She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was sure she would know it when she found it. Some sign of him, some habitation hidden among the bushes – something. As she picked her way along the muddy bank, the sound of traffic from the upper world drifted down like a faded memory, and she suddenly remembered her dream on the train.
The stream meandered along the floor of the ravine. She saw the shell of an old stove half-hidden in the underbrush at the base of the hill, a tire swing secured to the branch of a willow bending over the stream. Creatures of the ground and air scattered at her approach. She stepped carefully over slick boulders and fallen branches, scanning the dense green on either side, whirling at the slightest noise, her nerves all on edge.
There were signs of people everywhere, but she felt utterly alone. An hour fled by, and she had found nothing. She was just about to abandon the search and head home – when she turned and saw it.
At first it seemed no more than a darker shadow etched against the shadows, a deeper green against the green. She stopped – and there was a hush all around. She listened – and it was as though every living thing that called this place home listened along.
The thick green canopy closed down on the ravine like a lid on an emerald box, and in the vast silence, she could hear the hammering of her heart.
32
O stood staring at the spot, as the form among the leaves slowly took shape. It stood about five feet high, rising slightly at the center. At first she took it for a crude fort some boys had built among the trees. But as she drew nearer, she saw how skillfully it had been made.
It was as if a spell had been spoken and the supple green saplings that grew everywhere had been charmed to lean into one another, twisting and weaving to form the walls of a green dome. On the side that faced the stream, she noticed a panel of woven branches that must surely be a door.
“Hello,” she called. “Is anyone there?”
In this place full of signs of human presence, here was something different. The hillside and the banks of the stream were littered with castoffs. This was no castoff; it was a creation. As she marveled at it, her fear edged aside a little.
She stepped forward, took hold of the door, and shifted it to one side. It teetered a moment, then toppled softly onto the carpet of leaves – the strange fan-shaped leaves Rimbaud used for marking his place in the books he borrowed. She crept closer and stooped to peer inside. Growing bolder, she poked her head through the doorway.
A low table, made from an old cupboard door resting on four paint cans, stood in the center of the hut. Stub ends of candles were stationed at the corners, rooted in pools of hardened wax. On the surface was a box of wooden matches, a plastic water bottle, a pad of pale blue paper, several pencils sharpened by hand, a chipped cup and plate, a clock with a cracked face. Bits of broken glass anchored in wax were ranged around the edge.
She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, then ventured in. It was too low inside to stand, too uncomfortable to stoop. The smooth hump of a log lay along one side. She sat down on it and took in her surroundings.
A knife blade was plunged into a piece of wood by the table, the floor around it littered with shavings. A carved face was worked in the wood – unfinished, still seeking form. From the inner wall of the hut, more carved faces looked down at her. Leaves and branches poked through their open mouths.
Across from her, a piece of mirror was fixed to the wall. Below it, a chipped enamel basin, with a cloth draped over its edge, rested on an upended crate. A bed of leaves and branches was piled on the floor against the wall, a sleeping bag rolled up on it. Something sticking out of the sleeping bag caught her eye. She leaned over, gave a quick tug, and then sprang back as the sleeping bag uncoiled. Lying on it was the book on magic Rimbaud had claimed from the shop.
It was not the book that froze her to the spot, but what lay alongside it, leaving its drift of yellowed flakes on the green fabric of the sleeping bag. Another playbill for the magic show. The sight of it confirmed all she had feared. Staring down at it in disbelief, she backed toward the door.
“What are you doing here?” said a voice behind her.
She whirled around. Rimbaud stood there, framed in the narrow doorway. For an instant, all she saw was the bloodless face of the magician. She barreled into him, knocking him aside, and ran for her life.
She crashed along the bank of the stream, skidding on the soggy ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could hear him close behind, yelling for her to stop. But stopping was the last thing in the world she was about to do. She tore through bushes that had sprouted fingers, stumbled over roots that groped blindly from the muddy ground. Her only thought was to find the marker she had planted by the stream. If she could only reach it and scramble back up the hillside …
She never saw what she tripped over. But, suddenly, she was spiraling as if in slow motion through the air. She came down with a splash in the stream, smacking the back of her head on a rock. As she stared vaguely up at the dappled canopy high overhead, she felt herself floating. There was no panic, only a strange sense of irony as she remembered that other Ophelia, falling
“in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like, a while they bore her up.…”
She saw a familiar face bending over her, a mouth speaking silent words. She felt nothing – nothing but a soft blackness slipping over her, the sunlit canopy gone black, starless, deeper than deepest night.
“Til that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.”
When she came to, O thought she was lying in the attic room above the Green Man. She opened her eyes, but instead of the low sloping wall that should have been above her bed, she was staring into an intricate weave of vines and branches. She was too dazed to move, too dull for the truth of where she was to register clearly.
A face swam into view – Rimbaud, bending over her, a look of concern on his face.
“How are you? You cracked your head pretty good.”
She reached up and felt a bump. She took the measure of the way to the door, the possibility of making a dash for freedom – then realized she was in no shape to dash anywhere.
“Don’t hurt me,” she said.
“Hurt you? Why in the world would I want to hurt you?”
The way he said it, the way he looked at her, the way his hand came to rest on top of hers made her instantly doubt everything. She tried to sit up. He cupped his hand behind her head to help her.
“You sure you’re up to this?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She felt a little battered, a little damp. He had draped his coat over her. Now he took it and put it around her shoulders. He dunked the cloth in the basin of water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently over the bump. The touch of his hand calmed her. Then her eyes fell on the copy of the playbill on the table by the bed and she grew rigid.
He read her thoughts. “What? This? I found it.”
“Where?”
He paused for a moment. “It was stuck to the handrail of the fire escape behind the Green Man.”
“The fire escape?” she said incredulously. “Why would it be there? Why would you be there?”
He removed the cloth, then turned and sat down on the log, resting his arms on his knees and fixing her with those incredible eyes.
“I was watching out for you.”
“When?”
“At night.”
She remembered the many times she’d been perched on the edge of sleep and swore she heard light footsteps on the deck outside her room.
“But why?”
“Because it’s not safe now.” He looked at her intently, and she had the sudden sense that he knew everything.
“We’d better get you back; your aunt will be worrying. Can you manage?”
“I think so.” He helped her to her feet and out into the open air. He carefully closed the opening, and the hut melted back
into the bush.
On the way through the ravine, she was in a bit of a daze. Her head was whirling, and it was not simply because of the bump. She had clearly been wrong about Rimbaud. But it had done nothing to dispel the mystery surrounding him. That had only deepened.
It was too much to think about now. She followed along behind him, setting her feet down where his showed the way. When they got to the hill, he took her hand and guided her up the steep grade.
They stood together at the top of the ravine, back in the world of light.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. As they walked along the street, her clothes dried in the sun. She kept expecting him to ask her why she’d been poking around in the ravine. But he never did.
Soon they were on familiar ground. It was getting late. She was going to be in deep trouble. The last thing she needed was for Emily to see her with Rimbaud.
“I’m okay from here,” she said.
“You sure? You still look a little wobbly to me.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you.” He took a few steps, then turned back. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me, too.”
She watched him till he was out of sight. Then she made her way home as fast as she could.
33
While O had been picking her way warily along the banks of the stream in the ravine, Emily was back in the shop, poring over one of the carriage-house books she’d brought downstairs and doing her best to forget what day it was. Still, now and then, a wave of dread would suddenly wash over her, leaving her limp.
When the telephone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She expected it to be O and was ready to give her an earful for having disappeared so long. It had something to do with that boy, she was sure. He’d shown up at the shop around one and, as soon as he learned O wasn’t there, had hurried off.
But when she picked up the phone, she was surprised to hear the voice of Lenora Linton.
“Hello,” said Miss Linton in her slow, measured manner. “Is this Miss Endicott? It’s Lenora Linton calling.”
“Hello, Miss Linton. How nice to hear from you. I thought you would have moved by now.”
“I’ve been unavoidably delayed. The buyer for the collection has withdrawn his offer. It seems the financing fell through.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” A faint tremor of hope stirred in her breast.
“Forgive me, Miss Endicott, I’m afraid this is rather awkward. But since you had made an offer on the collection already, I was wondering if you might still be interested.”
Emily sat bolt upright in her seat. She tried to keep the excitement from her voice. “Yes, I might still have an interest – if the price was right.”
“Well, I’m rather up against a wall right now, as you can imagine. I’m sure we could work out something agreeable to both of us. Could you possibly drop by today?”
“Today?” Her mind was racing a mile a minute. “Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid I really must leave tonight.”
“I see, but I’m alone in the shop right now. And I’d have to contact my bank, of course. I’m not sure I could get everything in order that quickly.”
“I understand perfectly. Forgive me for troubling you, Miss Endicott. I thought it might be worth a try. Good-bye.” And with a quiet click, the line went dead.
Emily sat at the desk in a state of shock. Her hands would not stop shaking. The find of a lifetime had slipped through her fingers not once, but twice. It was more than she could bear. Quickly gathering her thoughts, she decided to close the shop early and leave a note for O. She called the bank to confirm that the line of credit she had set up earlier was still in place, then rifled through her Rolodex for the Linton number.
She dialed with trembling fingers. The line was busy. Miss Linton was no doubt talking to someone else about the collection. She hung up, waited a few minutes, and called again. Miss Linton answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Miss Linton, it’s Emily Endicott. I’ve been able to make the necessary arrangements. I could come by today, and we could talk.”
“That would be splendid.”
She glanced up at the clock, estimating how long it would take to pull herself together, close the shop, and get over to the Linton house. “Shall we say five o’clock?”
“Five would be fine. I look forward to seeing you.”
Emily had been so preoccupied when she woke up that morning that she had pulled on the first things that came to hand. She changed into something more presentable now and ran a brush through her hair, while staring into the startled eyes of the old woman in the mirror.
Putting her checkbook in her purse, she went downstairs and switched off the lights in the shop. She turned the sign in the window to CLOSED and locked the door behind her. On her way to the car, she realized she had forgotten to leave the note for O. There wasn’t time to go back now. She would try to call while she was out.
The car started on the first try; she took it to be a good sign. As she threaded her way through the sunlit streets, a breeze blew cool upon her face, and she felt the cloud that had settled over her these past few weeks begin to lift. A new optimism flowed through her and, with it, the conviction that things were about to turn her way.
She found the little cul-de-sac street without even thinking about it, as though the car had driven there by itself. Parking around the corner, she walked to the house. The house next door was no more. Even the rubble had been cleared, leaving a flat empty lot with a startling view of the ravine beyond.
There was a hollow sound when she knocked. She heard approaching footsteps. Miss Linton opened the door, looking wan and frazzled. She had a kerchief tied in her hair. “Miss Endicott, do come in. I’m afraid the place is in rather a state. I’m arranging some last minute things for the movers to pick up tomorrow, after I’ve gone.”
The hall was a jumble of boxes. The pictures had been taken down, and the rug had been rolled. Their footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floor.
“I’ll just show you to the library,” said Miss Linton. “I imagine you’d like to have another quick look at the collection.”
Emily followed her up the stairs and along the hall, glancing through open doors at empty rooms shrouded in shadows. Miss Linton walked her as far as the foot of the narrow staircase that led to the turret room.
“The room felt damp. I laid a fire for you. There’s tea on the table. Please help yourself. I’ll be back shortly, and we’ll talk business.” She hurried off down the hall, muttering fretfully to herself.
Emily mounted the stairs and entered the library. The fire burned pleasantly in the grate. A silver tea service sat on the table. The books were ranged on the surrounding shelves. She felt like a child in a toyshop.
She’d brought along her notes on several titles she had researched following her first look at the collection. She took those books down now and went through them, confirming the details. It was a marvelous collection! She could hardly believe it would soon be hers.
It would fetch a very good price. The titles in the magic section were extremely rare. She scanned the books on the shelves again – histories of stage magic and magicians, early volumes linking magic with witchcraft – one rarity after another. The profit she stood to make from the sale of these alone would more than cover her costs.
Time passed. She wondered what was keeping Miss Linton. No doubt she had much to do. No point in putting up a fuss. Emily still hoped she could finesse the price a little. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she surveyed her estate. There was that sound of cooing she had heard last time. In a minute, it passed.
Miss Linton had left a few empty boxes on the floor of the room. Emily presumed they were for her. She began carefully boxing a few of the prize items she hoped to carry away with her today. As for the rest, she would arrange for Miles to accompany her, sometime over the next co
uple of days, to pick them up. A smile came to her face as she imagined his reaction to this find they had dreamt of for years.
Here was something she hadn’t seen before – a thin booklet in paper wraps entitled Secrets of the Magic Art. She looked in vain for a date. It was cheaply produced, the printing uneven, and the binding no more than a simple stitch. Nonetheless, it was a curious little volume and, no doubt, quite rare.
She sat down with it in the comfortable chair before the fire. It carried her off as soon as she started to read. There was something arresting in the tone of the writing. For all its crudeness, there was a note of solemnity to it, a sense that magic in whatever guise was something not to be taken lightly. It cautioned devotees of the art to enter into its study with heart and mind prepared. Following the introduction, a number of magical feats were described – with no suggestion that they were illusions, but rather an underlying presumption that magic was a real and potent power.
The fire crackled in the grate. She found herself glancing up at it from the pages of the book. It was hypnotic. She took another sip of the tea. Her eyes felt heavy. Her mind was playing tricks with her. As she stared into the fire, she saw faces in the flames, heard voices in the crackling of the wood.
In some dim corner of consciousness, Emily knew she ought to be getting home. But with the book and the tea and the heat of the fire, all that began to fade. A lethargy crept over her and, with it, a feeling of absolute peace. She felt as she had on those long lazy summer afternoons in the sun when she was young.
It was as if some high forbidding wall she had been standing in front of had suddenly fallen away. A wondrous sense of endless possibilities stretched out before her. Lines of poetry floated fully formed into her mind. There was magic in the air, and she fell willingly into its warm embrace.
She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the chair. A delicious lassitude spread like sweet warm light through all her limbs. And she slept.
The old woman who had entered the room lay slumped in the chair like a castoff coat, and a young woman full of life and light rose and walked through her dreams.
The Green Man Page 17