Tigerheart Page 3

  He spoke of all these things, and also felt obliged to inform the doctor that the doctor’s shadow had been making all manner of mocking gestures on the wall behind him. Shadows always do that when no one is watching. The doctor obligingly turned and looked and, of course, the shadow snapped back to its normal quizzical “why are you looking at me?” manner.

  The doctor then held up a mirror to Paul and asked to speak to The Boy. There was The Boy in the mirror, as he usually was these days, save when he was being petulant; but in the spirited gamesmanship so typical of him, The Boy chose that moment to imitate—down to the slightest gesture—everything that Paul did, making him indistinguishable from a normal reflection.

  Finally the doctor gave some medicine to Paul’s mother, and explained to Paul that although he actually wasn’t feeling sick, that was okay, it wasn’t a sickness like a cold but rather a kind of sickness that came from sadness. Paul was to take this medicine, and then he would feel much happier and better and calmer, and never ever walk around with mice in his mouth (which didn’t upset Paul) and never ever talk to animals or pixies or whatever again (which did upset Paul). He was not at all anxious to stop talking to his friends, but his mother said to him sternly, “Paul, you must be grown-up about this.” Well! That was all that was required, for Paul knew the importance of such a goal, and so he downed the medicine without complaint.

  The next day, his reflection was merely glowering at him, and when he would call The Boy by name, The Boy simply turned away.

  By the day after that, The Boy wasn’t acting like The Boy, but instead like Paul.

  By the day after that, Paul was beginning to wonder why in the world he’d ever thought he was The Boy.

  Now—let us talk about the Irishman.

  It should be noted that the Irishman was a witness to all that transpired in Kensington Gardens. We made no mention of him at the time because it was really Paul’s business that was under discussion. The man would have intruded into the tale in a very noisy fashion; and he was disinclined to do so, because ultimately he is a rather polite sort, even if he does claim piratical leanings. So we respected his wishes and kept him out of the proceedings for as long as we reasonably could. But now we must clear our throat; tap on his virtual, if not literal, dressing room door; and bring him to center stage in order to proceed.

  The Irishman had a grizzled beard and tufts of white hair, and tended to squint through spectacles that were perpetually perched upon the end of his nose. He was shabbily dressed, sported a battered felt hat, and wore a small placard tied around his neck. At the moment the placard was backward so that whatever words might have been printed upon the front were unviewable. When he was not working, if his work could be called working, he would hang about in Kensington Gardens to see if there were any children worth killing. He did notice one or two on occasion, but could never quite muster the energy.

  When he watched Paul going about his business, however, he instantly knew Paul as the type of boy who could, should, and must be killed. Every day he would sit upon his favorite bench, watch Paul yammer and chatter in an easy fraternal manner with the subtler residents of the Park, and come up with all the best ways to bring terminal mischief upon the lad.

  Paul stopped coming by Kensington Gardens during the week or so it took the medicine to work its magic, which the Irishman did not know. We could have told him, of course; but we find it’s preferable to let the characters in the drama find these things out for themselves, lest they discover too much too fast and wind up stampeding toward the end of the book having learned none of what they were supposed to in their journey. The Irishman had almost given up hope of having the opportunity to kill the lad, but was both delighted and dismayed to spot him one day ambling through the Gardens in much his normal routine, briefly thought abandoned.

  He watched Paul walk away down the Broad Walk, without—as always—a mother in tow. This was fine insofar as the Irishman was concerned; for in his experience, mothers were nothing but a blamed nuisance. Paul got ahead of him and seemed to disappear and reappear almost at will, leading the Irishman to conclude that one of Paul’s parents was probably Irish, explaining possible leprechaun leanings that the Irishman could usually spot at twenty feet away.

  The Irishman stalked Paul while trying to remain casual, and finally caught up with him at two small tombstones. One read “W. St. M.” and the other “13a P. P. 1841.” Paul was staring at them, his hands behind his back. The Irishman came up slowly, prepared to both stab and shoot Paul just to make certain. He was prevented from doing this by two things: Paul’s suddenly turning and looking him right in the eyes, and the fact that he was unarmed.

  “I used to wonder if The Boy was buried beneath that one,” said Paul.

  He was pointing at the tombstone with “P.P.” upon it. The notion took the Irishman aback, and he looked leeways and sideways and thriceways at Paul, and then said, “I don’t think so. The year’s wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” Paul reasoned. “Maybe The Boy is just a boy who died and doesn’t know it, and won’t admit it, so he’s stuck in between, too lively to be dead, too dead to be alive.”

  “He was wounded. By Hack. Wounded and nearly died from it. How could one nearly die from a wound if one is not truly alive?”

  Paul nodded but then said, “He liked to pretend. Perhaps he pretended he was wounded.”

  “That could be,” allowed the Irishman. “That would be like him. To have the last laugh on Hack by being unkillable, since he’s already killed.”

  “So you know the stories of him, then?”

  “Stories? Who said we were talking about stories?”

  The true significance of the words filtered slowly through Paul’s mind, and then he turned and looked up at the Irishman as if truly seeing him, and understanding him, for the first time.

  “I was making things up just now,” Paul said. “Talking about The Boy as if he really was, when he’s just the stuff of dreams.”

  “Why should he be any different from the rest of us?”

  Paul tried to determine whether that was wise or just obscure, and didn’t bother to decide. Cautiously he asked the question he’d been afraid to voice, because it seemed to get him into trouble when he did. “Am I The Boy?” he said.

  “No,” said the Irishman, and then looked at him closer. “You look a bit like him though. Around the eyes. Enough around the eyes to stir up some bad memories.”

  “Were you about to kill me, then?” Paul said.

  “No. No, no, no. Yes, but no. Yes, in that I intended to do it, but no, in that I intended to lie about it.”

  “Have you killed many boys?”

  “Not hereabouts. Not for a while. If ever. My memory on that score is a bit patchy, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Oh. Well, I wish you wouldn’t do it now.”

  The Irishman considered this, then shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll do the next best thing to killing you. I’ll help you.”

  “You can’t kill someone by helping him.”

  “Course you can,” said the Irishman. “Best way, in fact. Whole races of people, poor devils didn’t know how unhappy they were, and the only way to help them was to kill off every last one of them. So what do you need helping with, then?”

  “Well,” said Paul, “I told a doctor about how I talk to animals and pixies and such, and he gave me medicine for it so I’d stop talking to them.”

  “Ahhh,” said the Irishman, and he began to walk. “Does it make you happy, taking it?”

  “No. I was hoping it would make my mum happy, but it’s not. But she’s unhappy about so many other things.”

  “What else is she unhappy about?”

  So Paul told the Irishman about all that had transpired. At random times the Irishman interjected such thoughtful comments as “Tut-tut!” and “I should say!” and “Looks like it’s going to be one of those, eh?” which was how Paul would have known he was speaking to a genuine grown-up, had the whiskers not
been a dead giveaway.

  “Well,” the Irishman said at last, once Paul had finished his recitation, “it’s fairly clear what needs to be done, eh?”

  “Is it?” said Paul, politely bewildered.

  “Isn’t it to you? If your mother is so upset about the loss of a baby daughter, then what’s the obvious answer?”

  Paul gave it a good deal of consideration. “To find her another?”

  “Exactly!” said the Irishman, who actually had figured that putting poison in the mother’s tea, or perhaps blowing her up, was the most elegant means with which to deal with the woman’s sorrow. But Paul’s suggestion seemed workable as well, plus it had the merit of not attracting the local constabulary.

  “Perhaps the Anyplace can help me!” Paul said with growing excitement. “It is the place where dreams are given substance. So if I can go there and dream of making my mother happy, perhaps I can return from there with the means to do so.”

  “What,” said the Irishman with genuine interest, “does your Anyplace look like? They vary, you know.”

  “Lately, my Anyplace looks much like my nursery, with my mother simply glowering at me or staring at an empty infant bed, and I’ve been unable to tread upon the more distant shores. I used to have a white tiger—fur white as snow—that stalked the Anyplace. He was mine and I his, and we moved through the jungle together while all others faded away from us in fear; but I haven’t seen him or the jungle for a very long time.”

  “There is a shop,” the Irishman said abruptly. He told Paul where it was, and I will not repeat it to you here, for it would be precipitous and possibly send far more people to the shop than its proprietor would care to handle. If you give it a great deal of consideration just before you go to sleep, perhaps you will find the location whispered to your nearly dreaming mind. Whether you can keep it with you upon waking is entirely your own problem, and best of luck to you.

  “If you have the stuff of it,” the Irishman said, “you will find what you need there.”

  “And what is it that I need?”

  “You will know it when you see it,” the Irishman said. “And if you do not see it, then you will never know it, and that’s the truth of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to work.”

  “What work is that?”

  The Irishman turned the card around, and Paul read the words: THE ONLY MAN CAPT. HACK FEARED. Below that, in smaller but equally meticulous print, it said, HANDSHAKES, ONE QUID. PHOTOS, TWO QUID.

  “The proprietor’s name is Starkly,” said the Irishman. “Tell him the Irish pirate sent you. And tell him that the Irish pirate told him not to kill you.” He lowered his voice and added, a bit abashed, “Our killing days are long past us, truth to tell. Plus, there’s a depressing lack of boys trying to kill us, and without them having at us, it seems bullying to have at them. Being a pirate is one thing, but we don’t have to be bullies about it now, do we?”

  With that confession off his chest and feeling far better for it, the Irishman swaggered off, moving as if he were still striding the deck of a pirate ship.

  Late that afternoon, Paul pretended to take his medicine, but he did not do so. He crawled into bed at the appointed time. Long minutes turned into hours, and hours into days and years and centuries, for that was how long it seemed to Paul that he lay there. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he flung off the bedclothes and stomped to the mirror.

  His reflection stood there, defiant, indistinguishable from himself. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew it was The Boy. He was taunting him. Confusing him. Leaving Paul unable to determine whether he himself was The Boy, or if The Boy just existed in the mirror to torment him; or perhaps it was another scenario entirely that he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  “Boy!” he said in his most commanding tone. “Come here, Boy!”

  The Boy in the mirror mimicked him, mocking him with the perfection of his imitation. A pantomime. “I need to go to the Anyplace!” Paul said. “I need to know how, or learn how, or remember how! I need you to teach me or remind me! I need to find happiness for my mother. And you’ve got to help me!”

  Nothing. Nothing to indicate that he was anything except a simple mirror image, except…there. There in the eyes, the slightest flash of the mocking contempt in which The Boy obviously held him.

  “Why are you doing this?” said Paul. “Why are you being this way? Why? Why?”

  And The Boy, from the protection of the mirror, said, “Because I thought you were different. I thought you were like me. But you are not. You want to be like them, and go places I do not, and, deep down you wish I wanted to grow up as you do. You even wanted to make me go away so that you could keep your mother happy. Mothers betray you. Always. Always,” he said sharply, angrily. “And you want to leave me behind so you can make her happy, then wonder why I’ll have nothing more to do with you?”

  “I need you,” Paul said. “I need you to bring me to the Anyplace. I need your help.”

  “No,” The Boy said carelessly. “I’ve other things to do and other games to play. I’m done playing with you.”

  “But I’m not done with you,” Paul said hotly. “I’ll—I’ll find another way to get there, then! I’ll make you help me! I will!”

  The Boy, gay and heartless as always, threw wide his arms and laughed.

  And Paul grabbed at the mirror, yanked it as hard as he could, and sent it crashing to the floor. The mirror shattered, sending glass everywhere. The impact brought his mother running in, and she surveyed the damage with wide eyes, shaking her head. Then she looked at Paul and said intensely, “Did you take your medicine today?”

  Paul, who had kept the pill tucked in his cheek until he found a private moment to spit it out, lied to his mother for the first time in his life. “Yes,” he said.

  She grunted, not looking entirely convinced, and told him to step back away from the glass until she could return with a broom and dustpan to clean it up. When she walked away, he carefully picked up a shard of glass. He saw smirking lips within.

  “I’m coming for you,” he whispered.

  “Catch me if you can,” said the mouth of The Boy.

  Chapter 3

  “Did You Not Hear That?”

  Even with the address in hand, the next day Paul had a good deal of trouble locating the shop to which the Irishman had referred him. It was in a bustling market area, the exact type of place where a young lad could very easily feel overwhelmed. Paul did not feel overwhelmed, nor under-whelmed, but simply whelmed. It was a task, to be sure, but merely the first task on what would doubtless be a lengthier undertaking; and so he set his mind to achieving it as efficiently as possible.

  He was loath to ask any of the passing adults for the curio shop run by the fellow named Starkly, because he had long ago noticed—as I’m sure we all have—that adults in these types of situations are far more interested in asking their own questions than providing answers. Watch: Just to show you, Paul will ask the first adult crossing his path where to find Starkly’s curio shop.

  “And what is a young fellow like yourself doing out and about on his own, eh?”

  You see? Simple question, nonanswer. So we shall allow the adult to go on his way by calling to him in a loud voice so as to distract him, permitting Paul to slip sideways and disappear into the crowd of noontime buyers. After all, do we really wish to drag truant agents and such into a nice day as this? Certainly they have better things to do, as do we all.

  Paul made his way past the array of bookstores, fruit stands, clothing shops of endless variety. He was certain he was in the correct general area, but was still having trouble finding specifically the place he was looking for. Then he hit upon a notion. He recalled all the times that his mother had said that something was always in the last place one looks for it. So Paul resolved, in order to save time, to skip all the other places and head straight to the last one. Naturally he found the shop immediately.

  There was the door right in front of him, with
a sign that said CURIOS etched in fading gilt letters. There was no mention of the name “Starkly,” but that did not deter Paul. He was quite certain that he was in the right place, and the reason was that he heard the bell calling him.

  Paul didn’t head straight into the shop. Instead, he stared at the dust-smeared front window, trying to make out anything there that might have some sort of value. And as he stood there, the front door to the place kept opening and closing, not because a flow of customers was steadily entering and leaving the shop, but because the (presumable) proprietor kept poking his head out, looking around, and then closing the door again, not unlike a rabbit peeking out of its hutch to make sure there were no predators about.

  Each time he did so, a small bell that hung upon the door chimed musically. But it did not ring in the same manner as other bells that Paul had heard in his life. Instead, it almost seemed to be calling to Paul, with a sense of urgency.

  Paul glanced right and left, not because he thought he was being observed but because that was simply what one was supposed to do when embarking on an adventure. Then he scampered across the busy street, walked up to the door, and thrust it open.

  He was powerfully struck by the thick, musty smell. It was almost as if he were entering another world altogether, for the one in which he lived seemed always to be focusing on what was happening next, whereas this place smelled of a past that would always be and a future that would never come.

  He sensed rather than saw a movement in the darkness, and then a man was standing over him. It was the very proprietor who had been poking his head out. He had a round club that Paul instantly recognized as a belaying pin, and he was holding it high over his head with the obvious intention of bringing it crashing down upon Paul’s skull.

  He froze as Paul stared at him. Nothing was said for a long moment, and then Paul said, “Are you planning to try and kill me with that?”

  “This? No,” the man immediately said. He had a gentle, soft-spoken manner, something more common to a schoolteacher perhaps. “I was simply holding it up to the light to see it better. Would you mind turning away, please? I can examine it better if you’re not watching.”