The Gray House

“Horrible!” Tabaqui counters, swaying back and forth in his Mustang. “Don’t listen to him, Black. He’s just been telling me about all the ghastly things happening in the Sepulcher, so ghastly I wouldn’t even venture to repeat them.”

Black winks at me, with the eye that Tabaqui can’t see.

“And what does Sphinx say about it?”

“Sphinx didn’t hear that. He wasn’t here at the time.”

“No, I mean what does he say about him returning, not about the Sepulcher.”

“About Smoker returning he has so far said nothing,” Tabaqui explains readily, “which means he probably won’t be saying anything about it. If he has something to say, he either says it right away or doesn’t say it at all. Anyway, whatever you say or don’t say, he’s been returned, and that’s the end of it.”

Black finishes the milk in one gulp, crumples the pack, long-tosses it in the trash bin, and says, “What I mean is, if he decides to say something after all, I’m ready to take Smoker. Anytime. Tell him that when you see him.”

He gets up from the table, smooths out the tablecloth, says “See you around,” and leaves.

“How incredibly kind of him,” Tabaqui fumes. “He’s always ready to add another Hound to the eighteen he already has, but only if Sphinx starts behaving like a crotchety old maid and says something untoward. I’m so touched I’m going to cry!”

“Listen, you promised to take me to Humpback,” I remind him. “Could we go already?”

“We could,” Tabaqui mutters darkly. “Unless you are of the opinion that I am now required to pass Chief Hound’s message to Sphinx while it’s still steaming.”

“I am not. The message can wait.”

“Let’s ride, then.”

Tabaqui takes a battered acid-green baseball cap out of his backpack, shakes it out, and shoves it down on top of his shock of unruly curls.

“I’m ready. Don’t leave the cigarettes, they’d be gone before we get two feet away.”

It’s warmer out in the yard than inside the House. A group of fully clothed Bandar-Logs are sunning themselves, splayed theatrically against the wall. They quietly acknowledge us from under their drawn-down caps as we drive by.

“Like a firing squad’s just been,” Tabaqui notes. “Except there’s no blood.”

The oak gives a dense, almost purple shadow. The dappled sun plays on the gnarly trunk. Tabaqui turns off the path into the grass, stops, and rummages in his backpack.

“He’s got a whole system set up,” he explains. “With every visitor having a distinct call, and a way to communicate the reason for coming over. As a hint that we shouldn’t bother him too much. Because you know how it is, there’s this rumor now that he can see into the future, so they started coming here in droves. Ruined the lawn. It’s strange, really. All it takes is climbing up a tree, and suddenly you’re a prophet.”

Not pausing for a second, Tabaqui takes out his harmonica, wipes it off, puts it to his mouth, and starts tootling the Rain Song.

I look up at the oak. From here it’s hard to tell where Humpback’s tent is, let alone Humpback himself. It’s all vaguely canvas-y, half-hidden in the canopy. I peer at one flap, shielding my eyes from the rays piercing the mass of leaves, and imagine that those are Humpback’s underpants drying on the clothesline, and somewhere higher up he has pots and pans hanging off the branches, and strings of dried acorns, and maybe right now he’s working on some mysterious concoction of oak leaves, June bugs, and crow guano. While I’m picturing all that, here he comes, in the flesh, tanned almost black, shaggy and half-naked, looking very much the hermit, the whites of his eyes flashing and some trinket on a string around his neck jingling.

He sits down in a fork of two thick branches and crosses his bare legs. Not high and not low. Too high for us. A walker could probably reach him.

“Hi!” Tabaqui waves the harmonica. “See? Smoker’s back. And he’s staying until graduation. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

“Who indeed,” Humpback says.

He’s only got his boxers on. The hair is cinched on the forehead by a grubby-looking cord. I don’t think he’d be able to see anything otherwise. He isn’t surprised by what Jackal has just told him. No wonder, since he surely spotted me before coming down.

As Tabaqui rattles off the latest news, he keeps looking over the oak and its inhabitant in a proprietary sort of way, like a native guide showing off a famous landmark to a chance tourist. I am the tourist and Humpback is the landmark, so we’re both silent. Humpback keeps his eyes on the lawn and the Logs in the distance. I’m watching the lower branches of the oak and his bare legs.

“So, what do you have to say about all this?” Tabaqui demands, having disposed of the news.

“Say?” Humpback looks up distractedly. “I’d say that it’s all probably for the best. What else can I say? Excuse me, this is not a very comfortable place for sitting.”

He nods at us, with not a hint of a smile, gets up, and disappears in the branches. We hear the rustle as he climbs up, and quickly lose sight of him.