4

'I was quartered in a factory taken over by the army,' Collins said, and Tom looked up to see that the air was darkening. The sun was a red ball above the trees on the other side of the lake. His watch said it was just past ten-thirty. It's a trick, he told himself. Relax and enjoy it.

'Of course there was not much left to show what it had been before the war - I think the Germans had used it before we did. The lines had been dismantled and rows of cots for the enlisted men filled three-fourths of the enormous floor. Officers like myself had little cubicles with doors you could lock. On the factory's second floor were some staff offices - medical personnel also had the use of a large gaslit basement filled with sprung couches and exhausted chairs. The hospital was across the street from the factory, and at most hours of day or night you could find unshaven young doctors asleep on the couches, breathing in clouds of third-hand pipe smoke. The idea was, I guess, that I had suffered a temporary lapse and could come to my senses away from the front, in a more or less medical atmosphere. And if I did not - well, as long as I was steady enough to operate in a week, it did not matter what I thought my name was. We were short of doctors, and nobody ever suggested sending me home. 'The orderly who showed me to my cubicle called me Lieutenant Nightingale, and I said, 'That is an error. My name is Lieutenant William Vendouris. Please try to remember that, Private.' He gave me a rather frightened look and faded out the door.

'I slept for about two days straight, and woke up starved. I straightened my uniform, laced up my puttees, and went across the street to the hospital canteen.

'Black attendants were dishing up the food and pouring coffee, and I got in line, thinking that now things were going to work out. Then I heard a drawling Southern voice coming from one of the tables, saying, 'Waaall, the Collector's here. The coin collector.' I turned around. Dr. Withers was staring at me, exuding hatred from every bristling orange hair on his head. He too had been transferred to Ste. Nazaire. He leaned across the table and began to whisper to the doctor eating with him. It suddenly seemed that everyone in the canteen was looking at me. I put down my tray and left. Out on the street I bought a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of wine and went back to my cubicle. Later I went out for more wine. I felt absolutely flat and useless. I knew Withers would be spreading terrible stories about me. I wanted to get back to work in order to prove myself, but my orders did not begin for another five days. Until then, I did not exist except as a name - the wrong name - on a cubicle door.

'Drink is a sacrament, you know. Any drink is a sacrament, and alcohol loosens the ropes tying down the god within. I reread some pages of Le Dogme et Rituel, and saw more in them than I ever had before. Then I ripped off a long piece of paper, lettered 'Vendouris' on it and tacked it over 'Lt. Nightingale' on my door. After that I rooted around in my case for my cards and did lifts and passes and shuffles for a couple of hours. If I did not exist in the Army's eyes, that was the perfect place for magic to flourish - an official limbo. And for five days I drank wine and ate cheese and bread and soaked myself in the practice of magic. It was a rededication - was I not a man risen from the dead? A man with secret power in his fingers? It was perhaps the most intense period of my life, and by the time it was over I knew that medicine was only a byroad for me, and that magic was the highway. I must have read Levi's book three times straight through, turning the pages with Vendouris' fingers, reading the type with Vendouris' eyes.

'On the sixth day I showered and changed my clothes and reported to the hospital. The major in charge of the administration admitted me and looked me over, knowing that I was crazy. He hated to be stuck with a mental case, if that was what I was, but no one had told him that I couldn't doctor with the best man on his staff. He said, 'I understand that you no longer acknowledge the name Charles Nightingale, Lieutenant.' All he wanted was for me to get out of his office and get to work, where my craziness would not be flaunted in his face. I said, 'That is correct, Major. But to avoid trouble until this matter is corrected, I have no objections if the staff want to address me as Dr. Collector.' He blinked. 'This is a nickname,' I explained. Of course by then he had heard it from Withers. 'Call yourself what you like, Lieutenant. Your performance records are excellent. I just don't want any trouble.'

'I could see his aura as I spoke to him. It was dirty, inflamed. He was a coward, an unhealthy man. Not like you two boys. You have wonderful healthy auras. Can you see mine?'

The red sun split into a brilliant haze behind the magician's head: Tom could look at Collins only by squinting. Glowing redness swam about him. 'Yes,' Del said beside him. Spears of blackness shot through the red.

'A month later, I met a remarkable man, whose aura was rainbowlike and seemed to blaze.' Collins let this picture hang in the air before them a moment, then continued his story.

'There was a great deal of initial suspicion about me, but my behavior in the operating theater gradually put it to rest. It was a slightly more relaxed version of Hospital 84 - most of the time we had morphia, and we did not actually have to tie up the wounds with bootlaces and fishing wire. But it was working nine or ten hours all day in the stink of blood, with the screams of the poor injured devils all about us. I knew that I was stronger than I had ever been in my life; I felt the beginnings of that power which I had always known would be within me, as fixed and steely as the light from a star. On the one morning a week I had off, I went through the bookstores which had survived the shelling and found French translations of the writings of Fludd and Campanella, the famous sixteenth-century magicians, and Mather's translation of The Key of Solomon. Even in the midst of the bloody, harried work of patching up soldiers so they could return to the trenches to be killed, I felt the strength of my other craft. I liked being called Dr. Collector. Eventually only Withers distrusted me - he still imagined that I had stolen his money at the card table, and he refused to work next to me or to eat at the same bench.

'Of course I had eventually begun to remember my own past, including the moment when I had shot Vendouris. To that extent the colonel's therapy had been successful. But I was the Collector: I had collected Vendouris, or he had collected me, and I kept his name on the door of my cubicle. It seemed to me that a portion of his soul had entered mine, and was a part of that which gave me strength.

'And the day after I remembered putting my merciful bullet into my dying fellow doctor and felt my repressed personality returning to me, I was sewing up a private named Tayler from Fall Ridge, Arkansas, after removing a bullet from his lung. To work on the lungs, you cut the ribs away from the breastbone and peel them back like a door to the chest cavity. I had the bullet out, along with a third of Tayler's lung, which had become nearly gangrenous with infection. I thought he had a fair chance for survival - these days, it would be a very good chance. It was in no way an exceptional operation, in fact I think it was my third like it of the week. But Tayler died while I was suturing him up. I felt his life stopping: as though I'd heard the sudden cessation of an unobtrusive noise, heard the absence of a sound. Then, though I had paid no attention to his aura before, since I never did when I was operating, I saw his go black and murky. Just then a great white bird flapped up out of his chest: a great white bird like the one I had seen in the field of dead men. It flew up without making a sound; the others looked but did not see. The owl sailed out through the closed window, and I knew it was going toward the man who had aimed the bullet at little Tayler.

'The day after that, I healed a man with my fingers alone.

'He was a black man, an American Negro named Washford. Negroes served in the 92nd Division, under their own officers; they were rigidly segregated. In the normal course of things, the only ones we saw were working as valets or kitchen help or orderlies in the hospital. They had their own meeting places, their own girls, their own social life, which was closed off to the rest of us. Well, Washford had caught a round in his ribs, and the bullet had traveled around inside him for a while, generally messing up his giblets.

'When the attendant wheeled him in, Withers had just finished with his last patient, and the man took Washford to his table. Withers turned away without looking, bathed his hands in the sink, and then came back to the table. He froze. 'I won't work on this man,' he said. 'I am not a veterinarian.' He was from Georgia, remember, and this was 1917 - it does not excuse him, but it helps to explain him. His nurses looked at me, and the other doctors momentarily stopped their work. Washford was in danger of bleeding to death through his bandages while we decided how to handle Withers' defection. 'I'll exchange patients with you,' I finally said, and Withers stepped away from his table and came toward mine.

''I don't care if you kill that one, Collector,' he said. 'But you'll be disappointed - he has no pockets.'

'I ignored him and went to Washford and pulled away the soaked bandages. The nurse put the ether pad over his nose and mouth. I cut into him and began to look around. I removed the bullet and began repairing the damage. Then I felt a change come over my whole body: I felt as light as if I had taken the ether. My mind began to buzz. My hands tingled. I trembled, knowing what I could do, and the nurse saw my hands shake and looked at me as if she thought I was drunk. My drinking was well known, but really all of us drank all the time. But it was not alcohol, it was the smack of knowledge hitting me like a truck: I could heal him. I put down the instruments and ran my fingers along the torn blood vessels. Radiance - invisible radiance - streamed from me. The mess the bullet had caused as it plunged from lung to liver to spleen closed itself - all of that torn flesh and damaged tissue; it grew pink and restored, virginal, as you might call it. The nurse backed away, making little noises under her mask. I was on fire. My mind was leaping. I jerked out the retractors and ran my first two fingers over the incision and zipped him up, welded his skin together in a smooth pinkish-brown line. Withers' nurse ripped off her mask and ran out of the theater.

''Take him out,' I said to the astonished attendant, who had been half-dozing at the back of the room: he had seen the nurse run out, but nothing of the operation. Washford went one way, I went another - I was floating. I came out into the big tiled hallway outside the theater. The nurse saw me and backed away. I started to laugh, and realized I was still wearing my mask. I removed it and sat on a bench. 'Don't be afraid,' I said to the nurse.

''Holy mother of Jesus,' she said. She was Irish.

'That miraculous power was ebbing from me. I held my hands up before my face. They looked skinned, in the tight surgical gloves.

''Holy mother of Jesus,' the nurse repeated. Her face was turning from white to lobster pink.

''Forget about it,' I said. 'Forget what you saw.'

'She scampered back inside the theater. I still could not comprehend what had just happened to me. It was as though I had been raised up to a great eminence and been shown all the things of this world and been told: 'You may have what you like.' For a second I felt my blood pressure charge upward, and my head swam.

'Then everything gradually returned to normal. I could stand. I went back inside the theater, where Withers was just finishing with the boy on my table. He looked at me in disgust, finished his sutures, and returned to his own table. I did five more operations that day, and never felt the approach of that power which had healed Washford.'

The magician looked up. 'Night.' Tom, surprised, saw the lamps burning in the woods; lights on the beach pushed his shadow toward the lake. 'Time to go to bed. Tomorrow I will tell you about my meeting with Speckle John and what happened after the war.'

'Bedtime?' Del said. 'What happened to…?'

Both boys simultaneously saw the crushed sandwich wrappers, the paper plates laden with crumbs.

'Oh, yes, you have eaten,' Collins said. His face was serene and tired.

'We've only been here… ' Tom looked at his watch, which said eleven o'clock. 'An hour.'

'You have been here all day. I will see you here tomorrow at the same time.' He stood up, and they dazedly imitated him. 'But know this. William Vendouris, whose name I had taken for a time, put a hurtin' on me. Without Vendouris, perhaps I would have remained an amateur magician, locked out and away from everything I wished most to find.'