He
dialed up the wall sconces to a dim, homey lighting, solicitous of
Frederick's sensitive eyes. He took an Apollo 8 Jim Beam decanter full
of stunning Irish whiskey off the sideboard and poured himself a finger
of it, not offering any to his brothers.
"Now, how did it happen?"
"He wanted to speak to Dad," Frederick said. "He climbed out of me and
wandered down through the tunnels into the spring pool. The goblin told
us that he took off his clothes and waded in and started whispering."
Like most of the boys, George had believed that their father was most
aware in his very middle, where he could direct the echoes of the
water's rippling, shape them into words and phrases in the hollow of the
great cavern.
"So the goblin saw it happen?"
"No," Frederick said, and Edward began to cry again. "No. George asked
him for some privacy, and so he went a little way up the tunnel. He
waited and waited, but George didn't come back. He called out, but
George didn't answer. When he went to look for him, he was gone. His
clothes were gone. All that he could find was this." He scrabbled to fit
his chubby hand into his jacket's pocket, then fished out a little black
pebble. Alan took it and saw that it wasn't a pebble, it was a
rotted-out and dried-up fingertip, pierced with unbent paperclip wire.
"It's Dave's, isn't it?" Edward said.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84