Authors: Peter Straub
Then use your mind to pull out the nails.
I can't.
That's what you thought when he told you to raise the log. Just try.
He tried. He saw the nails slipping out of the wood, gently easing from his hands, sliding out easy and slow . . .
and it felt like wires had been suddenly thrust into the wounds; he could
see
the nails glowing, turning gold and blue and green . . . he uttered a high floating falsetto wail, and saw that too, a thin rag ascending to the ceiling.
'Kid sounds like a female alcoholic,' Pease said.
See the odd things you learn? If you hadn't tried that, you'd never have known that Pease is the trolls' wit.
'We ain't gettin paid enough for this,' Pease said, as he had before. 'Badgers is one thing, this is something else.'
'You tell me how,' Thorn growled.
'Blow your mouth some other way when you talk at me.'
Tom sagged against the cinch.
When he looked up, M. was sitting beneath him, his knees drawn up, his back resting on Thorn's seat. He wasback in the prep-school costume. 'Did I call it, or did I call it? Give me a little credit.'
Tom closed his eyes.
'I can't save you from this, obviously, but I can save you from the rest,' M. said. 'Open your eyes. Aren't you at least prepared to admit that you've been had?'
'Leave me alone,' Tom said.
'It talks!' Pease roared.
'I can still do you a lot of good,' M. went on calmly. 'Those nails, now — I could slip those out for you. Wouldn't you like that?'
'Why?' Tom asked.
'He wants to know why,' Pease said.
'Because I'd hate to see you wasted. Simple as that. Your mentor has done us a fair amount of good over the years, but you — you'd be extraordinary. Should I try those nails? It's a simple matter, I assure you.'
'Go away,' Tom sobbed. 'Get out of here. I turn my face away from you. I
revile
you. I can't stand the
smell
of you — you
are
these nails.' His voice broke down. Sweat burst from every pore of his body. He was freezing to death. M. disappeared, still smiling up.
'Kid gets on my fuckin' nerves,' Thorn said.
'Give him a break,' Pease said, 'he's in a tough spot. Ain't you, kid? Let's go farther down.'
'What the hell, he's crazy,' Snail said. 'He's out of his gourd.' He stood up. The three of them loafed down the stairs to the first row. Tom closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the wall.
'Look, we can even go outside, hey?' he heard Thorn say. 'Who's to say we can't?'
Tom passed out again.
When he came around again, he thought it was night. He was alone in the vast dark theater. A plum-colored glow emanated from the curtains. He was soaked in sweat, he was ice-cold, and his hands were soaring and sobbing. The bone fought the pressure of the nail, lost, and bounced in his hand. Hundreds of nerves sang.
'Tom,' came a velvety voice he knew.
'No more,' Tom said, and rolled his head back to lookdown the aisle in the direction of the voice. Bud Copeland was standing like a deeper shadow in the dark aisle. 'That's not really you,' he said.
'No, not really. I can't really do anything but talk to you.'
'I guess you're Speckle John,' Tom said. 'I should have known.'
'I used to be Speckle John. But he took my magic away. He thought that was worse than death.' Bud drew nearer. Tom realized that he could see through him, see the line of seat backs and the dark wall at the end of the aisle through Bud's snowy shirt and gray suit. 'But I had enough left to hear Del when the little boy was born. Just like I had enough to know you when I saw you for the first time. And to hear you now.'
'Am I going to die?' Tom said; wept a few stinging tears.
'If you don't get down,' Bud's shade told him. 'But you're
strong,
boy. You don't know yet how strong you are. That's why they make all this fuss about you, you know. You're strong as an elephant — strong enough to fetch me here. Only wish I could do more than talk.' Bud shifted uncomfortably, and his transparency grew cloudy. 'He did the Wandering Boys just like he did you — in the cellars of the Wood Green Empire. Mr. Peet and all . . . all those stupid men who thought they'd get a free ride for life off him. Oh, he gave a show: he gave a real show, boy. He's still proud of it. Made a scandal big enough to drive him out of Europe.'
'What did he do to Rose?'
'Rosa? Don't bother with that, boy. Just get yourself off that brace. Outside, they're fooling with Del. They're liable to kill him if you don't get down.'
'I
can't,'
Tom wailed.
'You got to.' Tom screamed.
'That's not the way. There's only
one
way, boy. You got to use that strength. You got to pull your hands off. That's the way it works.'
'Nooo!'
Tom screamed.
'You do it with one hand, the other one will comeeasier. You got to choose your song — you got to choose your skills. You already tried wings, and that didn't work. You can't run from him.'
Tom leaned his head back against the wall and looked at Bud through red eyes; asked a silent question.
'
I
tried song, Tom. But he was stronger than me. After that the most I could do was try to keep Del safe from him. I knew he wanted that boy — until he heard about you, he wanted him anyhow. Now it's your turn. And you have to do more than save Del. You know what you have to do.'
'Kill him,' Tom said weakly,
'Unless you want him to kill you. Do what I say, now. Push your left hand forward. Just keep on pushing. It's going to hurt like blazes, but. . . shit, son, doesn't it hurt already? When you get that one free, push with your right hand. Those nails can't stop that. They can only stop you doing it the easy way.'
'Just push.'
'Push with all you got, son. If you don't, worse than that is going to happen to you. And there won't be enough of Del left to worry about. Hear that? You hear him?'
Then Tom did hear Del: heard a piping, anguished
eeee,
like a sound he had made himself not long before.
He concentrated on his left hand; and pushed. A hundred mallets hit a hundred nails, and he nearly fainted again.
You're strong.
He pushed as hard as he could, and his hand flew free of the nail in a spray of blood.
'Sweet Jesus, son, you did it! Now, push the other one . . .please God, boy, push that other one . . . push the hell out of it. . . don't even think about it, just slam it out of there.'
Tom filled his chest with air, unable to think about the agony in his left hand, opened his mouth with the full force of his lungs, arched his back as the yell began, and jerked his right hand forward.
It flew. Blood spurted out over the row of seats before him.
. . . now you know why I took that job, boy . . .
Bud's voice faded; the rest of him was already gone.
Sobbing, Tom slumped over the cinch. The buckle: the buckle worked on a catch. It was trying to saw him in half. And 'for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen . . . He raised his left hand and pushed the base of the thumb against the catch. Blood smeared on his shirt, soaked through to his belly. My next trick is the never-before-attempted the Falling Boy. He urged the base of his thumb around the catch. His hand pounded, but his thumb rested against the catch. He shoved, blood gouted from his hand, and he tumbled out of the strap and fell like a sack to the carpet.
10
Del. That was where he had to go. Del was outside, being killed by the trolls. Tom crawled toward the steps, using elbows and knees, ignoring the blood streaking down his arms. Could he flex his fingers? When he reached the top of the stairs, he tried the left hand, and the pain made his eyes mist, but the fingers twitched. How about you, right hand? Mr. Thorpe: chapel on a sunny morning: raising his right hand:
boys, that brave young man took out his pocketknife and carved a cross in the palm of his right hand!
Bet he did too, the jerk. Tom clenched his teeth and made his fingers move.
And for my next trick . . . the Amazing Falling Boy will now attempt to go down a flight of stairs.
Tom crawled to the edge of the steps. Facefirst? He saw himself falling, knocking his head against the metal sides of seats, rolling on his hands . . . he turned over, sat up, put his legs over the edge and went down like a one-year-old, on the seat of his pants.
Now do something really difficult, Tom, old boy. Walk. His feet were on the floor, his bottom on the second step. Well, don't rush into it — stand up first, do it the easy way. He flailed out with his dripping arms, his back knotted and ached, and he was on his feet. Immediately his headwent fuzzy, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall for support. Funny how much pain your body, can hold — it can be just like a bucket filled up with pain. You'd think you'd spill some of it along the way, but the bucket just gets bigger.
Come outside now, boys, we are going to witness a miracle.
Skeleton hiding at the back of the stage, waiting for the piano player to leave so he could check his stolen exams, take a look at the Ventnor owl and see if it had anything special to say to him today. , . .
It just broke, Mr. Robbin. Yassuh, just up and broke on us.
Gee, you monkeys are clumsy.
That's us, sir, clumsy all over today, all we can do just to stand up . . .