The Caterpillars Question

Chapter 1

They had told Jack they thought it was psychosomatic. She could talk if she wanted to, and might even recover the sight of one eye. But it had taken seven years to obtain the grant from the foundation, and now she was thirteen.

He glanced at her, sitting tight and stiff in the passenger bucket. Her dark hair was cut so short it was boyish, but the gentle bulges in the heavy man's shirt she wore belied any boyhood or childhood. One hand toyed indifferently with the buckle of the seat belt, and under her cotton skirt the shiny length of a metal brace paralleled her left leg. Her sharp chin pointed forward, but of course she was not watching anything.

The horn of the car behind him blared as the light changed Jack shifted and edged out, waiting for the string of late left-turners to clear. He wasn't even certain which city this was, the hours of silent driving had grown monotonous.

"Are you ready to stop, Tappy?" But she did not answer or make any sign. He knew she heard and understood— but he was still a stranger, and she was afraid. Had they even bothered to tell her where she was going, or why?

Tappuah Concord, maimed at the age of six, in the accident that killed her father. She had never known her mother, and the nearest of kin that took her in had not been pleased very long with the burden. Jack had no doubt they had made this plain to the little girl many times.

He pulled into a roadside restaurant. His job was to transport her safely to the clinic. She couldn't cover a thousand miles without eating.

Why hadn't they sent her by plane, so that all this driving was unnecessary? No, the plane was out of the question. Tappy surely still remembered that last trip in her father's little flier. Apparently there had been a miscalculation, and they had crashed. Jack had not inquired about the details, for Tappy had been there listening, and he had never been one for pointless cruelty.

He got out, opened her door, unsnapped her seat belt, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her to her feet. They had warned him about this, too: there was often no way to make her come except to make her come. Anywhere. Otherwise she might simply sit there indefinitely, staring sightlessly ahead. He felt awkward, putting his hands on her, but she did not seem to notice.

He guided her firmly by the elbow and stopped at the little sign pointing to the ladies' room, not certain whether the girl knew her way around public facilities, and doubtful what he'd do if she didn't. He had to ask her, rather awkwardly because of the people passing nearby, and she shook her head no. Was it wisest to treat her as a child or as a woman? The difference was important the moment they left the isolation of the car. He decided on the latter, at least in public places.

They took a corner table, enduring the interminable wait for their order. He was super-conscious of the glances of others, but Tappy seemed oblivious to her surroundings. She kept her hands in her lap, eyes downcast and incurious, and he saw too clearly the narrow white scar that crossed one eye and terminated at the mutilated ear. What did his petty embarrassment mean, compared to her problems?

"Lookit that girl's ear's gone!" exclaimed a younger boy at a neighboring table, his voice startlingly loud. There was a fierce shushing that was worse than the remark because it confirmed its accuracy. Heads turned, first toward the boy, then toward the object of the boy's curiosity.

A slow tear started down Tappy's left cheek.

Jack stood up so suddenly that his chair crashed backward, and he stepped around the table and caught her arm and brought her out of that place. It was as if he had tunnel vision; all he saw was the escape route, the room and people fuzzing out at the periphery. They made it to the car, strapped in, and he drove, arrowing down the highway at a dangerous velocity. He was first numb, then furious— but he wasn't sure at what.

Gradually he cooled, and knew that the worst of the situation had been his own reaction. It was too late to undo what damage he might have done, but he could at least be guided more sensibly henceforth. He schooled himself not to react like that, no matter what happened next time.

But first he had something more difficult to do. "Tappy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I just—" He faltered, for she was not reacting at all. "I'm sorry."

She might as well have been a statue.

At dusk, starving, he drew up to a motel and left Tappy in the seat while he registered for two rooms. He took her to one of them and sat her on the bed. He crossed the street and bought a six-pack of fruit drinks and two submarine sandwiches for their supper. Class fare it was not, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

He set things up precariously on the bed in her room, and was glad to see that she had a good appetite. She evidently was not used to this particular menu, but was experienced with bedroom meals. His pleasure became concern as he thought about it. Had they ever let her eat at the table, family style? He could see why they might not have, but it bothered him anyway. There was a human being inside that tortured shell!

His thoughts drifted to his own motives. Why had he taken this job? A week before he'd have laughed if someone had predicted he'd be sitting on a motel bed eating supper with a blind girl almost ten years his junior. But he hadn't realized how hard it would be for a budding artist with one year of college to get a decent summer job.

Jack had kicked around for two, three years— he didn't know exactly where the time went— before running into Donna. Then suddenly he had the need to make something of himself. So he went to college and studied art. Did okay, too; he did have talent. But by the time he got it together, Donna had drifted elsewhere. He never even got to tell her of the effect she had on his motivation. He grieved, of course, and considered giving it up. But he discovered that life did go on, and there might even be other girls on the horizon.

Meanwhile, he needed wherewithal to continue college; that kept him busy around the edges. He soon realized that he was not likely to make it by washing dishes at joints that had never heard of the minimum wage scale, or changing tires for tips, or taking any of the other menial positions for which one year of art seemed to qualify him.

The ad had offered a thousand dollars plus liberal expenses and the use of a good car for one week's light work. It had seemed too good to be true, and he was amazed to learn that the job hadn't been taken. No, it didn't involve drugs or anything illegal; it was just chauffeuring. If he had a valid license and a good record...

Jack had little else, but he did have those. He valued his potential career as a world-famous artist too much to mess it up with bad driving. He liked to travel; every new region was grist for his painting.

The job was to deliver Tappy to the clinic across the country. He assumed that it was legal for him to transport this child, or they would not have hired him. He needed the money, and didn't ask too many questions. He had had no idea that jobs like this existed! If he could find a couple more like this, at similar pay scales, his next year of college would be assured.

They had covered four hundred miles today. At this rate he'd have Tappy at the clinic the day after tomorrow, and could be back two days early. The pay was for the job, not the time, so he had nothing to lose by being prompt. If the girl didn't talk, at least she wasn't much trouble. After this he'd get sandwiches and they'd eat in the car, avoiding restaurants entirely.

Jack cleaned up the mess of crumbs and told Tappy he'd check on her in the morning. "You can find your way around the room okay? Bathroom's in a straight line from the bed, and there's a radio. I'm in the next unit if you need me. Just yell."

He paused, embarrassed, remembering that she was mute, or chose to be. "I mean you can bang on the wall or something. That okay?" Slowly she nodded, and he was relieved. She responded so little that he was never quite sure she understood him. "Good. Now get some sleep. I'll knock before I come in, so I won't catch you by surprise." That was his concession to the woman aspect of her; she had to have time to cover up if she happened to be changing.

It all seemed simple enough.

But in the morning he found her sitting there still, shivering, the moisture squeezing hopelessly out of one eye. She might have moved about during the night, but the dark patches under her eyes showed she had not slept.

"Why?" he demanded incredulously. "Why didn't you summon me, if you couldn't sleep?"

She answered him only with that catatonic passivity, and a tear. Evidently there was something he had missed.

He told her to go to the bathroom while he fetched breakfast, and she did. He told her to change her clothing while he faced into a corner, and she did. He no longer trusted her to do things in his absence, but he intended to treat her with propriety. They ate, and got back on the road.

Jack pondered the event of the night as he drove, deeply disturbed. He had not mistreated Tappy, and there had been no trouble, except for the business at the restaurant. He had spoken to her and had supper with her, and she had not been crying then. She didn't seem to be afraid of him, though he wouldn't have blamed her for that. Indifferent, perhaps, but not fearful. So what was bothering her?

He was taking her to the clinic that might bring back her sight and make her talk. She should be happy.

"Don't you want to see again?" he asked her. "I mean, there's all kinds of scenery out here. We're in New York State now—"

She turned suddenly toward him, startling him into silence. He glanced at her, but her face showed no emotion. After a moment she straightened out again.

There was something! This was her first voluntary response to him. She had reacted to something he had said. Was it his question about her sight?

"You do want to see?" he repeated. But this time there was no reaction. Apparently she had acted without thought, but now she had clamped down again.

She couldn't want to stay blind! Maybe his question had deserved no answer. Yet she had reacted. There had to be something else. Something she knew that he didn't.

Was it really a clinic she was destined for? Or had that been something they told him to obtain his cooperation? Now that he thought about it, there were a number of funny things about this whole arrangement. If they had so much money for specialists, and enough to pay him so generously for unskilled labor, why hadn't they done something about her ear? Comparatively minor cosmetic surgery could have eliminated most of the scar tissue on her face, too. And there had to be something better than that ugly metal brace on her leg. She wasn't paralytic; the leg should have mended by now.

And why hadn't they hired a professional nurse for this trip? Nurses could drive. This was a gearshift car, but only because he had asked for it; he preferred to do his own driving. They could have gotten an automatic shift for a nurse. Why had they been so happy to trust him, a male stranger? They had hardly checked his credentials, which were minimal. The only virtue he seemed to have was ignorance. Yet for three days Tappy was in his hands. Anything could happen. Legally she was still a child— but she was a woman-child.

He drove on, no longer in a hurry. The doubt kept spiraling through his mind, growing uglier with every loop. If not a clinic, what?

Tappy wouldn't talk to him, so he talked to her, just to keep his mind off whatever unthinkable thing it sought. Maybe it was to inhibit his own suspicions. He read out the stupid billboards as they threaded their way through the complex of Schenectady, Albany, and Troy. He cussed out the other drivers. He kept up a meaningless monologue. Anything to fill the air with sound and keep his mind at bay.

Jack did not allow himself to wonder why he was deviating from the direct route marked on his map. He just drove where the scenery looked best.

Finally, as evening came to the highway, he felt a soft touch on his arm. He looked, and found her slumped like a straw doll, sleeping.

This was the supreme compliment. Tappy would not speak, but she now trusted him enough to sleep.

Jack realized then, coincidentally, why she had reacted when he talked to her initially. It had been the first time he had spoken to her without an imperative. He had started to describe the scenery they were passing. Perhaps it had been a long time since anyone had talked to her about anything that might interest her, however slightly.

He drove more carefully then, winding around the curves as the mountain ridge loomed high ahead, marking the physique of the state of Vermont. Just before the road seemed fated to plunge suicidally into the sheer wall of mountain, it spun aside, and there was a pretty town. He found a motel and stopped.

She was sleeping as he carried her into the unit and placed her on the bed. He took off her shoes, having a little trouble with the brace; the metal passed all the way under the foot and was awkward to get around. Tappy's feet and legs were well formed, however, and though she was light, her skeletal structure was good. She would have a handsome figure when she filled out, if only something could be done about her injuries, both physical and emotional.

Jack left her and turned out the light as he closed the door.

Sleep was more important than food at the moment. He hoped she would lie undisturbed until morning.

She did and she didn't. In the night he woke, hearing a voice. Someone was in Tappy's room. He went there, but there was no one. Tappy was lying on the bed— and talking. The words were slurred, almost indistinguishable.

He paused, realizing that she was not awake. She was talking in her sleep! That was the one time her emotional barrier was down, and her voice was freed.

Then out of that seeming gibberish, some words appeared. He listened, fascinated. "Empire of the stars," she said, if he understood correctly. Then: "Reality is a dream."

But after that she turned over, and there were no more words. He withdrew, excited. So what if she was muttering about some television program she had overheard? She could talk!

Next day they toured the great Green Mountains, the car's little engine laboring in a lower gear to manage the steep ascents. That was all right; he was no longer in a hurry, and they could proceed as slowly as they wanted. He continued to call out the view, and though Tappy did not turn her face to him again, he could tell by her alertness that she was interested.

He spoke of the old elms and maples, the mossy rocks, the near and distant mountain slopes covered with green foliage like thickly woven rugs. They passed a ski run— a long bare swath running up the side of one of the higher peaks, resembling a scar.

And she was crying again, in her silent way. The scar— why hadn't he kept his brain connected enough to stifle that analogy before it was spoken! His description lapsed; he couldn't think of any apology that would not hurt her more.

He understood now that her passive attitude concealed an extremely sensitive nature. Yet perhaps there was a positive aspect, for at least she was now showing her emotion. He had spoken to her, and gained her interest, thereby making her vulnerable. If he could hurt her, could he not also help her, if he found the right words?

They should have passed on through the Green Mountains and headed for New Hampshire, but Tappy seemed to be coming alive. Her head turned to the north, and her blind eyes became round. What was she trying to see? Jack remembered her words of the night, and decided to learn more of this if he could. He brought the car about, returned to the last intersection, and turned north.

Tappy's head now faced straight ahead; there was no doubt she was orienting on something, and it was independent of the motion of the car. What could it be?

He followed the direction of her gaze until it turned to the side. There was now no road where she looked, but her excitement suggested that the thing was fairly close.

At noon he pulled into a motel consisting of a row of ramshackle cabins. He thought it was deserted, and he only intended to search for some fresh water for lunch, and perhaps to see exactly where Tappy's fascination lay. But presently a man ambled out. He was dressed in high-fronted jeans, a style Jack had thought only picture-book farmers affected. They were in the hinterlands now!

"Don't get much business hereabout, this time o' year," the man remarked amiably. He spoke with a rich backwoods accent that also caught Jack off guard. "I'm the caretaker, but I can fix you up with a cab'n if you like."

"Two, if you please," Jack said. After all, he couldn't drive forever. Tomorrow was time enough to deliver Tappy. "There's a girl with me."

"Ay-uh," the man said affirmatively. "Saw her. Two'll cost you double, you know. Don't have to spend it."

Jack smiled at his candor. "It isn't my money," he said, as though that made everything all right. He accepted the keys to the two cabins. Then a thought gave him pause. "Do you have any books? I mean simple ones, to be read aloud? Like a children's book, or—?"

The man scratched his hairy head. "Well, now. There's some things the tourists forgot." Evidently the two of them didn't rank as tourists, which was probably for the best. Jack no longer detected much accent in the caretaker. The man wandered into a back room while Jack waited at the door, and sounds of rummaging drifted out. At length he emerged with a slim volume. "Don't know about this one," he admitted. "First I come to. If it don't suit, there's others."

Jack read the title: The Little Prince, by one Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He had never heard of the man. "I'll give it a try. What do I owe you?" The man declined money for the book, to his surprise, and he went to escort Tappy to her cabin.

They had sandwiches on a wooden table outside the cabin. Tappy made them up with a certain finesse, and he was reminded again that she was used to doing for herself. It was a mistake to think of her as clumsy; of course the other senses had been stimulated to make up for her blindness. Touch and memory, sound and smell: these she possessed. And feeling.

The day clouded over. It wasn't really cold, but he wrapped Tappy in a voluminous quilt, set her on the cabin's sagging bunk, and read to her from The Little Prince. It was a curious story, a mixture of childish fantasy and adult perception, with appropriate illustrations. There were hats and boa constrictors and elephants, and confusions between them; there were gigantic bottle trees growing on pea-sized planetoids. Jack didn't know what to make of it, but Tappy seemed interested, and he continued to read all that afternoon. He took time to describe all the illustrations as they appeared.

When he came to the part about taming the fox by following the fox's own instructions, Tappy smiled. Jack could not honestly claim it was like a ray of sunshine. It was not poetic. It did not erase the terrible scar across her face. He was not about to use it as a model for a contemporary Mona Lisa portrait. It was simply a faint, frail, rather human smile. But it was the first, and his heart jumped that moment.

When he read the soliloquy to the field of roses, Tappy cried. But it was the tear of a woman at a wedding, incomprehensible but not miserable. The Little Prince had a cherished single rose, then was confronted by an entire field of roses, each as pretty as his own. But he had learned a lesson from his taming of the fox. "No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one," he said to those other roses, much to their embarrassment. "You are beautiful, but you are empty... because it is she that I have watered... she that I have listened to... because she is my rose."

Jack would not have thought that a girl of thirteen would comprehend the message there. He wasn't sure he grasped it himself. Apparently he had stumbled across a book that was meaningful to her.

When it finished, she took the volume from his hand and held it to her breast. He left her sitting there, swathed in the quilt, tightly hugging the story she could not read herself. She was there when he returned an hour later with a bag of groceries. He let her keep the book that night, and she slept.

This time he was alert, and was there to listen the moment she began talking. But the words made no more sense than before. "Alien menace... only chance is to use the radiator." He thought that was what it was. Evidently more of the television program.

Yet why should she be so intrigued with it that she repeated it in her sleep? This child suffered so terribly; how could a routine segment of a silly program affect her like this?

Then she said something different, with a peculiar intensity. "Larva... Chrysalis... Imago." Quite clearly. He knew what that was: the several stages of the growth of an insect. First it was a kind of worm, then a kind of bug, finally it metamorphosed into its moment of glory, the flying form. He had of course painted many butterflies. But she could have picked this up in any class on natural life. Why was she repeating it in her sleep with such intensity?

Unless she identified with it. Tappy's present form was about as miserable as it could be. Was she dreaming of metamorphosing into something far better? He could hardly blame her! Yet he had an eerie feeling that there was more to it than this.

She was up, bright and clean, the next morning, wearing a new dress. He hadn't realized she had a third one in her small suitcase. Her dark hair was freshly combed and seemed longer than before. He saw that she was taller, too, now that she stood up straight, and her figure was better developed than he had credited. Except for the scar, she was not an unattractive girl.

Something clicked, and he ran to the car. Sure enough, there were dark glasses in the glove compartment. They were men's glasses and were too big for her, but a little effort with the car's compact tool kit enabled him to bend the frames around to fit her face. It was awkward to adjust for the damaged ear; he had to use adhesive tape from the first-aid kit. But when it was done, both the scar and the vacant stare were inconspicuous. He did not explain what he was doing, but was sure she understood.

She raised her hand as he applied the finishing touches. He thought she meant to remove the glasses, but she brushed his face instead. The cobweb caress of her delicate fingertips passed over his cheeks and nose, and he realized that this was her way of seeing him. "My eyes are gray," he told her helpfully, then wondered if she had any conception of color. Yes, of course she did: she had been normal until the accident. "My hair is brown and I stand five-seven in thick socks."

Then, abruptly, she turned, as if hearing something. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. "What is it, Tappy?" he asked. She only stared, eyes round, as she had in the car. Whatever it was, it seemed closer now; she was trembling with excitement.

Her face oriented on something beyond, as it had before.

"Why don't we go somewhere where I can paint?" Jack suggested. She acceded gladly. She wanted to go somewhere, certainly.

The day outside was beautiful. The bright sun sent shafts through the mountains and made the morning mists rise in perpendicular tails. He hauled his portable easel from the car along with a couple of canvases, and took Tappy by the hand.

The caretaker came out as they passed the lead cabin. "Going to do some painting," Jack called to him. "We'll be here a few days."

A few days! What was he doing?

"Ay-uh," the man said knowledgeably, and went about his business. Jack had not told him that Tappy was blind.

Tappy led the way. There was definitely something she wanted to find. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Jack cooperated. They climbed through field and forest, heading for the top of the mountain. That summit had looked very close from the cabins, almost overhanging them. Two hours later it still looked close. He had not meant to subject the lame girl to this much labor, or himself, burdened with his painting apparatus.

Jack put his free arm around Tappy's waist to help her climb, as she did not wish to turn back. He discovered a hardness there. In a moment he realized that she had The Little Prince with her, tucked inside her blouse. All this time... this was foolish of the girl, but it pleased him obscurely, and he gave her a friendly squeeze.

There was a dip in the thickening forest for a mountain stream whose bed comprised little more than a collection of massive round rocks. A driblet of water trickled between them, very cold. Jack dipped his hand in it and splashed a few droplets on Tappy. She shook them off prettily and tugged him on. Why was she so eager to make this climb?

The stream originated in a sandy patch beneath a huge old maple tree. Ancient sugaring spigots ringed the giant's gnarled trunk. Careless, he thought; these should have been removed. The water percolated up from some subterranean reservoir, as though this were the vanishing sap of the tree. Jack lay on his stomach and drank, feeling the moist coolness of the leaves and twigs against his chest. Then he guided Tappy to the same refreshment.

Life appeared. Little tubular shells decorated the bottom of the streamlet, and threadlike animalcules, and an agile salamander skittered magically away. A tiny gray and white bird watched them from its perch on a neighboring trunk— upside down. It proceeded to spiral on down, around and around the tree headfirst, until it reached the ground. It took wing for the next tree's upper section, then started down again.

He described it to Tappy, who listened attentively. She raised her hand toward the bird and smiled. For a moment he thought the nuthatch was coming to her; then it was gone, and they resumed the climb.

The ascent became ferociously steep near the end. They had to scramble over jutting rocks and tangled roots, and his painting paraphernalia neutralized a hand he needed. Tappy had no trouble, now that touch was the most important guide, and soon she was leading the way and indicating the best route for him. He followed, trying to avoid staring up inside her skirt as her legs moved above him, feeling guilty for even being conscious of the impropriety. Her legs looked healthy; did she need that brace at all?

They made it at last. There was a brief clearing at the summit, a disk of grass and bare rock tike the balding head of a friar. Tappy hurried to a big rock at the top, seeming much taken with it, yet somehow disappointed, too. She opened her blouse and brought out the book, setting it on the rock.

He stood there and marveled at the ring of mountains, row on row, circle beyond circle, extending as far as he could see. The very world seemed to turn under his feet, giving him a strange exhilaration and a sense of power.

There had been a time when he thought little of such displays, when a pinnacle had been merely a distant high place. But in his youth his father took him for a climb, one unexpected day, and when they rested on the height, fatigued and perspiring from the hike, he showed Jack the land. Now Jack relived that experience.

Through the eons of prehistory the earth itself crumpled and cracked, wrinkling into the jaggedly fresh peaks of a stony range. Then came the rain, and the ice of a glacier, and the mightiest of mounts wore down with the burden of time. The green mold of verdure pried at its grandeur, the rivers spirited away its substance for deposit to the accounts of alluvial banks. Natural history lived in the decline of the mountains, and it was written here, all around him, in the remnants of a range once greater than the Rockies. It was as if he could see all the way into the past— and into the future, too.

How was he to record any fragment of this language of eternity on his poor flat canvas? Yet it was a joy to try!

Tappy sensed his mood, and she stood on her toes beside him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Without thinking he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her deeply on the lips.

She clung to him, her slight eager body pressing tightly against his. Nothing seemed to matter but the indefinable emotion of the moment.

Jack withdrew, confused. This was a thirteen-year-old child, with outsized glasses and a nebulous fate. He had traveled with her only three days. He had to deliver her to—

"Let's settle down awhile and... paint," he said, setting aside a situation too complex to be understood at once. He set up his easel and stood facing out onto the bowl of the world.

He glanced back to see Tappy comfortable on her large rock, the book on her lap. She was smiling slightly, her face made intriguing by the dark glasses. She was really quite fetching, framed by the backdrop of sky and cloud. He toyed with the idea of painting her portrait, but decided against this. It would be best to put her out of his mind for a time.

Jack's mind meandered as he painted. Perhaps the kiss had set his attention coursing along familiar channels, or it could simply have been the mood of the mountain vista. He thought of Donna, of the good times they had had together, and would not have again. That weekend they spent last spring at the cabin on the lake... She was marvelous, she was everything a man could ask for. And she was gone. He was trying to forget her, but it was a slow process.

Jack applied a gray edge to a distant peak, humming a half-remembered folk song. How did it go? "Up on the mountain the other day the pretty little flowers grew; never did I know till the other day what love, oh love could do!"

He paused. What subliminal connotations had brought this song to his drifting mind? He glanced again at Tappy. She was smiling and holding a goldenrod whose image showed darkly in her glasses.

His mountains were finished, at least on canvas. But his palette remained crowded with dabs and mixtures of American Vermilion, Cadmium Yellow, Ultramarine Blue, Burnt Umber, and Ivory Black. How could he casually throw away such exotic distillates? He cast about for some suitable subject for the extra.

"How about fetching me a spectacular tropical bird?" he asked Tappy. She cocked her glasses at him. There was a falsetto cry of some large bird in the distance.

Jack jumped, but it was only a crow. Nevertheless, he gave up the notion of painting anything more. It was time to begin the long trek down the mountain. Whatever imperative had brought Tappy here seemed to have abated. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed; he had really gotten curious about the identity of the thing on which she had oriented. Apparently it was only that large rock.

It was late afternoon by the time they made it back to the cabins, since they found descending almost as hard as ascending. Tappy was tired, and he had his arm around her slim, book-braced midsection, almost carrying her as they traversed the last few hundred yards. The painting was taking a beating. The caretaker looked up as they went by. "Ay-uh," he said.

Then it was evening, and Tappy was sitting up in bed in a flannel nightie, brushing her hair. Why had he thought it was short? It was long enough to carry a gentle wave, now that she was giving it proper attention.

Jack no longer felt awkward with her. She never made a sound, but her attitude called him friend and he was flattered. He sat in the rickety chair and tried not to think of the Judas-mission that he feared was his. That clinic...

He had given her a little human consideration, that was all. He had talked to her and read her a story and taken her on a hike, and now she was able to smile. Had anyone at all spared her even this much kindness in the last seven years?

The shadows played across her face as she brushed, highlighting her cheeks and hiding her eyes. Burnt umber— that was the color of her hair at the moment. She was soft; she was lovely in the half-light of the cabin. Something had animated her, something she hadn't quite found on the mountain. What could it be? An imago, a transformation?

Then Tappy was kneeling before him, blind eyes staring into his face. One hand rested on his. The other hand held The Little Prince, a corner of the book covering her mouth.

Discovering that she had his attention, she lowered the book and lifted his hand to her lips.

Jack froze. Suddenly he realized what he should have seen coming: she had a crush on him.

He had to deliver her to the clinic in a hurry. God, if this ever got out—

"Tappy," he began.

She raised her face quickly, smiling. As quickly, she stiffened, grasping his import. Her face became expressionless.

Then he saw the tear. That always gave her away.

He had been clumsy again. He had been preoccupied with his own reaction to a suddenly awkward situation, and had forgotten hers. What could he say to her?

The tear coursed down her pale cheek and tucked into the corner of her mouth.

"Tappy—"

The book dropped to the floor. She scrambled to her feet and ran headlong to the bed. She flung herself facedown, her body heaving.

Jack went to her and put his arm around her flannel shoulders. "Tappy, I didn't mean to hurt you! I was only hired to— I'm trying to—"

Trying to what? Build her up for a worse fall? Offer her a friendship less man she craved— a friendship that was doomed anyway, tomorrow?

He stroked her hair, ashamed. All he could feel was the vibration of her silent sobbing. He opened his mouth, but could not speak. The situation was impossible.

Finally he turned her over and kissed her.

He could taste the salt of her tears. Then her hunger broke through with a rush that swept away his own equilibrium... and perhaps his conscience. He kissed her lips, her neck, her hair, and a soft fire ran through his body as her little hands pulled him down beside her, so warm. Suddenly he held an angel in his arms, and mere was nothing else on earth so wonderful.

How could he explain it? He had thought he was experienced. He could only repeat the words of that song on the mountain: "Never did I know till the other day what love, oh love could do..."

Yes, she was blind and mute and only thirteen, and he had known her so very briefly. In that instant of excitement and rapture these considerations were less than nothing; he loved her.

Sanity returned quickly enough after his passion of the moment was sated. She did not try to hold him now. He got up, put himself together, and stumbled out to the car.

He drove, cursing himself for missing the girl beside him, for looking guiltily at the empty seat. He scarcely noticed the teeming magnificence of the Green Mountains, preternaturally brilliant in the closing evening. His brain was working now, and it was not a pleasant experience.

What was he running from? He knew he couldn't simply drive away and leave her there. He certainly couldn't undo what had passed. He was guilty of statutory rape.

He brought the car to an abrupt halt. There was a lovely miniature waterfall barely visible beside the road, splashing a column of water into a great wooden barrel for roadside use. Its artistic ingenuity was wasted on him tonight.

He had brought this calamity upon himself. He had deviated from the route. He had kept her with him instead of delivering her promptly to the clinic. He had forced his unwitting attentions on her until she had to respond.

Why? Was it because he suspected that he was taking her to no clinic, but to some correctional institution for unwanted burdens, where she would never receive any genuine kindness? Was he trying to shield her from that horror?

Or had he secretly intended to seduce her?

What did a man want with a woman? Beauty, capability, independence, personality? Or did he really desire, more than anything else, total dependence?

Jack thought about the ways that society crippled women, keeping them out of business and sport and in the house, bound by a pervasive economic and social double standard. A wife had to be smaller than her husband, weaker, less intelligent.

Take that to the logical extreme and— Tappuah.

No, he couldn't believe it. That was not his way. He had only sought to help. But he was not proud of his performance.

He did not know what to do, but he did know he could not leave Tappy unprotected at the motel. Whatever was to come of this, they would see it through together.

One thing was sure: he could not deliver her to the clinic. For him there would be charges he could not deny. For her there would be no freedom, no joy at that place. The moment they heard her talking in her sleep, they would classify her as crazy, and that would be the end of her.

Was she crazy? He could not accept that!

He returned to the motel, and tumbled onto his bunk without undressing, without checking on Tappy. Maybe the night would offer some possible solution. Maybe some miracle.

He slept erratically, his dreams a turmoiled rampage of mountains and scars and unutterable pleasure. Of a metal brace touching his leg. Larva, Chrysalis, Imago... Rape. He woke with a feeling of terrible remorse to the desolation of darkness. Now perhaps he could appreciate Tappy's state of sightlessness. Of hopelessness.

Then he was being touched. Tappy was there, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "What is it?" he asked blearily.

She kept pulling at his shoulder, urgently. "Tappy, what I did with you was wrong," he said. "I should never have touched you, and I deeply regret it. Certainly I shall not do it again." Yet there was a core of doubt.

But she ignored his protest. She wanted him to get up; she was not trying to repeat their liaison, it seemed. What could she be after?

He got up, feeling grubby in his unchanged clothes. The glow on his watch said 3 A.M. "What do you want?" he asked, half fearing the answer.

She tugged him to the door.

"Something out there? Let me turn on the lights—"

But she pulled him imperiously on. "No lights? Tappy, you know I can't see in the dark! At least let me get a flashlight."

At that she paused. He felt for the drawer where he had put the emergency flash, and found it. But it occurred to him that she might have reason to stay out of sight. Were there robbers near? "I have it, but I'll leave it off if you'll lead me where you want to go."

She reached and found his hand with the light, and patted it. "You don't mind if I turn it on? You're not hiding from anything?"

She patted his hand again, then resumed her motion toward the door. Baffled, he turned on the flash and walked after her.

She opened the door and stepped out. He saw that she had her shoes on, and a jacket, over her nightie. She was definitely going out, and she was in a hurry.

He followed her out. "Tappy, tell me where you're going! I'll take you there. It will be faster that way."

She paused to gesture in the darkness. He shone the light on her. She was pointing with her right hand toward the mountain they had climbed, while holding The Little Prince in her left.

"Up there? Now?" he asked incredulously. "Tappy, that's—" He broke off, catching himself before saying "crazy."

She nodded vigorously. That was where she was going.

"But why? There's nothing up there, not even a view, at this lime of night. You didn't find anything before!"

She headed off across the lawn. He had to follow; he could not let her go into the forest alone. "Tappy, if you would only tell me what this is all about! If it's because of what we did last night—"

She turned then to face him momentarily. Her head shook no, and she was smiling. Then she gestured him on and resumed her route.

She certainly didn't seem suicidal! She was happy, almost glowing with excitement. Yet she wasn't trying to vamp him either. She obviously knew the significance of what they had done, and was if anything pleased with herself, not ashamed. She wanted him with her, but this was something else.

Yet what could there possibly be atop the mountain at this hour? He could think of nothing. Nothing they might want to encounter! Had Tappy really gone over the edge? Had she convinced herself that there was some kind of salvation or atonement up there?

If she was crazy, it was his fault. All he could do now was go along and try to see that nothing else happened to her. "This way," he said, taking over. "We found a better route on the way down, remember? Here." He followed his light to the route he remembered.

Then he remembered the book. "Tappy, that mountain gets steep. You'll need your hands, and you can't tuck the book into your shirt. You have no shirt. Here." He checked the jacket she wore, opened it wide, and found a huge pocket in the inner lining. The book just fit. Then he closed the jacket around her slight torso, inadvertently brushing one of her breasts in the process, and buttoned it up. He suffered a pang of guilt, condemning himself for even thinking about what he never should have done.

There ensued two hours of struggle. What had seemed open in the daytime seemed impenetrable in the darkness. Branches loomed out of nothingness to bar their passage, and vines caught at their feet. They were both tired from the prior day's exertions. But Tappy was driven by some imperative he could not fathom, and despite his misgivings some of it translated to him. They scrambled together for the summit, heedless of the bruises on their bodies and the tears in their clothing. The night was chill, but they were laboring so hard it didn't matter; in fact, it helped them keep going.

As they got closer to the top, Tappy's urgency only increased. She was desperate to get there faster, and that communicated itself to him; he found his heart beating with more than the considerable exertion. When they encountered the worst of the climb, where a section was almost vertical, he picked her up and virtually hurled her to the higher ledge, then scrambled up himself. It was all moss and grass and dirt, no sharp edges, but at this point they didn't care about abrasions. They had to get there at the ultimate speed.

The sky was thinking about brightening as they made it to the edge of the bald summit. Just as well; he had turned off his flashlight whenever he could, to conserve its waning power, but it had almost expired by this time. Now Tappy clambered up so quickly that he could hardly keep up. They would be at the top to see the dawn come in— yet what was that to her, blind?

Could it be that she was recovering her sight? Had she wanted to test it on the most wonderful thing she remembered, the sunrise? Yet she had given no evidence of sight; she had not flinched when his flashlight played across her face.

She charged, panting, toward the rock that had fascinated her by day, gesturing to him to follow. She oriented on it unerringly, as though she could see it.

They came there, and almost collapsed on the stone. Tappy was so excited she was virtually dancing; her smudged face shone with expectancy. She grasped his hand with her left, and with her right reached out to touch the rock.

Nothing happened, of course. He touched it with his free hand, somehow feeling the need to verify its solidity. It was cool and hard, exactly as a rock should be.

"But what brought you here?" he asked her.

She clung to his hand, not responding, not disappointed. She stood by the rock, expectantly.

"Tappy, I want to understand," he said. "You brought me here for a reason. You can tell me, if you want to. I have heard you speak in your sleep. Please, I want so much to know about you. Maybe if you talk, you won't have to go to that clinic. Anything I can do—"

She faced him, her eyes not quite finding his. She spread her hands in a gesture of incapacity. She would not, or could not, speak to him in words.

He started to move away, but instantly she grabbed him, catching his shirt. She would not let him leave.

"All right, I'll wait," he said. "Just let me sit down." He turned, about to settle on the rock.

This time she almost tackled him. She shoved him away from the rock, but held his arm, refusing to let him go either.

He could not understand what she wanted, but he waited with her there by the rock while the sky brightened gloriously in the east. Dawn was coming. Too bad he had not brought his paints.

Every few seconds Tappy touched the rock, delicately, as if afraid it would explode. There was something about it that mesmerized her. But this seemed to make no sense! Was she, after all, losing touch with such reality as she had known?

The sunrise swelled to its full wonder. He was tired and battered, but he loved it. He stood there, describing its colors to Tappy, as the phases of it manifested.

Then the first beam of direct sunlight speared through and touched the rock. He was remarking on that, aloud, when Tappy grasped his hand again, and reached for the rock once more.

This time her hand passed into it. It was as if the stone were fog. As he stared, not quite believing his eyes, she made an inchoate sound and half stepped, half tumbled into the rock.

Her body disappeared within it. He opened his mouth to exclaim in amazement— but then her trailing hand hauled on his arm, urgently drawing him after her.

Jack understood none of this, except for one thing: Tappy was not crazy. She had somehow known that this rock would change, and that she could enter it as the first sunbeam touched it. It had been some kind of a window, a portal— to what? To Imago?

Her hand tugged again, becoming desperate. Tappy was going there, unafraid, and she wanted him with her. Could he refuse?

What was there to hold him in his familiar world? Trial on a charge of rape? No, he had reason to go elsewhere. Far elsewhere!

He knew that if he took any time at all to think about it, he would know better. He had no business stepping into rocks! But he could not let her go alone.

Jack entered the rock. Its substance enveloped him, passing across his body with a faint electrical tingle. Then his head followed, and he was through.