‘How come I’m crying?’

‘Why would anyone be crying?’ said Will, but his eyes were wet, too. ‘Darn,’ he whispered.

They heard a creaking sound. From the corner of his eye, Douglas saw a woman go by pushing a carriage in which something struggled and cried.

Beyond in the afternoon crowd, a pretty woman walked arm in arm with a sailor. Down by the lake a mob of girls played tag, hair flying, leaping, bounding, measuring the sand with swift feet. The girls ran away down the shore and Douglas, hearing their laughter, turned his gaze back to the tent, the entry, and the large strange question mark.

Douglas started to move back toward the tent, like a sleepwalker.

‘Doug?’ said Tom. ‘Where you going? You going back in to look at all that junk again?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’ exploded Will. ‘Creepy–looking stuff that someone stuck in old pickle jars. I’m going home. C’mon.’

‘You go on,’ said Doug.

‘Besides,’ said Will, passing a hand across his forehead, ‘I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’m scared. How about you?’

‘What’s to be scared of?’ said Tom. ‘Like you said, it’s just some creepy old stuff.’

‘See you later, guys.’ Doug walked slowly to the entryway and stopped in the shadows. ‘Tom, wait for me.’ Doug vanished.

‘Doug!’ Tom cried, face pale, shouting into the tent at the tables and jars and alien creatures. ‘Be careful, Doug. Watch out!’

He started to follow but stopped, shivering, clutching his elbows, gritting his teeth, half in, half out of night, half in, half out of sun.

III.

Appomattox

Chapter Thirty-Six

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Suddenly the town was full of girls, girls running here, walking there, going in doors, coming out, girls in the dime store, girls dangling their legs at the soda fountain, girls in mirrors or reflected in windows, stepping off curbs or stepping up, and all of them, all in bright not yet fall, not quite autumn dresses, and all, well maybe not all but almost all, with wind blowing their hair and all with downcast eyes looking to see where their shoes might take them.

It seemed to happen overnight, this infestation of girls, and Douglas walked through the town as if it were a mirror maze, walked down to the ravine steps and halfway up the jungle path before he realized where he was. From the top of the last rise he could almost see the lake and the sand and the tent with the question mark over the entrance.

He kept walking and found himself, inexplicably, in Mr Quartermain’s front yard, waiting for he couldn’t say what.

Quartermain, half–hidden in shadow on the front porch, leaned forward in his rocking chair, creaking the wicker, creaking his bones. For a long moment the old man looked one way, the boy another, until their gazes locked.

‘Douglas Spaulding?’ Quartermain said.

‘Mr Quartermain?’ asked the boy.