Shadowland

    Landing on its hands again, the figure sprang over backward and came down on its feet; then over again, turning in the air, blindingly fast. Then Collins came out. of a crouch and fell face forward on the stage — a robot turned off by remote control. With what must have been a terrific effort of muscular skill, he seemed to bounce back upright, arms and legs never changing their position, so slowly it was like a fall in reverse slow motion.

    'Boy,' Tom muttered.

    Herbie Butter bowed and twinkled offstage; a second later he was back, pushing a magician's table on which rode a tall silk hat.

    'Imagine a bird,' he said, and the voice was not Coleman Collins', but lighter, younger.

    A pass of a white silken scarf, and a white dove came out of the hat.

    'Imagine a cat'; a white cat slipped over the brim of the hat. The cat began immediately to stalk the terrified bird.

    Herbie Butter did one of his astounding backflips, coming to rest on his fingertips, then flipped forward to land where he had been, and dropped the white scarf over the cat.

    The scarf fluttered to the surface of the table.

    'And that's it, isn't it? Cat and bird. Bird and cat.'

    It was that first morning that he told Tom and Del the story which ended with the words 'Then I am the King of the Cats!'

'Can I ask you a question?' Tom said, his arm up as if he were back in Latin class.

    'Of course.' The magician sat on a little table; the voice was still light and sexless.

    'How can you do those things — those gymnastic things — when you limp?'

    He felt Del's disapproval pouring from him, strong as a scent, but the magician was not ruffled.

    'A good question, and too frank to be rude, nephew, so don't take offense. The real answer is 'because I have to,' but that won't be specific enough for you. I intend to tell you more completely, Tom, in a short while — because I will expect you to do something very similar. I promise you. You will know. Is that all?'

    Tom nodded.

    'Come on up and shake my hand. Please.'

    Mystified, Tom stood and went toward the magician, who slipped off the table and went to the edge of the stage. Herbie Butter bent down to take his hand; but instead, his fingers closed about Tom's wrist. Tom jerked his head up and looked into the white anonymous face. He could see nothing of Coleman Collins in it.

    'For your benefit.' The fingers tightened around his wrist. 'Everything you will see here, and you will see many odd things, comes from your own mind — from within you. From the reaction of your mind with mine. None of it exists elsewhere.'

    Herbie Butter released Tom's wrist. 'For three months, for as long as you stay, this is the world for you. Which you will help to create.' He smiled. 'That is one of the meanings of the King of the Cats.'

    Yes, Tom thought.

    'Give yourself to it. I ask you because you are one of the rare ones who can.'

    Yes I am, Tom thought. He was aware of Del giving him a sharp look.

    'And you are alone this summer. Your mother goes to England tomorrow. Her cousin Julia is getting married to . . . a barrister, is it? And after the wedding, your mother will travel in England? Isn't that right?'

    'But how . . . ?'

    'So this is the summer of Tom Flanagan's growth as well as the summer of my unburdening. You are a very special boy, Tom. As you showed me last night.'

    He would have been worried by the expression now on Del's face, which was dark and considering, but he was looking into the white asexual face and seeing Coleman Collins there — the robust Collins of the night before. 'Thank you,' he said.

13

'Shall we have some fun?' the magician said. 'It will be necessary to close your eyes.' '

    Tom shut his eyes, still feeling the roughness of Collins' fingers about his wrist, still glowing from the praise, and heard the magician say, 'This is Level Two.'

    He snapped his eyes open, remembering the wrecked train and angry with himself for being duped so easily: Del, he supposed, had opened his eyes too. He turned to see, but Del avoided his eyes.

    They were still in the big theater. On the stage before them was not the single table, but a large complicated wooden construction like an illustration from a book — so foreign, it seemed to Tom. Some tinny happy music played over them: to two fifteen-year-olds in 1959, this peppy simple jazz was irresistibly like the soundtracks to the old cartoons they saw on television on Saturday mornings. The building was at once complicated and comfortable, full of odd angles and tiny windows. On the big front window had been painted in black: apothe­ cary.

    'Well, let's look inside,' Collins said; now he wore half-glasses and a striped apron. His face shone bare of powder — he looked like everybody's favorite old uncle.

    The building swung open, turning itself inside out. The sides pulled back and revealed rows of bottles and jars, a serving counter, a high black register.

    'You wouldn't happen to require any cough medicine, my young men?'

    A row of jars labeled cough syrup coughed and bounced on their shelf. 'Sleeping pills?'

    Another row of bottles snored loudly — almost sending up zzzz in white balloons. 'Reducing tonic?' Two bottles shrank to half their size. 'Rubber bands?'

    A box of rubber bands on the counter stood up and played cheery music: the same tinny happy jazz that had begun as soon as, they had closed their eyes. Tom saw the bell of a trumpet, the slide of a trombone . . . 'Vanishing cream?'

    A jar next to the rubber bands slowly disappeared. Del was giggling beside him; and he giggled too. 'Greeting cards?'

    The corny joke fulfilled itself: A rack of cards be­fore the counter shouted 'Hi!' and 'Hey, how you doin'?' 'Hello, neighbor!' 'God be with you!' 'Get well soon!' 'Have a good trip!' 'Take it easy!' 'Bon-jour!' 'Shalom!'

'Come on up and take your seats for the boxing match,' the kindly old pharmacist called to them.

    As they left their seats, the yelling cards and trumpet-playing rubber bands and coughing jars and snoring bottles swung outward. In the middle of the stage a roped-in boxing ring was occupied by a fat cartoon man with bristling jowls and a flat, malevolent head. Boos erupted from the persistent soundtrack. The man grimaced with cartoon ferocity, beat his chest, bulged his tattooed biceps.

    'Bluto,' Del said in delight, and Tom answered, 'No, I think . . . ' He could not remember what he thought.

    A bell rang with a clear commanding insistence, and the kindly old pharmacist, now wearing a flat tweed cap and a vibrant checked jacket, called out, 'Hurry and take your seats for the first round.' They scrambled up onto the stage and got into metal camp chairs placed just outside the ring.

    'It's the big fight, you know, the dirty scoundrel's comeuppance,' said the boxing fan. He had a monocle and protruding teeth, and a voice faintly, ridiculously English. 'Now, our hero is somewhere about. . . ah, yes. Chap's a trifle late.'

    A very familiar rabbit bounded into the ring and clasped his hands together over his head to the sound of mass cheering. The villain glowered. He spat on his gloves and smacked them together. The rabbit, who was nearly as tall as the man, darted toward the villain and clasped his arms around the obese waist. He bounced a couple of feet off the canvas, then rebounded once, and then took off so powerfully that he and the villain sailed straight into the air. Tom craned his neck: the pair of them were still going up. They were just a dot in the sky. Now they were plummeting down. They were going to crash. The rabbit produced a frilled parasol and floated back to the canvas; the villain splatted down and was as flat as a dime.

    He rose up and shook out his two-dimensional body. His flesh miraculously plumped. He slavered with rage, with the brute need to punish. The rabbit circled round him, lightly dancing on his big rear paws, landing short but stinging blows. The tattooed villain cocked back a fist suddenly as large as a ham, and brought it around in a