Shadowland

dread.

    Del asked questions. Tom squirmed in his seat and tried to ignore Collins' glassy stare.

    'Did you ever do any more healing by magic in the army, Uncle Cole?'

    'Once.' The glassy eyes on Tom. 'Once I did five in a row. Didn't give a damn if anyone saw. Knew I was going to leave soon — go to Paris to meet Speckle John.'

    'Five?'

    'Ordered the nurses to look away. Impatient as a blister. My mind on fire. Little Irish pudding damn near lost her lunch. I could have done a hundred. Lightning.'

    'Are you going to work with us some more?'

    'Any day now.'

    That was two days after Tom met Rose in the run-down summerhouse. The next morning he swam across the lake and stood on the beach in dripping undershorts, thinking that Rose would materialize out of the air and water. Hours later, when a man shouted something deep in the woods, Tom waded back into the warm water and swam toward the pier.

    He put on his dry clothes over the wet undershorts and went up to the house. Del was nowhere in sight. Tom went into the living room — it was to be another afternoon of dullness, another terrifying dinner. He felt as though the tension would make him ill. Whenever Collins fixed his devouring eyes on his at dinner, he thought that the magician knew all about him and Rose. Then he did feel ill: his whole body grew hot. It passed; came back in a giddy rush — he might have been standing in front of a blast furnace. His head swam. Again the illness receded for a moment, and Tom, suddenly aware of the sensations of his body, felt a burning at the back of his throat, a stuffiness in his head; his stomach sent a signal of burning distress.

    He went to the nearest tall surface to lean against it, put his hands on the glass of the cabinet. He looked in. The figurines were moving. He saw the porcelain boy sprawled on the polished wood of the shelf, the drunken men with misshapen faces kicking him again and again. The bearded Elizabethan holding a beer mug looked on and smiled. They were killing the boy, kicking in his ribs and head. The boy rolled over, exposing the pulp that had been his face. Blood pooled on the wood. 'Oh, yes,' Tom said. 'Oh, yes. Shadowland.' The blast of heat returned with triple force, and he staggered out toward the hall bathroom.

8

He was feverishly ill for three or four days: he did not know how long. His body felt as though it would crack and fissure like a salt flat — so dried out — and even the softest sheet chafed and burned against his skin. People appeared and talked incomprehensibly, like mirages, disappeared. Del moved in front of him, looking very worried. 'Don't fret,' Tom wanted to say. 'I'm just being punished, that's all.' But when he said it, he was speaking to Rose, who held his hand. 'No, you're just sick,' Rose said. 'You're wrong,' he said to Elena. She scowled at him and pushed soup into his mouth. Then: 'You didn't mail my letter.' Old King Cole gazed down at him with false sympathy. 'Of course I didn't,' he said. 'I burned it in front of you. Like this.' He held up his right hand, and flames coursed along his index finger. 'Make me better,' Tom pleaded, but he was talking to startled Del and glum Elena. His only coherent con­versation during the illness was with the devil.

    'I know who you are,' he said, and was troubled by a recollection: hadn't he said the same thing to someone else, when he was still new to Shadowland?

    The devil sat on the edge of his bed and smiled at him. He was a short ginger-haired man with a thin, intelligent face — the face of a nightclub comedian. 'Of course you do,' the devil said. He was dressed like a prep-school teacher, in a light brown tweed jacket and gray wool slacks. When he drew up one foot to cock it on his knee, Tom saw that he wore Bass Weejuns. 'After all, we've met before.'

    'I remember.'

    'I'd introduce myself, but you would never remember my name. If you like, you can call me by my initial, which is M.'

    'Was it you who made me get sick?'

    'It was really the only way I could speak to you directly. And I wanted to get a better look at you than I could the other night. You fret too much about things, you know. You fight against the natural course of events. You'll just wear yourself out. If I hadn't made you ill, you would have done it to yourself quite soon. In short, Tom, I worry about you.'

    'I wish you wouldn't,' Tom said.

    'But it's my job.' M. brought his hand to the area of the tweed jacket that represented his heart. 'My job is to care about you. To care for you, if you like.' The hands opened like a sunburst. 'There is so much we could do for each other. All you have to do is stop fretting. You have a large and remarkable talent, after all. And I must point out, my boy, that you and your talent are at a crossroads. I'd hate to see you waste yourself. So would your mentor.'

    'He's not my mentor,' Tom said, and saw the devil's face shine forth his frustrated greed.

    'Well, you see, there are only two ways to go,' said the devil. 'You could take the high road, which I definitely recommend. That way, you become the master of Shadowland — or not, as you choose. But the option is open to you. You become stronger and stronger as a magician. Your life is full, varied, and satisfying. Everything you could want comes to you on a high tide of blessings. Or you could take the low road. Not advisable. You run into trouble almost immediately. You endanger your happi­ness. Whatever happens, I can offer you very little help. I really think that's the way it is, Tom. You see why I had to talk to you. I want you to spare yourself a considerable amount of nastiness.'

    'I'll have to think about it,' Tom said. The devil's conversation was making him very thirsty.

    'Now you're being reasonable,' M. said. 'I know you'll make the right decision.'

    Was it because he not only dressed like a teacher but also talked like one? Why would that make him thirsty?

    M. winked at him.

    'Did you make those porcelain things come alive?' Tom said. But M. was gone. He groaned and lay back against the pillows, and when he opened his eyes, Del was before him.

    'You look a lot better today,' Del said. 'But I still don't understand what you're talking about.'

    'Could I please have some water?' Tom asked.

Del went into the bathroom and returned with a brim­ming glass. 'Rose was here a lot,' he said, giving Tom the glass. The water had the ripest roundest most satisfy­ing taste Tom had ever known — it was astonishing that something so delicious came out of a tap.

    'I could see that she likes you, Tom.'

    'Yes. I like her, too.'

    'She saw how worried I was about you. I couldn't figure out what happened — you got sick so fast.'

    'It was . . . ' Tom began, and did not finish. 'It was because I got tired. I picked up some bug while I was swimming.'

    'I guess so. Anyhow, I talked to Rose.' He said no more, but his mood rang like a clarion.

    'That's good.'

    'I guess we do have to get her out of here. And I was thinking — I bet if I come back and explain everything to Uncle Cole, he'll let me keep on working with him. He'll understand. Are you well enough for me to be telling you this?'

    Tom smiled. Del was so impatient to tell him that trying to stop him would have been like holding up a hand before a tidal wave. 'I feel better already,' he said.

    'Well, see, he's my uncle. He'll be mad at me, but it'll work out. He's my uncle.'

    'We're going to take the low road,' Tom said, grin­ning. 'You fret about things too much.'

    'Is there a low road?'

    'Never mind. I have to sleep, Del.' He closed his eyes and heard Del tiptoeing away.

9

As soon as Tom was able to get out of bed, he went to the cabinet in the living room. The china figures stood in their old places, the girl with the crook, the boy, the Eliz­abethan, the revelers. The boy's face was undamaged: that horrific vision had been inspired by his fever, a hallucination forced on him by the same tension which had made him ill. Tom's legs felt like those of a baby, unused to carrying his weight. Muscles he had never noticed before grumped and ached.