The Book Man, Chapter 11 (Revised)

11 OVER THE WALL

That night he crept out of the Book House, armed with a flashlight and The Hobbit. If anyone saw him loitering outside the gate at such an hour, he could say he was reading beneath the starlight. And this book, with its talk of quests and mountains and elves, had often enflamed him with the desire to go on an adventure of his own and do great things—a desire that died away again at the searing heat of summer or the biting cold of winter, or whenever he happened upon anything difficult and unpleasant.

This, however, was different. Conrad needed him; at least, he told himself so. It was much more a question of his needing to be sure the balloon-artist was, in fact, alright, and that the adventure of the night before had truly happened.

He slunk across the street to the park gate, all too conscious of his height. There were no streetlamps here, but the stars shone brightly that enough anyone who chanced to look out their window now would see the spindly figure moving in the night.

The stone walls of Celadon Park loomed before him, shapeless with ivy and honeysuckle. The heavy padlock glinted in the starlight. How to get inside? As lanky as he was, Christian could not fit through the bars of the gate. He looked up at the heights of the wall and imagined finding footholds in the dark, when frightening black shapes might be looming overhead. His sense of adventure wavered. He made his way back across the street and into the Book House.

No sooner had he reached the safety of his bedroom than he remembered the book in his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through it, considering Bilbo Baggins and how he had come through all his adventures to wealth and happiness. Celadon Park was less fearsome than dragons and great battles, though he did not look forward to walking through the woods alone. Christian stood up and crossed the street again—but not five minutes later he was back in the Book House.

Three times he crossed back and forth between the park and his home, but finally he stood beneath the park wall, glaring up at it with resolve. He slipped the book into his pocket, clutched the flashlight in his hand, and began climbing.

The wall was not terribly high, perhaps ten feet, but the tangles of leaves and flowers draping it felt flimsy beneath Christian’s weight. He slipped the flashlight into his other pocket so he could use both hands for climbing, but he had never been good at things like climbing to begin with. And when he had pulled himself to the top of the wall, clinging to vines of honeysuckle, he faced the immense difficulty of getting over it.

He placed his feet on the highest vine he dared, still some two or three feet below the top, and crouched there in an absurd fetal position with his arm straining as he grasped the wall. Slowly, he stood up and peered over it into the park.

Below there was only darkness. Some sort of tree was before him, its leaves rustling in the nighttime breeze, and it obscured all beneath it. Christian swayed on his vine and gripped the top of the wall so tightly his knuckles turned white.

With difficulty, he pulled himself up onto the top of the wall, straddling it as if he were riding a horse. He squinted down at the park, but he saw only the faint greyness of the ground below, and it looked an awfully long way down. He swung his other leg over to the inner wall and began his descent, but now even less than before was he able to find hand and footholds.

He closed his eyes and jumped.

There was a horrible stomach-turning fall, but it lasted only a fraction of a second. Then he had landed—somewhat painfully, on his side and the arm he’d thrown out to catch himself—but there he was, nonetheless. He stood up, took the flashlight back out of his trouser pocket, and clicked it on.

Rather, he tried to click it on, but nothing happened. He stared at the dark flashlight. He held it to his ear and shook it but did not hear the rattling of a dead bulb; he opened the battery compartment to find it empty.

“Of course, it would be empty,” he said to himself. The flashlight went back in his trouser pocket as he cursed himself for his idiocy. (Only a fool would go on an adventure without first making sure his flashlight had batteries, he thought.) Then he slipped his hand into his other pocket, clutched the book close to his chest for comfort, and moved on.

The walk through the wood was shorter than Christian remembered, perhaps because he didn’t have a limping friend hanging onto his arm; but it was dark and lonely, full of the glowing eyes of animals scurrying just out of sight. Even from here, however, he could hear the merriment of the Fair: the tinkling music and animal noises, the shouts and laughter and the rush of flame. The sound grew louder as he neared the clearing, and it heartened him. Not a dream, then.

He caught sight of the two feuding ringmasters in the midst of the crowd as soon as the Fair appeared. Christian edged around the clearing to avoid them but could not help almost stepping on more of the squat little men like the one he’d seen the night before. They hopped all around the edges of the carnival.

Imelda was standing barefoot outside her wagon, stirring a green concoction in a round-bellied pot over the fire. She looked up as Christian approached and said, “For his leg. It’ll help keep down the swelling.”

“Oh, is it swelling?” Christian asked, trying to sound politely interested instead of repulsed.

She grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s all bandaged up. You can go in and see him, if you like.”

Christian traipsed into the wagon to see Conrad lying in the little bunk against the back wall, covered in a patchwork quilt and looking a little better than before. At least his breathing came easier, though his complexion was still greyish instead of its usual rich brown. At present, he was asleep.

Christian edged along the wall, trying not to bump up against one of the many shelves filled with glass vials. He was glad to be visiting Conrad in this bright (if tiny) space rather than a hospital after all. He had never liked hospitals, the sterile whiteness of them, the smell of sickness, the anxious family members; he had liked them even less since his mother’s death some twenty years ago.

Even so, the sight of the balloon-artist lying so still frightened him. A wave of panic swept over him. He shook Conrad’s shoulders, saying over and over again “Conrad—Conrad” until his friend awakened with a yawn and a groan.

“What are you on about, lad?”

Christian withdrew his hand, feeling silly as his panic subsided.

“Nothing,” he said. He maneuvered himself into an uncomfortable sit on the floor with the bedframe pressing into his right side and his long legs sticking up in front of him like the legs of a spider. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” Conrad said, but his arms trembled as he tried to push himself into a sit. Through the window above the bed, they heard Imelda’s voice: “Don’t even think about trying to sit up, Conrad Smithson!”

Conrad lowered himself back onto the bunk, greyer than before for his effort.

“She always knows. I’ve no idea how, but she always knows. Canny lass.” The accountant’s lips puckered; Conrad was clearly in more pain than he let on, but the balloon-artist forestalled any comment of concern by nodding at Christian’s book. “Whatever are you reading now?”

“The Hobbit,” said Christian.

The balloon-artist chuckled. “Something Tookish woke up inside you, did it? By the bye, however did you get in? It occurred to me this morning that I still have the key.”

“Yes,” said Christian. “I climbed.”

Conrad let out a shout of laughter that turned to another groan as his body contorted with pain.

“God, that hurts,” he said. “You climbed, eh? Bet that was a sight. Here. Better give you this.”

The accountant blushed as Conrad handed him the bronze key from the night before. The balloon-artist didn’t notice; his brow furrowed as Christian pocketed the key. After a moment he asked, “Liza been round?”

Christian shook his head. “She called. She wanted to know if I’d seen you.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing.” The words tumbled from his lips in such a rush he almost tripped over them. “How do you tell someone her husband’s been attacked by a hellhound? And certainly there’s no way to tell her that he’s missing a chunk out of his leg without making her worry. I mean it’s—it’s fantastic. It’s unbelievable.”

“Well,” Conrad said, rubbing his leg, “not quite unbelievable.”

Christian’s face burned. “Sorry.”

The balloon-artist shrugged. Christian flipped through the pages of his book at random as they sat in silence. He was so full of questions he hardly knew which to ask first. He glanced surreptitiously at Conrad, whose color was a little improved from earlier. Time for questions later, he thought, when his friend was back on his feet.

“You’re not sure about it, of course,” the balloon-artist said, and Christian realized with a jolt his friend had been watching him as well. “I realize it’s sudden, but—you must understand, I wouldn’t have brought you into this if I didn’t need help. And I can’t thank you enough for getting me here last night, Christian. You saved my life, you know.”

The back of Christian’s neck burned with embarrassment.

“I didn’t, really,” he mumbled. The balloon-artist grinned at his discomfort but made no further effort to thank him. “Conrad, what is all this? The park, and the Rovers, and the—the hellhound, I mean, and—”

“And the Fair,” Conrad said, nodding. “This, lad, all this is what I grew up with.”

“I don’t understand,” Christian said, so the balloon-artist explained.