that I think may presage an eternal night. I opened the door every day after that. I kept a calendar. T’other place waited on equinoxes and solstices. On all other days, there was nothing but crawl space back there. I shot my first faun in the spring of 1984, and I brought my kill home with me and was pleased to discover it tasted better than mutton. In 1989 I began the hunts. Since then I’ve taken down everything from faun to orc, whurl to whizzle, and now my joy is giving other men the opportunity to kill fairy tales themselves, to slaughter the beasts of bedtime stories. Did you know if you eat the heart of a whurl, for a while you can understand the language of squirrels? Not that they have much to say. It’s all nuts and fucking. I went bald in my thirties but have recovered my youthful head of hair since I began eating faun. Though I never speak of it to Missus Churn, I fuck like a bull when I’m away. I get to Portland to see their ladies of leisure twice a month, and I’ve left some walking bowed-legged. Powdered orc horn. Makes Viagra look like an aspirin.” He winked. “Go to bed, young fellow. Tomorrow you will see your companions strike down daydreams in the flesh.”
Christian nodded obediently and pushed the little door shut. He walked on bare feet, with head down, toward the stairs. But then, just as he crossed by Charn, he looked back, at the bell jar covered in the linen sheet, the same sheet that had previously covered the birdcage.
“Mr. Charn? What’s that?” he asked.
Charn stepped forward into the moonlight, set the jar on the sewing desk. He slipped the linen cloth off it, folded the sheet over one arm. “This room is rather bare, isn’t it? I thought it needed something to liven it up.”
Christian bent to look into the jar. Two whurls had been stuffed and dramatically posed. One stood on an artfully positioned tree branch, holding a sword as long as Christian’s pinkie and baring his teeth in a fanged roar. The other, in a green cape, huddled beneath the branch, eyes narrowed in sly thought: a conspirator preparing to spring.
“Good old Hutch,” Charn said “Good old Mehitabel.”
PART TWO: THEIR SIDE OF THE DOOR
Stockton Wishes for Better Company
Peter was in a pissy mood in the morning. He had forgotten to pack his tactical knife, an MTech with a pistol grip, and he bitched and moaned and stomped around in his bedroom, tossing the contents of his duffel, sure it had to be in there somewhere, until Stockton told him to give it a fucking rest or he could stay behind on earth with the old ladies.
When they assembled in the attic after coffee and pancakes, they were in autumnal camo, beiges and murky greens. They all had guns, except for Christian, who was armed only with his sketch pad. He was fully recovered from the previous evening’s queasy spell, and now his eyes shone with happiness. He looked from man to man as if it were Christmas morning, and he was bursting with feelings of good fellowship. Stockton wondered if you could get a headache from spending too much time with someone so cheerful. Too much uncontrolled optimism ought to be prohibited; people needed to be protected from it, like secondhand smoke. To soften the dull throb of pain behind his eyes, it was necessary to unscrew the lid of his thermos and have a sip of coffee, liberally punched up with some Irish Cream.
Charn was the last to join them and today looked nothing like the host of a program for children on public television. With his Marlin 336 over his shoulder, he carried himself with the casually assertive bearing of the seasoned, lifelong hunter.
“One amongst you was too eager to wait for morning and tried the door last night,” Charn said, looking around at them. Christian blushed, and Charn smiled indulgently. “Would you care to give it another go, young Mr. Swift?”
Christian sank to one knee by the little door. He held the latch for a single dramatic moment—and then pulled it open.
Dead leaves blew across the wooden floor, carrying with them the scent of fall. Christian stared into the gloaming on the other side for the time it took to draw a single breath and then crawled through. The gay, bright-as-brass tinkle of his laughter echoed strangely from the far side. Stockton