Laura and Ellen, over and above the wine-sated tumult, produced a parlour drama with Uncle Fry. They represented innocent maidens strolling, when the Vampire (Uncle Fry) stepped from behind a tree (Cousin Anna). The Vampire smiled upon the Innocents.
Where were they going?
Oh, just down to the river path.
Could he escort them along the way?
He might if he were pleasant.
He walked with them, grinning secretly, from time to time licking his lips.
He was just preparing to attack one of them (at the river) when the Innocents, whirling eagerly, knocked him flat and drained him vacuum-dry of his blood. They sat down on his carcass as on a bench, and laughed and laughed.
So did everybody at the Homecoming.
The wind got higher, the stars burned with fiery intensity, the noises redoubled, the dances quickened, the drinking became more positive. To Timothy there were thousands of things to hear and watch. The many darknesses roiled, bubbled, the many faces mixed, vanished, reappeared, passed on. Mother moved everywhere, gracious and tall and beautiful, bowing and gliding, and father made sure that all the chalices were kept full.
The children played Coffins. Coffins, set in a row, surrounded by marching children, Timothy with them. A flute kept them marching. One by one coffins were removed. The scramble for their polished interiors eliminated two, four, six, eight contestants, until only one coffin remained. Timothy circled it cautiously, pitted against his fey-cousin, Roby. The flute notes stopped. Like gopher to hole, Timothy made it, popped into the coffin, while everyone applauded.
Once more the wine cups were full.
‘How is Lotte?’
‘Lotte? Did you not hear? Oh, it is too good to tell!’
‘Who’s Lotte, mamma?’
‘Hush. Uncle Einar’s sister. She of the wings. Go on, Paul.’
‘Lotte flew over Berlin not long ago and was shot for a British plane.’
‘Shot for a plane!’
Cheeks blew out, lungs bulged and sank, hands slapped thighs. The laughter was like a cave of winds.
‘And what of Carl?’
‘The little one who lives under bridges? Ah, poor Carl. Where is there a place for Carl in all Europe? Each bridge has been devastated. Carl is either dead or homeless. There are more refugees in Europe tonight than meet mortal eyes.’
‘True, true. All the bridges, eh? Poor Carl.’
‘Listen!’
The party held its breath. Far away the town clock struck its chimes, saying six o’clock. The party was ending. As if at a cue in time to the rhythm of the clock striking, their one hundred voices began to sing songs that were four hundred years old, songs Timothy could not know. They twined their arms around each other, circling slowly, and sang, and somewhere in the cold distance of morning the town clock finished out its chimes and quieted.
Timothy sang.
He knew no words, no tune, yet he sang and the words and tune came correctly, round and high and good.
At the verse end, he gazed at the stairs and the closed door at the top of the stairs.
‘Thanks, Cecy,’ he whispered.
He listened.
Then he said, ‘That’s all right, Cecy. You’re forgiven. I know you.’
Then he just relaxed and let his mouth move as it wished, and words came out in their own time, rhythmically, purely, melodiously.
Good-byes were said, there was a great rustling. Mother and father and the brothers and sisters lined up in grave happiness at the door to shake each hand firmly and kiss each departing cheek in turn. The sky, beyond the open door, coloured and shone in the east. A cold wind entered.
Again Timothy was forced to listen to a voice talking and when it finished he nodded and said, ‘Yes, Cecy. I would like to do that. Thanks.’
And Cecy helped him into one body after another. Instantly, he felt himself inside Uncle Fry’s body at the door, bowing and pressing lips to mother’s pale fingers, looking out from the wrinkled leather face at her. Then he side-stepped out into the wind, the draught seized him, took him in a flurry of leaves away up over the house and awakening hills. The town flashed under.
With a snap, Timothy was in another body, at the door, saying farewell. It was Cousin William’s body.
Within Cousin William, swift as a smoke puff, he loped down the dirt road, red eyes burning, fur pelt rimed with morning, padded feet rising, falling with silent sureness, panting easily, again over the hill and into a hollow, and then dissolving away. . .
Only to well up in the tall cold hollows of Uncle Einar and look out from his tolerant, amused eyes. And he was picking up the tiny pale body of Timothy. Picking up himself, through Einar! ‘Be a good boy, Timothy. I’ll see you again, from time to time.’
Swifter than the bourne leaves, with a webbed thunder of wings, faster than the lupine thing of the country road, going so swiftly the earth’s features blurred and the last stars rotated to one side, like a pebble in Uncle Einar’s mouth, Timothy flew, accompanied him on half his startling journey.
He came back to his own body.
The shouting and the laughing bit by bit faded and went away. Dawn grew more apparent. Everybody was embracing and crying and thinking how the world was becoming less a place for them. There had been a time when they had met every year, but now decades passed with no reconciliation. ‘Don’t forget, we meet in Salem in 1970!’ someone cried.
Salem. Timothy’s numbed mind turned the word over. Salem — 1970. And there would be Uncle Fry and Grandma and Grandfather and a thousand-times-great Grandmother in her withered cere-clothes. And mother and father and Ellen and Laura and Cecy and Leonard and Bion and Sam and all the rest. But would he be there? Would he be alive that long? Could he be certain of living until then?
With one last withering wind blast, away they all shot, so many scarves, so many fluttery mammals, so many sered leaves, so many wolves loping, so many winnings and clustering noises, so many midnights and ideas and insanities.
Mother shut the door. Laura picked up a broom.
‘No,’ said mother. ‘We’ll clean up tonight. We need sleep, first.’
Father walked down into the cellar, followed by Laura and Bion and Sam. Ellen walked upstairs, as did Leonard.
Timothy walked across the crêpe-littered hall. His head was down, and in passing the party mirror he saw himself, the pale mortality of his face. He was cold and trembling.
‘Timothy,’ said mother.
He stopped at the stairwell. She came to him, laid a hand on his face. ‘Son,’ she said. ‘We love you. Remember that. We all love you. No matter how different you are, no matter if you leave us one day,’ she said. She kissed his cheek. ‘And if and when you die your bones will lie undisturbed, we’ll see to that, you’ll lie at ease for ever, I’ll come and see you every Hallows’ Eve and tuck you in the more secure.’
The house echoed to polished wooden doors creaking and slamming hollowly shut.
The house was silent. Far away, the wind went over a hill with its last cargo of small dark bats, echoing, chittering.
He walked up the steps, one by one, crying to himself all the way.
Skeleton
IT was past time for him to see the doctor again. Mr. Harris turned palely in at the stairwell, and on his way up the flight he saw Dr. Burleigh’s name gilded over a pointing arrow. Would Dr. Burleigh sigh when he walked in? After all, this would make the tenth trip so far this year. But Burleigh shouldn’t complain; after all, he was paid for the examinations!
The nurse looked Mr. Harris over and smiled, a bit amusedly, as she tiptoed to the glazed glass door, opened it, and put her head in. Harris thought he heard her say, ‘Guess who’s here, Doctor?’ And didn’t the doctor’s acid voice reply, faintly, ‘Oh, my God, again?’ Harris swallowed uneasily.
When Harris walked in, Dr. Burleigh snorted thinly. ‘Aches in your bones again! Ah!!’ He scowled at Harris and adjusted his glasses. ‘My dear Harris, you’ve been curried with the finest tooth combs and bacteria-brushes known to science. You’re only nervous. Let’s see your fingers. Too many cigarettes. Let me smell your breath. Too much protein. Let’s see your eyes. Not enough sleep. My response? Go to bed, stop the protein, no smoking. Ten dollars, please.’
Harris stood there, sulking.
The doctor glanced up from his papers. ‘You still here? You’re a hypochondriac! That’s eleven dollars, now.’
‘But why should my bones ache?’ asked Harris.
Dr. Burleigh addressed him like a child. ‘You ever had a sore muscle, and kept at it, irritating it, fussing with it, rubbing it? It gets worse, the more you bother it. Then you leave it alone and the pain vanishes. You realize you caused most of the soreness, yourself. Well, son, that’s what’s with you. Leave yourself alone. Take a dose of salts. Get out of here and take that trip to Phoenix you’ve stewed about for months. Do you good to travel!’
Five minutes later, Mr. Harris riffled through a classified phone directory at the corner druggist’s. A fine lot of sympathy one got from blind fools like Burleigh! He passed his finger down a list of BONE SPECIALISTS, found one named M. Munigant. Munigant lacked an M.D., or any other academical lettering behind his name, but his office was conveniently near. Three blocks down, one block over. . .
M. Munigant, like his office, was small and dark. Like
