Shadowland

Europe. Europe was dead. I sensed new life in America — life that did not stink of corpses. Europe was really a graveyard, and in America my family had enough money to keep me for the rest of my life. I took a month off, sailed to the States, and looked for a suitable place to set up my compound. For that was how I thought of it: a guarded place, remote from any city, where I could extend magic as far as it could go; without the third-party trappings of an audience. I found this place and bought it and hired workmen to make the improvements I had in mind. The price was too high originally, but I persuaded the owners to let it go reasonably. And my methods ensured that no one would come prowling around in my absence.'

    There was an immense, terrifying beating of wings: a huge white owl came to life in the dim light. Both boys froze. The owl looked predatory, more purely savage than the Collector; it beat its wings once more, then blew apart like smoke, becoming part of the fog.

    Still the light glowed, promising visions to come.

    'I landed again in France in the autumn of 1923. It had been only five years since my first landing, but imagine the difference! Now I knew who and what I was: Coleman Collins had found and developed the power which Charles Nightingale had only dared to dream existed within him. I was rich enough to do anything I wished, and I was famous enough to draw large audiences wherever we appeared. Now I owned a house and extensive grounds in New England. And beyond all else, of course, I was King of the Cats, famous throughout the occult world. This was a position I intended to hold as long as I could — at least until I sensed the arrival of a magician whose powers were as much greater than mine as mine were than Speckle John's. Then, I thought, we'd see what we would see.'

    The white owl flickered again down the funnel of trees; its eyes blazed. The great wings rustled the leaves. Then it was gone again.

    'We drove, Mr. Peet and I, he actually driving the Daimler and I relaxing in the backseat, down through western France toward Paris. I looked forward to seeing Rosa Forte and Speckle John — most especially, Rosa Forte. I thought of bringing her back to America with me — she could not survive without me, I knew, and she would have her uses in my new life. As yet, all of that was only a vague dream. I wondered what new bookings Speckle John had managed to get for us; I wondered how long the trolls would go before they required another badger-baiting; I wondered what invitations had come, which women would be waiting for me with their palms extended and their checkbooks out; I wondered too if Rosa would be as amorous in her greetings as she usually was when I returned from long trips. So down we drove, going at the dazzling speed of perhaps thirty miles an hour through village after village, each with its obelisk in­scribed with the names of those who had died in the war. The light was heavy, and the chestnut trees were turning red and orange; the dust rose up from the road; I thought of all the blood in those fields, which were just ripening into harvest time. I remembered what I had done to that poor ranter Crowley, and laughed out loud — also I thought about the attacks recently made against me by Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, names important in the occult field at the time but now utterly forgotten. That heavy light . . . the orange, blood-soaked fields . . . Rosa waiting with her porcelain skin and open thighs . . . that feeling of time itself dying with a beautiful melancholy about me . . .

    'Ten kilometers outside Paris I saw a peasant smile at my car with white flawless teeth, and I thought of Vendouris screaming in the frozen muck — thought of him for the first time in years, and it seemed to me that it really was time to get out when all of a beautiful European autumn seemed epitomized to me by the gleam of a dying man's teeth.

    'We entered Paris from the northwest, throwing up plumes of dust behind us, and crossed the Seine at the Pont de Courbevoie and worked our way through the streets to the Ranelagh Gardens, where we lived in a splendid building on Avenue Prud'hon. We drew up before the splendid building. I could hear children's voices in the heavy air. The trees in the Ranelagh Gardens were brilliant gold, I remember, and the grass a very powerful dark green. Still the beautiful melancholy. I invited Peet to join me for a drink in my sitting room, which eventually cost him his life. We mounted the stairs, me carrying a small bag and Peet the two large suitcases from the Daimler's trunk. The interior of the building smelled of sandalwood. I opened the door of my apart­ment and let Peet enter. He went in a few steps and dropped the bags — they made a particularly loud thump. I followed and saw his face, which was both embarrassed and terrified. Then I saw them. Saw what any schoolboy would have suspected long before.'

    The light blazed up in the trees, and Tom saw Rose lying naked on what looked like an oriental carpet. About her was the suggestion of a large room with oyster-colored walls. Rose's unmistakable body was sideways to him, her blond head turned away. A thick naked man with heavy arms and thighs lay atop her; his face was buried in her shoulder. Tom went rigid with shock. Beside him, Del gasped. The heavy hands kneaded her breasts, the brutal body thrust and thrust, moving itself blindly toward climax; and Rose clung to his hips, accommodating and moving with him. Shock spread so definitively throughout Tom that he could feel its progress, freezing him as it went. He could not even think of how Del was responding to this sight. You won't be foolish when you see me tonight, will you? That was what she had said, linking her hands behind his neck as they stood in chest-high water. And before that, You won't hate me, will you? I still have some work to do for him. This is what she had meant.

    Everything here is a lie.

He seized at that straw until the girl tilted her face toward the sky and he saw the wide high brow, the mouth that had said she loved him. He felt as though he had been blowtorched. The man quickened, trembled, clutched at her. Rose's arms and legs clamped on the plunging man. Then the light died again, and they were alone with the magician. Del's eyes were dull. He was breathing heavily, almost panting.

    You won't be foolish when you see me tonight, will you?

    Everything here is a lie.

He could not see his way out of it.

    'Of course it was not Root who was enjoying my Rosa, but my partner, Speckle John. I merely wanted you boys to feel my shock and outrage — and I see that I have succeeded. Arnold Peet fled. I left on his heels. When I returned half an hour later, Rosa was still there, dressed now, feigning contrition. She pretended that it had been the first occasion, but I knew better. I let her lie to me, and thought of all the consoling Speckle John had done for my poor Rosa. She expected me to beat her — she wanted to be beaten, for that would have been forgive­ness. I did not beat her. I did not shoot her, either, though I had my service revolver with me — I always carried it in those days. I just let her plead and weep. And when I met Speckle John the next day, neither one of us mentioned what I had seen on the floor of my sitting room. I began to plan my final performance.'

    Collins stood. 'Tomorrow night you will see how I wrapped up all the strands; how I removed Arnold Peet, who had witnessed my humiliation, along with his trolls; how I revenged myself against those who had humiliated me; and how I gave the gaudiest performance of my life.' He looked down at the two stricken boys. 'And stay in your rooms tonight. This time I will overlook no disobe­dience.'

    The magician tilted his head, looking as if he were enjoying himself, and put his hands in his pockets, his amused eyes finding Tom's; vanished.

    To hell with you, to hell with you, Tom said to himself. He leaned down and helped Del to his feet. 'Will you do whatever I ask?'

    'Whatever you ask,' Del said. He still looked semi-catatonic.

    'Let's go back now. We'll get out of here as soon as we can tonight. I don't know how, but we'll do it. I'm through with this place.'

    'I feel sick,' Del said.

    'And listen. You were never going to be invited back anyhow. Get me? Shadowland was over for you anyhow. He told me. You weren't going to be chosen — he said this was your last summer here. It was over anyhow. So let's get out now.'

    'Okay,' Del said. His lip trembled. 'As long as you're coming with me.' He wiped at his eyes. 'What about her? What about Rose?'

    'I don't know about Rose,' Tom said. 'But we're getting out of here late tonight. And nobody's going to stop us.'

    He led Del back through the wood to the edge of the lake.

'You were chosen,' Del said. The moonlight lay a white cap over his black hair. A frog croaked from the side of the lake. Whiteness hung over the surface of the lake like a veil, and ghostly wisps trailed from the edge of the lake. The iron staircase rose up out of a pocket of gray wool like a ladder set in a cloud. 'You were the one who was