“They are gone,” the Clothes Man said. He sat on the cabinet of the computer so Little Tib could see it, and he looked brighter than ever.
“Where did they go?” Little Tib asked.
“I don’t know. You will probably meet them again.” As if he had just thought of it, he said, “You were very brave.”
“I was scared. I’m still scared—the worst since I left the new place.”
“I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to be afraid of them,” the Clothes Man said, “or of anybody. But it wouldn’t be true. Still, I can tell you something that is really better than that—that it will all come out right in the end.” He took off the big, floppy black hat he wore, and Little Tib saw that his bald head was really only a sack. “You wouldn’t let me bring the keys before, but how about now? Or would you be afraid with me away?”
“No,” Little Tib said, “but I’ll get the keys myself.”
At once the Clothes Man was gone. Little Tib felt the smooth, cool metal of the computer under his hands. In the blackness, it was the only reality there was.
He did not bother to find the window again; instead, he unlocked another, and called Nitty and Mr. Parker to it, smelling as he did the cool, damp air of spring. At the opening, he thrust the keys through first, then squeezed himself between the bars. By the time he was outside, he could hear Mr. Parker unlocking the side door.
“You were a long time,” Nitty said. “Was it bad in there by yourself?”
“I wasn’t by myself,” Little Tib said.
“I’m not even goin’ to ask you about that. I used to be a fool, but I know better now. You still want to go to Dr. Prithivi’s meetin’?”
“He wants us to come, doesn’t he?”
“You are the big star, the main event. If you don’t come, it’s going to be like no potato salad at a picnic.”
They walked back to the motel in silence. The flute music they had heard before was louder and faster now, with the clangs of gongs interspersed in its shrill wailings. Little Tib stood on a footstool while Nitty took his clothes away and wrapped a piece of cloth around his waist, and another around his head, and hung his neck with beads, and painted something on his forehead.
“There, you look just ever so fine,” Nitty said.
“I feel silly,” Little Tib told him.
Nitty said that that did not matter, and they left the motel again and walked several blocks. Little Tib heard the crowd, and the loud sounds of the music, and then smelled the familiar dark, sweet smell of Dr. Prithivi’s bus; he asked Nitty if the people had not seen him, and Nitty said that they had not, that they were watching something taking place on a stage outside.
“Ah,” Dr. Prithivi said. “You are here, and you are just in time.”
Nitty asked him if Little Tib looked all right.
“His appearance is very fine indeed, but he must have his instrument.”
He put a long, light stick into Little Tib’s hands. It had a great many little holes in it. Little Tib was happy to have it, knowing that he could use it to feel his way if necessary.
“Now it is time you met your fellow performer,” Dr. Prithivi said. “Boy Krishna, this is the god Indra. Indra, it has given me the greatest pleasure to introduce to you the god Krishna, most charming of the incarnations of Vishnu.”
“Hello,” a strange, deep voice said.
“You are doubtless familiar already with the story, but I will tell it to you again in order to refresh your memories before you must appear on my little stage. Krishna is the son of Queen Devaki, and this lady is the sister of the wicked King Kamsa who kills all her children when they are born. To save Krishna, the good queen places him among villagers. There he offends Indra, who comes to destroy him. . . .”
Little Tib listened with only half his mind, certain that he could never remember the whole story. He had forgotten the queen’s name already. The wood of the flute was smooth and cool under his fingers, the air in the bus hot and heavy, freighted with strange, sleepy odors.
“I am King Kamsa,” Dr. Prithivi was saying, “and when I am through being he, I will be a cowherd, so I can tell you what to do. Remember not to drop the mountain when you lift it.”
“I’ll be careful,” Little Tib said. He had learned to say that in school.
“Now I must go forth and prepare for you. When you hear the great gong struck three times, come out. Your friend will be waiting there to take you to the stage.”
Little Tib heard the door of the bus open and close. “Where’s Nitty?” he asked.
The deep voice of Indra—a hard, dry voice, it seemed to Little Tib—said, “He has gone to help.”
“I don’t like being alone here.”
“You are not alone,” Indra said. “I’m with you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you like the story of Krishna and Indra? I will tell you another story. Once, in a village not too far away from here—”
“You aren’t from around here, are you?” Little Tib asked. “Because you don’t talk like it. Everybody here talks like Nitty or like Mr. Parker except Dr. Prithivi, and he’s from India. Can I feel your face?”
“No, I’m not from around here,” Indra said. “I am from Niagara, Do you know what that is?”
