Mr. Wicker''s Window
CHAPTER 6
Chris stood for a moment before the closed door of Mr. Wicker's study.His head was full of the story of Becky Boozer's hat or he might haveglimpsed the room beside him--for the passage stopped at this point.Beyond the passage lay the dimly glimmering shop with its bow windowat the far end, and the door to the street beside it. He might havebeen able, had he not been so intent on Becky's story, to slip pastthe dusty bales and cases and out into--what? But Chris's head wasringing with Ned Cilley's tale, and with all the things, so differentand so absorbing, that surrounded him. He put out his hand, knocked,and on hearing a low reply, stepped inside.
The room Chris entered, his eyes round in order to take in every newsight, was a small study. It stretched across the back of the house.The kitchen fireplace had its echo in a fireplace on this side of thewall, and facing Chris three windows looked out onto the pleached pearand apple trees; the ordered rows of the vegetable and herb garden. Afinal window at the end of the room, at Chris's left, looked out on alittle hill behind the house. Chris, without thinking, stepped forwarda pace or two in order to look for the familiar ugly red and graychurch at the end of Church Lane. It was not to be seen. There wasonly a pasture hemmed by woods and fine trees with, in the distancewhere M Street should be, a roof or two.
A thin voice, that came from nowhere and was everywhere, broke in toChris.
"No, my boy. The church is not yet built. That will come in seventyyears. In eighteen-sixty, to be exact. Confusing, is it not?"
Chris whipped about at the sound of the antiquarian's voice but for amoment longer he could not see him, and looked toward the other end ofthe room with interest.
Mr. Wicker's study was cosy and bright, well warmed by a cheerfullyburning fire. The heavy curtains, drawn back now from the windows tolet in the morning sun, were of a fine ruby damask. The furnitureconsisted, as far as Chris was concerned, of antiques. Two wing chairscovered in red leather, tacked at the edges with brassheaded nails,looked invitingly comfortable. One had its back to Chris and the door,and the other was empty. Both were drawn close to the snapping logs. Agrandfather clock stood in the corner between the fireplace and thefirst window, and gave out a steady deep tock. The carpet was a softIndian rug of fine texture and many colors, red, blue, and goldpredominating. Most surprisingly, a steep spiral staircase of polishedwood came down into the room in the right-hand corner near where Chrisstood, and Chris wondered for a moment, if Mr. Wicker's voice had comefrom the top of the stair.
Turning back, he saw that a desk, opposite him, stood between the twowindows that faced the garden. It seemed very old-fashioned, toChris--no neat folded writing paper, but large bold sheets covered inMr. Wicker's delicate handwriting lay on the open top, with severalgoose-quill pens standing at the back in a penholder. Chris noticedprints of sailing ships on the walls, and candlesticks holding candlesand candle snuffers on the desk, table, and mantelpiece. A closedcupboard with carved doors stood at the far end of the room.
Once again Chris turned back to look for Mr. Wicker, and to hisastonishment, now saw him in the chair that he had thought empty amoment before. Mr. Wicker, his elbows on the arms of the chair and hisfingertips touched lightly together, was watching Chris with interestand amusement. When the boy caught sight of him, Mr. Wicker nodded,smiling, and motioned Chris toward the other leather chair across fromhim.
"Good morning, my boy," said the old man. "I trust you slept well?"
Chris slowly let himself down into the offered chair. "Oh yes, thankyou sir," he replied. "I don't even know how I got to bed."
Mr. Wicker made a sound that seemed to indicate that that did notmatter.
"And breakfast?" Mr. Wicker asked. "Becky fed you?"
"Yes sir. _And_ Mr. Cilley--he fed me too."
"Indeed?" Mr. Wicker's eyebrows went up in an inverted V above hisbright dark eyes. "Ned Cilley so early? Well, he is a loyal soul, isCilley. You shall know more of him."
He fell silent, observing the boy sitting on the edge of the bigchair. Mr. Wicker looked, as if casually, at the clothes Chris nowwore and which fitted him as though made to his measure. What he sawseemed to please the old man for he nodded his bald head and hiswrinkles multiplied themselves across his face in a way Chris took tobe his smile. At last he spoke again, and his voice was strangelygentle and kind. So kind that the forlornness Chris had momentarilyforgotten at the mystery of his position, the puzzlement and lostfeeling that reclaimed him instantly should he allow himself to wonderat how he could get back again into his own life and time, wasreawakened by the something he heard in Mr. Wicker's voice. The tearsgathered in his throat and he had to swallow and cough several timesbefore he could reply with any degree of clearness.
"Feel? Well--all right, I guess, in a way. But there's a sort ofspinning in my head and my stomach if I try to figure any of this out.I just don't get it." He shook his head dubiously. "I feel alive allright, and the food tasted good just now, but how in the world can allthe changes come about, or be? And there's something I should see to,at home--" All at once he needed desperately to know how his motherwas, that morning. He stood up abruptly.
"If I can just go now, please?" Chris asked politely but firmly. "It'sbeen very interesting, but I--"
His throat tightened up again and he made a helpless gesture with hishand, and looking toward the window, wondered if he could jump outinto the flower beds and be off. Mr. Wicker's voice, soft but withsuch authority that one did not question it, came again, and it had ahealing in its sound.
"Sit down, Christopher my lad," he said, and his eyes were kind,intent and eager. "We have much to talk of, you and I. But first, yourmind and heart shall be put at ease. Do you know who I am?"
Restive and anxious to be off, Chris nevertheless found it necessaryto reply.
"You sell old stuff. That's all I know," he answered, beginning tofeel a trifle surly.
Mr. Wicker nodded, tapping his fingertips together. "Yes," he agreed,"I sell old things--in _your_ time. But now--in _this_ time, what doyou know of me?"
As he spoke there was a change of tone, as if a younger man wasspeaking, and in spite of his impatience to get home, Chris looked upsharply. Mr. Wicker was leaning forward, and Chris felt himselfimmovable under the vigor of those dark eyes.
"Nothing, sir," he heard himself saying, not taking his eyes fromthose of the man before him.
"I am a shipowner, Christopher, for one thing," Mr. Wicker drew aslow breath. "A merchant trading in tobacco, cotton, corn, and flour.But I am also--" he paused as if to give Chris time to hear each word,"I am also quite a fine magician," said Mr. Wicker.
Chris leaned back, disappointed and scornful. "Rabbits out of hats?"he inquired.
"No, young man," Mr. Wicker answered with no show of annoyance, "Notrabbits out of hats. That--as you would say--is for toddlers. SupposeI prove to you just how good?"
"Go ahead," said Chris, whose only thought was still to get home butwho admitted to himself a faint stir of curiosity.
"Watch closely then," commanded Mr. Wicker. "I have been in mytwentieth-century shape so that you would recognize me. Now I shallregain my appearance of _this_ time--not a great change, I grant you,but there will be a difference. Watch me closely."
Chris leaned forward in his chair. The room was well lit from threesides; sunlight and firelight mingled to wash Mr. Wicker in theirjoined apricot glow. Added to this, the two chairs--Chris's and Mr.Wicker's--were not more than four feet apart. Chris hunched forwardyet a little more to lessen this space and watch for any movement,however swift. He had seen magicians before, he told himself.
But what he saw was so amazing that Chris's lips parted inastonishment and his eyes stared unblinkingly. For the tiny figure ofthe old man before him, wizened with age and wrinkled past belief,before his eyes shook off not ten or twenty years, but one hundred andfifty! It left him, while not a young man, middle-aged; a vigorous manof forty years. The face was smoothed out and firm; thick chestnuthair was caught back with a black ribbon
bow. Dark eyebrows were levelabove the steady eyes.
"I don't believe it!" Chris breathed. "You looked almost like a mummy,before. And now--"
Mr. Wicker rose from his chair, and now he stood six feet, no longerwizened, no longer feeble.
"Fascinating, is it not?" he remarked, with a sardonic smile. "A goodtrick, do you not agree?"
Chris sat looking at him, amazed but still incredulous. "Well yes," headmitted, "but maybe with make-up, or something--"
"Ah," said Mr. Wicker, and his voice was deeper and more vigorous too."Ah. Then we shall try another. See if you can find me." And beforeChris's eyes Mr. Wicker vanished into thin air.
Chris looked about and got up. He looked under the chairs, under thetable, behind the curtains, up the chimney, up the spiral staircase,out the windows--in short, everywhere and anywhere a man might hide,and in a great many places where it was impossible for him to be.Finally he stood in the middle of the room.
"You're not here," he said aloud.
"Oh, yes, I am," said Mr. Wicker's voice. "Look on the table."
Chris looked on the table. A bowl of flowers stood in the center. Asmall silver tray with a finely blown glass and a round-bellied silverpitcher of water stood at one side. A few leather-bound books were allelse to be seen, except--if one could count that--a bluebottle flythat buzzed, lit on the flowers, and buzzed again.
"It's not fair!" Chris challenged aloud. "You've got some trick hidingplace. You're just not here."
"Yes I am," came the voice. "I am within reach of your hand,Christopher," Mr. Wicker told him. "And I will reappear in whateverpart of the room you wish. Choose."
Chris looked around him, and then pointed to the end window.
"There," he said, "by the window. There's nothing anywhere around it.Come back there."
"Very well," sounded Mr. Wicker's deep new voice.
The bluebottle fly buzzed upward from the table, flew directly atChris's nose, hit it, flew around his head, and bumped into his ear.
"Darn that ol' fly!" Chris muttered, and made a grab at it. Thebluebottle buzzed towards the window, swirled about, hit Chris on thenose again with remarkable stupidity, and blundered off once moretowards the window.
Chris ran after it, saw it on a pane of glass, swooped down, and feltthe angry wings and heard the enraged buzz in his cupped hand. Butbefore he could either squeeze the fly or open his hand to let itfree, Mr. Wicker stood before him, and Chris found himself holding onto the tail of Mr. Wicker's coat.
"And what did you think of _that_ trick?" asked Mr. Wicker smiling.