Shadowland

whooshing haymaker. All his upper body bulged with effort. The breeze flattened the rabbit's ears; and the wind from the punch tore at Tom's hair, tugged at his shirt.

    More than the villain's upper body must have bulged.

    The rear of his boxing shorts split with an awful rending sound, revealing polka-dot underpants. The man's face flashed bright red, red as a stop sign, and he bent forward and clasped his gloved hands over his outthrust bottom; he minced pigeon-toed around the ring, face flashing like a neon sign.

    'Bit cheeky, what?' asked the boxing fan. 'But I fancy . . . '

    Bugs, who had momentarily disappeared, now returned astride a bicycle. He wore a frock coat, a topper like the Mad Hatter's, and swung a bell in his hand. The bicycle bobbed from side to side in rhythm with the ringing of the bell. A sign around his neck read: Stychen Tyme, Instant Tailor.

    Tyme. Tom thought. Now, who . . . ? He remembered. The Reverend Mr. Tyme, speaking pompous nonsense at his father's funeral. April; the brisk wind blowing sand over the graves, bobbling the flowers. His body went cold. He was aware, as if a great distance from his own feelings, that he was horrified. It could not have been an accidental reference.

    Bugs wheeled around the tattooed man, weaving a large needle this way and that. Occasionally he touched his fingers before his face and nodded, just as the Reverend Dawson Tyme had done: Tom's outrage broke. As Bugs sewed up the villain in a cocoon of thread, he was giving a running parody of the minister's manner. He bobbed his head, shook his fuzzy jowls, looked chummy and superior and pontificating all at once — almost, Tom could smell the little minty puffs of breath.

    When the tattooed Bluto (Snail?) was invisible, tied up like a wriggling worm, Bugs jumped from his bike and set to work on it with whirring, flying hands; in a second, it stood upright in a single column, the seat supporting an open book: a lectern. Bugs bowed, knitted his hands, preached a silent sermon over the bound body — his gestures were hilariously oily. Tom felt a vast and subversive relief, seeing the Reverend Mr. Tyme par­odied so deliriously.

    'Awful old bore, isn't he?' asked the boxing fan.

    'Yes. Yes,' Tom said. This is what magic can do, it came to him: magic existed in the teeth of all the

    hypocrites and bores, in the teeth of all the proprieties too. He had scarcely ever felt so good.

    Bugs's hands went a flurrying over the bicycle again: a hammer rang, nuts and bolts flew out. Sparks sprayed comically overhead. When he raised it up, he held a rifle. Bugs ripped off the frock coat, turned it inside out, and it was a military uniform. A bugle zipped from a side pocket, and Bugs blew taps. The rifle went to his shoulder, he sighted over the bicycle seat, and fired a salute. Then he jammed the rifle barrel-first into the ground, jerked it sharply toward him, and the wrapped body fell through a trapdoor.

    The rabbit danced clog-footed for a moment, shook the rifle until it became a bicycle again, mounted and rode off until he was a speck in the misty green distance.

    'Hope you enjoyed it,' Cole Collins said.

    Tom turned euphorically toward the boxing fan and saw that now he was the magician again, in his striped suit. He looked tired and jovial: any elderly uncle showing nephew and nephew's friend a good time.

    'I see you did,' Collins said. He extended his hand and set it carefully on Tom's head. 'You wonderful child.'

    Tom's expression of joy turned rigid.

    'Do you know what day it is?'

    Tom shook his head, and the magician gently lifted his hand.

    'It is Sunday. I would be very remiss if I did not include some religious instruction in this little show. On Sundays, it is always best to display a little piety.'

    He clapped his hands, and the wing of the set before them began to revolve. The music which had buzzed cheerily about them altered; settled into a smoother, still pumping rhythm. Tom began to tap his foot, and the magician nodded approvingly.

    The set revolved completely, showing a long refectory table with wine goblets and plates; the table sat before a window showing a long green Italian distance, a brilliant sunset. Thirteen robed men sat behind the table, their heads and bodies in attitudes as familiar as the rabbit, but not as immediately recognizable.

    Del laughed out loud. Then Tom did recognize the scene and the postures — eleven men leaning or looking toward the tall bearded man in the middle, one self­consciously looking elsewhere.

    'It's that painting,' he said. Collins smiled.

    The music tightened up, became a fraction louder. A piano hit a rolling stride. The men at the table began moving their hands in unison, then rose, danced in front of the table and sang:

La ba la ba, la ba la ba!

La ba la ba, la ba la ba!

We got fish for suppah,

First one thing, then anothah,

We got fish for suppah,

First one thing, then anothah.

We ain't got no menu,

But our fish will send you.

We got fish for suppah,

First one thing, then anothah.

Last night we had bread and fish,

Tonight we got fish and bread.

Tomorrow night we gonna change the dish,

And have plain fish instead.

Ah!

We got fish for suppah,

But first one thing, then anothah,

We got fish for suppah,

First one thing an' anothah.

    A saxophone slipped out from beneath a robe as easily as Bugs's bugle from his military jacket. The squat bearded man holding it breathed out a solo while others waved their hands and did a buck-and-wing. Another disciple produced a trumpet and blasted. Strutting and hand-waving from the disciples: after the chorus they all showed their teeth and shouted:

AH!

We got fish for suppah,

But first one thing, then anothah,

[the stage began to revolve again]

We got fish for suppah,

But first one thing an' anothah.

[men and table now out of sight]

    The music had ended. They were looking at a flat black wall. 'Simple pyrotechnics,' Collins said. 'Now, would you like to advance to Level Three and fly?'

    'Oh, yes,' both boys said at once.

14

Then all blew away like dust, like'a dream, and it was night, much colder than before —

and he was skimming, naked and wrapped in a fur blanket, along in a sleigh with Coleman Collins. Snow blew in a tempest about them, half-obscuring the horse ahead. They were following a track through dark trees, going up; plunging blindly on, the horse flickered gray against the surrounding white.

    The magician turned his face to Tom, and the boy shrank back against the cold metal edge of the sleigh. The face was bone, hard and white as a skull. 'I have taken you aside,' were the words that came from this appari­