WITH GRATITUDE TO
JENET JOHNSON
Who taught me how to write the short story
AND TO
SNOW LONGLEY HOUSH
Who taught me poetry at Los Angeles High School
A long time ago
AND TO
JACKGUSS
Who helped with this novel not so long ago
Contents
PROLOGUE
I. ARRIVALS
II. PURSUITS
III. DEPARTURES
Man is in love, and loves what vanishes.
W. B. YEATS
They sleep not, except they have done mischief;
And their sleep is taken away,
Unless they cause some to fall
For they eat the bread of wickedness,
And they drink the wine of violence.
PROVERBS 4: 16-17
I know not all that may be coming, but be it what
It will, I’ll go to it laughing.
STUBB in Moby Dick
PROLOGUE
First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren’t rare. But there be bad abd good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: schoool begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet. July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away.
But you take October, now. School’s been on a month and you’re riding easier in the reins, jogging along. You got time to think of the garbage you’ll dump on old man Prickett’s porch, or the hairy-ape costume you’ll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month. And if it’s around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash grey at twilight, it seems Hallowe’en will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.
But one strange wild dark long year, Hallowe’en came early.
One year Hallowe’en came on October 24, three hours after midnight.
At that time, James Nightshade
of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands.
And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more. . .
I
Arrivals
1
The seller of lightning-rods arrived just ahead of the storm. He came along the street of Green Town, Illinois, in the late cloudy October day, sneaking glances over his shoulder. Somewhere not so far back, vast lightnings stomped the earth. Somewhere, a storm like a great beast with terrible teeth could not be denied.
So the salesman jangled and clanged his huge leather kit in which oversized puzzles of ironmongery lay unseen but which his tongue conjured from door to door until he came at last to a lawn which was cut all wrong.
No, not the grass. The salesman lifted his gaze. But two boys, far up the gentle slope, lying on the grass. Of a like size and general shape, the boys sat carving twig whistles, talking of olden or future times, content with having left their fingerprints on every movable object in Green Town during summer past and their footprints on every open path between here and the lake and there and the river since school began.
‘Howdy, boys!’ called the man all dressed in storm-coloured clothes. ‘Folks home?’
The boys shook their heads.
‘Got any money, yourselves?’
The boys shook their heads.
‘Well – ‘ The salesman walked about three feet, stopped and hunched his shoulders. Suddenly he seemed aware of house windows or the cold sky staring at his neck. He turned slowly, sniffing the air. Wind rattled the empty trees.
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