The squat cylinder in the shortened pajamas lays siege to the stairs to the third floor. He is searching. Searching for that miraculous, wondrous being—lithe and fair haired, so pleasant to be next to. Tubby knows that it’s still here, inside the House. And that the place to search for it is where the stairs lead. He’s never been up there, so it follows that it’s exactly where the being could and should be located. Tubby’s inner voice has never steered him wrong, and now it urges him forward. Wheezing softly, he conquers the steps one by one.
The feeble flame of an alcohol burner flares up in the teachers’ bathroom. Shaking from both fear and cramps in his stomach, Butterfly is holding a spoon over it. Butterfly is all bones, sickly pale and covered in warts. A rubber mat protects his skinny buttocks from touching the freezing tiles. The open neck of his sweater reveals a meager chest hung with amulets and strings of garlic. Butterfly is nervous—about the dripping faucets, the imagined steps and whispers. He cringes from the damp and shields the burner from the drafts with his body. He has a cold. He also has diarrhea. Constantly shuttling to one of the stalls and back is too time-consuming, so he decides to move inside a stall with the entire setup, including the rubber mat, the burner, and a roll of toilet paper. He closes the door, throws on the hook, and feels safer, shielded from the dangers of this night.
It’s stifling inside Vulture’s tent. And as if it wasn’t hot and cramped enough, there’s also incense burning in two bowls. It makes Smoker’s head spin. The strings of lights flash on and off. Smoker already regrets having joined the company inside the tent. It’s too small to fit five. Tabaqui, on the other hand, is completely happy and content. He sips some indescribable swill from a coffee cup and regales Vulture with tales of people they’ve met on the way here, even though they haven’t in fact met anyone. Smoker starts nodding off.
“Hey, wake up,” Dearest whispers. “What are you having? Pretty Flower? Steps? Night Terrors?”
“Anything but Terrors,” Smoker says. The proximity to Vulture is terrifying enough. They are separated by Jackal, but still, he could reach out and touch Great Bird should he wish to. “Do you have any coffee?”
“Alas, no coffee.”
Smoker is handed a cup. He takes a gulp of something so bitter and astringent that his jaws immediately lock up. He chokes on saliva, unable to either swallow the vile liquid or spit it out. Tabaqui slaps him on the back. The rest are watching with interest. The lights keep blinking.
“There, there,” Vulture says with concern. “You really shouldn’t jump straight on everything you’re being offered, kiddo. A little taste is often enough.”
Smoker takes out a handkerchief and wipes off the tears.
“Horrible stuff,” he says when he’s able to pry apart his locked teeth.
For some reason Tabaqui puts on dark glasses.
Crookshank clambers out to the bank and sits down under the pole marking the largest cluster of underwater stones. The river was kind to him the previous several days, and he’s expecting his good luck to continue. Yesterday it brought him a tire, three bottles with messages, and an empty gourd decorated with triangular markings. What’s in store for today? Crookshank throws in the line and waits.
In the moonlit grass on the opposite bank a huge white elephant grazes, covered with a striped blanket. Must have run away from its masters. The elephant worries Crookshank because it can use its trunk to fish the floating treasure out of the river, and then he’d have to somehow get to the other side and claim it back. And it’s a very big elephant.
