Bradbury, Ray - SSC 09 (17 page)

 
          
He
stood near her, holding the incredible glove, for a long time. Finally, he
began to whimper.

 
          
He
fled back up to the
Highlands
. The hearth was cold, the room empty. He
waited. Teacher did not come. He ran down again to the solemn
Lowlands
, commanded the table to fill with steaming
dishes! Nothing happened. He sat by his mother, talking and pleading with her
and touching her, and her hands were cold.

 
          
The
clock ticked and the light changed in the sky and still she did not move, and
he was hungry and the silent dust dropped down on the air through all the
Worlds. He thought of Teacher and knew that if she was in none of the hills and
mountains above, then there was only one place she could be. She had wandered,
by error, into the Outlands, lost until someone found her. And so he must go
out, call after her, bring her back to wake
Mother,
or
she would lie here forever with the dust falling in the great darkened spaces.

 
          
Through
the kitchen, out back, he found late afternoon sun and the Beasts hooting
faintly beyond the rim of the World. He clung to the garden wall, not daring to
let go, and in the shadows, at a distance, saw the shattered box he had flung
from the window. Freckles of sunlight quivered on the broken lid and touched
tremblingly over and over the face of the Jack jumped out and sprawled with its
arms overhead in an eternal gesture of freedom. The doll smiled and did not
smile, smiled and did not smile, as the sun winked on the mouth, and Edwin
stood, hypnotized, above and beyond it. The doll opened its arms toward the
path that led off between the secret trees, the forbidden path smeared with
oily droppings of the Beasts. But the path lay silent and the sun warmed Edwin
and he heard the wind blow softly in the trees. At last, he let go of the
garden wall.

 
          
“Teacher?”

 
          
He
edged along the path a few feet.

 
          
“Teacher!”

 
          
His
shoes slipped on the animal droppings and he stared far down the motionless
tunnel, blindly. The path moved under, the trees moved over him.

 
          
“Teacher!”

 
          
He
walked slowly but steadily. He turned. Behind him lay his World and its very new
silence. It was diminished, it was small! How strange to see it less than it
had been. It had always and forever seemed so large. He felt his heart stop. He
stepped back. But then, afraid of that silence in the World, he turned to face
the forest path ahead.

 
          
Everything
before him was new. Odors filled his nostrils, colors, odd shapes, incredible
sizes filled his eyes.

 
          
If
I run beyond the trees I’ll die, he thought, for that’s what Mother said.
You’ll die, you’ll die.

 
          
But
what’s dying?
Another room?
A blue room, a green room,
far larger than all the rooms that ever were! But where’s the key? There, far
ahead, a great half-open iron door, a wrought-iron gate. Beyond a room as large
as the sky, all colored green with trees and grass! Oh, Mother,
Teacher .
 . .

 
          
He
rushed, stumbled, fell, got up, ran again, his numb legs under him were left
behind as he fell down and down the side of a hill, the path gone, wailing,
crying, and then not wailing or crying any more, but making new sounds. He
reached the great rusted, screaming iron gate, leapt through; the Universe
dwindled behind, he did not look back at his old Worlds, but ran as they
withered and vanished.

 
          
The
policeman stood at the curb, looking down the street.

 
          
“These kids.
I’ll never be able to figure them.”

 
          
“How’s
that?” asked the pedestrian.

 
          
The
policeman thought it over and frowned. “Couple seconds ago a little kid ran by.
He was laughing and crying, crying and laughing, both.
He was jumping up and down and touching things. Things like lampposts, the
telephone poles, fire hydrants, dogs, people. Things like sidewalks, fences,
gates, cars,
plateglass
windows, barber poles. Hell,
he even grabbed hold and looked at me, and looked at the sky, you should have
seen the tears, and all the time he kept yelling and yelling something funny.”

 
          
“What
did he yell?” asked the pedestrian.

 
          
“He
kept yelling, ‘I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m glad I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m
glad I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, it’s
good
to be dead!’” The policeman scratched his chin slowly. “One of them new kid
games, I guess.”

 
          
H
e remembered how carefully and expertly
Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the
marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat-smelling intestine, the muscled
lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and
nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to
deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others
in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the
ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned
bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch
after
pulled-tight stitch.

 
          
This
was one of the prime thrills of
Douglas
’s
eleven-year-old life span.

 
          
Altogether,
he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen
table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew
paraphernalia for her miracles.

 
          
Douglas
was to be quiet. He could stand across the
table from
Grandmama
, his freckled nose tucked over
the edge, watching, but any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It
was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly
sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering
mystical verses under her toothless breath.

 
          
“Grammy,”
said
Douglas
at last, breaking the silence, “Am I like
that inside?” He pointed at the chicken.

 
          
“Yes,”
said Grandma. “A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the
same. . . .”

 
          
“And
more
of
it!” added
Douglas
, proud of his guts.

 
          
“Yes,”
said Grandma.
“More of it.”

 
          
“Grandpa
has lots
more’n
me.
His sticks out
in front so he can rest his elbows on it.”

 
          
Grandma
laughed and shook her head.

 
          
Douglas
said, “And Lucie Williams, down the street,
she .
 . .”

 
          
“Hush,
child!” cried Grandma.

 
          
“But
she’s
got .
 . .”

 
          
“Never
you mind
what she’s got! That’s different.”

 
          
“But
why is
she
different?”

 
          
“A
darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,” said
Grandma firmly.

 
          
Douglas
waited,
then
asked, “How do you know I’ve got insides like that, Grandma?”

 
          
“Oh,
go ’way, now!”

 
          
The
front doorbell rang.

 
          
Through
the front-door glass as he ran down the hall,
Douglas
saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and
again.
Douglas
opened the door.

 
          
“Good
morning,
child,
is the landlady at home? “

 
          
Cold
gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon
Douglas
. The man was tall, thin, and carried a
suitcase, a brief case, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick
and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

 
          
Douglas
backed up. “She’s busy.”

 
          
“I
wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.”

 
          
“We’ve
got ten boarders, and it’s already rented; go away!”

 
          
“
Douglas
!” Grandma was behind him suddenly. “How do
you do?” she said to the stranger. “Never mind this child.”

 
          
Unsmiling,
the man stepped stiffly in.
Douglas
watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the
conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from
the linen closet on
Douglas
and
send
him
scooting up with them.

 
          
Douglas
paused at the room’s threshold. The room
was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The
straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff
against one wall like a dead bat with dark moist wings folded.

 
          
Douglas
blinked at the umbrella.

 
          
The
stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.

 
          
“Here!”
Douglas
littered the bed with supplies. “We eat at
noon
sharp, and if you’re late coming down the
soup’ll
get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time!”

 
          
The
tall strange man counted out ten new copper pennies and tinkled them in
Douglas
’ blouse pocket. “We shall be friends,” he
said, grimly.

 
          
It
was funny, the man having nothing but pennies.
Lots of them.
No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters.
Just new copper
pennies.

 
          
Douglas
thanked him glumly. “I’ll drop these in my
dime bank when I get them changed into a dime. I got six dollars and fifty
cents in dimes all ready for my camp trip in August.”

 
          
“I
must wash now,” said the tall strange man.

 
          
Once,
at
midnight
,
Douglas
had
wakened to hear a storm rumbling outside—the cold hard wind shaking the house,
the rain driving against the window. And then a lightning bolt had landed
outside the window with a silent, terrific concussion. He remembered that fear
of looking about at his room, seeing it strange and awful in the instantaneous
light.

 
          
So
it was, now, in this room. He stood looking up at the stranger. This room was
no longer the same, but changed indefinably because this man, quick as a
lightning bolt, had shed his light about it.
Douglas
backed up slowly as the stranger advanced.

 
          
The
door closed in his face.

 
          
The
wooden fork went up with mashed potatoes, came down empty. Mr.
Koberman
, for that was his name, had brought the wooden
fork and wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

 
          
“Mrs.
Spaulding,” he had said, quietly, “my own cutlery; please use it. I will have
lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.”

 
          
Grandma
bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed
potatoes to impress her new boarder, while
Douglas
sat rattling his silverware on his plate,
because he had discovered it irritated Mr.
Koberman
.

 
          
“I
know a trick,” said
Douglas
.
“Watch.”
He
picked a fork-tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the
table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating
fork-tine emerged, like a metal elfin voice.
Simply done, of
course.
He pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The
vibration came from the wood like a sounding board. It looked quite magical.
“There, there, and
there!”
exclaimed
Douglas
, happily plucking the fork again. He
pointed at Mr.
Koberman’s
soup and the noise came
from it.

 
          
Mr.
Koberman’s
walnut-colored face became hard and firm
and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away violently, his lips twisting. He fell
back in his chair.

 
          
Grandma
appeared. “Why, what’s wrong, Mr.
Koberman
?”

 
          
“I
cannot eat this soup.”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
“Because
I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.”

 
          
Mr.
Koberman
left the room, glaring.

 
          
“What
did you do, just then?” asked Grandma at
Douglas
, sharply.

 
          
“Nothing.
Grandma, why does he eat with
wooden
spoons?”

 
          
“Yours not to question!
When do you go back to school,
anyway?”

 
          
“Seven
weeks.”

 
          
“Oh,
my land!” said Grandma.

 
          
Mr.
Koberman
worked nights. Each morning at eight he arrived
mysteriously home, devoured a very small breakfast, and then slept soundlessly
in his room all through the dreaming hot daytime, until the huge supper with
all the other boarders at night.

 
          
Mr.
Koberman’s
sleeping habits made it necessary for
Douglas
to be quiet. This was unbearable. So,
whenever Grandma visited down the street,
Douglas
stomped up and down stairs beating a drum,
bouncing golf balls, or just screaming for three minutes outside Mr.
Koberman’s
door, or flushing the toilet seven times in
succession.

 
          
Mr.
Koberman
never moved. His room was silent, dark. He
did not complain. There was no sound. He slept on and on. It was very strange.

 
          
Douglas
felt a pure white flame of hatred burn
inside himself with a steady,
unflickering
beauty.
Now that room was
Koberman
Land
. Once it had been flowery bright when Miss
Sadlowe
lived there. Now it was stark, bare, cold, clean,
everything in its place, alien and brittle.