor was a poet before he became a monstrumologist. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“I bet you didn’t know I did know that. I’ve even read some of his poems.”
“Now you̵ the liar. The doctor said he burned them all.”
Being caught in a lie did not faze Lillian Bates. She simply moved on, remorseless. “Why did he do that?”
“He said they weren’t very good.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense.” She was laughing again. “If one burned every bad poem that’s been written, the smoke would blot out the sun for a week.”
She watched as I tugged my hat from the top shelf of the closet. Watched as I turned it in my hands. Watched my face as I ran my finger over the stitching on the inside band: W.J.H.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s my hat.”
“Well, I can see it’s a hat! It looks too small for you.”
“No,” I said. I stuffed the hat into my bag. It had been his first—no, his only—gift to me. I was determined never to misplace it.
“It fits,” I said.
I had the dream that night—my last night in New York and the last night I would have it.
The Locked Room. Adolphus fumbling with his keys.
The doctor said you’d want to see this.
The box on the table and the lid that won’t come off.
I can’t open it.
The box trembles. It mimics the beat of my heart. What is in the box?
Thickheaded boy! You know what it is. You’ve always known what’s in the box. It isn’t what’s inside he wanted you to see: It’s the box!
I pick it up. The box trembles in my hand. It beats in time with my heart. I’d been wrong; it was not the doctor’s. It belonged to me.
I was not down for breakfast promptly at six the next morning. Mrs. Bates came up to check on me; I heard her hurrying up the stairs, and then the bedroom door burst open and she stood gasping in the doorway. I noticed she was holding an envelope.
“William! Oh, thank God. I thought you had left.”
“I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, Mrs. Bates. That wouldn’t be proper.”
She beamed. “No! No, it most certainly would not. And here you are, and here is your bag with all your things, and I suppose you have not changed your mind?”
I told her that I had not. An awkward silence came between us.
“Well,” I said finally, and cleared my throat. “I’d better go.”
“You must say good-bye to Mr. Bates,” she instructed me. “And thank him for all he’s done.”
“Yes, ma’am8221;
“And, forgive me, William, but really, you must think I’ve gone mad if you think you’re leaving this house with your hair looking like that.”
She found the comb beside the washbasin and ran it through my hair several times. She did not seem pleased with the outcome.
“Do you have a hat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I dug into my bag for the hat with my initials. I heard what sounded like the soft cry of a wounded animal and looked over at her.
“William, I must apologize,” she said. “I do not have a bon voyage present for you, but, I will say in my defense, I had hardly any notice that you were leaving. It was literally sprung on me at the last moment.”
“You don’t need to give me anything, Mrs. Bates.”
“It is… customary, William.”
She sat on the bed. I remained standing beside my little bag, turning the hat in my hands. She was tapping the envelope upon her lap.
“Unless you would consider this a gift,” she said, nodding to the envelope.
“What is it?”
“It is a letter of acceptance to Exeter Academy, one of the most prestigious preparatory schools in the country, William. Mr. Bates is an alumnus; he arranged it for you.”
“Arranged what?”
“Your acceptance! For the fall term.”
I shook my head; I didn’t understand.
The hat turned; the envelope tapped.
“Stay with us,” she said. And then, as if she were correcting herself, “Stay with me. I know it may be too soon to call you ‘son,’ but if you stay, I promise I will love you as my son. I will protect you; I will keep you safe; I will let no harm come to you.”
I sat beside her. My hat in my hands, the envelope in her lap, and the absent man between us.
“My place is with the doctor.”
“Your place! William, your place is wherever the good Lord decides it is. Have you thought of that? In life there are the silly gifts we give one another and there are the real gifts, the gifts beyond all temporal value. It is no accident of circumstance that you’ve come to me. It is the will of God. I believe that. I believe that with all my heart.”
“If it’s God’s will,” I said, “wouldn’t he make sure I couldn’t leave?”
“You’re forgetting his greatest gift, William. That gift does not imprison; it frees. I could refuse to let you go. I could hire a lawyer, report the matter to the police. I could truss you up like a turkey and lock you in this room, but I will not. I will not force you to stay. I am asking you to stay. If you like, William, I will fall on my knees and beg you.” Mrs. Bates began to cry. She cried like she did everything else, with great dignity; there was a stateliness about her tears, a grandness that transcended the mundane—operatic, I would call them, and I mean that in the best sense of the word.
I looked down at the hat. A silly gift, she had called it. Perhaps it was silly compared to the ultimate gift. What gift would not be? And perhaps I was silly to feel any attachment to it or to the man who had given it to me. Little good can come of this, Will Henry. I looked at the spot where my finger should have been. That was nothing, the smallest of losses. In the warm kitchen a woman bakes her little boy an apple pie. A man lies upon the floor, spreads his arms, and transforms himself into a ship of a thousand sails.
And in the arena are two identical doors…
She reached out and laid her hand upon my cheek. She knew. She never doubted, in the spot where doubt matters, which door I would choose.
Jacob Torrance filled the majority of his time during the six-day crossing with three things: carousing, philandering, and poker—in that order, with the occasional argument with Dr. von Helrung thrown in to break up the monotony. I suppose he slept a bit as well, but he did not share my state-room. I bunked with the old Austrian monstrumologist, who, I quickly discovered, shed most of his dignity when he put on his nightshirt (he was quite bandy-legged and a little potbellied), though that is true of almost everyone.