back into the darkness from
which it had come.
Brendan lay awake for hours, listening with growing dread. A
three-quarter moon rose out of the sea above the balcony railing and
was shining right at him while the night breeze surged through the
attic. He lay with his hands behind his head, listening, knowing he
could not stop it.
He heard them again: hoofbeats, only this time there was something
new--the sound of several horses, growing louder and louder, and now
he heard with them the sound of a carriage, its steel-rimmed wheels
clattering on cobblestones, coming closer, and the air was suddenly
damp and there was a fog filling the attic, making everything
indistinct. Even if he shut his eyes he could not block out the
vision. The horses were running flat out and the carriage springs
were protesting rhythmically but the clattering wheels were making
the loudest noise, thundering frantically. He put his hands over his
ears as the vision loomed out of the blackness and grew until the
approaching carriage towered over him. Brendan threw an arm over his
face, expecting to be run over. But the horses stopped right in front
of him, the whole entourage in black in a black background.
He raised his head and stared at the carriage. The horses stamped
their metal shoes on cobblestones. Was it for him, the carriage? He
sat up in his cot and looked. The driver was an indistinct lump up on
top with a whip and a handful of reins. Then Brendan looked at the
horses. Six of them. All black. All headless. And he saw now that the
driver above his turned-up coat collar was also headless.
Then the carriage door swung open. Brendan said the confiteor, "O
my God, I'm heartily sorry for having offended Thee." Then he
heard voices.
From the fog his mother stepped into view slowly in a very pretty
old gown, and behind her came his father, and his father smiled at
his mother to reassure her, and she took his hand and smiled at him.
They were talking indistinctly and he heard his father say "Brendan."
He didn't want to get into the carriage. "I must tell Brendan
the secret," he said quite clearly. His mother shook her head
and pulled him toward the carriage. Then she stepped up and in, and
his father stepped in behind her and pulled the door shut. He leaned
out of the carriage window and seemed to look directly at Brendan.
"Purple!" he cried.
The driver cracked his whip and the horses leaped into a gallop
and the carriage rushed off into the fog, steel rims ringing on
cobbles, steel horseshoes striking sparks and thundering. The din was
terrific and gradually receded in the fog, grew fainter and finally
died away. A palpable silence flowed back into the attic. Brendan
looked at the other four boys.
They were all asleep. Some time had passed, for the moon was high
over the house now and dawn couldn't be far.
He sat cross-legged on his cot, hearing the solemn pacing of the
waves and the peaceful breathing of the others, knowing that they had
not heard anything, that they could not have heard anything even if
they had been awake. He never felt more alone and apart. He was
convinced his mother and father had just died.
The next morning was the longest of his life. His parents were due
to arrive around 10 a.m., just as the puppet show was to start. He
didn't recall later much about the hours that intervened. He must
have eaten breakfast. They all dined together at seven-thirty every
morning in the high-ceilinged dining room and it was usually a noisy
affair, and on that Saturday the sideshow must have had them all
excited.
He told himself over and over that it was a nightmare, that it had
nothing to do with his parents, and he almost half-believed it. He
sat by a dune fence down the beach, away from his uncle's house,
watching the main road that led from the bridge to the mainland,
studying every car. And every time he saw one like his father's, he
would start to rise hopefully only to be disappointed.
By nine o'clock the sideshow was in full
which it had come.
Brendan lay awake for hours, listening with growing dread. A
three-quarter moon rose out of the sea above the balcony railing and
was shining right at him while the night breeze surged through the
attic. He lay with his hands behind his head, listening, knowing he
could not stop it.
He heard them again: hoofbeats, only this time there was something
new--the sound of several horses, growing louder and louder, and now
he heard with them the sound of a carriage, its steel-rimmed wheels
clattering on cobblestones, coming closer, and the air was suddenly
damp and there was a fog filling the attic, making everything
indistinct. Even if he shut his eyes he could not block out the
vision. The horses were running flat out and the carriage springs
were protesting rhythmically but the clattering wheels were making
the loudest noise, thundering frantically. He put his hands over his
ears as the vision loomed out of the blackness and grew until the
approaching carriage towered over him. Brendan threw an arm over his
face, expecting to be run over. But the horses stopped right in front
of him, the whole entourage in black in a black background.
He raised his head and stared at the carriage. The horses stamped
their metal shoes on cobblestones. Was it for him, the carriage? He
sat up in his cot and looked. The driver was an indistinct lump up on
top with a whip and a handful of reins. Then Brendan looked at the
horses. Six of them. All black. All headless. And he saw now that the
driver above his turned-up coat collar was also headless.
Then the carriage door swung open. Brendan said the confiteor, "O
my God, I'm heartily sorry for having offended Thee." Then he
heard voices.
From the fog his mother stepped into view slowly in a very pretty
old gown, and behind her came his father, and his father smiled at
his mother to reassure her, and she took his hand and smiled at him.
They were talking indistinctly and he heard his father say "Brendan."
He didn't want to get into the carriage. "I must tell Brendan
the secret," he said quite clearly. His mother shook her head
and pulled him toward the carriage. Then she stepped up and in, and
his father stepped in behind her and pulled the door shut. He leaned
out of the carriage window and seemed to look directly at Brendan.
"Purple!" he cried.
The driver cracked his whip and the horses leaped into a gallop
and the carriage rushed off into the fog, steel rims ringing on
cobbles, steel horseshoes striking sparks and thundering. The din was
terrific and gradually receded in the fog, grew fainter and finally
died away. A palpable silence flowed back into the attic. Brendan
looked at the other four boys.
They were all asleep. Some time had passed, for the moon was high
over the house now and dawn couldn't be far.
He sat cross-legged on his cot, hearing the solemn pacing of the
waves and the peaceful breathing of the others, knowing that they had
not heard anything, that they could not have heard anything even if
they had been awake. He never felt more alone and apart. He was
convinced his mother and father had just died.
The next morning was the longest of his life. His parents were due
to arrive around 10 a.m., just as the puppet show was to start. He
didn't recall later much about the hours that intervened. He must
have eaten breakfast. They all dined together at seven-thirty every
morning in the high-ceilinged dining room and it was usually a noisy
affair, and on that Saturday the sideshow must have had them all
excited.
He told himself over and over that it was a nightmare, that it had
nothing to do with his parents, and he almost half-believed it. He
sat by a dune fence down the beach, away from his uncle's house,
watching the main road that led from the bridge to the mainland,
studying every car. And every time he saw one like his father's, he
would start to rise hopefully only to be disappointed.
By nine o'clock the sideshow was in full
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