Land of Dreams (22 page)

‘Do you mean no, you’re not sure or no, there’s nothing you know?’

‘No, there’s nothing I know. Try to explain it to me. I’ve found his clothes in a bundle. Will he want them all?’

‘I dare say he will. He won’t have a stitch, will he? He can’t wear clothes built for a giant, nor for a Tom Thumb either, if he comes that way. But I very much doubt he will. Every time he thought about running into a mole down there he shuddered. I’m certain it’s the growth on their nose.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Helen. There seemed to be no mistaking what clothes it was that Mrs Langley wanted. Below them were what appeared in the dim light to be bits and pieces of costumes. Jimmy wouldn’t want those; he’d have troubles enough without finding a rabbit outfit under the rocks.

‘Ours is one of many worlds,’ said Mrs Langley, quoting from her own book. Helen shut the trunk lid and listened to her. She slid back out into the candlelight. Mrs Langley sat as before. One of the cats had come around to lie across the old woman’s feet, but at the sight of Helen it slipped away.

‘How many worlds are there?’ asked Helen.

‘Only one, actually. I phrased it – how shall I put it? – figuratively there. It’s tempting, when you write a book, to colour things up. It’s time, really, that’s meddled with at the Solstice. Jimmy tells me it’s like a railroad train, exactly like that, with stops along the line, and each stop a different point in time. All of them falling into line, mind you, at the Solstice.’

‘That’s when Jimmy “went across”?’

‘You really
are
a bright child,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘But art seems to be your forte, doesn’t it? The two don’t make steady companions, art and science. Some few would argue otherwise, I suppose, but I always found that science made Jimmy’s head spin. He wouldn’t let it constrain him, he’d say, nor would any of his friends. So it’s all very much like a million worlds a-spin – isn’t it? – if you can travel from one to the other and find yourself someplace new, or at least in another time. It’s – what time is it?’

‘Almost four thirty, I should think,’ said Helen.

‘All right. It’s four thirty here, and who knows what time at one of those other stops? Midnight, perhaps. Eleven thirty-five. Four thirty and some tiny fraction. Ten years hence, twenty years back. Some of them lurking still in the stone age, I don’t doubt. It doesn’t matter in the least. The wonderful part is that as you travel forward in time you grow. The universe, you know, is expanding; that’s what science tells us. And travelling backward you shrink and can come along forward again, if you’re quick, through a gopher hole. Then you’d “acclimate”. That’s what Jimmy called it. You’d find yourself becoming one of them. You might run into yourself there too, living in perfect ignorance. You could knock on your own door and say something clever when you opened it. In the meantime your clothes wouldn’t be worth a thing to you.
They
won’t oblige you by shrinking or growing, will they? And you’d be mighty thankful that someone had left some few shreds of clothing under some rocks somewhere, wouldn’t you? You’d come sailing in on the Solstice tide or creeping up through a gopher hole or popping in through a cave. Or you’d climb up into the foliage of a particularly tall tree and out onto a limb that stretched into another world altogether, and there you’d be, across. Back again. Just like that. Very simple.’

‘How do you
get
across?’ asked Helen. Her head seemed to whirl with it all. She had a thousand questions to ask suddenly. She knew that the answers weren’t in Mrs Langley’s book. The book was wonderfully concerned with the whys of the business, but it didn’t much explain the hows. ‘What is it about the carnival?’ she asked, without letting Mrs Langley get started on the first question. The old woman smiled at her and shook her head, as if she found Helen’s sudden curiosity a bit like what you’d expect from a child.

She started to speak, seeming to settle to the task of explaining. A knock at the trapdoor nearly pitched Helen out of her chair. Another knock followed. Mrs Langley’s voice dimmed to a whisper. Her shawl turned to mist. For a moment her shoes were all that was left of her. The grey cat hung suspended over the chair, and then shoes, cat, and all were gone.

J
ACK GOT HOME
in the late afternoon. Skeezix had gone back to Miss Flees’s without him, intending to stop at Dr Jensen’s on the way. They were dirty and tired and hungry – mostly hungry – and Skeezix knew that there’d be no hope for food at the orphanage. He could have come along to Willough-by’s, but neither Willoughby nor Jack was the sort of hand with food that Mrs Jensen was. And Skeezix didn’t want yesterday’s chicken or cheese or bread. He said he was in a mood for pastries. If Elaine Potts were home, he’d pay her a visit – take her a bouquet of wild fuchsia and a sprig of flowering pear leaves. She’d melt at the sight of it, he said, and cover him in doughnuts. But with Elaine Potts out of town, Mrs Jensen would have to do. Skeezix had seen something on her kitchen counter earlier that looked promising.

They had agreed to meet later that evening in order, as Skeezix put it, to see what was what. It seemed to Jack that Skeezix was being optimistic. The more he saw, the less he knew ‘what was what’. It wasn’t tough to figure out, though, what Dr Brown was after. Jack still had it in his pocket, and there it would stay until … until what?

He could pour it down the sink right now, stay in bed for a couple of days, and watch through the loft window as the Solstice passed. Then it would be a twelve-year holiday before things were stirred up again, before the weather shifted and another Solstice tide rose; twelve years during which to ponder a million unanswered questions and in which to wonder what, exactly, would have come to pass if he
had
seen the mystery through. And what would Skeezix do? Something foolish, to be sure. Skeezix wasn’t one to hide from this sort of adventure – whatever sort of adventure it was.

Willoughby’s wagon was gone. The farmer was probably in town examining pint glasses. If he was, there’d be no one around the farm but Jack until after midnight, and it would only be the weather that prevented Willoughby’s sleeping the night away in the back of his wagon, halfway up the road from town. Jack liked solitude well enough; he welcomed it usually. But now with the sky half twilight and clouding up again and the moon already up over the woods and no sound on the wind but the lonesome barking of a dog somewhere out toward the Tumbled Bridge, he began to wish he’d gone on to Dr Jensen’s with Skeezix. He hadn’t any good reason to be always mooching off the doctor, though, not like Skeezix did. Jack had plenty to eat at home. But he still couldn’t see any profit in sticking around the farm now. He’d clean up, shove some food together, and be off. He shouted for the cats; they’d be some company anyway. But even the cats had gone off – after food, probably, like Skeezix.

He unlocked the barn door and went in. The air was heavy with darkness and the smell of cheese. He reached for the lantern, but it wasn’t on the hook, so he stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the little bit of daylight that shone in through the cracks in the shutters over the high window and cast little streaks of light slantways over the books along the wall. He’d left the shutters open that morning; he did every morning unless it was raining straight in, in order to air the place out. The wind must have blown them closed.

From the dimness of the barn floor the books seemed to be tumbled and heaped and tossed about, but that was probably a trick of the waning light. He climbed the loft stairs two at a time, stopping with surprise when he got to the landing. The candle and book that had been on the table by the bed were on the floor now. So were his clothes, flung around, some of them hanging over the railing. Someone had been at his things, had torn the place up. He picked up his brass kaleidoscope from where it sat half under the foot of the bed. The front lens was cracked and bits of coloured glass had leaked out. One of the long mirrors inside slid out into his hand. The bedclothes hadn’t been mussed; he was certain of that. The mattress wasn’t lying askew. It should be, if someone had been at it. A thief would look under the mattress. An interrupted thief might not have had time to.

The barn door had been locked. He’d just unlocked it himself, hadn’t he? He stood very still, listening. His mind raced. He knew at once what had happened – who it had been and why it had been folly to leave the shutters open. Was he still in the barn? Of course he was, unless he’d flown back out the window and away. But then the shutters wouldn’t be closed, would they? And why would he leave with the job half done? He wouldn’t, of course. He’d wait there in the darkness for Jack, who’d been fool enough to shout for the cats when he was coming up the road. If he hadn’t shouted, then he’d have caught the man at it. He’d have run, is what he would have done, and he’d be running still.

Jack pushed the shutters open and looked out over the meadow. He held his breath, hearing nothing but the sound of blood rushing in his veins. There it was – a stirring in the darkness below, in the barn. He was gripped with the urge to pitch the lantern over the railing, to illuminate the barn floor with a puddle of burning oil. He had to look, but he couldn’t bear to. Whoever it was had hidden there and let him climb the loft stairs, thinking to corner him.

There was the hissing of a struck match, the glow of it burning, illuminating the hand that held it. The hand touched the match to a lantern wick, and there was Dr Brown, trimming the lantern, smiling up at Jack, who stood now at the railing. He’d come in through the window – flown back from where Skeezix had stunned him with the rock, from where he had left MacWilt blind and alone on the meadow.

He leaned on a carved stick, and his hair fell black and oily around his shoulders. The lamplight in front of him cast his shadow onto the wall behind and stretched it nearly to the loft railing. His black coat was cuffed at the sleeves and open in front to reveal an old-fashioned frilly shirt of the sort that hadn’t been worn in a decade. He nodded, as if out of respect, and said, ‘Well, Jack, here we are, now, aren’t we?’

Jack didn’t speak; there could be no profit in it. His voice would simply give away his fear.

‘You know what it is I want. And I’ll have it too, or I’ll have your blood. Do you take my meaning?’ He grinned then, his face lit from below.

Jack took his meaning well enough. He’d seen Lantz. Dr Jensen had told him about the man in the tide pool. Without looking away, Jack hooked his foot into the pile of the rope ladder under the bed. He tried to calculate how long it would take to hook the ladder over the sill and be down it. He’d climbed up and down the ladder hundreds of times; he barely used his feet – just a few quick, sliding clutches and he’d be away, into the woods.

‘I believe it to be in your pocket. Shall I look for it myself, or will you bring it to me?’

‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I mean, it’s not in my pocket. I wouldn’t carry it – would I? – I don’t want to break it. What is it, anyway? I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know! That’s a fine lie. You know who you are, don’t you? You know who your father was. You know who
I
am; that fool of a doctor would have told you. Where did you get the elixir, from the man in the moon? You don’t know!’

‘I got it from a mouse,’ said Jack. The ladder was caught on the bed leg somehow, wrapped around it. Jack couldn’t afford to look. He had to pretend to be hesitating because he was scared, because he didn’t want Dr Brown near him. ‘At least I think it was a mouse. It might have been a man in a costume.’

There was a silence below as Dr Brown regarded him from the shadows, obviously thinking about mice and bottles of elixir. ‘A man in a costume … a big mouse, then?’

‘Not big, at least not like you mean it. Three inches tall, maybe.’

‘When?’

‘Days ago. I’ve had it since, but I don’t have any idea –’

‘Where did this mouse go?’

‘Through a crack in the wall. Into the woods, I guess. I don’t know. What was it?’

Dr Brown didn’t answer. He stood there thinking, rubbing his chin and leaning on his stick. How lame was he? Jack wondered. How quickly could he rush up the stairs? What if he
didn’t
rush up the stairs? What if he saw Jack going out through the window and just walked calmly out the barn door and met him on the meadow?

‘Give it to me now, boy. I won’t hurt you or your friends. I don’t care about you or your friends. I want the elixir. You know that I can’t wait past tomorrow.’

‘Did you kill the old Chinese man?’

The question seemed to take Dr Brown by surprise – as if he hadn’t any real idea of the extent of Jack’s knowledge. He took two steps toward the stairs, stopped, and squinted up toward the loft. He shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’d kill him now happily if he weren’t already dead. He cheated me into taking the damned carnival and letting him die. You can’t imagine how many years he’d owned it – or it had owned him. How do you know about Ling?’

‘Dr Jensen knew him.’ Jack gripped the headboard with his left hand and pulled steadily up on it. It was heavy, built of oak and iron. The corner of the bed rose with it – a half inch, an inch. He scrabbled at the rope ladder with his foot, hauling out coils, pulling it clear. There it was, in a heap around his feet. There was no telling what sort of tangles it had got itself into. He’d toss it from the window and there’d be nothing but a mess of rope hanging there, swaying back and forth fifteen feet from the ground. ‘Give it up, if you detest it so. Was it the carnival that saved you when my father killed you?’