The Castle in the Attic (17 page)

“Where shall we do it?”

“Just outside the castle, so we don't damage anything when we grow. If we stood on the drawbridge, we'd break it.”

“You're right. I've gotten awfully used to myself this size,” she said.

“Sure you don't want to stay this way?” he asked.

“Yes, young William, I am very sure,” she replied with just a hint of Sir Simon in her voice. “Now, lower the drawbridge, my lord. We have business to attend to outside the castle.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Arm in arm, they walked over the wooden planks for the last time. “Look back,” she said. “It will never look this way again.” William remembered the time he'd seen the castle when the Silver Knight first made him small. Every detail of the stonework and every line in the planking had suddenly stood out.

After a moment, she pulled open the leather pouch and he produced the necklace.

“Does it need to be back together?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “Let's try it that way first.”

They pressed the two halves of the token together and snapped the clasps on either side.

“I'll do you first,” he said. “It's only fair.”

Before she could object, he pointed the key side of the token at her and said the word “Janus.” Suddenly he was looking at the pattern of holes in the toes of her comfortable brown shoes. She knelt down and picked him up very carefully.

“Now I know how you felt,” he called out to her.

“I'm putting you down on the top stair where I can point it at you,” she said quietly. “Put the token in the palm of my hand.”

He dropped it carefully. He felt himself being lifted up again. It was an eerie sensation that reminded him of going up in an elevator, except this one had no sides. He glanced down at Mrs. Phillips's palm.

“You have an enormous life line,” he called, and she smiled.

“Crawl off now, but be careful you don't tumble over the edge.”

William stationed himself in the middle of the top step and waited. She was leaning over the castle.

“What are you doing?” he called.

She put the roof back down on top of the bedchambers. “Getting the wizard,” she replied as she slipped the lead figure into her pocket. “It's not safe to leave him here with you. You might forget one day and pick him up.”

“Why don't you just put me in the other pocket and
take me to England with you?” he said.

“Oh, William, don't tempt me,” she said. Her voice sounded gruff. “Are you ready to grow?”

He nodded. As she pointed, holding the token in between her thumb and her index finger, he closed his eyes again. Except for the slight sensation of air passing his face, he felt nothing.

“Open your eyes, William,” she said, and he knew the magic had worked for the last time.

Downstairs, the clock was striking four-fifteen. They stopped for a moment in the kitchen so that she could look around.

“Just when I left,” he said, nodding at the calendar by the refrigerator. “You know how careful Mom is about crossing off the days.” He glanced at her. “I'm sorry about the time you lost.”

“It makes me feel younger,” she said with a smile. “We'd better go. The bus should be coming soon.”

He took her suitcase, and they walked out the same path they had taken before.

“Do you still have the token?” he asked.

“Yes. The wizard's in one pocket and the token's in the other. I'll drop them both off the side of the ship when I cross the Atlantic.”

“Want to see my floor routine for the meet? I could
do it right here on the grass,” he said. “We have time before the bus comes.”

“Robert wouldn't approve. The ground is so uneven.”

“Never mind, we won't tell him,” William said.

“All right,” she said. “Do the one you used to knock over Alastor.”

So right there on the grass, he did a round-off, two back handsprings, with an Arabian front somersault.

“No spotting,” she cried as she burst into applause. “That's all I ever was. Your spotter.”

He ran to her, and she put her arms around him one last time. “Goodbye,” he said into her rumpled dress. They both could hear the roar of the bus's engines as it started up the last hill toward them. He hung on until the last minute, but in the end he was the first to take his arms away. She picked up her suitcase and climbed the bus steps without looking back. Long after the door had closed and the bus had grumbled away from the stop, he stood on the side of the road and waved.

When he went back into the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal, he noticed the note taped under the telephone. “William, Chicken with cashew nuts tonight. I'll do the shopping. Love, Dad.”

Every piece of writing . . . starts from what I call a grit . . . a sight or sound, a sentence or a happening that does not pass away . . . but quite inexplicably lodges in the mind
.

R
UMER
G
ODDEN

This book, my first flight into fantasy, would never have left the ground without the support of many friends.

First, thanks to Jan Perkins, who introduced me to the work of Joseph Campbell. His lecture on Parsifal and the Holy Grail was the first “grit.”

Thanks to Margery Cuyler, my tireless editor, who prodded me to get my feet off the ground, to take the flight. Soon after her exhortation, I had a dream that I was standing in a room in my bare feet. Margery was standing next to me. I left the room, and when I came back she had planted bulbs in my shoes. “Margery,” I said, “how am I supposed to walk?” “Don't think about walking,” she said. “Think about the flowers.”

Thanks to writing friends who sympathize, listen, criticize, and rejoice—Alison Herzig, Margaret Robinson, Betsy Sachs, Anne Crile, Jenny Lawrence, Sarah Meredith, Virginia Carry, and Barbara Shikler.

Thanks to Eleanor Miller. She took over for me so that I could write, she gave us the castle, and she knew when the time had come to leave.

Thanks to Rudy Van Daele of the Life Sport Gymnastics Program in New York City and to Roberto Pumpido, coach of the West Side Y team, for their input both as coaches and as gymnasts. And to Liza Burnett, who helped me understand what it feels like.

And thanks above all to my family.

Now I understand what Katherine Paterson meant when she said, “The very persons who have taken away my time and space are those who have given me something to say.”

—Elizabeth Winthrop
January, 1985