Shadowland

That was a smell like a taste in his own mouth, familiar and rancid.

7

Hilly Vale

Late that evening they reached a town called Springville, and Del said, 'It's the next stop.' He stood and pulled their suitcases off the luggage rack and arranged them in the aisle — he was being very businesslike and concen­trated. Del sat up straight in his seat for fifteen minutes, not speaking, and for the last ten minutes stood by the door, looking straight ahead. 'Hey, what. . . ' Tom said, but Del did not even blink.

'Hilly Vale,' the metallic voice said. 'Hilly Vale. Please watch your step while leaving the train.'

Del shot him a glance, but Tom was already hauling his suitcase toward him.

    They went down into hot, humid night. For a second Tom heard insect noises, a drumming and creaking and scratching and singing as loud as if they stood in the midst of jungle, and then the train started up and the insect noises disappeared. The station was so small it looked like a cartoon; yolky yellow light from overhead bulbs hugged it close. The train sailed into blackness and became a red dot vanishing around an invisible bend. Insects scratched and banged and whistled.

    'Well?' Tom said. He felt as if he had been put down by the side of the road in Alaska or Peru.

    Then the cacophony of insect sounds increased: drills, hammers, wrenches on pipes, musical saws, penny whis­tles, piano strings, whole boxes of tools dropped from a great height, doorbells, breaking bottles, miniature ka­mikaze aircraft, blows against flesh.

    Del shushed him. For a second the two boys stood embraced by the yellow light in what should have been silence.

    Mr. Thorpe stepped out of the blackness.

8

But no, it was not Mr. Thorpe, any more than the man on the train had been Skeleton Ridpath. He was tall, white-haired, dressed in a dark blue suit with wide chalky pin stripes. He had the sort of slight, elegant limp that makes limping look desirable. His nose was long and curved: the whole long squared — off face was powerful. Coleman Collins looked like an ambassador or an aged actor become so grand that he was offered no parts but those of financial pirates, grand dukes, and rascally Nazi generals. He smoothed down the longish white hair at the side of his head, and Tom thought that if you saw him playing a Latin teacher in a movie, you would know that his students would begin dying of a mysterious ailment late in the first reel. The limp became a definite waver, and Tom saw that the man was drunk. 'So the birds have come home,' the magician said.

TWO

The Erl King

Del just picked up his bag and went straight for the car, the biggest, blackest Lincoln you ever saw. . . .

1

Wordlessly Del picked up his suitcase and began to walk toward the steps down into the station parking lot. In confusion so great it was almost like pain, Tom watched the smaller boy advancing away from him, and then looked back at the magician. Coleman Collins' icy face flickered a smile at him. I didn't think he'd be so old, Tom thought. He's even older than Mr. Thorpe.

'Say hello to your uncle,' Collins said. Even slightly slurred by alcohol, his voice was resonant and cultured. 'He has waited long enough to hear it.'

    Del stopped moving. In the instant of silence after he dropped his case, the insects began their symphony again. 'I know. I'm sorry.' Del half-turned to look at his uncle. 'I am sorry. There was a big accident — a train went off the track . . . ' Del turned savagely away again, and Tom recognized with astonishment that his friend was either in tears or on the verge of them.

    'A big accident. A big big big accident, was it? Not just a teeny-weeny little one? Not just a little spilled coffee, a little bump on the tracks, a little messy commotion? Didn't stain your clothes, all that coffee flying about?'

    'It wasn't our train,' Tom said.

    The magician focused his icy eyes on Tom — who was relieved to see, way down under all the layers of real and assumed anger, a layer of amusement. 'Ah. The mystery deepens.' He lolled back against the railing. 'Surely one of you two boys can explain why an unrelated accident, all that coffee flying about on some other train, led to my sitting here for most of the day. Is that in your power, Del?'

    Del turned and explained. Haltingly, badly, with what looked almost like stage fright — but he was explaining, he was talking to his uncle, and Tom felt the strange tension about them wilting from the air.

    When Del was done, his uncle said, 'And did you not see the spot, child? Didn't you sight the site? No visions of blood, or wrecked carriages, of dazed and crippled survivors, eager-beaver reporters, hard-eyed Polizei?' He startled both the boys by laughing. 'No corpses, no — '

    'Uncle Cole,' Del said.

    The magician glittered at him. 'Yes, dear one?'

    'Is Rose Armstrong here this summer?'

    Collins pretended to consider the question. 'Rose. Rose Armstrong. Now, I think I heard . . . was it a sick cousin in Missoula, Montana? Or was that some other Armstrong? Yess. Some dreary Armstrong person, not our little Vermont Rose. Yes, I do think that the girl should be taking part in our exercises. If we can ever get them begun, that is.'

    'She is here.'

    'She is. The real Rose.'

    'Uncle Cole,' Del said. 'I'm sorry we were so late.'

    'So it's come to that,' Collins said. 'Oh, dear. Let's have a look at something.' He held out one palm, and a silver dollar appeared between his first and second fingers. He revolved his hand, and the coin had moved to the space between the next two fingers. When he turned the palm back to the boys, the coin had vanished. He showed the back of his hand: not there. But then it was in the other hand, moving itself so quickly between his fingers it seemed to have a life of its own. He tossed the coin in the air and caught it. 'Can you do that yet?'

    'Not as fast as you,' Del said.

    'Let's get home,' said Coleman Collins.

2

The magician's car was the only one in the lot: a black Lincoln without a mark on it, long as a bank, and all the more impressive for being at least ten years old. Their bags went in the enormous trunk, the boys in the front seat beside Del's uncle. The interior of the Lincoln smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and, less strongly, of leather. Collins looked over Del's head at Tom as he rolled out of the lot. 'So you are the Tom Flanagan.'

    'I'm Tom Flanagan, anyhow. The Tom Flanagan plays the piano.'

    'And modest and good — and very good at the work, I gather. Welcome to Vermont. I hope we'll give you a summer to remember.'

    'Yes.'

    They were gliding into an area of dark little shops, vacant gas stations. The magician seemed to be grinning at him. 'I live for these summers, you know. It could have been different — Del might have told you something about me. But I had only one ambition. Can you guess? To be the best magician in the world. And to stay the best magician in the world. Which is what I have done. Letters — I get mail from all over the world, asking for my advice. Can they meet me? Can they study with me? No, no, no, no. I have only one pupil. Two, now. That, and the knowledge — it's enough.'

    'The knowledge?'

    'Oh, yes, the knowledge. You'll see. You'll experience. And that is all I will say at