Timmy woke in an
unfamiliar place. He usually went walking in his sleep, so for him this
was a familiar thing. He could also climb in his sleep, and unlock
bolts and latches in his sleep.
He sat up and looked
around. He was in a little room with a wooden floor and whitewashed
walls. A few objects were scattered around the floor: a book and
a ball and a small wooden sword. These were familiar. These were his
own.
He must still be
somewhere in Uncle’s house, Uncle’s very big house. Timmy wasn’t happy
about this. He always hoped to wake up and find himself Somewhere Else.
At least this time he didn’t wake on one of the house rooftops. He’d
spent most of the day trying to figure out how to climb down, that time.
Timmy picked up the
wooden sword. “I guess this is my birthday present,” he said to
himself, and tucked it into a belt-loop as he left the little room.
Outside was a long,
dark hallway. In Uncle’s house there were many long, dark hallways,
dust-covered. It was Timmy’s job on Tuesdays to sweep up the dust and
cobwebs and straggly feathers on the floor, but the house was so huge
that he could never find all the corners and crannies to sweep dust out
of, and by the time he’d find the place where he started it had become
all dusty again.
In this long, dark
hall there were many doors, and a stairway, and one window at the very
end, far enough away that it was just the size of Timmy’s thumbnail if
he held it out in front of him. Each one of the many doors was made out
of smooth, dark wood, and all of them were open, and some of them hung
broken on their hinges.
Timmy had never seen
this part of the house before. He’d never swept here. The dust was very
thick underfoot. But it wasn’t Tuesday, and he didn’t see a broom
anywhere, so the dust didn’t bother him.
He went down the
hallway to one of the doors. He couldn’t tell if there were things
moving through the rafters when he moved, stopping when he stopped, or
whether it was just the house creaking around him and adjusting to his
little weight. He pushed open the creaking, broken door with the tip of
his wooden sword, and peeked into the room. It was just like the one
he’d woken up in, but without any toys on the floor. There was a cot
against the wall, and clothes too big for Timmy folded up in the corner.
A picture of an
older girl hung on the wall. Timmy couldn’t remember ever having seen
the picture before, or the girl before, though he spent a long time
looking. Then he took a sweater from the cot and wrapped it around
himself. It would hang down around his knees if he actually put it on.
Timmy went back out
into the hall, and looked both ways. In one direction was the stair,
and in the other was the tiny window.
Something moved in
front of the window, far away and stooped and shuffling.
It might not have
seen him yet.
He turned and walked
away, slowly, not running because running would make too much noise,
and draw attention to him. Moving slowly proved that he wasn’t afraid,
not at all.
Once he reached the
stairway Timmy ran, almost falling, down and around the winding steps
to the floor below. He found another hallway, dark and with many doors.
Most of them were broken, and all of them were open, all but one. Only
one. Behind this door he heard a barking, snarling noise, and lots of
banging around.
Timmy went and
opened the door. The noise wasn’t as frightening as it was probably
supposed to be, but he held his wooden sword ready just in case.
Inside the room was
a smaller boy in a paper shark mask. The boy looked up, surprised,
peering out from in between the teeth.
“Sharks don’t
growl,” Timmy told him. “They’re quiet. They glide quietly through the
water and sneak up on things.”
“It’s my birthday,”
said the shark boy.
“Hold old are you?”
Timmy asked.
The boy held up one
hand with outstretched fingers, though he had to count them first.
Timmy swallowed, and
tried to smile in some kind of encouraging way. He remembered the mask.
He’d been five years old when he wore it.
“Why don’t I call
you Five, then?” Timmy said. “And you can call me Eight, because it’s
my birthday too.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How old are you?”
“…Eight,” said
Timmy, carefully.
“Oh. Right.”
Timmy looked around
the little room, which was exactly like the little room he’d woken up
in. There was a book and a ball, which looked just the same, and a few
other toys, which were different.
“Are you hungry?” he
asked Five.
“Yeah!” said Five,
and growled again.
“Let’s go find the
kitchen.”
“Okay.”
They went back to
the stairwell to climb further down, and Timmy heard shuffling in the
hallway behind them but he didn’t turn to look.
They found the
kitchen. It had a low ceiling stained from fire-smoke, and it was
warmer. Huge black pots and pans and cauldrons hung from the walls on
iron hooks, and there were four ovens large enough to crawl into. Many,
many people could be fed here, though the dust was thick on the floor.
Someone had already
scuffed through the dust before them. A boy almost as tall as Timmy
stood by the kitchen fire, holding an infant with one hand and a kettle
with the other.
“Hi,” said the boy
with the baby.
“Hi,” said Timmy.
“I’m five,”
announced Five. “How old are you?”
“Seven,” he
answered. “Today I’m seven years old.”
“Can I call you
Seven?”
“Okay. If you want
to.
“Did you get
anything? I got a shark mask, see?”
“A yo-yo, but I
haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”
“I can show you,”
said Timmy. “I got one of them last year. When I turned seven.” He said
it very quietly.
Seven set the kettle
in place, and lifted up the baby. “I think he’s a year old, but he
doesn’t talk yet so I’m not sure. I found milk for him, except he
doesn’t like it cold so I’m trying to warm it up now.”
Seven stoked up the
fire under the kettle of milk, and Timmy found bread and cheese for
everyone else’s breakfast. Five wanted to help feed One, but the milk
had gotten too hot and might burn him, so they set it aside to cool.
“I burned my tongue
with hot chocolate once,” said Five. “Everything tasted funny for a
whole day.”
“I remember,” said
Timmy and Seven at the same time. They looked at each other in the dim
kitchen light, and Seven poked Timmy’s arm, maybe to see if he was
actually there or just an echo or a walking mirror-reflection. It was
just an arm.
All the boys at once
heard shuffling footsteps on the stair.
“We should go,” said
Timmy.
“One hasn’t eaten
yet,” said Seven.
“Bring the kettle,”
said Timmy. “We should go.”
Seven hesitated, but
the shuffling stair-steps drew closer. He picked up the kettle, using a
kitchen rag to touch the hot metal with. Timmy lifted One up off the
table, and One began to whimper a little as he breathed.
“It’s just Uncle,”
said Five, glancing at the stair, and then away, and then back again.
He growled softly.
“Sharks are quiet,”
said Timmy. “Sharks are sneaky.”
He led the way
through the kitchen to the pantry, where they crept along between sacks
of flour and shelves holding jars of dried, shriveled things.
“Did you see the
other rooms?” Seven asked, quietly so Five wouldn’t hear.
“Yes.”
“Most of them were
empty.”
Timmy nodded. He’d
been thinking about the same thing. “Let’s try to get outside,” he said.
They found an
outside door at the far end of the pantry, but it was raining. The
trees and hills surrounding Uncle’s house were hidden completely in the
rain.
One whimpered, and
then flapped his arms up and down like wings without feathers.
“He’s hungry,” said
Seven.
“We’ll feed him
soon,” said Timmy.
“It’s raining too
hard. We shouldn’t take him outside.”
Behind them the
pantry door opened and closed again.
“He’ll be fine,”
said Timmy, wrapping One in his oversized sweater. He breathed deep
before bolting through the outside door. Seven and Five followed after,
and hundreds of thousands of raindrops slammed into them like stones.
Timmy led them
around a corner of Uncle’s huge house, and then they cut across an open
field and into the barn.
Every part of every
one of them was soaked, and One was wailing very, very loudly.
“I dropped the
kettle,” said Seven, glaring, angry at himself and at everyone else.
Timmy rocked One
back and forth and made shushing noises, which didn’t work.
“He’ll be okay,” he
said. “He’ll be fine until the rain stops.”
But the rain didn’t
stop, and One didn’t stop wailing. Five climbed ladders and rafters to
get as far away from the baby as possible. Seven kept watch through a
window, holding Timmy’s wooden sword, though he couldn’t see anything
other than rain.
Timmy gave up trying
to comfort the baby, who wasn’t impressed by any of his funny faces, or
funny noises, or by tickling.
“Okay,” he said,
standing up. “Okay. I’ll go look for the kettle, and warm it up again.
The rest of you stay here.”
Seven glared at him.
He’d intended to stay there, but he didn’t like being told to do it.
“How come you’re in
charge?” Seven wanted to know. “It was your idea to go running in the
rain.”
“I’m the oldest,”
said Timmy, but Seven was not impressed with this argument.
“I think we should
vote on what to do from now on.”
“Even him?” Timmy
nodded towards One and his wailing.
“No. The other three
of us.”
Timmy took a deep
breath. “But we’re all Timmy,” he said,” and I remember being the rest
of you, because I used to be. But none of you remember being me,
because you haven’t been me yet. So I’m like all of us put together.
Whenever I make a decision it’s already like a vote, only faster.”
Timmy didn’t
actually think this was true. He didn’t like the things he used to
like, when he was five years old, and he didn’t remember ever being as
small as One.
Seven said nothing.
Timmy held out his hand for the wooden sword, but Seven didn’t give it
up.
“I’m the one who
dropped the milk,” he said, and went out himself to fetch it.
Timmy let him go,
and kept trying to comfort One, and nothing worked.
Time passed, and
then more of it, and the rain grew worse and Seven didn’t come back.
Timmy looked out at
the rain, holding One, and he took a deep breath. Then he called Five
down from the rafters, and together they lifted the baby up into a
hayloft with a rope and a bucket.
“I hope he falls
asleep,” said Timmy. “I hope that he can’t walk yet, just so he won’t
go sleepwalking like we do. Stand guard while I look for Seven and the
milk, okay?”
“Okay,” said Five.
“And try to be quiet
if anyone else comes in.”
“We need a
password,” Five told him, solemnly.
“What should it be?”
“Sharks!”
“Okay,” said Timmy.
“Sharks. Good. Stay quiet unless someone yells ‘Sharks.’”
He went outside.
The rain pounded
into him, and kept on pounding. He didn’t run. He didn’t want to miss
the kettle. He still had to cross between the barn and Uncle’s house
three times before he found it and went shivering inside, opening what
he hoped was the pantry door. He couldn’t be sure. There were many
doors in the outside wall. Uncle had a big house.
Timmy shut the door
quickly behind him. It was dark inside. When his eyes adjusted he
examined the kettle, and found that the lid was still on and the milk
was still inside. It was cold, though. He looked around, and saw that
he wasn’t in the pantry.
There was a
fireplace with only grey ashes inside, and a tattered carpet, and a
sagging chair. The wooden sword leaned up against the chair, beside a
yo-yo with it’s string all unwound. Folded up inside the chair was a
very old man, who was watching him.
Timmy took a step
backwards, and brushed up against the door.
“Don’t look so
horrified,” the old man rasped. “I’m not so old as I was moments ago. I
feel much younger. Seven years, at least.” Grinning, the old man
stretched his arms and pushed up from the chair. He wavered, swaying
back and forth while standing.
“Hi, Uncle Tim,”
said Timmy, and swallowed. His throat was still dry, so he swallowed
again.
“Hello, child. Would
you be so good as to bring your friends back in from the rain?”
Timmy shook his
head, and Uncle sighed.
“Your companion
would not do so either,” he said. “The one who came with the sword. But
I am far older than you. I remember your age, though you don’t remember
mine. You should listen.” Uncle began to shuffle forward. “The sword
was an eighth birthday present, was it not? And a shark mask for the
fifth. I remember both. Though I cannot now recall any presents from
the sixth or seventh birthdays. Can you?” His toe nudged the yo-yo
aside as he shuffled.
“No,” Timmy said. “I
don’t remember.” On the wall behind Uncle was a tattered and familiar
portrait of a man, still young. Timmy pointed at the portrait. “I don’t
think he’d be doing this,” he said.
“Possibly,” said
Uncle, without turning away to see the picture. “But I swallowed him a
very long time ago. Just a few of us left, now.”
The old man moved
across the carpet, never lifting his feet off the ground to take a
step. When he drew close enough to reach out with a thin, long-fingered
hand, Timmy faked to his right and then ran around to his left. He
ducked underneath the snatching fingers, and reached his sword where it
leaned against the chair, and spun around to strike the old man hard in
the shin.
Uncle Tim howled,
and lifted his foot up off the ground, and as soon as he did so his
skin began peeling away. There were feathers underneath the skin, old
and ragged feathers. A shrieking bird climbed up out of the tattered
skin-pile, and flapped its wings and flew into some distant corner of
the house.
“I won’t be you!”
Timmy called after it. “I won’t ever be you.”
The bird shrieked in
answer. It might have been angry and it might have been laughing.
There were matches
on the hearth. Timmy dragged the fallen skin-pile into the fireplace,
and set fire to it, and used it to warm up the kettle and the milk.
It had stopped
raining outside. The grass was sopping wet, and his shoes made
squelching noises while he went walking back.
“Sharks!” he yelled
up to the hayloft, once inside the barn.
The End
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