Ch. 2: The Men in Brown

Back to The Men in Brown

''             He   had   never   seen   the   tall   hill,   rising   grim   and   green   above   the   swampy   vale,   before,   yet   he   knew   its’   name   and   felt   it,   a   brooding   presence,   a   gutted   place   once   great   in   evil:   Knapp   Hill,   it   was   called,   but   once   had   been   the   Witches’   Retreat. He   did   not   want   to   go   near,   but   he   had   to,   gliding   through   trees   like   a   ghost,   until   he   came   to   a   high   stony   cliff. It   had   a   patchwork   appearance,   some   blocks   fresh   and   brown   and   bare   of   moss,   others   deep   in   bladderwort   and   stonemoss. Part   of   it   shimmered   as   he   glided   toward   it,   and   then   he   went   through   it   too,   and   found   himself   passing   down   a   long   rugged   hall. The   roof   was   blocky,   but   the   floor   was   gravel,   packed   hard   as   a   road. He   passed   deep   wells,   from   one   of   which   came   a   faint   red   light   and   a   sound   of   murmering   like   tears. Another   sound   was   growing,   faint   but   steady,   a   throbbing   rumble   and   a   constant   pounding. ''

''             He   passed   into   a   side   opening. A   cave   with   a   waterfall   lay   before   him:   from   behind   the   falls   came   a   red   light,   and   with   it   the   strange   pounding   and   laboring. Now   the   falls   were   before   him,   and   then   falling   mistily   around him,   and   he   was   in   a   round   tunnel;   and   then   he   came   out   into   a   place   that   could   not   possibly   exist. ''

''             Huge   caverns,   filled   with   forges   and   machinery   in   totally   unrecognizable   patterns   and   design,   stretched   around   him. Huge   engines   throbbed   and   labored. Flashes   of   eerie   light   burst   up, blue   and   green   and   pinkish-red. Deep   powerful   voices   were   singing   in   some   harsh,   crashing   tongue   that   crackled   like   thunder:   it   made   his   teeth   ache. He   peered   harder. Shapes   were   moving   among   the   forges,   moving   with   amazing   speed   and   agility,   short   and   stocky   and   shaped   like   men, hard   bulging   muscles   on   naked   chests   and   arms   thick   with   hair,   and   great   beards   braided   and   tied   out   of   the   way,   leather   breeches   their   only   clothing   in   the   great   heats. There   only   seemed   to   be   a   few,   though   their   speed   gave   them   the   impression   of   multitude. But   these   people   were   barely   four   feet   high. ''

''             “The   Dwarves   of   yore   made   mighty   spells, ''

''              while   hammers   fell   like   ringing   bells…” ''

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''         the   chant   sounded   and   echoed   in   his   head,   or   maybe   he   was   hearing   those   familiar   words   to   that   mysterious   music,   for   the   words   were   not   in   human   language. The   Dwarves   were   forging,   but   what   they   were   forging   was   not   easy   to   see. Every   now   and   again   one   of   them   would   trace   a   queer   glowing   letter   in   the   air   with   what   looked   like   a   large   pen,   except   it   wrote   on   the   air   in   lines   of   light. The   letters   were   harsh   and   angular:   runes,   he   knew   instinctively. Runes   of   power,   the   gift   of   the   Gods   to   the   Dwarves   against   the   Giants. ''

''             The   tallest   Dwarf   suddenly   turned   and   looked   him   in   the   eye. “O   wraith   of   human,”   he   said   in   an   incredibly   deep   voice,   “if   thou   come   in   the   Road   thou   art   welcome,   but   an   thou   dost   not,   my   runes   will   pull   thee   from   thy   spying   bed   and   slay   thee.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Christopher   heard   himself   speak. “I   come   upon   the   Road.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   great   Dwarf   inclined   his   head. “Then   welcome.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Who   are   you,   sir?”   Christopher   asked. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   am   Durin.”   the   Dwarf   replied. “And   we   are   the   Seven   Fathers   of   the   Dwarves.” ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             He   sat   up   in   his   bed. The   moonlight   was   shining   slowly   in   the   window. Something   he   remembered   hearing   a   girl   named   Julian   say   at   the   library   came   into   his   head:   “The   virgin   goddess,   Diana   of   the   Moon,   can   see   you when   the   moon   rests   on   you.”   He   shuddered   and   got   out   of   the   patch   of   cold   blue   light.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             He   found   it   impossible   to   sleep. At   last   he   got   up   and   went   to   the   door,   opening   it   carefully. It   was   about   four   in   the   morning. He   closed   it   quietly   and   stood   on   the   second   floor   porch;   Charlene’s   family   had   the   first   floor. The   cold   blue   moonlight   lit   the   hilly   half-wild   neighborhood   like   a   quiet   deadly   eye. There   was   a   hiss   of   tires   and   a   stooped   figure   in   a   bulky   hooded   coat   shot   downhill   on   a   bike   with   a   front   basket:   The   Wizard,   off   on   some   mysterious   errand. It   was   cold   but   still. Orange   streetlights   and   blue   moon   cast   the   green   leaves   into   a   weird   dark   blue-greeness.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             He   went   down   the   stairs. It   was   warm   and   humid,   though   also   night-cool. For   some   strange   reason   he   wanted   to   visit   the   stream.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Highland   Lake,   in   a   hollow   of   the   hills   some   hundred   fifty   feet   above   the   Winsted   valley,   drains   into   Mad   River   by   a   short   but   voluminous   brook,   which   crashes   down   a   sharp   ravine   before   crossing   under   Boyd. Then   it   follows   a   rocky   gulch   and   passes   through   tunnels   beneath   the   old   factories   which once   bore   water   wheels   and   turbines. Normally   so   loud   at   this   time   of   year   as   to   be   heard   through   closed   doors,   the   dry   spring   (despite   the   three   days   of   rain   and   cold   at   the   beginning   of   May)   had   reduced   it   to   summer   depths,   and   water   trickled   sullenly   through   the   stones. Chris   walked   past   the   sagging   carriage   house   and   the   small   white   vacant   house   to   the   cement   bridge   over   the   brook. Pushing   aside   the   thick   maple   twigs   with   their   new   leaves   he climbed   over   the   guardrail   and   promptly   found   himself   caught   in   old   locust   branches   thrown   here   after   the   blizzard,   and   when   he   had   escaped   these   and   slithered   and   slid   down   a   steep   sandy   bank   under   the   young   maples,   he   turned   right   under   the   wall   of   the   bridge   abutment   and   headed   under   the   bridge.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             It   was   a   nice   place. Swells   of   bare   rock   with   ridged   grain   on   end   rose   up   from   the   gulch   the   stream   had   made. To   the   right   was   the   remains   of   the   ancient   ford,   made   likely   long   before   the   bridge,   very   old   concrete   poured   into   the   streambed   over   rocks   until   it   was   level   enough   to   form   a   ten-foot   wide   crossing. It   was   so   worn   that   pebbles   stuck   half   an   inch   out   of   the   lumpy   mass. The   stream   fell   over   the   brink   of   this   in   a   four-foot   falls   into   the   gulch,   from   which   it   poured   over   rocks   into   the   stony   lower   bed. Despite   the   date   of   1988   on   the   kerb   above,   calcite   bulges   were   already   marking   the   edges   of   the   seams,   and   inch-long   stubby   hollow   stalactites   were   growing   above   smooth   calcium   carbonate   deposits   on   the   stone   swells. The   stream   fell   in   a   small   plashing   trickle   over   the   ledge   into   still   black   pools.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Not   quite   so   early   yet,   was   I   expecting   Christopher.”   a   voice   said   out   of   the   darkness   of   the   bridge.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Christopher   gasped   and   started   to   scramble   back.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey now,   here   now,   it’s   a   little   dark   for   running! You   need   not   be   afraid   of   me,   for   you   and   I   are   known   well;   one   knows   of   the   other   one,   and   the   other   he   has   heard   of   him.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Chris   paused,   hanging   between   fear   and   a   vast,   powerful   fascination.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   know   me?”   he   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Of   course   I   know   about   you,   lad;   it’s   you   that   needs   the   knowing! I’ve   come   here   a   long   hard   way,   through   aye   and   oft   a   wandering;   for   old   John   his   home   is   gone,   it   drowned   full   many   year   ago:   and   he   that   had   a   forest   home,   he   wanders   all alone   now.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Who   are   you?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Who? Ah,   that’s   a   strange   deep   question,   boy,   too   deep   for   easy   answers. I’ve   borne   names   aplenty   but   my   names   are   not   my   nature. John   I   am   called   for   now:   John   Wimbledon,   will   do   now.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um,   hi.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             There   was   an   echoing   laugh   from   under   the   bridge. All   the   trees   hummed   and   rustled,   seeming   to   lean   inward   toward   him. It   was   a   sunlit,   wry   and   merry   voice,   but   sorrow   throbbed   beneath   it. “High   or   low,   here   we   go. I   sought   you   out   tonight,   my   lad,   because   things   are   now   moving:   because   you   have   now   seen   in   dreams   the   things   that   aye   be   happening.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What   things? You   mean   last   year’s?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “The   Road   has   returned.”   John   said. “The   Men   in   Brown   are   coming   to   town,   from   the   ends   of   the   earth   do   they   gather   around.”   He   began   to   sing   in   a   light,   lilting   tune,   oddly   carefree   in   that   dark   somber   place:

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“The   Men   in   Brown ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">They   came   to   town ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Upon   a   chill   May   morning ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Nine   could   you   see ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">If   you   had   some   glee ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">About   you   in   the   lorning ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The   Hill   and   the   Wood ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The   House   of   the   Hood ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   the   Blade   and   Bow   abounding ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The   son   of   the   Air ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Who   has   overmuch   hair ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   the   Human-hater   howling ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The   old   graveshand ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   the   Leatherman ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   then   last   of   all,   John   Wimble.” ''

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   voice   sounded   farther   and   farther   away   as   it   sang,   and   Christopher   saw   in   the   dark   shadows   of   the   ravine   a   short   man,   bowed   but   nimble,,   with   a   hat   that   had   a   brim   on   it   like   those   he’d   seen   old   men   wear   to   church. Then   he   was   gone.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Shakily   Christopher   snuck   back   inside.

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Fortunately   today   was   Saturday.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Chris   slept   late. It   was   almost   nine   by   the   time   the   sunshine   pouring   in   his   window   was   too   bright   for   him   to   ignore,   as   well   as   the   fact   that   it   was   stuffy. Yesterday   evening   had   been   really   warm   and   humid,   and   today   was   just   as   warm.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey,   you   wanna   go   to   the   Falls?”   said   Chris   to   Stephen   around   noon.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “The   Falls   dried   up   when   the   Dam   vanished.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Well,   the   river,   then.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Mom   said   yes,   as   long   as   they   were   back   in   two   hours   and   didn’t   play   in   the   ruin. The   boys   rolled   their   eyes. They   headed   out,   walking   down   Hubbard   St. The   level   road   ran   along   the   side   of   the   hill,   with   peaked   old   tenement-townhouses   on   the   downhill   and   more   regular,   newer   houses   on   the   uphill   side. Some   of   their   friends   from   the   neighborhood   were   playing   in   the   road,   but   the   boys   only   said   Hi   and   kept   on   going.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey! Where’re   you   guys   off   to?”   Both   of   them   groaned:   Charlene   had   spotted   them. She   shot   up   on   her   scooter   and   skidded   to   a   stop.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Isn’t   Janice   around   somewhere?”   said   Stephen   pointedly. Charlene   and   her   best   friend,   the   tubbier   dark-haired   Janice,   frequently   snubbed   or   ridiculed   the   boys   when   they   happened   to   amble   by   together.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Naw,   she   was   sick   today.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Lousy   day   to   be   sick.”   said   Chris. “We’re   going   to   the   river.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Cool. Can   I   come?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Both   boys   gazed   lugubriously   at   each   other. “Only   if   you’re   nice.”   said   Christopher.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Aww,   Chris!”   wailed   his   brother.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey,   someone   has   to   keep   you   out   of   trouble.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hmp.”   said   Charlene,   but   she   rode   her   scooter   beside   them   slowly   and   remained   otherwise   silent. They   came   to   the   four-way   where   John   St   climbed   up   the   hill,   a   charming   crossroads   under   a   big   old   maple   with   a   woodsy   periwinkle   bank   downhill   on   the   right;   to   the   left   John   St   petered   out   in   clustered   houses   perched   at   funny   hillside   angles   whose   driveways   ate   up   the   steep   terminus. Hubbard   ran   on   level. Above   the   houses   the   small   mountain   rose   up,   mantled   by   trees. After   the   crossroads   old   townhouses   bordered   the   left,   charming   and   shaded   under   big   old   maples. A   small   brick   warehouse   lay   below   on   the   right. Hubbard   St   ended   in   a   dirt   turnaround   under   an   old   blue   house   on   the   left;   the   right   dropped   off   in   a   brushy   cliff. A   gravel   road   led   down   past   the   warehouse   and   around   below   the   cliff,   while   from   the   end   of   Hubbard   a   jeep   path   clambered   up   the   mountain-crest. The   children   took   the   road   and   entered   the   woods. It   went   down   under   young   maples   growing   on   a   steep   bank   under   Hubbard,   turning   in   a   big   loop   around   old   trucks   in   a   wide   flat   yard,   then   entered   the   woods   below   the   brush-cliff. Lumpy   brown   leaf-floor   rolled   down   to   the   level   dirt   road,   stooping   dark-green   hemlocks   shadowing   it. Big   grey   rocks   stuck   up   from   the   earth,   until   they   rose   like   low   walls   either   side   of   the   road:   for   this   had   once   been   a   railroad,   still   paved   with   cindery   gravel   and   slag,   though   the   rails   had   been   gone   for   almost   seventy   years. A   fireplace   of   stones   was   piled   against   beautiful   rounded   grey   boulders   beneath   hemlocks   above   the   right-hand   bank,   and   then   the   sunken   grade   entered   the   cutting. It   was   about   a   hundred   yards   long,   cleaving   an   outthrust   root   of   the   hill   on   their   left. The   ten-foot   walls   were   blocky   and   broken,   grown with   beautiful   leaning   hemlocks,   thick   laurel   and   moss. Black   birch   filled   the   air   with   brilliant   new-green.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   love   this   place.”   said   Charlene.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   know,   isn’t   it   cool!   This   is   First   Cutting. I   wonder   what   they   did   with   that   huge   steel   tank.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Scrap   metal.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   railroad,   slowly   bending   around   west,   emerged   onto   a   high   fill. Birch   arched   overhead. The   ridge   towered   more   than   twenty   feet   above   the   forest;   it   felt   like   they   were   running   along   the   backbone   of   the   world. On   the   left   the   mountain   plunged   steeply   in   slopes   of   laurel,   birch   and   linden   down   to   the   hollow   beside   the   fill. The   road   surface   was   concave,   low   in   the   middle   and   sandy   with   high   banks. The   Ruin   lay   below   on   the   right,   where   Mad   River   flowed   behind   the   trees:   the   concrete-slab-roofed   basement   floor   of   one   of   the   deserted   factories   the   1955   flood   had   devoured. It   was   a   wide,   flat,   dismal   room,   with   worn   rainbow   graffiti   peeling   off   the   damp   walls,   dark   and   wet.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Steve,   something   really   weird   happened   this   morning.”   said   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   got   up   early,   and—“

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Okay,    that’s    weird   enough.”   said   Charlene. She   then   began   snickering   wildly   while   the   boys   both   rolled   their   eyes.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Go   on.”   said   Stephen. “Did   you   have   another   crazy   dream?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Of   course   I   did,   but   I’ll   tell   you   that   in   a   minute.”   He   described   his   sinister   encounter   under   the   bridge.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “That’s   creepy.”   shuddered   Charlene. “I’d   have   run   screaming.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Yeah,   you’re   a   girl.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey,   he   could   have   been   a   child   molester!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Perverts   never   talk   like   that.”   said   Chris. “And   he   never   tried   to   come   near   me. And   besides,   he   wasn’t…creepy   that   way. More   like   the   kind   of   creepy   you   get   when   reading   some   really   good   and   peculiar   fairy   tale. Like   The   Snow   Queen,   where   Kay   has   a   sliver   of   frozen   glass   in   his   heart   and   has   to   try   arranging   the   ice-shard   puzzle   to the   word   ETERNITY…it’s   really   hard   to   describe,   it’s   like   when   you   see   something   incredibly   awesome   like   a   wild   mountain   view,   and   then   the   sun   breaks   out.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Whoo.”   murmered   Charlene. “I   think   I   get   you.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   had   entered   a   shorter   but   deeper   cutting,   black   leafy   mud   making   the   floor   swampy. Hemlocks   overhung   them,   and   dense   low   laurel   hugged   the   mossy   earth,   and   up   in   the   laurel,   the   boys   knew,   was   a   caved-in   plywood   shanty. They   emerged   out   onto   another   ridge. The   river,   closer   now,   foamed   and   splashed   over   rocks   a   good   thirty   feet   below;   they   saw   bits   of   it   through   the   hemlocks. Ahead   the   grade   ended   at   a   round   turning   place:   a   large   section   had   been   washed   clear   out   in   the   massive   flood   of   1955,   and   the   Army   Corps   of   Engineers   built   the   massive   flood   berm   of   layered   rocks   and   earth,   200   feet   high,   across   the   gorge:   the   spillway   emptied   down   a   rock-floored   cutting   of   the   old   grade,   spilling   out   over   the   sharp   black   rocks   of   the washed-out   section’s   foundation   in   a   cascade. These   falls   were   now   dry   since   the   dam’s   disappearance;   the   river   having   reverted   to   it’s   old   bed,   a   V-gash   in   the   valley   floor   below   the   falls. A   path   led   from   the   turnaround   through   pines   to   the   foot   of   the   falls,   and   what   had   been   a   lovely   open   knob   of   yellow   pine   needles   above   the   river. Some   idiot   had   felled   all   the   young   pines   and   hemlocks   clothing   the   falls   and   piled   them   into   a   leaky   shelter,   now   a   big   tangle   of   brown   dead   limbs. The   three   children   squished   down   a   wet   part   of   the   path   where   a   spring   emerged,   and   clambered   about   in   the   sharp   algae-blacked   dry   rocks. Springs   fed   a   few   rockpools   and   water   trickled   between   them. Over   on   the   right   the   river   babbled   out   of   his   narrow   valley,   spreading   in   a   dozen   channels   around   trees   and   bushes   protected   by   larger   rocks;   some   of   these   were   torn   up,   others   dying.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   didn’t   see   him   at   first,   as   he   looked   just   like   a   chunk   of   rock   until   he   moved. He   was   crouched   froglike   on   one   of   the   large   outthrusts   of   the   old   falls,   one   knee   supporting   his   chin. His   long   face   was   abstracted,   as   one   in   deep   thought,   his   heavy-lidded   eyes   distant   and   wandering. It   was   the   Wizard.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey,   it’s   the   Wizard!”   exclaimed   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Oh   my   gosh,   I didn’t   even   see   him.”   said   Charlene.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hi,   WizZord.”   said   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   Wizard   did   not   smile. He   merely   transferred   his   strange,   distant,   brooding   gaze   from   the   trees   to   them,   gazing   from   one   to   another   in   turn.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Which   of   you   is   Christopher?”   he   said   abruptly. His   voice   was   quiet   and   low-keyed,   but   there   was   something   in   it   that   sent   an   odd   prickle   through   them. Charlene   suddenly   knew   why   exactly   they   called   this   man   Wizard. It   was   a   wizard’s   voice.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um,   that’s   me.”   said   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Do   you,   like,   have   a   name?”   said   Charlene.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Sure   he   does;   he’s   the   Wizard!”   laughed   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             A   wintery   smile   crossed   the   Wizard’s   face. “You   might   call me   Old   Nuncle   Jimmy,   if   you   ever   grew   tired   of   Wizard. Either   will   do. Though   I   must   warn   you   I   am   no   true   Wizard,   and   if   (as   seems   not   unlikely)   you   meet   a   real   one,   be   wary   of   how   you   speak   to   them. For   they   are   subtle   and   quick   to   anger.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um,   Wizard…who   are   the   Men   in   Brown?”   said   Chris. “And   how’d   you   know   my   name?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   am   of   the   Men   in   Brown.”   said   Nuncle   Jimmy. “Why   you   seem   to   have   been   singled   out   so   I   cannot   tell;   there   is   in   you   apparently   nothing   that   would   set   you   apart   or   make   you   other   than   ordinary. But   there   it   is;   instruments   are   seldom   the   ones   that   would   seem   fit   for   the   purpose,   and   the   wise   look   at   their   unfitness   and   wonder   how   on   earth   they   could   have   been   chosen.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Yes,   but…”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   don’t   know   myself,”   the   Wizard   cut   him   off,   shortly. “I   only   know   I   am   numbered   among   them,   but   who   they   all   are   or   why   they   have   been   gathered   was   not   revealed   by   the   one   who   named   me   Brown. I   figure   I’ll   know   in   due   time,   and   meanwhile   I’ve   leeks   to   gather.”   He   unfolded   himself   to   his   feet,   tall   and   lanky   and   nimble. Swiftly   he   sprang   and   scrambled   down   the   rocks,   and   was   gone.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             May   arrived,   with   copious   rain   and   gloom   as   if   to make up   for   the   amazingly   dry   April. Though   the   streams   filled   back   up,   the   lake   outlet   brook   was   still   a   trickle,   and   the   lake   remained   a   whole   foot   below   summer   level. But   the   weekend   of   Winsted’s   Pet   Parade   dawned   gorgeously   clear   and   warm,   with   the   new   green   thickening   the   hills   and   making   the   dull   winter   woods   marvelous   and   bright. There   was   a   festive   air   all   around   town,   for   after   a   long   cautious   winter   and   spring   of   nervously   waiting   to   see   what   wackiness   would   crop   up    this   year,   nothing   save   the   eerily   dry   April   had   yet   shown   up. Perhaps   the   weirdness   was   past,   and   the   town   could   heave   a   collective   sigh   and   relax. Or   perhaps   the   world   really   would   end   in   2012!

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It   can’t   end,   ‘cause   there’s   no   Antichrist   yet.”   Argued   Christopher.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Have   you   noticed   how   popular   the   President   is?”   Stephen   shot   back. As   more   perceptive   Christians   they   knew   one   mark   of   the   Son   of   Perdition   was   his   enormous   popularity.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   day   was   bright,   almost   blinding,   with   a   hot   sun,   the   kind   that   brings   out   a   sour   sort   of   smell   in   your   skin   even   after   you’ve   gotten   into   the   shade. A   clear   whiteness   filled   the   bright   trees   and   the   bright,   grey   Main   Street. Cars   were   parked   all   up   and   down   the   street   on   both   sides,   the   boys   noticed   when   their   family   had   settled   finally   on   a   spot   under   the   lindens   at   the   daycare   house,   where   High   St   met   Main. The   Methodist   church,   tall   and   square   and   built   of   grey   stone,   stood   on   the   far   corner. It   looked   like   a   castle. The   cars   were   mostly   dark,   a   few   cranberry   or   white,   and   clumps   of   people   moved   among   them. The   crowds   were   all   down   at   the   far   end,   near   St. Joseph’s   on   its’   little   hill. A   balloon   man   trotted   by,   pulling   a wagon   stuffed   with   colorful   fancy   balloons. The   air   was   very   soft,   but   a   cool,   blade-like   sort   of   warmth   unlike   the   cloying   warmth   of   some   of   the   more   humid   days.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             There   was   a   keen,   wailing,   clear   sound   of   bagpipes,   and   the   parade   had   begun:   three   veterans   and   a   piper,   all   alone   and   nobody   behind   for   miles. Far   behind   them   came   cars   with   local   dignitaries:   the   mayor,   the   beauty   queen,   and   so   on. Finally   with   a   flash   of   deep   blue   shirts   came   the   Gilbert   High   School   band,   a   stirring   tune   sounding   from   the   magnificent   instruments. Chris   looked   around   at   the   gathered   people,   seated   by   cars   or   on   lawns. Things   stood   out   among   them,   here   and   there:   a   young   red-haired   man   with   sharp   features   perched   on   the   sea-green   rail   of   the   footbridge   across   the   street   (which   sprang   out   across   the   valley   of   the   river   that   flowed   there,   between   Main Street   and   the   hill   that   shut   in   the   lake),   a   dignified   old   man   seated   in   a   green   folding   lawn-seat   nearby,   with   long   white   hair   and   beard   against   his   brown   dress   pants   and   plaid   jacket;   a   person   he   instantly   recognized   as   none   other   than   John   Wimbledon   strolling   up   the   sidewalk   under   a   large-brimmed   straw   hat;   two   tall   strange   figures   in   the   edge   of   the   trees   above   the   river   gulch   who   seemed   to   be   wearing   costumes,   the   Wizard   himself   clomping   down   the   footbridge,   and   near   at   hand   a   ragged-looking   older   man   in   brown   corduroys   and   a   red-brown   flannel   shirt. Wizard’s   late,   smiled   Christ   to   himself. But   now   the   band   was   past,   and   behind   came   some   actual   pets.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             A   straggling   stream   of   little   girls   and   frowsy   moms   walking   dogs   or   pulling   wagons   with   rather   fuddled   chickens   inside   cages,   shambled   down   Main   St. There   was   even   one   cage   with   a   cat   in   it. Behind   them   a   strange   old   man   was   walking,   using   a   long   worn   staff   to   help   him. He   was   short   and   bent,   but   walked   quickly   enough,   with   rather   abrupt   movements   like   a   bird;   and   his   head   moved   like   a   bird’s   as   well,   in   quick   jerky   motions   as   it   turned   this   way   and   that. He   had   a   brown   leather   jacket,   very   old   and   worn,   and   thick   leathery-looking   pants,   and   a   rough   brown   fedora   long   since   squashed   half   out   of   shape   above   his   white   hair   and   short   white   beard. A   hush   spread   ahead   of   him   as   everyone   began   to   see   just   what   this   old   man   was   marching   with.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Beside   him   shambled   a   big   rough   black   bear,   the   size   of   a   large   sheepdog,   looking   around   a   little   apprehensively   at   the   crowd. The   old   man   laid   a   soothing   hand   on   its’   muzzle   and   walked   on.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             After   the   strange   old   man   had   gone   on   down   the   street,   Christopher   found   himself   following. Down   the   steadily   more   crowded   sidewalk   he   pressed. The   cranberry-shirted   band   of   another   school   sounded   behind   him. The   Beardsley   Library   banner   followed,   but   instead   of   the   troop   of   chattering   teens   Chris   had   always   called   the   Library   Gang,   there   were   only   a   couple   librarians   holding   the   banner. He   paid   them   no   attention. The   man   with   the   bear   was   all   that   mattered. When   the   parade   ended,   Chris   wanted   to   talk   to   him.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Thus   it   was   that   he   was   the   only   one   to   see   how   the   man   with   the   bear   vanished. As   they   neared   St. Joseph’s   Chris   saw   police   hurrying   toward   the   duo:   clearly   someone   had   finally   realized   this   was   not   part   of   the   parade   attractions. While   they   were   still   pushing   through   the   crowds   there   was   a   sudden   flash   and   earsplitting   boom   above   the   police   station,   and   everyone’s   head   jerked   instantly   in   that   direction,   except   Christopher. And   he   was   the   only   one   who   saw   the   old   man,   abandoning   his   quick   shambling   gait,   spring   onto   the   bear’s   back   like   a   pony   and   the   animal   give   a   mighty leap   right   over   the   guardrail   and   into   the   river   beneath. There   was   a   quick   splashing   from   the   shallow   rocky   stream   and   then   motion   in   the   brush   mantling   the   far   bank,   where   the   ballfields   lay,   and   a   way   out   of   the   town. The   police   looked   all   around   but   somehow   never   seemed   to   figure   out   that   the   river   was   there,   and   then   headed   back   to   the   station,   baffled   and   furious   looks   on   their   faces.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             It   was   in   all   the   papers   next   day,   of   course:   “Bear   crashes   parade”,   “Man   walks   bear   in   pet   parade”,   and   so   on. From   these   the   excited   boys   learned   that   no   such   attraction   had   been   planned   or   notified;   the   man   in   leather   had   simply   stepped   out   of   some   parked   cars   at   the   corner   and   taken   his   place   in   the   parade. When   police   and   newspaper   reporters   searched   the   area   nobody   seemed   to   have   seen   him   past   St. Joseph’s.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It’s   another   one.”   Christopher   said. “Another   of   the   Men   in   Brown.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   many   again?”   said   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Nine,   according to   Mr. Wimble-Wimbledon. Hey,   do   you   know,   he   was   there   too,   I   saw   him   just   before   the   bear   came   by   and   then   I   forgot   everything   else,   he   was   wearing   a   big   straw   hat…”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Oh   yeah,   I   did   see   somebody   with   a   hat.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “…Yeah,   so   there’s   nine,   he   said. We’ve   met   the   Wizard,   Mr. Wimbledon,   and   now   this   guy. Well,   seen   him,   at   any   rate.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Call   him   Beorn.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Naw,   Beorn   only   changed   to   a   bear—oh,   wait,   he   ruled   over   bears,   too. Wouldn’t   it   be   cool   if   it   really    was   him?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “The   Hobbit’s   just   a   story,   Chris.”   said   Stephen   patiently. “Besides,   Beorn   died,   didn’t   he,   before   Lord   of   the   Rings? Gloin   only refers   to   Beornings.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Maybe   he   came   back   from   the   dead.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “He’s   only   a   concept. A   concept   can’t   resurrect.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where’d   you   get   that   from?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Stephen   laughed. “Some   guy   on   one   of   the   forums   was   really   irritated   when   fangirls   said   they   wanted   to   marry   some   movie   character—I   think   it   was   from   Hunger   Games—and   he   says   ‘Ohkaaay. You   can’t   marry   Peeta   because   he   doesn’t   exist. He   is   a   concept. A   concept   cannot   get   married.’   Or   something   like   that.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Wow.”   said   Chris. “That’s   good.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   were   interrupted   by   their   mom   holloring   from   the   porch   if   Chris   could   bike   down   to   Super   Stop   &   Shop   and   buy   some   eggs.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Mom,   can’t   you   drive?”   he   wailed. There   was   a   hill on   the   way   there.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Have   you   paid   any   attention   lately? What   was   the   price   last   time   we   gassed   up?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Four   dollars   and   three   cents   a   gallon.”   muttered   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “That’s   right. If   you   boys   want   me   to   drive   you   on   church   field   trips   or   sports,   you   might   as   well   learn   to   do   a   few   things   yourselves. I   know   you’re   old   enough   to   be   trusted   with   money. You’ll   take   your   brother,   of   course,   as   I   don’t   want   you   to   bike   through   town   by   yourself.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What??” <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">   Stephen   wailed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Come   on,   you   sissy,   it’s   only   a   mile   and   a   half.”   tormented   his   brother.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It’s   hot   out,   and   there’s   a   hill…”   complained   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “So,   we   can   go   jump   in   the   river   on   the   way   back.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   bike   through   central Winsted   was   like   an   obstacle   course. There   were   always   people   on   the   broad   Main   St   sidewalks,   and   the   close-build   storefronts   were   always   disgorging   more   people   just   when   you   were   passing. There   were   no   shade   trees   here   and   the   sun   was indeed   hot. By   the   time   they   reached   the   Green   and   had   navigated   McDonald’s   and   Dunkin’ Donuts   (whose   driveways   were   liable   to   have   cars   teleport   in   from   alternate   dimensions   to   rocket   out   into   traffic   with   maniac   disregard   for   anyone   crossing)   they   were   too   tired   to   do   more   than   walk   their   bikes   up   the   hill. At   the   top   the   superhighway   Rt   8   began   on   its’   way   south   to   Waterbury,   with   an   exit   lane   across   the   road   and   a   two-forked   entrance   on   the   right,   a   triangle   island   between   forks. These   had   to   be   navigated,   and   then   there   was   the   bridge   above   the   highway   exit,   and   another   intersection   on   the   far   side. A   major   road   came   down   the   steep   hill   from   Torringford   on   the   right,   and   across   the   street   was   a   smaller   road   marked   Old   New   Hartford   Rd.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Hey,   let’s   see   where   that   goes!”   said   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “If   there’s   a   hill,   we’re   turning   around.”   said   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Fine. I   just   wanna   see   if   it’s   a   shortcut.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   crossed   at   the   light   (a   perilous   feat,   involving   precision   timing)   and   biked   along   the   back   road. It   ran   on   a   ledge   above   a   hilly   meadow   between   it   and   Main,   a   wedge   that   widened   gradually. The   masonry   of   a   barn   foundation   lay   dug   into   the   bank   beneath   the   road,   shaded   by   a   huge   green   maple. On   the   left   a   suburb   of   bungalows   and   shade   trees   stretched   on   up   Wallens   Hill. Then   woods   closed   in,   broken   by   the   odd   farmhouse   or   two,   falling   ever   steeper   on   the   right,   a   hill   on   the   left. The   road   was   narrow,   pleasantly   lumpy,   and   rustic. There   wasn’t   even   a   yellow   line   down   the   middle.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             There   were   no   hills,   as   Stephen   had   feared,   but   there   were   a   few   slow   ups   and   downs. They   passed   the   entrance   of   Regional   High   School—delved   canyon-style   up   the   hill   on   the   left—and   approached   a   downhill   curve. On   the   right   an   old   tree   hung   out   over   the   road,   and   a   white   mailbox   caught   their   eye. It   bore   one   word:    Root. Both   of   them   slammed   on   their   pedal-brakes   and   screeched   to   a   halt   as   they   saw   the   hill.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   said   no   hills.”   said   Stephen. The   downslope   was   indeed   both   long   and   stiff,   a   high   green   tube.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Lookit   that   box.”   said   Chris. ''“Root. ''   Think   it’s   a   name?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “That   would   be   so   weird. Can   you   imagine,   ‘Hey,   Mr.   Roooot!’   Root,   root,   root   for   Root!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Root   for   Senate!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   have   no   intention   of   running   for   Senate.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Both   boys   yelped   and   nearly   fell   off   their   bikes. Nearby,   behind   azalea   bushes   flowering   soft   frosting-white,   was   a   square   white   house   with   a   steep-roofed   front   verenda. Lindens   overhung   it   and   apple   trees   stood   in   the   rolling   back   lawn. On   the   porch,   looking   at   them,   was   the   dignified   old   man   Christopher   had   noticed   at   the   parade. He   wore   rough   brown   pants   and   great   leather   farm   boots,   and   had   a   brown-and-red   plaid   jacket   pulled   around   him. His   dirty-white   hair   fell   to   his   shoulders   and   his   beard   was   nearly   as   long,   giving   him   the   look   of   a   round-headed   post   or   barn   owl. Yet   when   his   strange   old   eyes   rested   on   theirs   the   boys   forgot   the   comparison. They   would   have   pedaled   on   at   top   speed,   but   they   dared   not.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um,   sorry,   we   didn’t   see   you.”   stammered   Christopher.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   am   not   always   easy   to   see.”   the   old   man   answered. “Come   here. Tell   me   why    my   name   is   funny.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Uh,   Mom   says   we’re   not   supposed   to   talk   to   strangers.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   old   man’s   dry   face   gave an   equally dry   smile. “Talking   implies   equality. I   do   not   intend   to   talk   to   you. You   have   laughed   at   my   name. You   are   permitted,   therefore,   to   make   amends.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “We’re   sorry.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   am not   appeased.”   Mr. Root   said. “It   is   needful   for   you   to   know   why   my   name   amuses,   that   you   may   understand   why   it   is   no   laughing   matter. I   hear   you’re   reasonably   smart. Do   not   tell   me   I   have   heard   wrong.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um…what   are   you   talking   about?”   said   Stephen. Chris,   however,   was   staring   at   Root   with   a   strange   look   in   his   face,   as   one   who   hears   faintly   a   compelling   voice.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Why   does   it   sound   absurd   for   Root   to   be   a   name? Give   me   a   reasonably   intelligent   answer,   if   you   would.”   The   old   man’s   brows   knotted   irritably.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Uh…because   it’s…”   Stephen   fumbled.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It’s   sort   of   too   under.”   Chris   blurted. “I   mean,   it’s   kind   of   underneath   things. Like   a   tree.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “A   fundamental   name.”   the   old   man   said   softly. “A   symbolic   name. An   elemental   name. Is   that   what   you   mean?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   boys   nodded,   relieved.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “And   to hear   a   fundamental   word   like   Earth   or   Tree,   Root   or   Rock   tossed   around   as   a   name   is   so   discordant   with   its’   mystery   it   rouses   laughter. Look   inside,   and   tell   me   if   this   is   true.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I…guess,   I   mean   it   sounds   a   little   like,   but   we   weren’t   quite…”   said   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   know,   I   know.”   said   Mr. Root,   waving   one   hand. “These   are   fundamental   assumptions   and   subconscious   motivations,   and   they   always   sound   strange   when   you   see   them   exposed. What   I   feared   more   was   that   you   felt   the   deep   mystery   of   the   word   Root   as   a   name,   and   were   using   it   as   ridicule. But   there   was   no   mockery   in   your   laughter,   and   so   I   am   appeased.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um…thanks,   mister.”   said   Christopher.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Are   you   a   Man   in   Brown?”   piped   up   Stephen.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             A   broad   ancient   smile   grew   on   the   face   of   Mr. Root. “You   see   rightly.”   he   replied. “Come   by   again   sometime,   and   I   will   tell   you   more.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Can   we   go,   Mr. Root?”   said   Chris.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   may,   but   only   if   you   promise   to   return   Christopher.”   Root   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   promise. but   what   if   Mom   says   no?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Then   I   am   overruled,   am   I   not?”   Root   said   with   a   slight   twinkle   in   his   eyes. “If   you   go   down   that   hill   and   through   the   valley   of   the   deserted   farm,   you   will   meet   a   side   street   that   takes   you   back   to   Main,   on   a   level   with   the   Stop   &   Shop.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Um,   thanks.”   called   Stephen. The   boys   waved   and   bowled   down   out   of   sight.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

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