Shadowland

Past the forbidden room, past the kitchen.

    He heard Del screaming again — repeated, hopeless screams, the screams of someone who knows he is lost.

    Tom wobbled into the living room. He mentally charted his path to the glass doors. Chair to table to couch, then a long unsupported walk.

    No princes and no ravens. Del's despairing, injured cries floating upward. Tom put his left hand delicately on the back of a chair and hobbled forward: two steps to the coffee table.

    Bud Copeland was sitting on the couch, and Tom could see the delicate green-and-blue pattern through his suit. 'You made it this far, Tom, you're going to make it all the way. Remember there's a safety catch on the gun, you'll hang yourself if you forget that.'

    'No repeat performances,' Tom said.

    'That's the way, son.'

    By instinct, Tom turned his head to look at the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. His stomach flipped over. Blood splashed and spattered on the inside of the glass — spattered again, obscuring the entire shelf behind a screen of red.

    Ka-whamp! went the fireworks outside. Whamp!

The prelude to the performance.

    'You gonna make it all the way,' Bud said.

    Tom listed over to the left, put a bloody palm print on the coffee table, sucked in air because of the pain, and reeled toward the glass doors, still bent over and unable to straighten up.

    He crawled up the glass of the sliding doors.

    Whamp!

Through the mist of blood his hands left on the doors he saw the sky: an orange flower drooping and dying, going blue at its edges . . . Whamp! A red column grew through its center and spread throughout the gray air.

    Soon it would be night.

    Ka-whamp! Whamp! Whamp! Beside the spreading column of red, an owl made of white light was drifting down, its wings wide and awesome, burning down out of the darkening sky.

    'Get that door open — you got to,' came Bud's voice.

    Tom pushed his slippery hands along the glass. Del shrieked somewhere off to his left, and Tom used his forearms to move the glass sideways.

    The aluminum riser caught his foot, and he fell forward onto the flagstones. Shock vibrated up to his shoulders from his elbows; his hands flamed. He groaned. Rolled onto his back and swung his legs out. His heart almost stopped in terror. The fireworks owl; silvery light in the gray sky, dropped toward him with its claws out, sailing down to get him.

    Tom closed his eyes. All right. I can't beat that. Carry me away, do what you want. Just get it over with.

Another explosion took place above him. He looked up and saw that the owl was dying, turning to cinders and shredding apart, becoming something meaningless. Tom got to his feet.

    Then went back to his knees again, because he had a glimpse of them, just around the side of the house. The Wandering Boys were on the sloping lawn about thirty yards away, just before the start of the woods and the bluff. He had seen Snail and Root, who were looking upward for a moment, watching the last seconds of the owl before they went back to their work. Del whimpered.

    All right, get the gun out. You think you're a hotshot? Then get the gun out of your pants. He went prone on the flagstones, face down, and tried to reach behind his back. The index finger of his right hand brushed the lump of metal under his shirt; the same miraculous finger twitched up the tail of his shirt. Little more, there, Buck Rogers. Another twitch. Now the grip of the pistol was exposed. He forced his hand back and touched what he thought was the trigger guard. Sweating again, he hooked the index finger around it and tugged.

    Whamp! Spreading brightness about him, but with his face pressed into the rough flagstones, he could not see what figure the fireworks were making. He tugged again at the trigger guard, and his hand yelled at him.

    He heard the sweetest sound, the pistol clunking on the stone, then heard himself sob with relief.

    Tom twisted on his side and scooped the pistol toward him with both hands. The grip and trigger guard were bright red. Safety. He did not know what it looked like, and turned the gun over in his fingers, looking for anything that might be the catch. Finally he saw a little knurled button, pushed it forward.

    Walking on his knees, he came around the side of the house and off the flagstones and onto lush grass. The six men stood in a circle at what seemed an impossible distance away. Root and Snail were joking — he saw Snail's mouth open in a gap-toothed grin. Thorn was wiping his broken face on his sleeve. Seed, whose shirt was bubbling out between his pants and vest, was prod­ding something with his foot. Del squeaked, nearly invisible in their midst. Tom flattened out in the grass and tried to take aim. But it was no good. The pistol trembled in his fingers. If he were to shoot, the bullet would go off into the woods; into the lake; dig itself into the ground.

    'Stop it,' he said. But his voice was only a whisper. The gun fell out of his hands. He hooked his index finger through the trigger guard again and crawled forward several yards. It seemed he was going with unreal, impossible slowness. A cricket sang. The saw teeth on the side of a blade of grass jumped into focus directly before him. He inched forward.

    'See what you can do to his ribs,' Snail said. 'Ten bucks you can get him that way.'

    'Stop it,' Tom said. He sat up on the grass. 'Stop. I said stop.' Seed, who was facing him, looked up in puzzlement. Tom fumbled for the pistol and pointed it vaguely at the men. He saw Snail grinning at him, Thorn rubbing his chest. He wondered if the old pistol would actually work.

    Here goes nothing. Trying to hold the gun level, he pulled the trigger.

    At first he thought his whole arm had been blown off. The sound was much louder than he had anticipated, deafening him for a moment. The pistol had dropped from his fingers again. Both of his hands were balloon size.

    The trolls were looking at him with great concentration, moving out of their cluster.

    An explosion turned the sky pale green.

    Tom picked up the gun, twisted it so that it faced the men again. Snail was coming toward him, a small worry line carved between his eyebrows.

    'Hey,' Thorn yelled. 'Watch yourself.'

    'He's got holes in his hands, he can't do nothin',' Snail said. Still there was the look of almost delicate worry on his face.

    Tom swung the gun to the center of his chest and held the grip with the fingers of his right hand while he prodded the trigger with the index of his left. Again the recoil tore the gun from his hand. His ears rang.

    A spot of redness appeared in Snail's chest. It looked like a boutonniere. Snail's feet flew out from under him.

    Tom picked up the gun again and stood. He was crying, not entirely from pain, but despite his fears and the agony of his hands and arms, he felt a great nervous con­centration.

    Ka-whamp! All the air turned yellow. He saw Del curled up on the grass. He awkwardly lifted the pistol and aimed it at Pease.

    Pease broke away, running for the iron ladder to the beach.

    Tom swung the gun back and shot at random into the men. This time he managed to keep the gun in his hands. Thorn jerked backward and fell down heavily. A bubbling sound came from his throat.

    Del rolled over on his side and stared at Tom with dull eyes. Redness covered his face.

    The others were already tearing into the woods, going for good, Tom knew. They were just employees. They weren't paid enough to be shot at. He swayed sideways and watched Pease reach the top of the ladder. He remembered the man bending back his fingers so that Collins could drive in the nail. He dropped the gun, and it fired and jumped when it hit, zinging a bullet harmlessly into dark air. He remembered Pease twisting in his seat, looking at him as if he were an inferior painting.

    Ladder, he thought. Bolts. Loose bolts. He saw them: