At four, the publisher laughed and cried over it, gnarled fingers rubbing at the scabrous bald patch on his head.
Old hunchbacked Dick Allen set type for Shaggley's story that very afternoon, vision blurred by happy tears beneath his eyeshade, liquid coughing unheard above the busy clatter of his machine.
The story hit the stand a little after six. The scar-faced dealer shifted on his tired legs as he read it over six times before, reluctantly, offering it for sale.
At half past six, the little bald-patched man came hobbling down the street. A hard day's work, a well-earned rest, he thought, stopping at the corner newsstand for some reading matter.
He gasped. By George in heaven, a new Shaggley story! What luck!
The only copy, too. He left a quarter for the dealer who wasn't there at the moment.
He took the story home, shambling by skeletal ruins (strange, those burned buildings hadn't been replaced yet), reading as he went.
He finished the story before arriving home. Over supper, he read it once again, shaking his lumpy head at the marvel of its impact, the unbreakable magic of its workmanship. It inspires, he thought.
But not tonight. Now was the time for putting things away: the cover on the typewriter, the shabby overcoat, threadbare pinstripe, eyeshade, mailman's cap and leather sack all in their proper places.
He was asleep by ten, dreaming about mushrooms. And, in the morning, wondering once again why those first observers had not described the cloud as more like a toadstool.
By six a.m. Shaggley, breakfasted, was at the typewriter.
This is the story, he wrote, of how Ras met the beautiful priestess of Shahglee and she fell in love with him.
Mute
The man in the dark raincoat arrived in German Corners at two-thirty that Friday afternoon. He walked across the bus station to a counter behind which a plump, grayhaired woman was polishing glasses.
"Please," he said, "where might I find authority?"
The woman peered through rimless glasses at him. She saw a man in his late thirties, a tall, good-looking man.
"Authority?" she asked.
"Yes-how do you say it? The constable? The-?"
"Sheriff?"
"Ah." The man smiled. "Of course. The sheriff. Where might I find him?"
After being directed, he walked out of the building into the overcast day. The threat of rain had been constant since he'd woken up that morning as the bus was pulling over the mountains into Casca Valley. The man drew up his collar, then slid both hands into the pockets of his raincoat and started briskly down Main Street.
Really, he felt tremendously guilty for not having come sooner; but there was so much to do, so many problems to overcome with his own two children. Even knowing that something was wrong with Holger and Fanny, he'd been unable to get away from Germany until now-almost a year since they'd last heard from the Nielsens. It was a shame that Holger had chosen such an out-of-the-way place for his corner of the foursided experiment.
Professor Werner walked more quickly, anxious to find out what had happened to the Nielsens and their son. Their progress with the boy had been phenomenal-really an inspiration to them all. Although Werner felt, deep within himself, that something terrible had happened, he hoped they were all alive and well. Yet, if they were, how to account for the long silence?
Werner shook his head worriedly. Could it have been the town? Elkenberg had been compelled to move several times in order to avoid the endless prying-sometimes innocent, more often malicious-into his work. Something similar might have happened to Nielsen. The workings of the small town composite mind could, sometimes, be a terrible thing.
The sheriff’s office was in the middle of the next block. Werner strode more quickly along the narrow sidewalk, then pushed open the door and entered the large, warmly heated room.
"Yes?" the sheriff asked, looking up from his desk.
"I have come to inquire about a family," Werner said, "the name of Nielsen."
Sheriff Harry Wheeler looked blankly at the tall man.
Cora was pressing Paul's trousers when the call came. Setting the iron on its stand, she walked across the kitchen and lifted the receiver from the wall telephone.
"Yes?" she said.
Cora, it's me."
Her face tightened. "Is something wrong, Harry?"
He was silent.
"Harry?"
"The one from Germany is here."
Cora stood motionless, staring at the calendar on the wall, the numbers blurred before her eyes.
"Cora, did you hear me?"
She swallowed dryly. "Yes."
"I-I have to bring him out to the house," he said.
She closed her eyes.
"I know," she murmured and hung up.
Turning, she walked slowly to the window. It's going to rain, she thought. Nature was setting the scene well.
Abruptly, her eyes shut, her fingers drew in tautly, the nails digging at her palms.
"No." It was almost a gasp. "No."
After a few moments she opened her tear-glistening eyes and looked out fixedly at the road. She stood there numbly, thinking of the day the boy had come to her.
If the house hadn't burned in the middle of the night there might have been a chance. It was twenty-one miles from German Corners but the state highway ran fifteen of them and the last six-the six miles of dirt road that led north into the wood-sloped hills-might have been navigated had there been more time.
As it happened, the house was a night-lashing sheet of flame before Bernhard Klaus saw it.
Klaus and his family lived some five miles away on Skytouch Hill. He had gotten out of bed around one-thirty to get a drink of water. The window of the bathroom faced north
and that was why, entering, Klaus saw the tiny flaring blaze out in the darkness.
"Gott'n'immel!" He slung startled words together and was out of the room before he'd finished. He thumped heavily down the carpeted steps, then, feeling at the wall for guidance, hurried for the living room.
"Fire at Nielsen house!" he gasped after agitated cranking had roused the night operator from her nap.
The hour, the remoteness, and one more thing doomed the house. German Corners had no official fire brigade. The security of its brick and timbered dwellings depended on voluntary effort. In the town itself this posed no serious problem. It was different with those houses in the outlying areas.
By the time Sheriff Wheeler had gathered five men and driven them to the fire in the ancient truck, the house was lost. While four of the six men pumped futile streams of water into the leaping, crackling inferno, Sheriff Wheeler and his deputy, Max Ederman, circuited the house.
There was no way in. They stood in back, raised arms warding off the singeing buffet of heat, grimacing at the blaze.
"They're done for!" Ederman yelled above the windswept roar.
Sheriff Wheeler looked sick. "The boy," he said but Ederman didn't hear.
Only a waterfall could have doused the burning of the old house. All the six men could do was prevent ignition of the woods that fringed the clearing. Their silent figures prowled the edges of the glowing aura, stamping out sparks, hosing out the occasional flare of bushes and tree foliage.
They found the boy just as the eastern hill peaks were being edged with gray morning.
Sheriff Wheeler was trying to get close enough to see into one of the side windows when he heard a shout. Turning, he ran towards the thick woods that sloped downwards a few dozen yards behind the house. Before he'd reached the underbrush, Tom Poulter emerged from them, his thin frame staggering beneath the weight of Paal Nielsen.
"Where'd you find him?" Wheeler asked, grabbing the boy's legs to ease weight from the older man's back.
"Down the hill," Poulter gasped. "Lyin' on the ground."
Is he burned?
"Don't look it. His pajamas ain't touched."
"Give him here," the sheriff said. He shifted Paal into his own strong arms and fou
nd two large, green-pupilled eyes staring blankly at him.
"You're awake," he said, surprised.
The boy kept staring at him without making a sound.
"You all right, son?" Wheeler asked. It might have been a statue he held, Paal's body was so inert, his expression so dumbly static.
"Let's get a blanket on him," the sheriff muttered aside and started for the truck. As he walked he noticed how the boy stared at the burning house now, a look of masklike rigidity on his face.
"Shock," murmured Poulter and the sheriff nodded grimly.
They tried to put him down on the cab seat, a blanket over him but he kept sitting up, never speaking. The coffee Wheeler tried to give him dribbled from his lips and across his chin. The two men stood beside the truck while Paal stared through the windshield at the burning house.
"Bad off," said Poulter. "Can't talk, cry, nor nothing."
"He isn't burned," Wheeler said, perplexed. "How'd he get out of the house without getting burned?"
"Maybe his folks got out, too," said Poulter.
"Where are they then?"
The older man shook his head. "Dunno, Harry."
"Well, I better take him home to Cora," the sheriff said. "Can't leave him sitting out here."
"Think I'd better go with you," Poulter said. "I have t'get the mail sorted for delivery."
All right."
Wheeler told the other four men he'd bring back food and replacements in an hour or so. Then Poulter and he climbed into the cab beside Paal and he jabbed his boot toe on the starter. The engine coughed spasmodically, groaned over, then caught. The sheriff raced it until it was warm, then eased it into gear. The truck rolled off slowly down the dirt road that led to the highway.
Until the burning house was no longer visible, Paal stared out the back window, face still immobile. Then, slowly, he turned, the blanket slipping off his thin shoulders. Tom Poulter put it back over him.
"Warm enough?" he asked.
The silent boy looked at Poulter as if he'd never heard a human voice in his life.
As soon as she heard the truck turn off the road, Cora Wheeler's quick right hand moved along the stove-front switches. Before her husband's bootfalls sounded on the back porch steps, the bacon lay neatly in strips across the frying pan, white moons of pancake batter were browning on the griddle, and the already-brewed coffee was heating.
"Harry."
There was a sound of pitying distress in her voice as she saw the boy in his arms. She hurried across the kitchen.
"Let's get him to bed," Wheeler said. "I think maybe he's in shock."
The slender woman moved up the stairs on hurried feet, threw open the door of what had been David's room, and moved to the bed. When Wheeler passed through the doorway she had the covers peeled back and was plugging in an electric blanket.
"Is he hurt?" she asked.
"No." He put Paal down on the bed.
"Poor darling," she murmured, tucking in the bed-clothes around the boy's frail body. "Poor little darling." She stroked back the soft blond hair from his forehead and smiled down at him.
"There now, go to sleep, dear. It's all right. Go to sleep."
Wheeler stood behind her and saw the seven-year-old boy staring up at Cora with that
same dazed, lifeless expression. It hadn't changed once since Tom Poulter had brought him out of the woods.
The sheriff turned and went down to the kitchen. There he phoned for replacements, then turned the pancakes and bacon, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was drinking it when Cora came down the back stairs and returned to the stove.
"Are his parents-?" she began.
"I don't know," Wheeler said, shaking his head. "We couldn't get near the house."
"But the boy-?"
"Tom Poulter found him outside."
"Outside."
"We don't know how he got out," he said. "All we know's he was there."
His wife grew silent. She slid pancakes on a dish and put the dish in front of him. She put her hand on his shoulder.
"You look tired," she said. "Can you go to bed?"
"Later," he said.
She nodded, then, patting his shoulder, turned away. "The bacon will be done directly," she said.
He grunted. Then, as he poured maple syrup over the stack of cakes, he said, "I expect they are dead, Cora. It's an awful fire; still going when I left. Nothing we could do about it."
"That poor boy," she said.
She stood by the stove watching her husband eat wearily.
"I tried to get him to talk," she said, shaking her head, "but he never said a word."
"Never said a word to us either," he told her, "just stared."
He looked at the table, chewing thoughtfully.
"Like he doesn't even know how to talk," he said.
A little after ten that morning the waterfall came-a waterfall of rain-and the burning house sputtered and hissed into charred, smoke-fogged ruins.
Red-eyed and exhausted, Sheriff Wheeler sat motionless in the truck cab until the deluge had slackened. Then, with a chest-deep groan, he pushed open the door and slid to the ground. There, he raised the collar of his slicker and pulled down the wide-brimmed Stetson more tightly on his skull. He walked around to the back of the covered truck.
"Come on," he said, his voice hoarsely dry. He trudged through the clinging mud towards the house.
The front door still stood. Wheeler and the other men bypassed it and clambered over the collapsed living room wall. The sheriff felt thin waves of heat from the still-glowing timbers and the throat-clogging reek of wet, smoldering rugs and upholstery turned his edgy stomach.
He stepped across some half-burned books on the floor and the roasted bindings crackled beneath his tread. He kept moving, into the hall, breathing through gritted teeth, rain spattering off his shoulders and back. I hope they got out, he thought, I hope to God they got out.
They hadn't. They were still in their bed, no longer human, blackened to a hideous, joint-twisted crisp. Sheriff Wheeler's face was taut and pale as he looked down at them.
One of the men prodded a wet twig at something on the mattress.
"Pipe," Wheeler heard him say above the drum of rain. "Must have fell asleep smokin'."
"Get some blankets," Wheeler told them. "Put them in the back of the truck."
Two of the men turned away without a word and Wheeler heard them clump away over the rubble.
He was unable to take his eyes off Professor Holger Nielsen and his wife Fanny, scorched into grotesque mockeries of the handsome couple he remembered-the tall, bigframed Holger, calmly imperious; the slender, auburn-haired Fanny, her face a soft, rosecheeked-
Abruptly, the sheriff turned and stumped from the room, almost tripping over a fallen beam.
The boy-what would happen to the boy now? That day was the first time Paal had ever left this house in his life. His parents were the fulcrum of his world; Wheeler knew that much. No wonder there had been that look of shocked incomprehension on Paal's face.
Yet how did he know his mother and father were dead?
As the sheriff crossed the living room, he saw one of the men looking at a partially charred book.
"Look at this," the man said, holding it out.
Wheeler glanced at it, his eyes catching the title: The Unknown Mind.
He turned away tensely. "Put it down!" he snapped, quitting the house with long, anxious strides. The memory of how the Nielsens looked went with him; and something else. A question.
How did Paal get out of the house?
Paal woke up.
For a long moment he stared up at the formless shadows that danced and fluttered across the ceiling. It was raining out. The wind was rustling tree boughs outside the window, causing shadow movements in this strange room. Paal lay motionless in the warm center of the bed, air crisp in his lungs, cold against his pale cheeks.
Where were they? Paal closed his eyes and tried to sense their presence. They weren'
t in the house. Where then? Where were his mother and father?
Hands of my mother. Paal washed his mind clean of all but the trigger symbol. They rested on the ebony velvet of his concentration-pale, lovely hands, soft to touch and be touched by, the mechanism that could raise his mind to the needed level of clarity.
In his own home it would be unnecessary. His own home was filled with the sense of them. Each object touched by them possessed a power to bring their minds close. The very air seemed charged with their consciousness, filled with a constancy of attention.
Not here. He needed to lift himself above the alien drag of here.
Therefore, I am convinced that each child is born with this instinctive ability. Words given to him by his father appearing again like dew-jewelled spiderweb across the
fingers of his mother's hands. He stripped it off. The hands were free again, stroking slowly at the darkness of his mental focus. His eyes were shut; a tracery of lines and ridges scarred his brow, his tightened jaw was bloodless. The level of awareness, like waters, rose.
His senses rose along, unbidden.
Sound revealed its woven maze-the rushing, thudding, drumming, dripping rain; the tangled knit of winds through air and tree and gabled eave; the crackling settle of the house; each whispering transience of process.
Sense of smell expanded to a cloud of brain-filling odors-wood and wool, damp brick and dust and sweet starched linens. Beneath his tensing fingers weave became apparentcoolness and warmth, the weight of covers, the delicate, skin-scarring press of rumpled sheet. In his mouth the taste of cold air, old house. Of sight, only the hands.
Silence; lack of response. He'd never had to wait so long for answers before. Usually, they flooded on him easily. His mother's hands grew clearer. They pulsed with life. Unknown, he climbed beyond. This bottom level sets the stage for more important phenomena. Words of his father. He'd never gone above that bottom level until now.
Up, up. Like cool hands drawing him to rarified heights. Tendrils of acute consciousness rose towards the peak, searching desperately for a holding place. The hands began breaking into clouds. The clouds dispersed.
It seemed he floated towards the blackened tangle of his home, rain a glistening lace before his eyes. He saw the front door standing, waiting for his hand. The house drew closer. It was engulfed in licking mists. Closer, closer-