Read Online Shuteye for the Timebroker by Paul di Filippo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul di Filippo
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to emerge.
A limo door swung open and Cordovan bellied out. Landisberg, instantly recognizable, followed. The crowd was silent.
“Here it is, Luke baby,” the Film Bureau man said. “Isn’t it just what you asked for?”
Landisberg studied the scene for a moment, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. Then he spoke, his voice a youthful but assured soprano.
“Not bad, but where’s the elm?”
“The elm?” Cordovan repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.
“You didn’t pay attention to the script, Freddie. There’s supposed to be a three-hundred-year-old elm—the Pyncheon elm—in front of the house. I don’t see it, do you?”
Cordovan trembled, as if expecting the crack of a lash whistling toward his back. He stammered, “Gee, Luke, I just—that is—couldn’t we—”
Landisberg waved a hand imperiously. “Forget it, Freddie. We’ll let the SFX crew handle it. You did good.”
Turning toward one of the trucks, leaving Cordovan to wipe sweat from his brow, Landisberg yelled, “Turnbull!”
A small man emerged. He looked like a hunched gnome with indigestion.
“Turnbull, give me a three-hundred-year-old elm in front of the house, shading the doorway.”
“Will do, chief,” said Turnbull. The gnome assembled helpers from within the truck. Clutching numerous tools and raw materials, they swarmed to a spot before the house. Moving so fast that no one could see what they were doing, they hammered and sawed, yelled and swore, rasped and drilled. Staging and ladders were assembled and dismantled in seconds, the workers clambering over them like blurry ghosts.
When their rapid motions finally ceased, a forty-foot elm, its gnarled trunk so wide three men couldn’t circle it with their arms, stood in plain view.
Billy, who had been watching the whole operation with the rest of the town, walked with vast bemusement to the tree. Close up, he could sense its life aura, indistinguishable from that of any real tree. Over Billy’s head, the leaves of the tree rustled gently, dispersing shade like gentle balm.
Billy walked up to Landisberg. “How—how did you do that?”
Landisberg smiled cryptically. “Special effects.” He sized Billy up. “You must be Budd, the delegate for the town.”
Billy nodded. Landisberg shook his hand, then said, “Well, let’s get busy. We’ve got a film to make here.”
Following that, nothing was too clear.
The trucks disgorged more workers, the limos spat forth the stars, and chaos was under way.
After two weeks of filming, however, Billy was almost used to the craziness.
Listening to Landisberg shout orders now, he even dared to hope that things might turn out all right, for both the town and his special plant. Miraculously, no one had yet—to the best of Billy’s knowledge—stumbled upon his secret. These outsiders seemed too incurious and jaded to bother poking around much. Since Billy was continually on the set of the movie—save for a few hours begrudged to sleep—he had been able to keep constant tabs on his maturing womandrake. There were never any signs that anyone had disturbed the thriving plant, and Billy was happy with its progress. Now three weeks into May, with only five weeks left in its accelerated growth, the plant was already four feet tall, glossy and healthy-looking, its hidden core bulging the outer leaves in a suggestive fashion. Billy continued to read aloud to it, hoping that the texts he chose would somehow counterbalance the debased dialogue that drifted over from the filming. The liberties they were taking with one of Billy’s favorite books—! It made him almost nauseous at times.
Landisberg’s calling of Billy’s name shattered his reverie. “Hey, Budd, we’re ready to shoot! Where the hell is Goodnight?”
Billy sighed deeply. Keeping Welcome Goodnight appeased was his most delicate and dangerous chore. The resident sorcerer had indeed been cast as the wizard Maule, and also as Maule’s descendant, Matthew.
A limo door swung open and Cordovan bellied out. Landisberg, instantly recognizable, followed. The crowd was silent.
“Here it is, Luke baby,” the Film Bureau man said. “Isn’t it just what you asked for?”
Landisberg studied the scene for a moment, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. Then he spoke, his voice a youthful but assured soprano.
“Not bad, but where’s the elm?”
“The elm?” Cordovan repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.
“You didn’t pay attention to the script, Freddie. There’s supposed to be a three-hundred-year-old elm—the Pyncheon elm—in front of the house. I don’t see it, do you?”
Cordovan trembled, as if expecting the crack of a lash whistling toward his back. He stammered, “Gee, Luke, I just—that is—couldn’t we—”
Landisberg waved a hand imperiously. “Forget it, Freddie. We’ll let the SFX crew handle it. You did good.”
Turning toward one of the trucks, leaving Cordovan to wipe sweat from his brow, Landisberg yelled, “Turnbull!”
A small man emerged. He looked like a hunched gnome with indigestion.
“Turnbull, give me a three-hundred-year-old elm in front of the house, shading the doorway.”
“Will do, chief,” said Turnbull. The gnome assembled helpers from within the truck. Clutching numerous tools and raw materials, they swarmed to a spot before the house. Moving so fast that no one could see what they were doing, they hammered and sawed, yelled and swore, rasped and drilled. Staging and ladders were assembled and dismantled in seconds, the workers clambering over them like blurry ghosts.
When their rapid motions finally ceased, a forty-foot elm, its gnarled trunk so wide three men couldn’t circle it with their arms, stood in plain view.
Billy, who had been watching the whole operation with the rest of the town, walked with vast bemusement to the tree. Close up, he could sense its life aura, indistinguishable from that of any real tree. Over Billy’s head, the leaves of the tree rustled gently, dispersing shade like gentle balm.
Billy walked up to Landisberg. “How—how did you do that?”
Landisberg smiled cryptically. “Special effects.” He sized Billy up. “You must be Budd, the delegate for the town.”
Billy nodded. Landisberg shook his hand, then said, “Well, let’s get busy. We’ve got a film to make here.”
Following that, nothing was too clear.
The trucks disgorged more workers, the limos spat forth the stars, and chaos was under way.
After two weeks of filming, however, Billy was almost used to the craziness.
Listening to Landisberg shout orders now, he even dared to hope that things might turn out all right, for both the town and his special plant. Miraculously, no one had yet—to the best of Billy’s knowledge—stumbled upon his secret. These outsiders seemed too incurious and jaded to bother poking around much. Since Billy was continually on the set of the movie—save for a few hours begrudged to sleep—he had been able to keep constant tabs on his maturing womandrake. There were never any signs that anyone had disturbed the thriving plant, and Billy was happy with its progress. Now three weeks into May, with only five weeks left in its accelerated growth, the plant was already four feet tall, glossy and healthy-looking, its hidden core bulging the outer leaves in a suggestive fashion. Billy continued to read aloud to it, hoping that the texts he chose would somehow counterbalance the debased dialogue that drifted over from the filming. The liberties they were taking with one of Billy’s favorite books—! It made him almost nauseous at times.
Landisberg’s calling of Billy’s name shattered his reverie. “Hey, Budd, we’re ready to shoot! Where the hell is Goodnight?”
Billy sighed deeply. Keeping Welcome Goodnight appeased was his most delicate and dangerous chore. The resident sorcerer had indeed been cast as the wizard Maule, and also as Maule’s descendant, Matthew.
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