Strangewood (16 page)

"God, Thomas, get it off him!" Emily said, her
voice choked with disgust and helplessness.

Thomas was already moving. He swiped the bee away without
any regard to the possibility of being stung. When it settled down again, he
killed it with a rolled up
People
magazine Emily had bought.

"How'd that get in here?" Thomas asked and looked
angrily at Dr. Gershmann, though he knew he could hardly blame the man for a
random insect.

Dr. Gershmann didn't respond. He was cleaning his glasses
with the lapel of his white coat. When he looked up, Thomas could see in his
expression that there was something he was not saying.

"What?" Thomas prodded.

"You were discussing how normal Nathan seems," Dr.
Gershmann said, idly scratching the back of his head just below the wide bald
spot that was partially ringed by a half-circle of straggly gray hair.

"Oh no," Emily whispered. "What is it?"

"Nothing worrisome," the doctor said. "Just a
bit odd, is all."

"Odd how?"

"Well, I had Neurology run an EEG on Nathan today. Normally
during a coma or the infrequent case of catatonia, brainwave activity ought to
be at a very low ebb," he explained. "Nathan's brainwaves are spiking
off the chart. The activity level is extraordinary, as if he were not only wide
awake, but very, very excited. We're going to hook a monitor up in here, but it
seems like a consistent condition."

Emily reached out to touch Thomas's hand, and he gripped her
fingers tightly in his own.

"So he's, what, dreaming?" Thomas asked.

"Dreams come in cycles, Mr. Randall," Dr.
Gershmann said. "If it were a particularly lucid dream, we might see
results like this, but not on an ongoing basis. This is nearly
continuous."

"How do you explain that?" Emily demanded.

"We can't," the doctor confessed. "At least,
not right now. I've consulted with several department heads, and so far, we
believe this condition reflects a possible psychological disorder. There may be
nothing at all physically wrong with your son."

"So we should talk to a psychologist?" Emily
asked, incredulous, and gestured to Nathan's prone form. "For this?"

The doctor paused a moment, stroking his mustache again. Thomas
wondered if the other man was offended by Emily's tone. He found he really
didn't care. But after a moment, Gershmann glanced at Nathan again and shook
his head.

"We'll keep monitoring him, and we'll do another
toxicology scan, just to be doubly certain. Other than that, I do think we
should have a psychologist look at the EEG readings and maybe examine Nathan. If
you have no objection, of course."

Thomas and Emily were both silent at that.

"Tomorrow, then," Gershmann said, before turning
to exit the room.

At the door, he paused. "Mr. Randall. Mrs. Randall. I'm
Nathan's doctor, not yours. But I feel I should tell you that the closeness in
here, the sameness of a bedside vigil, if you will, can be maddening. I
understand perfectly that you want to stay with your son, but you might
consider splitting those duties. I think you would both benefit from a bit of
fresh air, maybe some contact with the outside world."

Thomas frowned at first, but then he softened. It was a good
suggestion, and the doctor didn't have to make it.

"Thank you, Dr. Gershmann," he said.

"For everything," Emily added.

The man nodded, both hands unconsciously patting his girth,
and then he was gone.

When Emily left the hospital, a little after eight-thirty on
Tuesday night, she felt a horrible guilt descend upon her. She'd left her
little boy behind. Thomas was still there, sitting up with Nathan, and would be
there all night. But she was his mother. Regardless of practicality, a large
part of her felt that she should never leave his side.

Yet, no matter how inconvenient, life marched on. Dr.
Gershmann was right. It made little sense for both of them to spend every night
in the cramped confines of the hospital room. They each had lives to lead,
things that must be attended to, no matter what personal crisis had arisen.

In addition, there was the small matter of sleep
deprivation.

Tonight, she would sleep at home, tomorrow night, in a cot
next to Nathan's bed, and on and on into the frightfully unknowable future.

With the evening slowly creeping across Tarrytown, the way
it will in summer, Emily made her way up onto Tappan Hill. It was only as she
guided the car into her driveway that she tasted salt on her lips, felt the
moisture on her cheeks, and realized that she had been crying.

The tears were for Nathan, yes. But she knew they were also
for herself. For the betrayal of her conscience.

Emily was relieved to be home, to be looking forward to a
night in the peace and comfort of her own bed. The knowledge that Nathan's
health might take a turn during the night, for better or for worse, was a
powerful counterbalance, but still, she could not deny her pleasure at the
thought of her own home. Her own bed.

Nor could she deny the small thrill she felt as she noticed
that, once again, Joe's grape twelve-speed was propped up in the drive just in
front of the garage.

The guilt was severe. But she was a practical woman, and she
knew that it would, if not pass, at least recede enough for her to function. Already,
she was resigned to this new arrangement as a fact of life, at least until
Nathan recovered from whatever it was that ailed him. And that was the kicker,
wasn't it? Gershmann had no idea. Nathan had been a funny, smart, imaginative
little boy, and then someone, somehow, had turned him off, easy as pushing a
button on the remote control.

With a sigh, and a quick check in the rearview to see
exactly how horribly red and swollen her eyes had become, Emily shoved her door
open and stepped out of the car. As she slung her purse strap over her
shoulder, she fumbled with her car keys and they slipped to the pavement. She
bent to retrieve them and felt all the breath go out of her in a rush. For a
moment, the emotion washed over her, and Emily could only bite her lip and
clutch her keys. Then she inhaled deeply, stood up, and slammed the car door.

By the time she reached the front door, she could hear the
music coming from inside her house. Music. Part of her had forgotten all about
music and remembering was bliss. It was "You Bring Me Joy," an old
Anita Baker song; one of her favorites. Her key turned in the lock, and she
pushed the door open.

Joe stood at the dining room table with a plastic bag of
fortune cookies in his hand and the goofiest look on his face. He wore crisp
new blue jeans and a chambray shirt that looked almost like stonewashed denim
itself. His hair was a bit wild, and he shrugged, holding up his hands as if he
had no answers to anything. When, in fact, at that moment, he seemed to have
the only answer she could hope for.

On the table were more than half a dozen white Chinese food
take out cartons in three different sizes. There were plates and wine glasses,
not to mention a bottle of dry Italian wine. And candles. He'd lit candles.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, a look of
utter despair on his face now. "I know it's a little much, just with
Chinese food, but when I finished correcting papers, I didn't have time left
for anything but take out. I hope you like fried rice, because it didn't occur
to me that you might prefer white until after I'd ordered, and . . ."

Ignoring his stream of words completely, Emily dropped her
purse, marched across the room and melted into his embrace. He held her
tentatively at first, and then with more confidence. That was all it took, the
warmth of him. The strength of him.

With the odor of Szechuan cooking and fried rice in the air,
she hurried to undress him, and then herself. She caught his gray eyes as often
as she could, needing his attention, needing him.

* * * * *

The sky above Strangewood was lightening. The orange stars
had begun to disappear, as sable turned to deep navy above them, and then
slowly to a powdery blue. Not a cloud in sight.

Nathan sat in the prow of a small rowboat, staring at the
mountains that rose up around them. The Bald Mountains, and on their highest
peak, where the Up-River splashed over the edge and began to run down once
more, they would find the Jackal Lantern's fortress.

He wasn't afraid anymore. Not really. Now he was more mad
than anything else, and he sat there, arms crossed, with the grumpiest
expression he could summon on his face.

"I'm sorry, kid," Grumbler said, his deep,
scratchy voice as rough as a friend of Nathan's Daddy's who lived in Brooklyn.

The dwarf was examining the slashes on Nathan's back and
shaking his head, grunting.

"Ol' Jack Lantern never shoulda sent Longtooth. That
boy's a savage. Always has been," Grumbler said angrily. "Looks like
it's gonna be all right, though. That peanut butter ought to heal it up nice. Let's
get you dressed, then."

Nathan had on a clean pair of underwear and tan jeans he
recognized from his dresser at home. Grumbler had brought the clothes for him. Nathan
had been reluctant at first, but when it seemed like the dwarf wasn't going to
hurt him, he stripped and used a bucket of water to wash himself off as best he
could. Neither Grumbler nor Gourdon Squashhead, the quiet scarecrow who was
using oars to guide the boat along the Up-River, watched Nathan as he washed. Afterward,
Gourdon put an oar down to toss Nathan's soiled clothes into the river.

"Damn, what a stink," the squash-headed scarecrow
snarled as Nathan's clothes swirled out into the current, only to be snagged on
some reeds at the side of the river.

Now Grumbler handed Nathan a Batman T-shirt that was a
little too big. That had also come from his drawer at home. When he'd pulled it
on, Nathan wanted to cry. He felt so tired, and so sick of being afraid, that
he just wanted to let go and have the tears come and sink himself into that
place he went when he cried. Away. Safe in misery.

"Can't believe I lost my damn hat," Grumbler said
unhappily, and sat on a bench that stretched across the center of the rowboat. "Took
me seven years to break that one in."

"Shut up about the hat," Gourdon snapped.

Nathan watched him nervously. The scarecrow seemed anxious
and angry at Grumbler, though the boy didn't know why. Maybe he wanted Grumbler
to take a turn at the oars, Nathan thought. Though it wasn't much work, just
guiding them along, keeping them from hitting the shore.

He turned his eyes to the mountains again, squinted, and the
fear began to return. Then he looked at Grumbler, and only felt sad. He'd never
loved the dwarf, even when his father first read the Strangewood stories to
him. Grumbler always seemed too angry, and a little scary. He was four and a
half feet tall and wore a gray, pinstriped, cashmere suit. Under either arm was
a leather holster in which he carried huge Colt revolvers, like in the old
Western movies.

And the hat. Gone now.

Without it, and now that he was so close to Grumbler, Nathan
thought he was just grumpy, and maybe a little sad, too. Just like Nathan, but
not afraid. Even as he thought it, Nathan wondered if Grumbler might really be
afraid, just a little bit.

"Why does the Lantern want to hurt me?" Nathan
squeaked, afraid of the answer that might come.

Grumbler shook his head, and now Nathan knew for certain
that he was both afraid and sad. The boy felt better. Less alone. But that
didn't last, for he had to also think that if Grumbler was afraid, maybe they
were all in danger.

"He's not going to hurt you, kid," Grumbler said. "We
won't let him, even if he wanted to. That's not why you're here, Nathan. You'll
get home one day. I'm sure."

"Who's this we?" Gourdon asked suddenly, and he
pulled the oars in a moment to rest, staring at Grumbler with a look that made
Nathan shiver.

"Me." Grumbler lowered his head and glared at
Gourdon, the morning sun shining on his gray hair and throwing dark shadows on
his face. "Me. Feathertop. Barry."

Gourdon laughed, and Nathan moved farther up onto the prow
of the rowboat. The boat was drifting with the current, moving toward the left
bank of the Up-River, but Nathan barely noticed. For the first time, however,
he did notice that Gourdon's big yellow squash of a head looked soft.

Rotten.

Everything was rotten in Strangewood now, he thought.

"A fucking munchkin, a pony, and a bird," Gourdon
said menacingly, and shook his squash. "What the Lantern ought to do is
cut the boy open and spill his guts out along the Winding Way. That'd get Our
Boy to toe the goddamn line, I'll tell you."

The scarecrow rose up in the back of the boat. A look of
wary concern crossed Grumbler's features.

"Sit down, Gourdon," the dwarf said. "You're
going to tip the boat, or we'll crash into the bank. Pick up the oars."

From behind his back, in the burlap rags that made up what
little the straw man had for clothes, Gourdon withdrew a long knife. The squash
grinned, and rotted seed dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"I don't think so," Gourdon said. "I think
it's time somebody took some real action here. It's all falling apart too
fast."

Grumbler reached under his cashmere coat and drew a long
iron Colt, so fast Nathan barely saw his hand move.

"Pick up the fucking oars," Grumbler growled.

Nathan studied the gun and Grumbler's stubbly face — the
gray hair and sideburns, and the blue eyes that made him look almost like a
real person, almost like a real dwarf, a human one, that you might see on the
street. But the pointed ears gave it all away. That, and the way all his teeth
tapered down to a needle tip, a mouthful of sharp fangs.

Gourdon laughed.

Nathan's eyes were wide, and he hugged himself tightly.