“Joey, look: everything about you is preposterous. The way you clatter up and down the steps, and that outlandish outfit. How could you possibly be real?”

  “Because you could never conceive of making anything that preposterous, Max. You’ve told me so a dozen times. How could you?”

  “That is a very good question.”

  “If you made me like you say, then why can’t you unmake me, the way I unmade Morgantha?”

  “I have more self-control than you, for one thing.”

  “Because you can’t! You can’t! You can’t! I get you furious a dozen times a week. Believe me, if you could unmake me, I’d have been gone long ago.” He sat forward energetically. “I make and unmake things all the time. But I’ve never actually seen you make anything at all.”

  “I’ve told you before, I don’t think it’s something to be abused.”

  “You’re just trying to keep me from getting really mad and unmaking you.”

  “Quote you back at yourself,” Maximillian said dryly: “Just try.”

  “I have. It never works.”

  The hands on the grandfather clock had swung around with amazing stealth to two minutes of.

  “What’s more, I’ve given you the only explanation that accounts for why it doesn’t.”

  Maximillian sighed. “I remember distinctly making you. You have no memory at all of making me. By all the laws of economy and logic—”

  Joey flung his hand out. “Do you see anything around here either logical or economical?”

  “That’s not the same—”

  “Could you make a rock so heavy you couldn’t lift it?”

  “Of course I could. And that’s not the same thing at all as making a rock I couldn’t unmake if I happened to see it falling toward me from a balcony.”

  “Max—” Joey clapped his hands in frustration. “Do you realize I’ve never seen you outside this room?”

  “All my needs are provided for here or in the chambers adjoining.”

  “Come out with me now.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You can’t come out. I made you so you’d always be in this one room.”

  “Absurd. Every couple of days I go for a walk in some of the lower corridors.”

  “And every time I come here, you’re always sitting behind that desk, no matter what time of the day or night. I’ve never caught you out. Not even to take a leak.”

  “All the more reason to believe I made you. I never summon you —I suppose I do it unconsciously, because I must admit I occasionally develop a certain fondness for you in absentia—while I’m taking a walk, a nap, or a . . . leak.”

  Joey just grunted. “What are you reading anyway?”

  “Puffins” He picked up his current volume. “M. R. Lockely. Perfectly delightful book. If you promise to take good care of it, I’ll lend it to—”

  “Max, you’ve got to come with me! There’s something outside. Morgantha told me just before I got rid of her. There’s something outside that’s trying to get in!” He lowered his voice theatrically: “Over the moat!”

  Maximillian’s laughter burst out with an introductory sound Joey would have sworn was a ‘pop.’ “Go fight your own delusions.”

  “It’s not one of mine; it’s one of yours!”

  “Cut it out,” Maximillian said and picked up Lockely. “You really do make me angry sometimes, you know? You’ve got to learn to take the responsibility for what’s yours and stop trying to assume the glory for what’s not.”

  “Such as?”

  The book flapped down on the table. ‘You, for one thing. Me, for another!”

  “Damn it, Max—” In frustration Joey stalked across the room. He turned back, but his outrage was trapped by an occasionally recurrent stutter.

  Maximillian had folded his arms and was glaring. The hands of the grandfather clock had crept back to quarter of.

  Joey slammed the door.

  The direct way to the moat took Joey roaring and bouncing down another flight of steps and off through a stone corridor whose ceiling was so low he had to hold his head down.

  Fires flickered behind iron cages set in niches left. As he passed the black, studded door of the locked chamber on his right—a five-by-five square recessed in the rougher wall—he could not be sure (it may have been vibrations from the engine, as his muffler had fallen off two weeks before), but he thought the door rattled as he shot by. He swung his vehicle around into another stairwell.

  Fists bagging his jacket pockets even further, and meerschaum chirping, Maximillian shortly went for a walk in the remoter levels to ponder his origin. His certainty over the matter, alas, could only be assumed in the security of his study. The further away he wandered (and he did take at least one goodly stroll every other day) the greater grew his doubt. What he talked of to Joey—and he was fairly certain Joey knew it—was a period some years back when through overwork, fatigue, and the ever-mounting pressure from the discovery in one of the lumber rooms of a slightly damp eleventh edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which threatened to decompose before he got all thirty-seven volumes read, he had hallucinated a time in which he had created not only Joey, but all the rooms, books, staircases, and chambers vacant, furnished, or locked; as well as the briny water around them and the brackish woods beyond. Before that, his memories were a little hazy. The only thing certain about that time was that Joey had been there, and the castle, and the wood.

  He had been walking in darkness for some time when he became aware that the echo of his footsteps was returning over a very long distance.

  Far above him and fifty feet to the right was a small rectangle of moonlight cut by bars. Equally far below him, and left, a luminous pearl flickered on shifting waters. And there was a distant plash, plash, plash. He had wandered onto one of the stone arches that spanned the castle’s immense cistern. As he came down the steps (there were no rails on either side) a dim light resolved into one of the iron cages where the oil still flickered, lighting the wet, high wall as though it were made of mica.

  He reached the crumbling ledge, and entered a very narrow corridor, where more fires were caged by the doorway. After thirty feet the rough walls gave way to dressed stone. And the ceiling was a little higher. A little further and the dirt floor slipped beneath plank.

  A chair had been placed at a bend. The carved, black rungs had nearly pulled from their pegs. The leather cushion had cracked away at the comers and seemed to be stuffed with cardboard. But it was a chair.

  A little further still, and the corridor had heaved itself out to respectable breadth and width. There were, irregularly, doors on the left and, quite regularly, windows on the right.

  One reason Maximillian did not venture from his study more frequently was the feeling of being observed that grew with the distance. Joey must be spying on him—that was his rationalization. Alas, Joey had never given Maximillian the slightest inkling that he had observed any of his wanderings. Both spying and reticence were entirely alien to Joey’s character as Maximillian perceived it. But Maximillian still nurtured the possibility as a hope.

  Between dark drapes a wing of moonlight fell over an immense painting. The surface was nearly black with dirt and overvarnishing. The frame was an eight-inch width of gilded leaves, shells, and birds. Max stopped to gaze into the murky umbers stained to teak.

  Behind the frame the canvas had come loose from its stretchers at one comer. A texture here from a brushstroke, there something that was either color or glare from the moon; was that a pale highlight, or a scar where the underpainting and layered glazes had cracked from the white-lead sizing?

  Maximillian looked left where a crystal candelabra rewired for electricity had about half the bulbs working. He looked to the right where the chair sat in the corridor’s elbow.

  He faced the canvas again and cleared his throat: “Agent XMQ7-34, calling Supervisor 86th Sector, Precinct B. Please come in. Please come in. This is Agent, eh . . . XMQ7-34 calling Supervisor of the—”

  “Supervisor here. What’s the report?”

  “The experiment is progressing nicely, sir. The subject is responding well to the evocation of paranoid projection.”

  “Good.”

  “He’s moving through the proscribed stages exactly on schedule.”

  “Very fine.”

  “The psychic tensions have practically webbed in the life force; it awaits only your orders before we move on to the final phase.”

  “Oh, yes. Excellent. Splendid. But tell me, Agent XMQ7-34, how do you find yourself holding up under all this?”

  “To tell the truth, it’s a little hard on me, Chief. You know, it’s funny, but I’m really becoming sort of fond of the subject . . . I mean, in a way.”

  “I’m afraid, Agent XMQ7-34, it’s a process I’m familiar with. They try so hard, put up such a battle, that you can’t help developing a certain respect for the little buggers.”

  “That’s it, Chief.” Maximillian began to laugh. “That’s it exactly . . .” Laughter from the canvas joined his, merged with it, was absorbed by it, till Maximillian’s rang alone. He was unable to keep up the charade any longer.

  He glanced down the hall hoping to catch sight of Joey’s head pulling back around the corner. But the audience for whom he conjured his voices was, as usual, absent.

  As Maximillian turned from the painting, for one moment the vast surface cleared of moon glare:

  A small window near the top; on a narrow stone bridge two figures struggled in the shadow of the wall, high above black water. One of the figures was naked.

  But Maximillian had already taken another step; again reflected light blotted the surface. Frowning, he moved to one side, forward, back again, but could not find the spot again where the subject cleared.

  Finally he turned and walked toward the chandelier.

  Through blue hangings that curtained the open door came the sound of gentle converse. Occasionally a man’s or woman’s laughter segregated itself.

  Maximillian frowned again.

  It had been almost a year since he had been in this hall. His last visit had been on an evening when he had been particularly depressed. A disastrous idea, he had known it wouldn’t work; still, he had made a party.

  He had left early, fleeing back to his study and his books. As he stood there now, he realized he could not recall ever consciously unmaking the gathering. The voices chattered on.

  He looked at the electrified chandelier. The black extension cord he had run to the other chandelier inside to light the party room still hung down to the rug, curled twice, and snaked off between the hangings.

  His apprehension deepened. The party had been formal. He was wearing only his baggy corduroy. Suddenly, perhaps too suddenly, he pushed through the drapery onto the small balcony.

  “Maximillian! Oh, there, I told you he’d be back. Steve, Bert, Ronny, Max is back. Didn’t I say he wouldn’t run off and just desert us forever?”

  “Well, you certainly took your time, boy. It’s almost twenty-five to three.”

  “Come on down from there and have a martini.”

  “Oh, Karl, it’s much too late in the evening for martinis. Max wants something stronger than that.”

  “Are you feeling any better, honey? You looked a sight when you ran out of here.”

  “Oh, Max was just having one of his moods, weren’t you, Max darling.”

  He held the railing and gazed down into the room.

  “I think he still looks sort of green around the gills.”

  “All he needs is a drink. Max, come on down here and have a drink.”

  He opened his mouth, his tongue stumbling; he tried to think of something witty to toss before his descent.

  “Max? Max! I am glad you came back, really. It wasn’t something I said, was it? Tell me it wasn’t something I said. I was only kidding, Max. Really I—”

  “Come on, Sheila. Let it go—”

  “Max, Ronny just told me the funniest story. Come on, Ronny, tell Max the one you just told me. The one about—well, you know!”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve got to hear this one. Gracie laughed so much she lost her shoe. Gracie, did you ever get your shoe back? I saw Oliver doing something with it over there behind the piano.”

  “Max? Oh, come on, Max! You’re not going to run out on us again, are you?”

  “Of course he’s not. He just got here, right, Max? Max . . .?”

  “Oh, don’t pay him any mind. You know how Max is. He’ll be back.”

  Maximillian stopped in the corridor. His palms were moist. As he opened his fingers, they cooled. For one moment he tried to summon up the will to unmake what was inside.

  The hangings swung. The conversation burbled and wound. A woman laughed. More conversation. A man laughed.

  He felt terribly drained. The necessary anger that would erase it all was stifled in him. He swallowed, and was surprised by the breaking sound from his throat.

  Hands in his jacket pockets, he hurried down the hall.

  The gate’s beams, vertical and cross, creaked up into the stone. Joey looked out on the bridge. The trees beyond the shrubbery wrinkled and rolled. A moment later the surface of the water reticulated like foil. And terror divided the focus of his senses into some great fly’s eye through which the whole vision before him was suddenly fragmented and absurd. Then the ordinary fear with which he could cope returned.

  He stepped from the stone floor to the wooden bridge, paused for a moment with his hand on the seven-inch links of the draw chain, till he remembered it was caked in grease. He looked at the black smears on his fingers, wiped them on his jean thigh, and put both hands in his back pockets without checking again: it would take soap. And water . . .

  Something moved in the shrubbery at the head of the bridge. Squinting through the fogged lens, Joey stepped forward. The forest roared softly. The wind flattened the leather jacket to his side; zippers tinkled.

  A figure darted forward, gained the boards, and came up short as though it had expected no hindrance.

  Joey snatched his hand from his pockets so fast his knuckles stung: he heard more threads go in the left one.

  The boy was naked.

  Crouched.

  Balanced on the balls of his feet.

  Hands to the side.

  His hair, black as rags of the night itself, whipped and snapped at one shoulder.

  “. . . What do you want?” Joey demanded over the wind.

  A black cloth was tied down around the left eye.

  The right one, huge and yellow, blinked.

  “Come on,” Joey said. “What do you want?”

  The boy blinked again. Then he laughed, a skinny sound that twisted out like barbed wire through dry pine needles. His arms came back to his sides. He took another step.

  Joey said, “You better get away from here.”

  The boy said, “Hello, Joey.”

  “You better get away from here now,” Joey repeated. “What do you want?”

  There were cuts and scratches on the boy’s shins and feet. He held his head slightly to the side in order to see. “Can I come inside, Joey?” and the following laughter was all breath. It sounded terribly wet.

  “No. You can’t. What do you want?”

  “Aw, come on.” Another step. The boy stuck out his hand. “I’ll tell you when we get inside.”

  Joey took the hand to shake. “You can’t come in.” Joey’s hand was thick, dry, and gritty.

  “Yes I can.” The boy’s was long and moist. And he was still laughing.

  “You get on out of here.” But physical contact, unpleasant as it was, made the child less threatening. The eye-rag was knotted across his left ear. A splatter of acne wounds made their red galaxy on his jaw. “Get off the bridge.” Joey tried to pull his hand away. The fingers stiffened around his own. “Now come on—” He shook his hand. The hand holding his swung with his shaking. “Hey—!” Now Joey pulled back in earnest.

  The boy laughed and pulled against him. He was very strong.

  Joey leaned back and grabbed his own wrist with his free hand. The boy leaned too. His free hand waved behind him. The boy’s foot touched Joey’s; his toes were wet and cold with night water.

  The boy grinned.

  Joey jerked, slipped, yanked.

  Then the boy released all pressure.

  Joey staggered backward, almost tripped on the sill, went back three more steps, and sat down.

  The boy stood over him, his grip still firm.

  The gate creaked down. The splintered stumps of the vertical beams thudded into puddles that had collected in the worn depressions, sending dark rills through the checkered moonlight.

  “Told you I could get in.”

  Something ran out into the pale square where the boy stood, paused to raise its glittering barb, thought better, and scurried off. Joey felt a sympathetic throb in his instep.

  “You know what I want?”

  As Joey pushed to his feet, the boy helped him with a tug. Joey narrowed his eyes; the boy released his hand.

  “I’m going to unlock that room upstairs. I’m going to push back the door, and whatever is inside is going to come out.”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you think will happen once it’s let out?”

  “What out?”

  The boy suddenly giggled and rubbed his wrist across his mouth. “Joey, you know. . .” He looked around the dim hall. “. . . maybe the clocks in the East Wing will get on with their business at last. Perhaps you and Maximillian will decide you don’t want to live here any more, and move away into the forest. Interesting to think about, isn’t it?”

  Joey tried to focus his discomfort.

  The boy’s vocal expression suddenly changed. “I’ve got to try and unlock it. Take me up there, Joey. All you have to do is show me the door. I’ll do the rest. I’ll let it out, and then I can go. It’ll be simple. Show me where the chamber is. Once I open the door, I’ll go away and leave you alone . . .”

  “No . . .!” Joey wanted to give his refusal full voice. But it came out in a rasping hiss. He turned in the echoing hall (the discomfort focused was terror) and ran through the nearest doorway.

  “Joey . . . !”