Ширли Мерфи - The Grass Tower

When she felt better, she wondered why she was sitting there like that; she got out of bed at once and went straight to the door that led into the hall, opened it quietly, and started along the corridor, the tiles cold beneath her bare feet. She knew exactly where she was going, guiding herself in the darkness by the railing on her left; below the rail, the living room lay like a dark pool—though she didn’t know how she knew that, for she could see nothing. There was something she wanted, some reason she had come out; she was not afraid in the darkness. When she reached the room at the end of the corridor, she opened the door quietly and, knowing just where, began to rifle blindly through cupboards and drawers, running her hands through silk and soft thin wool. Her hands felt for a small piece of metal. Jewelry? She could not make it out; but it would have uneven protrusions—a winged thing, she felt. Part of her was terrified at what she was doing, and part of her knew the room was empty.

It was as if there were layers to her mind; she was afraid, and yet she was not afraid. She knew this house, and she did not know it. She felt as if there were things in her mind she could not describe even to herself; she felt a strange presence around her, and yet she felt more alone than she had ever been in her life.

There was a sound from below as if a door had closed; she turned at once, slipped out of the room and hurried down the corridor as a light flashed on below. She was back in bed when steps sounded on the stair. She lay listening, thinking incomprehensibly: A few more nights and I will have it.

She must have slept, and when she woke the familiar square mirror faced her and dawn was coming. She sat up in bed and stared thankfully at the messy room, with clothes strewn over chairs, the window shade awry, and Marylou sleeping soundly.

The dream, she thought. It—but it wasn’t a dream. The first time, in the ruins, that was a dream. But not the other place. She had been out of this room, and in a different bed. The corridor, the light downstairs— Oh, it was never a dream. Confused and shaken, she rose and looked at herself in the mirror. She was very pale. She felt her cheek in a panic, as if to be sure it was her own. Nothing in her experience had ever been like this. The seance, and now this dream where she had seen not just some scene from a remote place, but where she had moved around, where she had thought things and had a purpose that she could not understand. It was incomprehensible, as if her whole life had canted suddenly, had taken a twist that left her unbalanced and ready to fall.

And yet, terrified as she was, her thoughts insisted on returning to the details of that room, and to her blind search for she knew not what. She felt too shaken to go to school; she would tell Aunt Bett she was sick. It must be early, the alarm hadn’t gone—then she realized it was Saturday. She would be late for work. She almost didn’t care, she almost got back into bed. But that would be worse. She made herself dress, then went into the kitchen to heat some rolls and make cocoa. She felt weak all at once, famished, as if every ounce of strength had been drained from her. When she saw Colin peering from his bed, she took her breakfast in, reluctantly, to share with him. She would rather have stayed to herself.

“It was real,” Colin said, and she thought he meant her dream, and the red bedroom, and she stared at him, incredulous. Then she realized he had meant the seance, and the terror of the black image washed over her again on top of the other. “I told you the Zagdesha was real,” he said smugly. “Now do you believe me?” She looked at him helplessly, but he went on, not seeing how she felt. “I wanted to come after you but—why did you run off? Tell me how it made you feel.” Then, when she did not answer, he really looked at her at last, and his eyes widened. “It scared you,” he said accusingly.

“Yes, it scared me!” She was furious at him. “But then,” she lied, not wanting to share her fears with Colin, “I realized it wasn’t anything, just some kind of mass hypnotism. A book I read once explained it,” she said coolly. “There’ve been lots of experiments.”

“It wasn’t hypnotism!” He jerked away, upsetting his cocoa, and she was glad she had shaken him like that. But she wanted to be away from his prying. She pushed their napkins hurriedly into the brown pool of cocoa, almost spilling her own cup, finished her breakfast quickly, burning her mouth, then snatched up her coat and left.

Outdoors, she turned up her collar and lifted her face to the bright cold air. Think of horses, she thought. Think of nothing but horses. Think of Danny. Think of hay and pitchforks and riding on the sand—nothing else is real, only this morning is real. She made herself see Danny’s dark eyes watching her, his teeth ready to bite.

A gray sedan pulled to the curb beside her, and Aunt Selma put out her gloved hand. “Won’t you get in for a minute, Bethany? I’d like to talk to you. Have you had your breakfast?”

“I’ve eaten,” Bethany said shortly, studying her aunt with displeasure, then turned and walked on.

Selma drove beside her. “Won’t you sit in the car for a minute? I can’t hurt you, you know.”

“What do you want?” Bethany stood stolidly on the sidewalk. It was still so early that the birds’ first morning calls were loud and eager all around them.

Selma smiled. “You showed a fascinating talent yesterday, Bethany. Dr. Claybelle and the Blakey’s were very impressed. I had no idea—” She let her words drift, as if in great admiration. “It’s—it was remarkable. I can’t imagine what you’d be able to do with some practice. Something spoiled it, though. Can you tell me what made you run away?”

“My own good sense,” Bethany said rudely.

Selma occupied herself lighting a cigarette, dark lashes fringing her smooth pale cheeks. Her hair was coiled around a pink scarf, and she was wearing a pink sweater. Bethany tried to get some thought from her but she could not, and when Selma looked up again her green eyes were innocent and warm. “Bethany, I —it means so much to me. It’s— There’s something there, something real and wonderful. I want so much to know. Won’t you come back? Won’t you come again and bring the Zagdesha for us? You’ve proven that it’s real; Mrs. Blakey was convinced it was her Zagdesha that began to form there. Could you tell? Could you see its face?” Her voice was so eager. “Will you come back and help us?”

“Aunt Bett won’t let me,” Bethany said, grateful, now, for Aunt Bett’s anger.

“Bett wouldn’t need to know, not if there’s no audience. Bett doesn’t need to know anything. We could do it privately, could see what you are really capable of.”

“No!” Bethany hissed. “No I won’t! I don’t want anything to do with it.” She flung away, furious, and turned into a vacant lot where Selma could not drive. She heard the car go off at last, gunning harshly.

She walked fast through the village, kicking at the sand. The streets were silent, no one about yet, and the sand lay deep in the gutters and up against the doors where it had blown during the night. When the village began to stir, the shopkeepers would all come out to sweep the sand. Why did Selma have to be so insistent? She was used to getting her own way. Then she thought suddenly: if it was a trick yesterday, a trick Selma played, then she wouldn’t need me, it could be anyone. She stopped dead still, staring at nothing. What if it wasn’t a trick? What if it was something in her doing it? Or Selma and her together, and Selma knew it? At last she went on, feeling very uncertain. A gull rose up screaming. Maybe Aunt Bett was right, she thought distractedly, maybe she should be terrified for her immortal soul.