Читать книгу Between The Doors - Wes Peters - Страница 11

chapter three

in the morning

Andrew awoke to brilliant streaks of sunlight. He looked about him in confusion. Long splashes of yellow and gold illuminated the pale blue walls around him. The boy remembered all of the previous day’s events.

Thoughts of his mother, his home, and his world that he left behind all raced through his mind. Andrew could hardly believe it all happened, and that it had all happened so fast. His father always reminded him that things that happen quickly are either beautiful, or beautifully dangerous. Andrew supposed this whole experience was one or the other; but either way it was beautiful, and by God it was beautiful. Dreams of independence danced about the boy’s head, intoxicating him with wonder. Taking in a breath of the fresh spring breeze that rustled past the shades, the boy stood up.

He heard Nick’s snores beside him and nearly jumped. Nick lay upon his bed, the sheets thrown carelessly over his small chest. His brown hair curled loosely over his neck and his eyes. Andrew laughed as he saw the hair over his eyes jump up with each snore, and then softly fall back over his eyes. Andrew stared at his friend for a moment, and then remarked:

“I think I’ll go back to sleep.” He lay down on the couch, his hands behind his head. Within a minute his snores joined Nick’s.

I

The two boys made their way down to breakfast an hour later, following the smell in a way only young boys can. They headed down the narrow wooden staircase and entered the small kitchen area to find the source of the scent: Aunt Margaret’s bacon and eggs steaming on the metal stove. Andrew’s mouth watered at the sight of the meal. This beat the hell out of breakfast back home, which usually consisted of Raisin Bran and warm pulpy orange juice.

The orange juice here was warm, but Andrew didn’t mind; he and Nick wolfed down their meals with an unnatural speed. Margaret came back into the kitchen to find their plates empty and both boys leaning back in their chairs, and she sighed. “You boys are somethin’ else,” she said.

Nick had no work or chores to do, so the two decided to go play around in town. A day without school always looked good to Andrew, and today he didn’t even have to play truant. There’s no such thing as hooky if you’re in a universe without school, so the boy reasoned his hands were clean. Not even Aunt Margaret’s warning as they walked down the stoop could diminish Andrew’s wonder.

“Now you boys be careful,” she said, wiping her greasy hands on a kitchen towel. Both boys turned to face her.

“Aw, what’s to worry ‘bout, Auntie?” Nick asked. He was practically dancing at the prospect of hanging out with his new friend. “Ye know I’ve been up, under, and around the town more times than I can count.” He took a look at his fingers as if to prove the fact.

“I know ye have, but still somethin’ seems the matter around Sunsetville recently.” She lifted her eyes, surveying the street she lived on. “A funny smell, you could say. And it’s not just the sewers giving up that smell, if you know it. But listen here boys, stay out of the sewers. Yer both too young to be down there in the dark.”

“Yes’m,” both boys said in unison. Andrew looked strangely at Nick. He hasn’t told her he works down there some days, he realized. Looks like I’m not the only one keeping secrets from my family. And then he thought, maybe everyone does.

“Good,” Aunt Margaret said, her eyes still on the street. The neighborhood was out and about at this hour, she knew, and yet things were calm and quiet. “Now scram you too, and don’t let me catch ye till sunset! But don’t ye be late neither!” And the boys set off, chasing each other down the street through the hot morning air.

“Boys’ll be boys,” said Aunt Margaret. But there was something about that Andrew boy… she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Sure, there was something odd about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke. Margaret had a different way of talking than most of the city folk around Sunsetville, but she’d never heard anyone talk the way he did. Where exactly did the boy say he was from? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

II

Andrew would remember that morning for the rest of his life. He wasn’t sure why; he was too young to really understand the beauty and wonder that filled his soul and emblazoned his spirit. Children have a way loving what’s new and fresh, embracing the day with wonder and naiveté. Andrew was too young to grasp this, however; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

The boys sprinted to the center of the town, filled with the hustle-and-bustle of merchants, workers, and tourists. Strange people moved here and there around the boys, who jumped around the crates and boxes around the market. Occasionally a merchant would scold them for jumping on his stuff and the two boys would scurry away from the boxes, hiding behind some more. They chased a furry brown dog around the town square for an hour, and the dog chased them around for an hour more. At one point Andrew, not looking where he was going, ran straight into a man carrying several boxes. Andrew spun away from the man, who tottered and wavered, nearly dropping the boxes. The man was about to regain his balance when Nick, sprinting from the yipping dog, tripped and took out the man’s legs, who cried out in dismay as he collapsed onto the pavement. His boxes rained down around Nick and him, the former looking embarrassed and little dazed. Then the dog leapt into the arms of the man and began licking his face, who laughed uncontrollably at the rambunctious mongrel’s antics.

Exhausted from the morning’s escapades, Andrew collapsed upon the scaffolding of a tower in the center of town. The scaffolding faced the Time-Table Clock Tower. Andrew sat about five feet off the ground, dangling his feet over the edge, bathing in the morning sunshine. Behind him the clock face on the Time-Table ticked away. Andrew paid it no attention. He was lost in pure ecstasy, engulfed in one of those rare moments of childhood when independence and a lack of responsibility coincide perfectly. An adult would’ve felt the pressures of the day beating around his skull; a child would normally grow bored of sitting around. In that moment of time Andrew lived forever. The people below hustled and cried out, but they could not disturb the boy. They moved in fast-forward; he didn’t move at all. Time had stopped for Andrew Tollson. He felt free; free of responsibility, free of worry, free of doubt.

Nick napped below in the shade of the wall. Andrew thought he looked comfortable in the grass, but his own mind was too alive to sleep. In his head he saw visions of glory and freedom in this world. The boy gazed beyond the walls of Sunsetville. He saw tall castles on steep green hillsides, with hordes of horsed men riding across a bridge over a sparkling blue moat around the courtyard. He saw country people out in the fields, working for themselves and their family. He saw great ships upon vast blue oceans, setting out to discover new land, new people, new worlds. He saw freedom and independence, and he saw a beauty in his mind and felt it in his soul. It was a fleeting beauty, the kind that only lasts for a few minutes before it becomes a memory that will only be recalled for a moment for the rest of time. He’d remember that beauty when he felt his hands dry and dirty from a long day; he’d remember that beauty when he felt the morning breeze rush through his hair. He’d never feel it again, but the memory remains.

The bells within the Time-Table rang out eleven times. Andrew looked up at the great face of the tower. He felt the time ticking away.

What happened to that feeling? He wondered, looking around frantically. Nick stirred at the sound of the great bells ringing out through the square. The people in the square continued their frantic dance through the stifling noon heat. Andrew realized he’d spent the morning in a daze.

“It’s the clock,” the boy murmured, looking up at the great tower. But it wasn’t the clock; not quite, he realized. It was time. For a kid who played truant as often as he did, he really wasn’t used to feeling like he was wasting time. Now he did. He felt some responsibility, some longing to get moving. He didn’t exactly love the feeling, but he couldn’t deny it.

“But where?” he wondered, and Nick, who had lumbered over to him, gave Andrew a confused look.

“Where’s what?” Nick asked, as he rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Where do we go?” Andrew asked. “Where?”

Nick shrugged. “I usually hang around ‘ere on my days off, see if any of my friends show up.” Andrew shook his head.

“I mean, what now? What’s next?” Nick, who really had no idea what Andrew was asking, came up with a suitable answer.

“I’m getting hungry. Shall we go home? Hopefully my aunt’s made some lunch.” Andrew sighed. He supposed Nick wasn’t cut out for a mission like his. He was a gunfighter. Nick was just a boy.

“Let’s head back,” Andrew said. Nick began to walk up the street.

“That’s good,” Nick said. “My aunt makes great lunches, you see. They put you right to sleep. An afternoon nap it is!”

III

Andrew feigned sleep for a few minutes until Nick began to snore. Then he slid out of bed and began to put his things together. He tucked the gun in his waistband of his shorts. He took a look in the mirror on Nicks’ wall and stifled laughter at his new clothing.

I look like an elf, Andrew thought with a smile, admiring his new garb. He ditched the kilt and put on his khaki shorts and t-shirt. Then he pulled the grey jacket Margaret had lent him over his chest. In his reflection he saw his gun protruding from his pants.

“The world’s youngest gunfighter,” Andrew thought as he pulled his shirt over the gun. He jumped as Nick murmured something in his sleep, which sounded like ‘pancake’. Yet Nick’s breathing steadily continued, and Andrew relaxed. He grabbed the purse Margaret had left for him and slung it over his shoulder. He supposed in this world it was fashionable for a man to wear a purse. This one slung over his shoulder like a small backpack.

Andrew looked over at Nick, and felt a pang of sadness. “Goodbye, Nick,” he whispered, and snuck out of the room.

IV

Andrew walked through the streets of Sunsetville, which sat still in the midday heat. Not a soul walked on the streets; it was quiet time, as Nick had informed him. Andrew’s Spanish teacher, Senorita Katrina, would’ve called it a siesta. Andrew wandered past Joe Freeman’s bar, and saw the scaffolding-tower that just yesterday had been two levels high. Now it climbed higher than the buildings on the street. Andrew figured the men must have added six or seven floors since yesterday. It was a shoddy structure. The wood that pieced it together was old and splintered, and the tower leaned and swayed in the wind. Yet the gigantic wheels attached to the ground floor promised that it would roll, and roll soon. Andrew didn’t want to be around when it did. He headed for the square.

The Clock Tower loomed high above Andrew, peering down like an ancient stone giant. Andrew felt fear knot up in his stomach. He suddenly wanted to run from these great towers, as he had run from school, and his mother. His gun kept him from running. The ancient revolver weighed heavily on his shorts, reminding him he was in for the long haul. With that thought he was hungry again. He sat down on a wooden crate and pulled out some dried meat.

“A boy without some food in his bag might as well be no boy at all!” Nick’s aunt had insisted at lunch. Andrew had declined, but Margaret Smith would not have it. She’d packed enough ‘dry meat’ in Andrew’s bag for him to eat for a week. Andrew hadn’t wanted it, but Margaret Smith was a persistent woman. After all, she had claimed, she had no use for it.

He chewed on a piece of the dry meat, which Andrew figured was just beef jerky with some spicy seasoning, and threw his bag over his shoulder. He got up out of the shade and walked slowly over toward the foot of the tower. It was good, Andrew figured, that the mob hadn’t shown up yet, with their great tower. They had promised to arrive at 2, and it was nearly 1:30. Andrew sighed, and muttered:

“No time to waste.” He grasped the handle of the wooden door. “Whatever’s up there, I’m coming. Get ready.”

“Not without me, you’re not!” cried a gruff voice behind him, and Andrew knew it was Nick before he turned around.

V

Nick figured Andrew must’ve known he was following him. Gunfighters like Andrew were keen to the land around them, Nick knew. Plus, they just had a way of knowing sometimes. Just like his ma had a way of knowing he’d snuck bread from the pantry, Andrew had a way of knowing.

Andrew didn’t bother acting surprised. Instead, he shook his head. “Nick, you can’t go up there,” he said.

“Mr. Andrew,” Nick returned. “I ain’t afraid of nothing. And I’m still in your services, so I can’t let you go up there alone.” Nick held a fire-poker in his hands, sharp at one end, and Andrew nearly laughed at the boy’s attempt to arm himself.

“In that case,” Andrew said, “if you’re in my service, I forbid you from following me.”

“All right,” Nick said. “I won’t follow. I’ll lead.” He stepped boldly past Andrew and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. Nick scratched his head. “How are you trying to get in?” he said.

Andrew approached his friend and looked him squarely in the eyes, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Nick,” he said, and Nick immediately straightened. Andrew had a way about him, Nick knew, that could freeze the meanest winds in a dust storm. Now Nick hung his head, sure Andrew would turn him away. This time, he wouldn’t be able to argue. Andrew continued.

“Whatever’s at the top of the tower is dangerous. If you go up with me, you must promise me you’ll let me face it. Remember, I’ve got the gun. I don’t think your fire poker’s going to do the trick.”

Nick reddened a bit in the face. “Well, of course sir. I was just improvisin’, you see.” Andrew grinned, and patted his friend on the back.

“Come on, follow me.” Andrew said. With that, Andrew turned to the door. Nick watched silently. Andrew grasped the door handle, took a deep breath, and turned it. It did not budge.

“Oh,” Andrew said. It was silent for another moment. He tried turning it the other way, but to no avail. The door was sealed after all.

“I told you it was sealed!” Nick cried behind him. Andrew stood by the door a minute, concentrating. Then he let go.

“I figured it would open,” he said. “The door in the grove did.”

“Maybe this one’s not meant to be opened,” Nick offered. Andrew didn’t buy it.

“There’s got to be a way into the tower,” Andrew said.

“Well, sure there is,” Nick said. “Through the sewers. There’s a basement entrance.” Andrew turned sharply to look at his friend. Nick raised his eyebrows.

“I found it a couple of weeks ago, it’s sort of hidden and secret. But the tower basement’s real creepy, and the sewer smells… I didn’t stay down there too long.” Andrew looked around and found a manhole. He walked over to it, then looked back at Nick.

“We’re going down there?” Nick said. Andrew said nothing, but began to lift off the manhole cover. Nick sighed. “Yes, yes we are.”

VI

The stench was bad at sunset the previous day. It was absolutely horrid at midday. The choking waft of dry feces was nearly enough to send them back. They pressed on instead. The dark, sticky passageway was illuminated by light streaming in through the sewer grates, but as the two boys wandered deeper into the sewers it grew darker.

“How far to go, Nick?” asked Andrew at one point, his voice cracking a bit. Nick did his best to sound brave.

“Not too far, I don’t think. The tunnels are just sort of turn-ey down ‘ere in the center of town, like a maze.”

They were in the midst of making a right turn when Nick froze. Thankfully there was faint light behind them so Andrew could see Nick stop, otherwise they would have ended up falling over one another. Immediately Andrew saw why Nick had stopped; voices were audible up ahead. Or, rather, one voice was audible. Andrew put a finger to his lips and listened in.

At first Andrew couldn’t quite make out what the voice was, but eventually, as the voice approached them he heard words. A shadow drew near to them, the shadow of the person talking, projected onto the wall in front of them. A hunched shadow danced on the wall in the fleeting light. Andrew tensed up as the voice approached, and it was an eerie one: high and wavering, as if it were floating on an icy wind.

“Race now, race through these dark corridors just as fast as you can! Find the door, for I know it’s here! The door, the door, the door, the door! Find the door, the door to the new place, the new world, I know it’s here! Somewhere in the dark…” And the rustle of tiny ol’ legs through the dark brought chills down Andrew’s back.

“Hurry, no time to lose. Go now, through the dark, find the door. Speed to all of you!” Suddenly the voice rose in pitch. “And don’t let me catch you crawling around til you’ve found it! There’s not a second to waste! I need the door! I need to know what’s on the other side. Behind the door, there’s something that won’t let me sleep! Find the door, crawl through the dark to find the light! Now scram, all of you miserable creatures, don’t come back til you have the answer!” The rustle of tiny legs once again filled the chamber.

“Spiders,” whispered Andrew. “Don’t make a sound.” But his racing heart was too loud to quiet. The boys huddled together as the tiny black beasts approached. Andrew felt the sweat on Nick’s face, pressed against his shoulder.

“Somebody’ll come, don’t worry,” he whispered to Nick. The terror was rising now; Andrew had begun to tremble and shake in fear. Some good I’m doing him, thought Andrew. I can’t help from shaking too.

In his head Nick heard his mother’s words: They say everyone eats eights spiders in a lifetime, Nick. She hadn’t meant to scare him; she had just tried to comfort him one night when Nick had woken screaming with a spider in his mouth. The screams had come out gargled, as if his mouth was full of taters. But these weren’t taters; taters didn’t wriggle and squirm when you ate them. After a moment Nick had coughed up the beast, which lay twisted and mangled on the floor, dragging its crippled mass away to safety. He’d never done well with spiders since-- the feeling of wriggling taters in his mouth was simply too much to bear.

“Nick,” Andrew said beside him. “Nick, grab my hand.” They joined hands, a huddling mass of fright, awaiting the dark terror in the sewers. The spiders came round the corner, and they came in droves. They drowned the fleeting light on the walls and ceiling, bringing utter darkness to the boys.

“Don’t let go!” screamed Andrew. He didn’t think holding hands would do much, but his instinct told him to do it. Something about it felt right, too; in some weird way he felt safe with Nick’s hands in his. He closed his eyes.

“We’re going to be all right,” he said, as the spiders swarmed by. Beside him, Nick was saying it in unison with him. A sea of green-silver eyes peered ahead at the tunnel, yet missed the boys entirely. In the dark the spiders lit up, with a similar fluorescent writing upon their bodies as the hipster writing on the walls of Sunsetville. The rustling of legs stopped as the black mass swarmed away from the children. Light gradually returned to the tunnel, and the boys stood up slowly. Nick cried out in joy.

“Ha-ha! Take that, and that, and that-” Nick stopped dead silent. The projection of the figure on the wall was no longer a projection. A long dark shadow stood before them.

VII

The figure waited silently at the end of the hallway. Nick walked beside Andrew, peering at the strange man-shadow.

“Who comes to the hall of spiders?” asked a powerful voice. Andrew felt the voice in his head, echoing around. Before he could answer Nick had stepped in front of him.

“You’ll not lay a hand on Andrew!” the boy cried down the corridor. Nick held the fire poker in his hands, ready to strike out.

Nick, you fool, Andrew thought, reaching out for his friend. The shadow’s laughter echoed through the hallway. It was a deep and powerful laugh. Nick cried out in pain and dropped the fire poker. It fell on the stone floor, and as Andrew watched it, it began to melt. Nick began to blow on his hands, red in the dim light from the melting fire poker.

“So quick to rise after your fall, boy?” came the voice again. Nick quit blowing and looked up. “How would you like to fall again?” Andrew heard something ugly in that voice. He’d heard the same ugliness the day before, as he fled through his mother’s garden. The boy took a deep breath, his hand on the gun in his waistband, and stepped forward.

Stand tall, he thought.

“Who’s this?” the voice asked. In the dark he was only a shadow, but Andrew thought he could hit him.

Andrew drew the gun, and the voice shut up. The tide had turned.

“Fuck you, old man,” Andrew said, and fired. The gun jerked backwards in his hand—the boy nearly dropped it. The crash of thunder from the gun echoed in Andrew’s head. The shadow cringed as the wall beside him exploded in plaster and dust. He’d missed.

Andrew didn’t have time to think. He turned the cylinder, thumbed the trigger back and aimed. He looked up and the figure was right in front of him.

Andrew saw the grimace on St. Gerardo’s face. He was short, squat, and ugly. He wore robes with a gold cross across his chest. He was balding, yet thick, black sweaty hair lay across the back of his head. A thick beard ran under his chin, an Abe Lincoln beard if Andrew had ever seen one. The rest of his face was bare, except for his twisted snarl and fat nose. Andrew saw the yellow eyes.

They’re the color of dust, Andrew knew.

“Give me the gun, boy,” St. Gerardo spat. His voice had lost its power. It was thin and hateful. St. Gerardo reached out and grabbed the barrel of the revolver. Andrew felt a bolt of electricity travel up his arm. He didn’t let go, both hands on the handle of the gun.

“Shoot ‘im!” he heard Nick cry behind him. He tried to pull back the hammer, and St. Gerardo cawed out. He began to shake the gun fervently back and forth. Andrew held on for dear life. Then a new voice filled his head and silenced his racing heart.

VIII

Come to me, gunslinger. There is safety in the Southern Woods.

Both Andrew and St. Gerardo quit struggling for the gun. The voice spoke again.

Come quickly. There is hope yet for this world. Make haste to the Southern Woods.

After a moment of silence, St. Gerardo made a move. He cried out and pulled away, retreating quickly. Andrew raised the gun to shoot him in the back, but the man was too fast. He retreated down the corridor into the shadows. In a moment he was gone. Andrew took a step forward after him. Nick cried out behind him:

“Sir! The crawlies!”

Andrew heard it now. The tiny rustle of legs approached. Like tiny snapping, Andrew thought with a shudder. They’d heard the crash of the gunshot. He turned and saw Nick beckoning him toward the side of the sewer. High on the wall was another manhole.

“Go!” Andrew exclaimed. “Grab the ladder!” Nick jumped up but missed it. He was too short. Andrew hurried over and grabbed the boy, giving him a boost up. Nick reached the ladder and pulled himself up, pressing all his weight against the plate above.

Andrew saw their green-silver eyes first. Thousands of silvery lights filled the darkness ahead, moving at a steady pace. The wave approached at a high speed. Light blinded Andrew as Nick popped open the cover and pulled himself into daylight. When Andrew looked up, he saw Nick’s hand.

“Jump, Andrew! Grab hold!” Nick cried. Andrew jumped. He missed the ladder by a few inches, but grabbed Nick’s hand. For a moment he felt Nick’s weight drop and his arm sag, but Nick’s other arm reached down and grabbed beneath Andrew’s outstretched arm. Nick would not let him go. With his free arm Andrew grabbed the last ladder rung and began to pull himself up as Nick heaved upwards with all his strength. Andrew flew out of the sewer and into the street, falling onto Nick in the process.

Andrew jumped to his feet. “Where’s the cover?”

Nick was ahead of him. He slammed the cover down on top of the manhole and leapt backwards. Andrew heard soft thuds coming from the manhole, just tiny pangs of spider-bodies banging against the cover. One spider, however, had escaped the manhole and wandered dizzily around the dusty street. It was about the size of Andrew’s fist. Nick yelled and stomped on the flailing creature.

“That’s for Johnny!” the boy screamed. His words echoed around the square.

Johnny, Andrew thought, panting heavily. Who’s Johnny? Then he remembered Tom Treeson’s story. The mob, he thought, staring up at the clock tower above them. It was 1:55. They’re coming.

“Nick,” Andrew called to the boy, busy scraping the guts off his shoe onto the pavement. Nick looked up. “We can’t stay here.”

“Should we go to my aunt’s?”

Andrew shook his head. “You can,” he said, “but I can’t. St. Gerardo’s after me—you saw him! I’ve got to get out of town.”

“To the Southern Woods?” Nick asked. Andrew looked sharply at him. Nick shrugged. “I heard the voice too, you know.” Andrew nodded.

“I’ve got a colt,” Nick continued. “Rode it ‘ere. Trust her with my life.”

“Take me to the stable,” Andrew said. Nick nodded.

“All right. But Mr. Andrew?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m coming with you. To the Southwoods, I mean.”

Andrew nodded. Nick led the way up the cobblestone street, and Andrew followed close behind, his left hand still trembling from the thunder of the gun.