The Gray House

“It’s not because I want it right now. I swear! But they all say that I’m not good for anything, and even those who don’t say it must think the same. They’re all stronger than I am because they all have arms. All of them,” he says with quiet horror. “And if I am going to remain like this until I grow up, there would be nothing I could do about it then. They are all going to remember that I was useless. Always. How am I supposed to become the next Skull then?”

Ancient clears his throat and waves the smoke away.

“Good question. Don’t you think you just might become someone else instead? Two Skulls would be a bit much for one House.”

“All right, not Skull,” Grasshopper agrees. “Someone else. But only if that someone else is like Skull.”

Ancient averts his gaze, unable to look at the empty sleeves and the burning eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

His face is angry now, scaring Grasshopper, even though the anger is not directed at him.

“Right,” Ancient says. “Tell me, who’s the most powerful man in the House?”

“Skull,” Grasshopper says without hesitation.

“And who’s the smartest?”

“Well . . . they say . . . you?”

“Listen, then, to what the smartest man in this big gray box is telling you. There is one way to give the amulet its power back. Only one. It’s very hard. Harder than anything. You’ll have to do everything exactly as I say. Not once, not for a couple of days, but for many, many days. And if you fail to do it completely and fully, even once, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest thing . . .”

Grasshopper shakes his head vigorously.

“If you miss something, or forget, or just get lazy”—Ancient pauses ominously—“the amulet will lose all of its power forever. Might as well throw it in the trash.”

Grasshopper freezes.

“So think about it,” Ancient concludes. “You still have time.”

“Yes,” Grasshopper whispers. “Yes. I’ll do everything. I’m not going to miss or forget.”

“You didn’t even ask what it is that you’re promising to do.”

“I forgot,” Grasshopper admits. “What is it I’m promising to do?”

“Things,” Ancient says mysteriously. “Some of them may even seem dull or boring. For example”—his extinguished cigarette zigzags in the air—“I might order you to think magic words. Every morning as you wake up and every night before you fall asleep. Or say them to yourself very softly. They may sound simple, but you’ll have to repeat them like you mean them. Every time. Or here’s something I might say.” Ancient smiles at his thoughts. “I’d say, ‘Today you’re not allowed to utter a single word.’ And then you must be silent.”

“What about classes? I can’t be completely silent in class.”

“There are no classes on weekends.”

“What if the counselors . . .”

“You see?” Ancient throws up his hands. “You’re already arguing with me. Looking for an out. It doesn’t work like that. Either you agree or you don’t.”

Grasshopper blinks.

“Go hide in the attic, if you have to. But whatever you do that day, you do it in silence. And that’s one of the easy ones. They’ll get harder as we go along. For example, several days of not feeling sorry for yourself. Or not getting angry. That one is very hard. Not even Skull can do that.”

The mention of Skull cheers up disheartened Grasshopper.

“Are all the tasks going to be like that? Like . . .” He searches for the right word. “Brainy?”

“The spirit is more important than the body,” Ancient proclaims. “But if you are referring to the physical side, don’t worry. We’ll do that too. You’re not going to have it easy.”

“Will I have to fight?”

“Not for a while. It’s not essential, really. But for starters, you’re going to kiss both of your heels.”

Grasshopper smiles.

“How so?”

“Simple.” Ancient spreads out the blanket, shakes out the crumbs, and wraps it around himself again. “I’m going to say: ‘On this and this day you are to appear here before me and kiss your heels.’ One, and then the other. While standing, of course. Anyone can do it sitting down. And you’re either going to do it, or forfeit the whole task.”

“When are you going to say that?”

“Not today. And not tomorrow. First things first.”

In Grasshopper’s misty gaze Ancient reads the future, and it definitely includes attempts at kissing the heels. Very soon. Ancient hides his smile in a glass of lemonade. He takes a very long sip, and when he puts away the glass he’s somber again.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says. “I shouldn’t even have told you all of that ahead of time. It’s late. Go, think it over carefully. I’d drop the whole thing if I were you.”

Grasshopper rises up reluctantly.

“I’ve decided. I’m not going to change my mind. I will be silent, and I will be whatever else. Can you give me a task now?”

Ancient looks at his watch.

“That’s it for today,” he says. “The tasks will have to wait until tomorrow. I need to remember all the magic words. And a lot of other things too. Now go and think. Good night.”

“Good night.”