“Thank you,” he said. “You are right, I was looking for him.”
She shrugged.
“It was an easy guess. All squirts always do. And you are a very green squirt. Remember your nick and your godmother. I am Witch.”
She went up the steps and into the House. Grasshopper observed her very thoroughly but could not distinguish the little pieces.
I have a nick now, he thought and ran to meet Elk.
The soft hand descended on his shoulder; he pressed against Elk and purred contentedly. The man in black was looking sarcastically from under the bushy eyebrows.
“What’s this, Elk? Another trusting soul? When did that happen?”
Elk frowned but did not answer.
“Joking,” the man in black said. “I’m sorry, old man. It was just a joke.”
He strolled off.
“Who was that?” Grasshopper asked quietly.
“One of the counselors. He went to the resort with the guys,” Elk said distractedly. “Black Ralph. Also R One.”
“Are there others like him? Two, Three, and Four?”
“No. There aren’t any. It’s just that he’s called that for some reason.”
“He’s got a silly face,” Grasshopper said. “If I were him I’d grow a beard to hide behind.”
Elk laughed.
“You know what?” the boy said, brushing his cheek against Elk’s hand. “I too have a nick now. Wanna guess? I bet you’d never guess.”
“Wouldn’t even try. Something to do with flying?”
“Almost. Grasshopper.” He jerked his head up, searching Elk’s face. “Is it a good one?”
“Yes,” Elk said, mussing his hair. “You can count yourself lucky.”
Grasshopper scrunched his nose, all peeling from the sun.
“That’s what I thought too.”
He looked at the glued-together people around them. There were fewer now, most had gone inside the House.
“Aren’t you glad they’re back? You won’t be so lonely now.”
There was uncertainty in Elk’s voice.
“I don’t like them,” Grasshopper said honestly. “They’re old and ugly and broken. It all looked different from above, and from down here it’s all messed up.”
“None of them is even eighteen yet,” Elk countered, visibly offended. “And why do you say they’re ugly? That’s not fair.”
“They’re freaks. Especially that one.” He nodded at the purple one. “It’s like he drowned long ago. You know?”
“That’s Moor. Remember that nick.”
Elk took a suitcase out of the pile and turned toward the House. Grasshopper kept close to him, silent as a shadow and just as unavoidable. They passed the purple one. His malicious little eyes were lost in the flowing, melting face. Grasshopper felt their gaze on his back and picked up the pace, as if spooked by it.
Did he hear what I said about him? Stupid! He’s going to remember me now, me and my words.
Three of the able-bodied were smoking by the entrance. One of them, closely cropped and tall, with a fierce expression on his face, gave Elk a nod. Elk stopped. So did Grasshopper.
Around the neck of the fierce-faced, on a twisted chain, hung a monkey skull. Delicate, yellowed, with pointy teeth. The boy was mesmerized by the grown-up toy. There was some kind of mystery attached to it. Something was built into it that made the empty eye sockets glow mysteriously, even wetly. The skull seemed alive. Touching it was the only way to learn its secret, examining it closer, putting one’s finger into the holes. But to look at it without understanding was just as fascinating. He did not catch what Elk and the owner of the trinket said to each other, but as he was entering the door he heard Elk say, “That was Skull. Remember him too.”
Moor, Skull, and Witch the godmother, Grasshopper repeated to himself, flying up the stairs. I must remember these three, and that unpleasant counselor in need of a beard, and the white man in the wheelchair, even though no one told me anything about him, and the day when I got a nick.
The rooms were changing before his eyes. The taupe walls plastered with posters, the striped mattresses piled with clothes. Every bed was claimed by someone and immediately turned into a dump. Rough-sided pinecones, multicolored swimming trunks, shells and shards of coral, cups, socks, amulets, apples and apple cores. Each room acquired individuality, became different from the others.
He wandered around, awash in smells, tripped over the gutted bags and backpacks, slunk around the corners absorbing the changes. No one paid him any attention. They all had their own concerns.
There was something like a hut being built from thin planks in one of the dorms. He sat there for a while, waiting to see the result, then got bored and moved to another room. They were constructing something there too. To avoid being trampled, Grasshopper sat on a low stool by the door. The seniors were laughing, needling each other, tossing around bags and sacks, drinking something out of paper cups, then just crumpling and dropping them. The floor was strewn with the cardboard concertinas. They flattened easily and smelled of lemons. Grasshopper furtively guided them under the stool with his feet. Then a scrawny counselor with unkempt hair, resembling Lennon in his rimless glasses, came into the dorm and dragged Grasshopper out of his lair.
“You’re new,” he mumbled indistinctly, chewing on a toothpick. “Why aren’t you in your dorm?”
The myopic eyes behind the glasses scurried like black mites.
“I don’t have a dorm yet,” said Grasshopper, trying to wrench his shoulder from the bony fingers gripping it.
The grip tightened.
“In which case you should find out where you are supposed to be at the moment. For a start,” said the bespectacled counselor, spitting out the toothpick. “I think you will be in the Sixth. They have a spare bed. Let’s go.”
The counselor marched him out into the corridor. Grasshopper almost had to run to keep up with his strides. The counselor kept tugging him impatiently by the collar.
Dorm number six was located at the very end of the hallway. It was smaller than the seniors’ rooms and looked gloomier because of the canvas shades over the windows. The unpacking was in full swing here as well, but the boys were his own age. Maybe a little younger or older, but only by a little. They mostly sat on the beds busily rummaging through their bags. As soon as the counselor entered, they put the bags aside and stood up.
“New one for you,” he said. “You are to show and explain everything to him.”
He produced a fresh toothpick and shoved it into his mouth.
“Understood?”
The boys all nodded.
The counselor nodded as well and left without looking back.
Without saying a word they surrounded him and stared at the flopping sleeves of his blazer. Grasshopper realized that they already knew everything. They had odd looks on their faces. Indifferent and mocking at the same time, as if his deformity amused them.
“You’re a newbie,” one of them, skinny and bug eyed, informed him. “We’re going to beat you up now. And you’re going to snivel and cry for your mommy. That’s what always happens.”
He took a step back.
They laughed. His back was pressed against the door. They approached, smiling and winking at each other.
They too were glued together.
THE HOUSE
Lary the Bandar-Log was mounting the stairway to the second floor, stomping his steel-shod boots. Horse was following him, keeping two steps back. The clatter of Horse’s shoes mingled with that of Lary’s, but the familiar sound—Lary so liked it in the “thundering assault” mode: ten pairs of hooves, the squeaking of leather, the jangle of buckles—was grating on him today to the point of headache. Because it wasn’t real. All the clatter and sound and fury, signifying nothing that could protect them from any actual trouble. That’s the Log reality. Cardboard Hells Angels. No bikes, no muscle, no true scent of the male animal. Not scaring anyone, save the pathetic Pheasants. Safety in numbers and noise. Unwrap the black leather of a wide-shouldered coat and you’ll discover a skinny, pimply figure inside. Wrap it back up, hide the protruding ribs and the scrawny neck, hang some hair in front of the panicky eyes—and there’s your Bandar-Log. Put ten of these together, and there’s your formidable pack. The avalanche of stomping feet and wafting skin lotion. Enough to put fear into a couple of Pheasants.