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Chapter 44
Somewhere near, Charles Halloway’s hand lay in a white-hot furnace, melted to sheer nerve and pain. He opened his eyes. At the same moment he heard a great breath as the front door swung shut and a woman’s voice came singing in the hall:
“Old man, old man, old man, old man…?”
Where his left hand should be was this swelled blood pudding which pulsed with such ecstasies of pain it fed forth his life, his will, his whole attention. He tried to sit up, but the pain hammerblowed him down again “Old man…?”
Not old! Fifty-four’s not old, he thought wildly.
And here she came on the worn stone floors, her moth-fingers tapping, sca
Charles Halloway hunched and crawled, hunched and crawled, toward the nearest stack, cramming pain back with his tongue. He must climb out of reach, climb where books might be weapons flung down upon any night-crawling pursuer…
“Old man, hear you breathing…”
She on his tide, let her body be summoned by every sibilant hiss of his pain.
“Old man, feel your hurt…”
If he could fling the hand, the pain, out the window where it might lie beating like a heart, summoning her away, tricked, to go seek this awful fire. Bent in the street, he imagined her brisking her palms at this throb, an abandoned chunk of delirium.
But no, the hand stayed, glowed, poisoned the air, hurrying the strange nun-Gypsy’s tread as she gasped her avaricious mouth most ardently.
“Damn you!” he cried. “Get it over with! I’m here!”
So the Witch wheeled swift as a black clothes dummy on rubber rollers and swayed over him.
He did not even look at her. Such weights and pressures of despair and exertion fought for his attention, he could only free his eyes to watch the inside of his lids upon which multiple and ever changing looms of terror jigged and gamboled.
“Very simple.” The whisper bent low. “Stop the heart!”
Why not, he thought, vaguely.
“Slow,” she murmured.
Yes, he thought.
“Slow, very slow.”
His heart, once bolting, now fell away to a strange, ease, disquiet, then quiet, then ease.
“Much more slow, slow…” she suggested.
Tired, yes, you hear that, heart? he wondered.
His heart heard. Like a tight fist it began to relax, a finger at a time.
“Stop all for good, forget all for good,” she whispered.
Well, why not?
“Slower… slowest.”
His heart stumbled.
And then for no reason, save perhaps for a last look around, because he did want to get rid of the pain, and sleep was the way to do that… Charles Halloway opened his eyes.
He saw the Witch.
He saw her fingers working at the air, his face, his body, the heart within his body, and the soul within the heart. Her swamp breath flooded him while, with immense curiosity, he watched the poisonous drizzle from her lips, counted the folds in her stitch-wrinkled eyes, the Gila monster neck, the mummy-linen ears, the dry-rivulet riversand brow. Never in his life had he focused so nearly to a person, as if she were a puzzle, which once touched together might show life’s greatest secret. The solution was in her, it would all spring clear this moment, no, the next, no, the next, watch her scorpion fingers! hear her chant as she diddled the air, yes, diddled was it, tickling, tickling, “Slow!” she whispered. “Slow!” And his obedient heart pulled rein. Diddle-tickle went her fingers.
Charles Halloway snorted. Faintly, he giggled.
He caught this. Why? Why am I… giggling… at such a time!?
The Witch pulled back the merest quarter inch as if some strange but hidden electric light socket, touched with wet whorl, gave shock.
Charles Halloway saw but did not see her flinch, sensed but seemed in no way to consider her withdrawal, for almost immediately, seizing the initiative, she flung herself forward, not touching, but mutely gesticulating at his chest as one might try to spell an antique clock pendulum.
“Slow!” she cried.
Senselessly, he permitted an idiot smile to balloon itself up from somewhere to attach itself with careless ease under his nose.
“Slowest!”
Her new fever, her anxiety which changed itself to anger was even more of a toy to him. A part of his attention, secret until now, leaned forward to scan every pore of her Halloween face. Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seemed a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite u
Of itself, like a child born of an unsuspecting parent, one single raw laugh broke free.
The Witch swooned back.
Charles Halloway did not see. He was far too busy letting the joke rush through his fingers, letting hilarity spring forth of it’s own volition along his throat, eyes squeezed shut; there it flew, whipping shrapnel in all directions.
“You!” he cried, to no one, everyone, himself, her, them, it, all. “Fu
“No,” the Witch protested.
“Stop tickling!” he gasped.
“Not!” she lunged back, frantically. “Not! Sleep! Slow! Very slow!”
“No tickling is all it is, for sure,” he roared. “Oh, ha! Ha, stop!”
“Yes, stop heart!” she squealed. “Stop blood.” Her own heart must have shaken like a tambourine; her hands shook. In mid-gesticulation she froze and became, aware of the silly fingers.
“Oh, my God!” He wept beautiful glad tears. “Get off my ribs, oh, ha, go on, my heart!”
“Your heart, yesssssss!”
“God!” He popped his eyes wide, gulped air, released more soap and water washing everything clear, incredibly clean. “Toys! The key sticks out your back! Who wound you up!?”
And the largest roar of all, flung at the woman, burnt her hands, seared her face, or so it seemed, for she seized herself as from a blast furnace, wrapped her fried hands in Egyptian rags, gripped her dry dugs, skipped back, gave pause, then started a slow retreat, nudged, pushed, pummeled inch by inch, foot by foot, clattering bookracks, shelves, fumbling for handholds on volumes that thrashed free as she scrambled them down. Her brow knocked dim histories, vain theories, duned-up time, promised but compromised years. Chased, bruised, beaten by his laugh which echoed, rang, swam to fill the marble vaults, she whirled at last, claws razoring the wild air and fled to fall downstairs.
Moments later, she managed to cram herself through the front door, which slammed!
Her fall, the door slam, almost broke his frame with laughter.
“Oh God, God, please stop, stop yourself!” he begged of his hilarity.
And thus begged, his humor let be.
In mid-roar, at last, all faded to honest laughter, pleasant chuckling, faint giggling, then softly and with great contentment receiving and giving, breath, shaking his happy-weary head, the good ache of action in his throat and ribs, gone from his crumpled hand. He lay against the stacks, head leaned to some dear befriending book, the tears of releaseful mirth salting his cheeks, and suddenly knew her gone.
Why? he wondered. What did I do?
With one last bark of mirth, he rose up, slow.