Shadowland

    The magician's excitement was almost palpable. Be­neath his cool exterior, Collins was seething.

    'Speckle John gave it to me. In time it will be yours — you will have read it a hundred times by then. The original was lost for centuries, and may have ended its existence on an Arab's fire — the mother of the man who discovered a cache of unknown gospels used them for fuel before they discovered their black-market value. But we have had our copy for centuries, passed from hand to hand. A watered-down version, known as The Gospel of Thomas, has been known to scholars for something like thirty years. But that weak document does not reveal our secrets. What is the first law of magic?'

    'As above, so below,' Tom said.

    'Do you know the meaning of that?' Collins waited; Tom felt the gravitational pull of his tension. 'It means that gods are only men with superior understanding. Magicians. Who have found and released the divine within themselves. Jesus shared this knowledge with only a few, and the knowledge became our secret tradition.' He ran his fingers lovingly over the leather binding. 'The Book will be in the room I forbade you to enter. After my performance, go there and read it. Read it as I read it forty years ago. Learn the real history of your world.'

    'Does it talk about evil?' Tom said, remembering the final creature that had approached him in the night.

    'God, in the orthodox view, causes famine, plague, and flood. Was God evil? Evil is a convenient fiction.'

    Tom looked into the magician's powerful old face. What he saw blazed so fiercely he had to look away.

    'You avoid examining what you saw last night. So I will not force you, boy — it will come. But you must know that every boy at your school was touched by our magic, some beneficially, some not. It could not have been otherwise, given that you and Del were there.'

    'I knew the nightmares were from me,' Tom said out of the full awareness of his guilt.

    'Of course. From what was hidden in you, from what you were too stupid to know you had. From your treasure.'

    'My treasure.'

    'Any treasure locked away in a dark room will begin to fester and push its way out. An untreated body in a coffin will do that. It is in the Book: If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.'

'Is that what happened to Skeleton Ridpath?' Tom asked.

    'He did not thrust the power away from him, like another in your class, but begged for it — for its crudest aspects — when he was unready for them. That boy wanted me to come for him, and so I did come for him. With Speckle John, I had already invented the Collector. He was originally a thing of cloth and rubber, a toy to frighten an audience. I saw that he could be a vessel. There are many candidates for collection. There are many volunteers.'

    Collins' hands were trembling. 'I gave him what he asked for.' He looked up at Tom with a look of wild challenge. 'Come with me. You'll see what I mean.'

He began striding away from the chair. Afraid to be left alone, Tom hurried after him. The magician's tall gray-suited form was already deep in white mist. It gathered around Tom as he got nearer to Collins, and for a moment was thick enough — a freezing cloud — to hide Collins altogether. Then Tom saw broad gray shoulders ahead, and rushed forward.

    He walked out of the mist onto dry sandy grass. They were in Arizona again, he recognized before he recog­nized anything else. Cars stood in rows about them. In the distance, a tinny cheer went Up. 'Hurry,' Collins said, and Tom gasped: the magician was wrapped within a long trench coat, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat.

    Tom drew near and saw where they were.

    At their feet the land fell away to a flat limed plane — the football field. Across it, the stands were crowded with parents and boys. Two football teams clashed and grunted on the field. Collins said, 'Two things called me here. That disturbed boy on the bench who is looking at me this very minute — and you. Look.'

    Tom saw Skeleton's face go rapturous and unhinged over the padded frail chest and shoulders. With his newly burnished senses, he could feel what was happening inside Skeleton, a sick thrilled wave of passion. Then he heard a noise of love mingled with fear, and saw Skeleton's head snap around to look up into the stands. And there was Del, trying to get on his feet in the last row, staring with wild eyes straight at him. The feelings which surged from Del were too dense for him to fully take them in, love and terror and the horror of betrayal and confusion wretched in its magnitude. He saw himself, with an uncomprehend­ing and innocent face, hauling Del back down into his seat.

    'Enough,' Collins said. He whirled around and marched back through the rows of cars.

The grass had become springier and the cars were gone. Collins strode on beside him, going into the green vale. It was Ventnor. The disastrous football games were over. 'An interesting thing is happening today,' Collins was saying. 'I want you to see it.'

    As they walked along, Tom glanced over his shoulder and looked at a wandering path on which stood a handful of boys, himself among them. Del raised his bandaged arm as if to ward off a blow. A second, almost subdued shock wave of betrayal. He was visible to no one else — he was merely Collins' shadow. 'Of course this is the day of the famous theft,' the magician said.

    They were proceeding down a long green distance, and Tom remembered seeing this in a dream, long ago — he knew that Skeleton Ridpath was standing rigid with joy near the Ventnor gym.

    'When we all lived in the forest,' Collins said, 'we could turn into birds at will.' They vanished around an edge of concrete — Tom was sweating, on the edge of collapse — and the magician rose off the ground, beating great gray wings. He was an owl.

    Tom beat his own wings; he too had become a bird. Below and behind him, Skeleton howled. The transforma­tion had been instant and painless; putting on feathers was easier than putting on a shirt. Inside the small bird he was, he was still Tom Flanagan; and when he looked at the owl, he could see Coleman Collins within it. The magician smiled, his hair flattening against his head. The owl wheeled overhead and sailed back toward the Ventnor buildings. Tom turned beneath him and followed. From what he could see of himself, he was a falcon.

    'A peregrine falcon,' Collins said. 'I see you are curious.' There was laughter in his voice.

    Tom looked out over the landscape, and for a moment was transfixed by its beauty and strangeness — trees and a glinting lake and long stretches of green. It looked like Eden, a place shining with newness and promise. Beyond it lay a network of curving roads and straight roads, a cluster of houses, desert. Miles away, mountains reared and buckled. Geologic tensions and muscles underlay it all, churning with life. Small things scurried in grass and sand. He was seeing through falcon's eyes.

    Collins interrupted his reverie. 'Child.'

    Tom looked down and saw the magician sitting on a roof by a wide tilting pane of glass. He reluctantly descended. When he landed on the roof, he was just Tom again, and that miraculous insightful vision was gone. He walked toward Collins, leaning against the pitch of the roof.

    'You see, it's not all bad,' the magician said. 'Could a simple-minded morality give you anything like that?' He looked down through the skylight. 'But here comes our moment. Watch.'

    Tom saw himself and Del in a sea of heads, alone in a crowd near a woman pouring tea. Then Marcus Reilly approached, dogged by Tom Pinfold, and Tom saw himself turn away to speak to them. He stared at the wheaten top of Marcus' head as if he could see into it and find whatever wayward germ had put his friend into the bloody car.

    'You're wasting your time,' the magician said with brutal suddenness. 'Look across the room.'

    Tom shifted his glance. Skeleton was mooning along the far wall. His face foreshortened but visible, Skeleton looked like a robot on automatic pilot. Tom looked back down again and saw that Del had moved a few feet away from the Tom Flanagan down there: Del was standing by himself, and his nose was pointing directly at Skeleton.

    'My nephew is weaker than Speckle John,' the magi­cian said. 'You see, he feels threatened, he doesn't know if he can trust his eyes, but they seem to tell him that his best friend is in secret complicity with his idol. He cannot ignore or reject his best friend. But he must strike out somewhere. And he has begun to admit that the