INTERVENTION (20 page)

The child cried: Wherehotel? Wherecograilway? Look thatmountain SNOW top in June!

That's Mount Washington. The one we're riding to top of today.

Studied allmountain names let's see: JeffersonClayWashington-MonroeFranklinEisenhowerClinton north/south. (Notall presidents!) Why Eisenhower so dinky UncleRogi?

He got his mountain last and beggars can't be chosers. State changed name MountPleasant to Eisenhower. Once tried change name MountClinton to MountPierce honor only president born NewHampshire. Try never amounted to much. Neither did PresidentPierce. People still call mountain Clinton.

Laughter. Why thesemountains look bigger from here than from Berlin? What that funnystreak MountWashington? When we see yourHOTEL?

Rogi laughed out loud. "Take it easy. You've got three whole days to ask questions. Batege! I'd nearly forgotten what a frantic little quiz-kid you are."

"You haven't forgotten at all." The child was complacent. "I see inside your mind how much you missed me. And I missed you, too."

The car slowed beside a guard kiosk painted a spotless white, decorated with window boxes of scarlet petunias. The old watchman stuck his head out. "Morning, Roger. Got your nevvy here all safe and sound, I see. Plenty time yet for breakfast."

"Morning, Norm. Yup—give him a treat before we go up the cog. Say hi to Mr. Redmond, Denis."

"Hello, Mr. Redmond." Why hecallyou ROGER UncleRogi?

"See you, Norm." Because that myname here: Roger Remillard. Bettername man works bighotel easier people remember&pronounce than Rogatien. (And Rogi sounds naughty.)

Appreciative mirth.

The car swung around a long curve and the famous old White Mountain Resort Hotel came into view. At first it looked as though it must be a toy castle, or a chateau made from white spun sugar with the glistening roofs of the towers and wings colored like cherry jam. The hotel had more tiny windows than you could count, and little flags flying, and a candy-spill of flower gardens amidst miniature trees in front. The actual size of the place only gradually became evident as the driveway seemed to stretch on and on, with the hotel growing steadily larger until it blotted out the mountain vista entirely. The five-storey building was made of white stuccoed wood. It had a two-tiered colonnaded verandah curving from the central porte-cochere all around the entire south wing.

"It's a palace," exclaimed the overawed boy. "Are you really the boss?"

Rogi shook his head, laughing. "Hardly. I'm only the assistant convention manager." [Explanatory image.] "But I get to live here where I work, and I like this job much better than the one I had at the paper mill. It pays better, too."

They drove past the grand main entrance, which was crowded with autos and tour buses and guests and bellmen scurrying to load and unload people's luggage, and pulled into the employees' parking lot behind a screen of tall shrubs. Denis insisted on carrying his small suitcase himself. They entered an annex building that housed resident staff members. A man dressed in a white jacket and bow tie hurried past them, greeting Rogi and mussing Denis's mousy brown hair.

Rogi said, "That was Ron, one of the waiter captains. Just wait until you see the dining room here. There are two of them, but we'll eat in the biggest one where Ron works this morning." They climbed carpeted stairs.

"You like it here a lot, don't you, Uncle Rogi." There was a tinge of dejection in the boy, imperfectly screened.

"Yes. But I can come visit you in Berlin while you're home for the summer. It isn't even an hour's drive."

"I know. Only..." UncleRogi I miss you. Miss mindspeech. Miss friendadult questionanswers fearcalming. Teachers at Brebeuf nice kids notbad but not same YOU.

Comfort. Denis you know grownups must work sometimes goaway oldhome.

Understand. But can't speak you through mountains down Concord school can't speak you from Berlin whileyou here either.

There's your Maman & littlebrotherVictor to bespeak.

Denis stopped at the top of the stairs. He averted his eyes, clumsily trying to conceal a dark emotional coloration. "Mom's changed since last fall. When I came home from school last week she could hardly mindspeak me at all anymore. She was like that when I went home at Easter, too, but I thought it was just because of the new babies. Now she—she just doesn't
want
to share her thoughts with me the way she used to. She kisses me and says she's busy and tells me to go play."

"Your mother has a lot to do taking care of Jeanette and Laurette. Twin babies are a terrible handful unless you have older children as ready-made baby-sitters, the way Tante Lorraine had with your Papa and me ... Have you been able to mindspeak with your Papa?"

"Not very much. I thought he'd be pleased at the way things worked out at the academy. My good grades, and the way I was auditing classes with the college kids, and how Father Ellsworth has been getting me parapsychology books and publications from the library at Brown University, and how I'm learning archery, and how to play the piano. But he wasn't much interested. He doesn't like me, you know. Not like he does Victor."

The hallway was deserted and quiet. Rogi knelt down to face the boy. "Your father does love you, Denis. The thing is—Victor's only a little boy and he needs more attention right now."

But Victordumfeerthanme! Weakfarspeech/farsight/farhearing/PK. (Strong coercion though.) And he fights and swipes things and mindpinches new babysisters awful when thinks nobody looking. Tried mindpinch me HA! myshield reflected pinch back
him.

"Victor is probably jealous of his new sisters. Maybe even jealous of you now that you're going to school. Four-year-olds are still pretty uncivilized. It takes time for them to learn right from wrong."

"He already knows," Denis said darkly. "I can tell. He hurts the little twins anyway whenever their minds make telepathic noises that bug him. You know how little babies are."

Rogi made a comical grimace. "I remember."

"Jeanette and Laurette can't help being pests sometimes. But Victor doesn't seem to be any good at putting up a protective mental shield, so the baby-thoughts drive him crazy. I told Mom how he was tormenting the twins and she told him to stop—but there's really not much she can do about it."

"I see." (Poor Sunny, retreating into fatalism and saying her beads and watching soap operas on television! Inside of a year she would be enceinte once again.)

"I tried to explain to Papa why Victor shouldn't harass the babies. I told him it would discourage them from developing their own ultrafaculties—maybe even make them
normal.
He laughed."

Rogi stood up, keeping a tight lid over his own thoughts. "I'll talk things over with your father when I take you back. Don't worry."

Denis smiled at him. "I knew you'd help."

"My room's right down here. Let's hurry. We want time for breakfast, and the shuttle bus to the cog is at ten." (And what
can
I say to Don to show him how he's poisoning his younger son and endangering his daughters and breaking the older boy's heart? The only time he opens to me is when he's drunk. His precious Victor can do no wrong.)

They went into the small suite that was Rogi's apartment and left Denis's suitcase on the rolla way bed that had been brought in for his visit. The child inspected the premises gravely and admired the sweeping vista from the windows.

"That's a view that costs the hotel guests at least two hundred dollars a day," Rogi told his nephew, "but I get it for free. Of course this place of mine is pretty small, and I have to walk up a lot of stairs. But I have a nice office over in the main part of the hotel with room for my books, and when I sit up here and watch the storms play around the mountains I have a show that beats anything on television."

They went downstairs, crossed a courtyard, and entered the hotel's north wing through a side door. Denis's eyes popped at the sight of apparently endless corridors with pillars and chandeliers, ornate Edwardian furniture, potted palms, gilt-framed mirrors, and fireplaces—large enough for a boy to stand in—that now had bouquets of red and yellow peonies in the grates instead of flaming logs. They looked into a great ballroom with green velvet drapes and standing silver candlesticks as big as hat-trees. Two men ran polishing machines across a floor that looked shiny enough to ice-skate on. Rogi told Denis there would be a Midsummer Night Ball there that evening. Another salon, lush with ferns and tropical flowers, overlooked a golf course and the approach to Mount Washington.

When they came at last to the dining room, Denis was struck dumb. It was fancier than any restaurant he had ever seen in his life. Ron, the captain who seated them, treated Denis like a grown man and called him Sir when he gave him a menu. There were weird things for breakfast like kippers and steak, and eight different ways of having eggs, and twelve varieties of fresh fruit including New Zealand gooseberries. The table was set with crystal and shining silver and monogrammed damask napery. There was a vase with a single mauve rose, so perfect in form and so outré in color that Denis had to touch it to be certain it was real. The sugar came in hard lumps wrapped in embossed gold paper. (Denis stole two.) Milk was served in a faceted goblet, sitting on its own small plate with a paper doily underneath. They ate eggs Benedict and had mini-croissants and strawberries Wilhelmine, and were served funny little cups of espresso, which Denis drank politely but didn't much care for.

When they had finished, Denis sighed and said, "I expect you'll stay here forever."

Rogi laughed and touched his lips with his napkin. "I'll tell you a secret. What I'd really like to do is save my money until I have enough to buy a little bookstore in a nice quiet college town. I could stay in a place like
that
forever."

The check came. Rogi signed it and he and Denis stood to go. The boy said, "That doesn't sound very exciting—a bookstore."

"I'm afraid I'm not a very exciting man, Denis. Most people aren't, you know. Movies and television shows and books are full of heroes, but they aren't too common in real life anymore."

The boy thought about this as they walked through the lobby. It was crowded with guests on their way to the day's activities, most of them middle-aged or elderly, but with a sprinkling of young couples and well-dressed parents with children. There were people in tennis togs and riding breeches and hiking boots, and a group of little old ladies in polyester pantsuits carrying shawls and heavy sweaters, and old men in loud sports jackets hung about with camera bags and binoculars. A pretty tour guide was calling for their attention, please.

"I used to think it would be neat to be a hero when I was just a little kid," Denis said. "An astronaut or a jungle explorer or a hockey star like Bobby Clarke or Gil Perreault. But I guess I'm not a very exciting person either. Father Dubois kids me about it sometimes. He says I should quit sitting around like a stuffed owl, contemplating the infinite." The boy chuckled. "But the infinite's
interesting.
"

They went out the front door of the hotel to the shuttle bus. Rogi said, "Don't take his teasing seriously. Be what you are. You've got a brain—maybe one like nobody else in the whole world. Explore that."

The mob of old folks and the tour guide followed Rogi and Denis into the bus. The guide counted her charges, then signaled the driver. The bus drove off.

Denis said, "There are doctors who study the brain—take it apart and poke needles and things into it to find out how it works. But I don't want to do just that. What I want to learn about isn't how the brain works but
why.
Why do those electrical impulses and chemical exchanges result in thinking? No electroencephalograph shows the thoughts in a person's mind. And how do brains control bodies? It's not my brain that commands my fingers to grab this bus seat,
it's me.
A brain is nothing but a lump of meat."

"With a mind in it."

"That's right," the boy agreed. "Mind! That's what I want to learn about. A mind isn't the same as a brain."

"Some scientists would argue the point—but I don't think the two are identical."

Denis said: People like you&me would give scientists fits! How mybrain speak yourbrain? No radiowaves other energy pass between us! Through whatmedium propagates coercion/PK/farspeech? How farsight/hearing/smell/taste/touch impulses transmitted? Received? What energysource powers PK? Why can't farsense through granite? Why easier farsense at night? How mymind influence another in coercion? How mymind heal mybody? ... I know mymind controls mymind. This means: mymind controls chemistry ^electricity in brain. The nonmatterenergything dominates the matterenergything! HOW?

Rogi said: Denisdearchild find out! Explore your mind and mine and Don's and Victor's. Explore other minds as well minds of normals find way bridge gap separating them/us. What an adventure ... more exciting than mountaineering deepdiving oceantraveling flyingouterspace!

[Good-humored juvenile skepticism.] But not anything like as dangerous.

Rogi squeezed the thin little shoulder. Aloud, he said, "Of course not."

The bus bounced over the frost-heaved macadam road that twisted through a forest of maples and hemlocks. Around Rogi and Denis, the little old ladies twittered like wrens.

***

The cog railway that ascends the western slope of Mount Washington is unique in North America, one of those mad Yankee notions that never should have worked but somehow did, for more than a hundred years. Denis took one look at the chunky coal-fired locomotive, oddly lopsided on level track since its boiler was designed to be horizontal when the train climbed the steep grade, and cried: "It's the Little Engine That Could!"

The old folks simpered fondly.

There were many other tourists of all ages waiting at the base station to board the train. The engine pushed a single car, painted bright yellow.Traction came from a rack-and-pinion mechanism beneath. Between the regular narrow-gauge rails was a central track that resembled an endless ladder of thumb-thick iron rods four inches long. This rack was gripped by twin cog gears on the engine's drive mechanism, which powered the train up the mountain with an earsplitting clatter while the engine chugged and hissed and belched an air-polluting cloud of ebony smoke such as Denis had never seen before in his life.