Shadowland

    'Go away,' Tom sobbed. 'Get out of here. I turn my face away from you. I revile you. I can't stand the smell of you — you are these nails.' His voice broke down. Sweat burst from every pore of his body. He was freezing to death. M. disappeared, still smiling up.

    'Kid gets on my fuckin' nerves,' Thorn said.

    'Give him a break,' Pease said, 'he's in a tough spot. Ain't you, kid? Let's go farther down.'

    'What the hell, he's crazy,' Snail said. 'He's out of his gourd.' He stood up. The three of them loafed down the stairs to the first row. Tom closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the wall.

    'Look, we can even go outside, hey?' he heard Thorn say. 'Who's to say we can't?'

    Tom passed out again.

When he came around again, he thought it was night. He was alone in the vast dark theater. A plum-colored glow emanated from the curtains. He was soaked in sweat, he was ice-cold, and his hands were soaring and sobbing. The bone fought the pressure of the nail, lost, and bounced in his hand. Hundreds of nerves sang.

    'Tom,' came a velvety voice he knew.

    'No more,' Tom said, and rolled his head back to look down the aisle in the direction of the voice. Bud Copeland was standing like a deeper shadow in the dark aisle. 'That's not really you,' he said.

    'No, not really. I can't really do anything but talk to you.'

    'I guess you're Speckle John,' Tom said. 'I should have known.'

    'I used to be Speckle John. But he took my magic away. He thought that was worse than death.' Bud drew nearer. Tom realized that he could see through him, see the line of seat backs and the dark wall at the end of the aisle through Bud's snowy shirt and gray suit. 'But I had enough left to hear Del when the little boy was born. Just like I had enough to know you when I saw you for the first time. And to hear you now.'

    'Am I going to die?' Tom said; wept a few stinging tears.

    'If you don't get down,' Bud's shade told him. 'But you're strong, boy. You don't know yet how strong you are. That's why they make all this fuss about you, you know. You're strong as an elephant — strong enough to fetch me here. Only wish I could do more than talk.' Bud shifted uncomfortably, and his transparency grew cloudy. 'He did the Wandering Boys just like he did you — in the cellars of the Wood Green Empire. Mr. Peet and all . . . all those stupid men who thought they'd get a free ride for life off him. Oh, he gave a show: he gave a real show, boy. He's still proud of it. Made a scandal big enough to drive him out of Europe.'

    'What did he do to Rose?'

    'Rosa? Don't bother with that, boy. Just get yourself off that brace. Outside, they're fooling with Del. They're liable to kill him if you don't get down.'

    'I can't,' Tom wailed.

    'You got to.' Tom screamed.

    'That's not the way. There's only one way, boy. You got to use that strength. You got to pull your hands off. That's the way it works.'

    'Nooo!' Tom screamed.

    'You do it with one hand, the other one will come easier. You got to choose your song — you got to choose your skills. You already tried wings, and that didn't work. You can't run from him.'

    Tom leaned his head back against the wall and looked at Bud through red eyes; asked a silent question.

    'I tried song, Tom. But he was stronger than me. After that the most I could do was try to keep Del safe from him. I knew he wanted that boy — until he heard about you, he wanted him anyhow. Now it's your turn. And you have to do more than save Del. You know what you have to do.'

    'Kill him,' Tom said weakly,

    'Unless you want him to kill you. Do what I say, now. Push your left hand forward. Just keep on pushing. It's going to hurt like blazes, but. . . shit, son, doesn't it hurt already? When you get that one free, push with your right hand. Those nails can't stop that. They can only stop you doing it the easy way.'

    'Just push.'

    'Push with all you got, son. If you don't, worse than that is going to happen to you. And there won't be enough of Del left to worry about. Hear that? You hear him?'

    Then Tom did hear Del: heard a piping, anguished eeee, like a sound he had made himself not long before.

    He concentrated on his left hand; and pushed. A hundred mallets hit a hundred nails, and he nearly fainted again.

    You're strong.

He pushed as hard as he could, and his hand flew free of the nail in a spray of blood.

    'Sweet Jesus, son, you did it! Now, push the other one . . .please God, boy, push that other one . . . push the hell out of it. . . don't even think about it, just slam it out of there.'

    Tom filled his chest with air, unable to think about the agony in his left hand, opened his mouth with the full force of his lungs, arched his back as the yell began, and jerked his right hand forward.

    It flew. Blood spurted out over the row of seats before him.

    . . . now you know why I took that job, boy . . . Bud's voice faded; the rest of him was already gone.

    Sobbing, Tom slumped over the cinch. The buckle: the buckle worked on a catch. It was trying to saw him in half. And 'for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen . . . He raised his left hand and pushed the base of the thumb against the catch. Blood smeared on his shirt, soaked through to his belly. My next trick is the never-before- attempted the Falling Boy. He urged the base of his thumb around the catch. His hand pounded, but his thumb rested against the catch. He shoved, blood gouted from his hand, and he tumbled out of the strap and fell like a sack to the carpet.

10

Del. That was where he had to go. Del was outside, being killed by the trolls. Tom crawled toward the steps, using elbows and knees, ignoring the blood streaking down his arms. Could he flex his fingers? When he reached the top of the stairs, he tried the left hand, and the pain made his eyes mist, but the fingers twitched. How about you, right hand? Mr. Thorpe: chapel on a sunny morning: raising his right hand: boys, that brave young man took out his pocketknife and carved a cross in the palm of his right hand! Bet he did too, the jerk. Tom clenched his teeth and made his fingers move.

    And for my next trick . . . the Amazing Falling Boy will now attempt to go down a flight of stairs.

    Tom crawled to the edge of the steps. Facefirst? He saw himself falling, knocking his head against the metal sides of seats, rolling on his hands . . . he turned over, sat up, put his legs over the edge and went down like a one-year-old, on the seat of his pants.

    Now do something really difficult, Tom, old boy. Walk. His feet were on the floor, his bottom on the second step. Well, don't rush into it — stand up first, do it the easy way. He flailed out with his dripping arms, his back knotted and ached, and he was on his feet. Immediately his head went fuzzy, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall for support. Funny how much pain your body, can hold — it can be just like a bucket filled up with pain. You'd think you'd spill some of it along the way, but the bucket just gets bigger.

    Come outside now, boys, we are going to witness a miracle. Skeleton hiding at the back of the stage, waiting for the piano player to leave so he could check his stolen exams, take a look at the Ventnor owl and see if it had anything special to say to him today. , . . It just broke, Mr. Robbin. Yassuh, just up and broke on us.

    Gee, you monkeys are clumsy.

    That's us, sir, clumsy all over today, all we can do just to stand up . . .

He made himself go forward, pushing the door open with his shoulder. Yeah, the old bucket just keeps on getting bigger. Tom staggered out into the darkened corridor, knocked into the opposite wall with his shoul­der, and paused to rest.

    This is not an easy school. Not! Not an easy school!

You had to admit they weren't liars.

    He leaned forward, and his feet followed him down the corridor. As long as he rested his right shoulder on the wall, he could keep moving and stay upright. Blood dripped steadily down his fingers and onto the brown carpet.