The Gray House

I had barely enough time to collect my thoughts after seeing Needle’s outfit before an even more stunning thing happened. Two people from the tent camp showed up. A man, lanky, unshaven, and undernourished, and a woman, big boned, with broad shoulders and massive arms. They came with Alexander. He invited them to sit on his bed and gave each a cup of coffee, like it was something natural and expected. Like they were in the habit of popping in nightly for a coffee.

They themselves obviously weren’t feeling it the same way Alexander did. They looked shy and nervous, sitting close to each other, very straight, quiet and tense, keeping their eyes down. There was something strange about their bearing. I would even say weird. I wasn’t alone in wondering why they were here. But no one said anything either—guests are guests, whoever they are, and you’re supposed to be polite with guests.

About five minutes after they appeared, Tabaqui mounted the stepladder, which I assumed had been brought for Vulture, and shouted that he was delighted to welcome all assembled, and happy to announce that he was going to emcee this Fairy Tale Night, “because there seems to be quite a lot of us here, and this requires a degree of coordination.”

Everyone applauded.

“We are waiting for just a couple more guests, and after that we shall begin! I would like to ask those sitting in proximity to candles to be ready to light them on my command.”

Mermaid laughed softly, and her bells tinkled.

“Who else is coming?” Needle asked.

But the last guests were already there. After the tent people I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by anything, but I still was when R One showed up, and with him a bandy-legged old man in a peaked cap.

“That’s the night guard from the third floor,” Lary whispered, leaning down from the bunk to get a better look. “I’ll be damned. Whatever does he need here?”

R One and the old man sat on the bed by the wardrobe.

“Please give a hand for our guests!” Tabaqui squeaked.

Everyone applauded again.

The old man sprang up, swept the cap off, and took a formal bow.

Lary made a curious sound, like something was stuck in his throat, and sat up very straight. He had a look like something really shocking had just happened to him, but I didn’t have time to ask what it was, because Tabaqui declared that everyone was here now and we could start.

They switched off the lights. Red lit the candle nearest to us. He was sitting on the floor in front of me, hugging Tubby.

As soon as it became dark Tabaqui stopped screaming and said in a normal calm voice, “We have plenty of time ahead of us tonight, but still, let us begin.”

NOBLE’S TALE

He found himself in the middle of the road, a place where it was impossible for him to be. Strangely, this fact did not alarm him. Also, something odd happened to his memory. He remembered nothing at all, but he knew somehow that he had ended up here of his own accord, and that it was very important for him to find something.

He was dressed all in black, and in his backpack there was a book in a language unfamiliar to him, a change of clothes, a camera, and a notepad. The notes in the notepad had been clearly made by him, but he didn’t remember when or where. Walking turned out to be very tiring, as did even standing still, so he was mostly sitting on the shoulder and only getting up when he saw a car approaching. Most of the cars weren’t in what you’d call decent shape. At least on the outside. As he sat there he was thumbing idly through the notebook, trying to decipher his own notes. They were mostly illegible, accompanied by drawings with a profusion of arrows pointing in all directions and confusing him even more.

Finally one of the drivers took pity on him and agreed to give him a lift, “but only to the crossroads.” At the crossroads he found a bus stop and a tiny store with two tables inside, making it into a kind of roadside café. The store owner, a kind woman, called him “you poor forgetful little Jumper” and fed him potatoes fried in bacon fat. The smell of the sizzling bacon made him nauseated, but he was hungry and also didn’t want to upset her by refusing her kindness. From her he learned that the buses that stopped here went in three different directions, and one of the names rang a bell, faintly.

“A useless place,” the café owner said. “No work there, don’t even think about it.”

He smiled politely. Blackwood. The name of the “useless place” was calling out to him.

The place did indeed turn out to be useless. But there was something in it. Something unusual, mysterious, existing outside of reality. He stayed. Took a bed in the guesthouse, doing odd jobs and waiting. He knew something was going to happen.