The Gray House

Magician started playing, and indeed also singing, even though no one had asked him to. He must have decided to showcase all of his talents at once. He had a high-pitched, piercing voice, and he pulled off both playing and singing with confidence. It was obvious that he was really good at both, and that this voice was not an impediment for him. Everyone clustered around, except Stinker, who was still busy with his drawing.

Magician was wailing in his tragic falsetto, swaying back and forth over the guitar, singing along with the licks, pa-dam, pa-dam, shaking his bangs, and staring distractedly at the wall. By the end of the song his voice was hoarse, and he had tears in his eyes. The next song he played without singing or announcing its title. The third one he dubbed “Tango of Death,” and in it he bungled the melody once. Magician’s songs made Grasshopper sad, and not only him but the others too, apparently.

“I can also play the violin,” Magician said after dispatching “Tango of Death.” He added, “And trumpet. And also accordion, a little bit.”

“When did you manage all this?” Wolf said, surprised.

Magician twanged a string a couple of times.

“I just did. Just like that.”

Suddenly his sharp face lost the veneer of self-satisfaction and twisted in a grimace. He turned away.

He must be remembering something from the Outsides, Grasshopper thought. Something good that happened to him there.

“Do the trick with the handkerchief,” Grasshopper said. “You know, your best one.”

Magician started digging through his pockets.

“It doesn’t work every time,” he warned. “I really should be practicing more.”

Stinker wheeled away from the wall and regarded Magician with interest. Behind his back, in the corner that had been assigned to him, something creepy was now visible, with a flattened nose and bugged-out eyes, and covered in spots. Everyone turned to the something and forgot all about the magic tricks. Even Magician quit his search for the handkerchief.

“What is that thing?” Wolf asked, horrified. “What were you trying to make?”

“It’s a goblin,” Stinker explained smugly. “Life-sized. Isn’t he pretty?”

“Yep,” Humpback said. “So pretty we’d better cover him up.”

Stinker took this as a compliment.

“No, really?” he said. “Is it heart-stopping?”

“Certainly is,” Humpback confirmed. “Especially if someone wanders into that corner at night with a flashlight. That’ll stop it for sure.”

Stinker giggled.

“Can you show me how to make juice?” Beauty said and handed him the orange.

Stinker grabbed it and peeled it in a flash. Divided it into sections and stuffed them in his mouth. He then explained to a stunned Beauty, “Not enough for juicing. Much better to just eat it.” He generously handed Beauty the last sloppy, half-squashed section and said, “Here. Have this. It’s good for you. Vitamin C and all.”

SMOKER

ON MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN BLACK SHEEP

Silence. And the smells of dust and mold. That’s what the Crossroads is at night. I was sitting beside the barrel where something raggedy and moribund was trying to grow, touching this skeleton of a plant and reading the messages. They covered the barrel from top to bottom. Boar, Poplar, Nail . . . All unfamiliar nicks. The darkened letters looked like old carvings, partially obliterated. But some things were still legible.

Crossroads was illuminated by two wall fixtures. One with a purple shade, in the corner with the TV set. The other, with a cracked blue glass cover, over the low, battered armchair by the opposite wall. The central space between them, containing the sofa, the withered plants, and myself, was shrouded in darkness. I almost had to read with my fingers, the way Blind did. Or sometimes with the help of a lighter. A rather pointless pursuit, but still better than nothing.

THE COELACANTHS ARE EXTINCT, BUT NOT REALLY, a message declared cryptically. Next to it, one Saurus intimated: FOLLOWING THE PATH OF THE COYOTE. Exactly where, he did not elaborate. To extinction, probably. Below it was a poem dedicated to a girl. AND TO YOUR LEGS, AND TO YOUR ARMS, AND RUMPTY-TUMPTY-TUMPTY-TUM . . . The poem was incredibly clunky, and obviously had in mind some specific girl. Otherwise the author wouldn’t have mentioned her “piebald curls.” I wasn’t sure what “piebald” meant exactly, but applied to hair it definitely wasn’t a color worthy of poetic praise.