The Forgotten Door (4 page)

When he was finally dressed in faded jeans, a fairly good shirt, and a light zipper jacket, she surveyed him critically.

“We're short on shoes,” she said, “but I think your boots will pass, if you keep your trousers pulled over them. Next, we've got to think up a story to explain your presence here. I know — Thomas had a pal in the Marines named Jimmy O'Connor. He married a French-Moroccan girl when he was stationed in North Africa. They were both killed in the trouble there recently — so who's to know if they didn't have a son about your age? You do look, well, a bit foreign. I don't see why we couldn't call you Jon O'Connor, and say we'd sort of fallen heir to you for the time being.”

“But — but that would not be truth,” he said, wondering.

“Oh, dear, there we go again.” She sighed, and sat down, frowning. “Jon, in this day and age, with the way things are, truth — the exact truth — is often a hard thing to manage. There are times when it could cause needless trouble and suffering.”

“Things must be — very wrong if — if truth can cause trouble,” he replied simply.

She sighed again. “You're probably right — but that's the way the world is. Even in little things, we often tell white lies to save people's feelings.”

“White lies?”

“Well, take Mrs. Johnson. She makes her own clothes, just as I do. But she's never learned to sew well, and she makes the ugliest dresses in the community. Still, I wouldn't hurt her feelings by telling her how ugly they are. I usually think of something nice to say about them.”

Little Jon was puzzled. “But that's not right. How can she learn? It's wrong to make things ugly. Why, if she's wrong, should her feelings —”

“Oh, Jon! I don't understand you!” She shook her head. “Listen, dear. To avoid trouble, I'm afraid you'll have to be Jimmy O'Connor's boy — until we can find out more about you. I don't dare tell the Johnsons, or the Pitts, or some other people, that — that you're a strange boy from nowhere, who has curious clothes that won't tear, and curious ideas that don't fit, who has never seen money or cars before, and who can talk to—” She stopped, and again he was aware of the flicker of fright in her mind.

Quietly she said, “Let's go out and see if Rascal really is thirsty.”

Rascal was a huge brown mongrel, with a wide head and heavy jaws. He snarled as they approached the enclosure, and lunged to the end of his chain. The iron pan that held water was empty. Mary Bean frowned at the pan. She turned on the hose and filled it from a safe distance. Rascal quieted and drank greedily.

“How you ever knew about that pan—” she began. “Anyway, I'd better warn you about Rascal. Thomas is always picking up stray dogs and trying to train them — but this creature was a mistake. He won't let anyone but Thomas go near him. We've got to get rid of him. If he ever broke that chain …”

“He — he won't hurt you.”

“I happen to know better. He's as vicious as they come, and even Thomas — No!
Don't open that gate!
”

He hardly heard her, for he had slipped quickly through the gate and all his attention was on Rascal. He held out his hands, and the big dog came over to him, uncertain, then whining in sudden eagerness, trembling. As he spoke silently he could feel the blackness and the lostness fade away from the brooding creature that now sprang happily upon him.

Thomas Bean, returning, glimpsed the two from the foot of the lane. He sent the truck roaring up to the house and jumped out, calling, “Hey, you crazy kid! Get out of there before —”

His voice died with recognition. Shaken, he limped over to Mary, followed by Brooks and Sally. “Didn't know him with a haircut and those clothes,” he muttered. “Lord preserve me, how did he
ever
make up to Rascal?”

“I'll try to tell you later,” she whispered, “but you won't believe it. Incidentally, I've decided that he's Jimmy O'Connor's boy. We — we've got to explain him somehow.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “Jimmy O'Connor is a good choice. Be hard for anyone to check up on it.”

“Did you learn anything at church?”

“Not a thing. I was surprised to see Gilby and Emma there. They don't belong to our church.”

“They must have come with the Macklins — they're related, you know.”

“Well, the Macklins were all there. They sang as loud as anybody — and they looked well fed on Bean hams.”

“Thomas! You don't actually
know
that they stole our hams last fall.”

“No, I certainly couldn't prove it. Anyway, I drove through town afterward, listened around a bit, and got all the papers I could find. Atlanta
Journal,
Asheville
Times,
and a couple others. There's bound to be something in one of them about a lost boy.”

“Want to make a bet on it?”

“But, Mary, he had to come from
somewhere!
”

Little Jon called from the enclosure, “Please, may — may I take Rascal out? He — he hates the chain.”

“Why, say, you're getting your voice back!” Thomas exclaimed. “You're really progressing, young fellow. Er, I don't know how you made up to Rascal, but I think you'd better leave him where he is.”

“He — he promises to be good.”

“Oh, he
promises,
does he?” Thomas chuckled. “Well, some dogs can break promises the way people do. Maybe, tomorrow …”

Little Jon turned away to hide his disappointment.
He doesn't understand,
he silently told Rascal.
But he will. Be patient, and tomorrow we will play together
.

He heard Thomas say to Mary, “Thank heaven he's able to talk to us. Seems like a pretty bright kid, so it shouldn't be too hard to find out a few facts about him.”

“Thomas,” Mary whispered, “I have something to tell you about his speech. Get a double grip on yourself and come into the house.”

He Makes a Discovery

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
as soon as Brooks and Sally had gone to meet the school bus, Thomas Bean said, “Let's all get down to some facts and see what we can figure out.”

A study of the papers had yielded not the slightest clue, and it had been decided to save all further questions until this time, when they would have the morning to themselves. Little Jon had looked forward hopefully to this moment, yet he approached it with misgivings. His memory still told him nothing. And the Beans, much as he was beginning to love them, were still as strange to him as he was to them.

“Let's start with your clothes,” said Thomas, limping over to the table on which Mary had placed them. “They should tell us a lot. Is everything here?”

“All but my boots — and my knife and belt,” he said. “I'm still wearing them.”

Mary Bean said, “His boots are woven of the same material as the rest of his clothes, only thicker. Even the soles.”

“No leather?” said Thomas.

“Thomas,” she said, “there isn't a scrap of leather in anything he owns.”

“Leather” was a new word. Little Jon asked about it, and was shocked when he learned. “But how — how can you kill another creature for its skin?” he exclaimed.

“That's the way people live, young fellow,” Thomas said, frowning as he wrote something on a piece of paper. “Well, that's another odd fact about you. I'm going to stop being surprised, and just jot down the facts. I learned in the Marines that if you get enough facts together, no matter how queer they may look alone, they'll always add up to something.”

The pencil in Thomas Bean's hand moved swiftly as he intoned, “No leather. Doesn't believe in killing things. Will not eat meat. Seems to know how to — to communicate with animals. H'mm. Clothes, all hand-woven. Material like linen …”

“It's a hundred times stronger than linen,” Mary hastened to say. “The soles of his boots hardly show a sign of wear.”

“Vegetable fiber,” Thomas mumbled, writing. “Tougher than ramie. Dove gray. Designs on hem of jacket in tan and blue. Could be Indian or Siberian —”

“But they're not,” said Mary Bean, “and I don't see any sense in writing all that down when I know the answer.”

“And what
is
the answer, Madame Bean?”

“I — I'm not ready to tell you,” she said. “You should be seeing it for yourself. I think Jon sees it. Do you, Jon?”

He was startled by her thought. “You could be right,” he told her slowly. “I almost believe you are — but I'm not sure yet. You're better able to judge. You have your memory.”

“Hey, what's all this?” Thomas asked curiously.

“Skip it,” Mary told him. “You're the fact finder. Have you listed his English as one of the facts?”

“I'm listing it as a language that he knows.”

“That's not what I mean, Thomas.”

“Oh, come on. It takes years to learn English the way he speaks it. Jon's picked it up somewhere — he'd forgotten it temporarily. That crack on the head —”

“No,” said Little Jon. “Your language is new to me. I'm sure I never heard it until you spoke it. But I find it — easy.”

“Oh, I don't doubt your word,” said Thomas Bean, “but English just
seems
strange to you. There isn't a living soul who can pick it up in a day or two. That's absolutely impossible. The thing is, you're able to sort of know our thoughts before we speak them. That's an unusual ability — though I've heard of people who can do it. Anyway, it's an ability that's helping you to relearn English as fast as you hear it. Doesn't that sound right to you?”

Little Jon shook his head. “No, sir. I — I don't
think
in English. There's another language I —”

“We'll come to that in a minute. It's all adding up.”

“What about cars and money?” Mary Bean asked quickly. “Can you add those up with the rest of it?”

“Certainly,” said Thomas. He was pacing back and forth with his awkward step, one hand rubbing his deeply lined face while he frowned at his notes. “It's beginning to make sense. Even the fact that he knows about radios, and nothing about some other things. How's this:

“Jon was raised in a foreign country, in a very remote district. He learned to speak the language of that district — probably before he learned English. Because it was a primitive sort of place, there was no money, and all trade was by barter. Naturally there'd been no cars there. But his folks had a radio so they could keep in touch with the outside world. Wouldn't be surprised if his folks were missionaries. Sound right to you?”

Mary said, “Why must you be so — so reasonable, Thomas? But go ahead. Name some places like that.”

“Oh, that's easy. I've been in a number of them. Parts of India, the Middle East, North Africa, and even South America. Those clothes could have been woven by Indians in the Andes.”

“Nonsense,” Mary said. “Those people weave only with animal fibers and cotton. The material in Jon's clothes didn't come from any of the places you mentioned.”

“Well, where
did
it come from?”

“Not from any place you know about — and while you're thinking of places, you might consider
how
he got here. That really stumps me.”

“He must have flown, Mary.”

“In what kind of plane, Thomas?”

“Oh, a small private one, I'd say — one that hasn't been missed yet. It
has
to be that. There's no other solution. You see, when we found him he was still wearing the clothes he must have put on when he left home. He'd hardly be wearing such odd-looking things if he had been in this country long enough to change them. I wish I'd thought of this earlier! He must have come in a plane, and it must have crashed somewhere here in the mountains. We'd better organize a search —”

Mary was shaking her head. “No, Thomas. Jon has never seen a plane in his life. He saw pictures of some in one of our magazines yesterday, and asked me what they were.”

Thomas stared at her, then turned. “Is that true, Jon?”

“Yes, sir. I'm certain I've never been in a plane, Mr. Bean.”

“But your memory, Jon —”

“My lost memory doesn't keep me from knowing familiar things,” he said earnestly.

“H'mm. Well, what
is
familiar to you?”

“Radios are familiar, sir. Books are very familiar. Deer and — and singing birds, and birds like chickens — are all familiar. And dogs.”

“Cows and horses?”

“Horses, yes. But I'm sure I never saw a creature quite like a cow before, or machines like planes and automobiles. Of course, the
idea
of all those machines is familiar, and some of them seem familiar, like spaceships, and —”

“Spaceships?”

Mary Bean said, “He saw some drawings of spaceships in one of the magazines.”

“But I've never been in one,” Little Jon hastened to say. “It's just that I feel I've seen them. They are not strange like — like snakes and cows and — and the language you speak.”

Thomas Bean sat down. He began snapping his fingers, his face blank. Speech seemed to have deserted him.

Mary laughed. “You wanted facts, Mr. Sherlock Holmes Bean. We'll toss a couple more at you. Jon, show him your knife. I'll get the clip.”

The clip was gold filigree, set with a blue stone. The knife, which had been entirely hidden by its woven sheath, was small, with a short, thin blade that looked like gold. Its handle was of finely carved wood, with a blue stone set in the golden hilt.

“Well?” said Mary, after Thomas had been examining the articles silently for several minutes. “You've been around, Mr. Bean. You're supposed to know something of gems and jewelry. Where were those things made?”

Thomas shook his head. “I've never seen such work. If these stones are real — but of course they can't be. Star sapphires like these … h'mm.” He picked up a sliver of wood from the fireplace and sliced it with the knife. “Sharp as a razor! Must be a special gold alloy.”