dream and thought he must be going crazy.
Of course he knew it came from the skull, and thought in some way that it had to do with a guilty conscience that came of not calling the police, or telling his mother. That feeling guilty was making him have bad, or at least strange, dreams.
But when he came to the edge of it the next day, telling his mother or calling the police, when the pressure grew and bothered him that much he could not do it.
It was not that he didn’t want to, not that he didn’t feel like it.
He couldn’t.
He simply could not make himself do it and that frightened him more than having a guilty conscience. Why could he not do it?
In the third dream there was a horse.
He was riding the horse in bright sunlight and heat. The horse had light, almost yellow hair but he thought of it as having the color of straw in the dream, a straw-colored horse, and it ran beneath him, between his legs with a power that seemed to come from thunder.
The front legs pounded up and down and he felt the back legs bunch and spring each time, driving the horse forward,the front shoulders rippling against his legs, driving, pounding.
There was great joy in the run, the wind against his face, the heat on his back, which was bare, and the horse thundering across the sand and his hair blowing out in back of him, his hair blowing like the straw-colored mane of the horse. He laughed in his throat in the dream and laughed in his bed and the sound awakened him and he came awake and sat up and was glad.
Glad. His heart felt gladness and he did not know or understand why. It faded, slipped away as he sat in the dark looking at the small light on the smoke detector thinking again, or still, that he was going crazy.
On the second to the last morning, two days before the day when he would come close to wiping out the rosebushes at the judge’s house, he sat at breakfast with his mother.
She had been drinking coffee and he had a bowl of oat bran.
She was sitting in silence, sipping the coffee, looking out the window at the morning sun coming in, lost in thought, and he coughed to get her attention.
“Is it possible for crazy people to know they’re going crazy?”
She studied him for a time over her cup. The famous mother look, as he thought of it. The Mother Look. The what-are-you-up-to Mother Look.
“That,” she said, “is a very strange question for dawn on a Friday morning.”
He didn’t answer at once, thinking. “It’s not me, understand. I was just wondering, you know, if someone is crazy do they know they’re crazy?”
She put her cup down. “I don’t think so—but I’m no expert. You’d have to ask a psychologist to be sure.…”
They had dropped it, and that night he had gone to bed half afraid to sleep.
And a dream had come.
This time there was another person in the dream. A girl. He could not quite see her as she moved ahead of him, walking somewhere—he did not know from where or to where—but he wanted to know her better. Wanted badly to know her. And she was gone, walking into a mist that he could not pass through, a mist that frightened him very much.
This time when he awakened he was drenched with perspiration and his mother was sitting on the side of his bed.
“You made noise,” she said, “a funny sound, like words I couldn’t understand. Do you feel all right?”
“A cold,” he said, though he knew it wasn’t true. “Maybe I’m getting a cold.…”
She had stayed with him until he had closed his eyes and feigned sleep but that night he did not sleep any more.
And the final day in the week he decided that he had to do something, find out what was wrong.…
Find out what the skull was doing to him.
And the best way to find that was to try to find out about the skull. He had to know more about it, all he could know about it.
That’s where the answer was, somewhere in the skull.
12
It was one thing to say he had to learn about the skull, and quite another thing to do
Of course he knew it came from the skull, and thought in some way that it had to do with a guilty conscience that came of not calling the police, or telling his mother. That feeling guilty was making him have bad, or at least strange, dreams.
But when he came to the edge of it the next day, telling his mother or calling the police, when the pressure grew and bothered him that much he could not do it.
It was not that he didn’t want to, not that he didn’t feel like it.
He couldn’t.
He simply could not make himself do it and that frightened him more than having a guilty conscience. Why could he not do it?
In the third dream there was a horse.
He was riding the horse in bright sunlight and heat. The horse had light, almost yellow hair but he thought of it as having the color of straw in the dream, a straw-colored horse, and it ran beneath him, between his legs with a power that seemed to come from thunder.
The front legs pounded up and down and he felt the back legs bunch and spring each time, driving the horse forward,the front shoulders rippling against his legs, driving, pounding.
There was great joy in the run, the wind against his face, the heat on his back, which was bare, and the horse thundering across the sand and his hair blowing out in back of him, his hair blowing like the straw-colored mane of the horse. He laughed in his throat in the dream and laughed in his bed and the sound awakened him and he came awake and sat up and was glad.
Glad. His heart felt gladness and he did not know or understand why. It faded, slipped away as he sat in the dark looking at the small light on the smoke detector thinking again, or still, that he was going crazy.
On the second to the last morning, two days before the day when he would come close to wiping out the rosebushes at the judge’s house, he sat at breakfast with his mother.
She had been drinking coffee and he had a bowl of oat bran.
She was sitting in silence, sipping the coffee, looking out the window at the morning sun coming in, lost in thought, and he coughed to get her attention.
“Is it possible for crazy people to know they’re going crazy?”
She studied him for a time over her cup. The famous mother look, as he thought of it. The Mother Look. The what-are-you-up-to Mother Look.
“That,” she said, “is a very strange question for dawn on a Friday morning.”
He didn’t answer at once, thinking. “It’s not me, understand. I was just wondering, you know, if someone is crazy do they know they’re crazy?”
She put her cup down. “I don’t think so—but I’m no expert. You’d have to ask a psychologist to be sure.…”
They had dropped it, and that night he had gone to bed half afraid to sleep.
And a dream had come.
This time there was another person in the dream. A girl. He could not quite see her as she moved ahead of him, walking somewhere—he did not know from where or to where—but he wanted to know her better. Wanted badly to know her. And she was gone, walking into a mist that he could not pass through, a mist that frightened him very much.
This time when he awakened he was drenched with perspiration and his mother was sitting on the side of his bed.
“You made noise,” she said, “a funny sound, like words I couldn’t understand. Do you feel all right?”
“A cold,” he said, though he knew it wasn’t true. “Maybe I’m getting a cold.…”
She had stayed with him until he had closed his eyes and feigned sleep but that night he did not sleep any more.
And the final day in the week he decided that he had to do something, find out what was wrong.…
Find out what the skull was doing to him.
And the best way to find that was to try to find out about the skull. He had to know more about it, all he could know about it.
That’s where the answer was, somewhere in the skull.
12
It was one thing to say he had to learn about the skull, and quite another thing to do
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