“I
said
, we want you to take someone away. To that last world … where the children are cruel and strong. Please!” I opened my eyes. “Take her away forever.”
The sun had just broken over the horizon, and light flowed over Clotaire like a torrent of melted copper. His leather puttees, his sturdy breeches, his scarf, his hair, and even his beautiful face, all of him looked strong and hard as metal in that peculiar dawn.
He gazed down at us and said, “Be certain.”
“We’re certain!” we chorused.
Clotaire went to the wicker basket, opened a small wooden box, and took out a pistol. My mouth went dry. “What’s that for?” I heard myself squeak.
Instead of answering, Clotaire grabbed me and held the pistol to my head. I fancied cold fingers closing around my heart.
I shall die
, I remember thinking.
And I shall probably go to hell
.
Aunt Henrietta burst from the front door of the house, her dressing gown flapping at her heels and her hair flying. “Save me,” I prayed, “oh, Aunt Henrietta, save me!” as the muzzle of Clotaire’s gun grew warm from the heat of my temple.
“How dare you!” she cried at first. Then she saw the pistol, and her eyebrows shot up, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said.
“Do as I say, and the child will not be hurt,” said Clotaire. “Get into the basket.”
“Help!” croaked Harry. “Oh, Father, help us.” But Father lay drunk asleep in the far side of the house.
Aunt Henrietta climbed awkwardly over the wicker rim. “Sir, I beg of you, don’t harm the children.”
“Clotaire … I changed my mind. It’s all right. You don’t have to take her away.” I was sobbing by then.
But Clotaire only laughed, a sound as hard and sharp-edged as glass. “You have made your bargain, my friend. It is past changing now.”
He loosened his grip, gave me a small push in Harry’s direction, and aimed the pistol at Aunt Henrietta. I doubt that I have ever felt so confused and powerless as I did then, watching Clotaire climb into the basket himself. Everything seemed wrong. I wanted him to take her away, and yet the execution of the act frightened me as much as the idea of her staying. I waited for a flood of satisfaction and release, but none came. Perhaps I had, on that distant autumn morning, my first glimmering of a difficult, grown-up fact. Outside of fairy tales, real justice is quite an elusive commodity.
“You had better keep quite still, madame,” said Clotaire as he prepared to fire the burner.
“Where are you taking me?” whimpered Aunt Henrietta, her face the color of smoke.
Clotaire laughed, more musically this time, and said, “A place faraway but nearby, where things are not so very different. A place where you have no counterpart, never have had, and never will.”
Then the burner roared. Flames erupted from it, and the silver balloon strained at its mooring. Aunt Henrietta, wild-eyed, clutched the rim of the basket. Clotaire shouted, “Heaven keep you, my friends.” He pulled out the anchor line, and they rose—up, up, until at last, when they were smaller than a marble or an eye, they vanished.
Harry and I stood on the lawn in shocked silence. The smells of autumn leaves and fermenting apples washed over us as the birds began to twitter again.
Though sixty years have passed since then, that morning still looms in my mind like a shadow that crosses a field and changes the look of the ground in its path. Though I’ve led a fine life and don’t hold much with wishful thinking, I can’t help wondering about the other worlds. Which one would I live in today if Clotaire had said no to us, which one if Aunt Henrietta had not vanished in a balloon?
As things turned out, Father sent Harry and me away to separate schools after Henrietta’s disappearance, probably because he thought it would be easier to drink himself into an early grave if there were no children about. He was deadbefore my twentieth birthday.
said
, we want you to take someone away. To that last world … where the children are cruel and strong. Please!” I opened my eyes. “Take her away forever.”
The sun had just broken over the horizon, and light flowed over Clotaire like a torrent of melted copper. His leather puttees, his sturdy breeches, his scarf, his hair, and even his beautiful face, all of him looked strong and hard as metal in that peculiar dawn.
He gazed down at us and said, “Be certain.”
“We’re certain!” we chorused.
Clotaire went to the wicker basket, opened a small wooden box, and took out a pistol. My mouth went dry. “What’s that for?” I heard myself squeak.
Instead of answering, Clotaire grabbed me and held the pistol to my head. I fancied cold fingers closing around my heart.
I shall die
, I remember thinking.
And I shall probably go to hell
.
Aunt Henrietta burst from the front door of the house, her dressing gown flapping at her heels and her hair flying. “Save me,” I prayed, “oh, Aunt Henrietta, save me!” as the muzzle of Clotaire’s gun grew warm from the heat of my temple.
“How dare you!” she cried at first. Then she saw the pistol, and her eyebrows shot up, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said.
“Do as I say, and the child will not be hurt,” said Clotaire. “Get into the basket.”
“Help!” croaked Harry. “Oh, Father, help us.” But Father lay drunk asleep in the far side of the house.
Aunt Henrietta climbed awkwardly over the wicker rim. “Sir, I beg of you, don’t harm the children.”
“Clotaire … I changed my mind. It’s all right. You don’t have to take her away.” I was sobbing by then.
But Clotaire only laughed, a sound as hard and sharp-edged as glass. “You have made your bargain, my friend. It is past changing now.”
He loosened his grip, gave me a small push in Harry’s direction, and aimed the pistol at Aunt Henrietta. I doubt that I have ever felt so confused and powerless as I did then, watching Clotaire climb into the basket himself. Everything seemed wrong. I wanted him to take her away, and yet the execution of the act frightened me as much as the idea of her staying. I waited for a flood of satisfaction and release, but none came. Perhaps I had, on that distant autumn morning, my first glimmering of a difficult, grown-up fact. Outside of fairy tales, real justice is quite an elusive commodity.
“You had better keep quite still, madame,” said Clotaire as he prepared to fire the burner.
“Where are you taking me?” whimpered Aunt Henrietta, her face the color of smoke.
Clotaire laughed, more musically this time, and said, “A place faraway but nearby, where things are not so very different. A place where you have no counterpart, never have had, and never will.”
Then the burner roared. Flames erupted from it, and the silver balloon strained at its mooring. Aunt Henrietta, wild-eyed, clutched the rim of the basket. Clotaire shouted, “Heaven keep you, my friends.” He pulled out the anchor line, and they rose—up, up, until at last, when they were smaller than a marble or an eye, they vanished.
Harry and I stood on the lawn in shocked silence. The smells of autumn leaves and fermenting apples washed over us as the birds began to twitter again.
Though sixty years have passed since then, that morning still looms in my mind like a shadow that crosses a field and changes the look of the ground in its path. Though I’ve led a fine life and don’t hold much with wishful thinking, I can’t help wondering about the other worlds. Which one would I live in today if Clotaire had said no to us, which one if Aunt Henrietta had not vanished in a balloon?
As things turned out, Father sent Harry and me away to separate schools after Henrietta’s disappearance, probably because he thought it would be easier to drink himself into an early grave if there were no children about. He was deadbefore my twentieth birthday.
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