Except none of that was right, because Little Red Riding Hood was a boy in this dream and the gingerbread house was the two-story duplex in St Louis where he had lived with his mother after Dad died and there was no food in the covered basket. There was a book in the basket, The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson, and he had read it, every word, and he was not bound for Gramma’s house but for the Briggs Avenue Branch of the St Louis Public Library, and he had to hurry because his book was already four days overdue.
This was a watching dream.
He watched as Little White Walking Sam waited at the comer of Dunbar Street and Johnstown Avenue for the light to change. He watched as he scampered across the street with the book in his hand … the basket was gone now. He watched as Little White Walking Sam went into the Dunbar Street News and then he was inside, too, smelling the old mingled smells of camphor, candy, and pipe tobacco, watching as Little White Walking Sam approached the counter with a nickle package of Bull’s Eye red licorice – his favorite.
He watched as the little boy carefully removed the dollar bill his mother had tucked into the card-pocket in the back of The Black Arrow. He watched as the clerk took the dollar and returned ninety-five cents … more than enough to pay the fine. He watched as Little White Walking Sam left the store and paused on the street outside long enough to put the change in his pocket and tear open the package of licorice with his teeth. He watched as Little White Walking Sam went on his way – only three blocks to the Library now – munching the long red whips of candy as he went.
He tried to scream at the boy.
Beware! Beware! The wolf is waiting, little boy! Beware the wolf! Beware the wolf!
But the boy walked on, eating his red licorice; now he was on Briggs Avenue and the Library, a great pile of red brick, loomed ahead.
At this point Sam – Big White Plane-Riding Sam – tried to pull himself out of the dream. He sensed that Naomi and Stan Soames and the world of real things were just outside this hellish egg of nightmare in
which he found himself. He could hear the drone of the Navajo’s engine behind the sounds of the dream: the traffic on Briggs Avenue, the brisk brrrinnng!-brrrinnng! of some kid’s bike-bell, the birds squabbling in the rich leaves of the midsummer elms. He closed his dreaming eyes and yearned toward that world outside the shell, the world of real things. And more: he sensed he could reach it, that he could hammer through the shell
No, Dave said. No, Sam, don’t do that. You mustn’t do that. If you want to save Sarah from Ardelia, forget about breaking out of this dream. There’s only one coincidence in this business, but it’s a killer: once You had a Library Policeman, too. And you have to get that memory back.
I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know. Once was bad enough.
Nothing is as bad as what’s watting for you, Sam. Nothing.
He opened his eyes – not his outer eyes but the inside ones; the dreaming eyes.
Now Little White. Walking Sam is on the concrete path which approaches the east side of the Public Library, the concrete path which leads to the Children’s Wing. He moves in a kind of portentous slow motion, each step the soft swish of a pendulum in the glass throat of a grandfather clock, and everything is clear: the tiny sparks of mica and quartz gleaming in the concrete walk; the cheerful roses which border the concrete walk; the thick drift of green bushes along the side of the building; the climbing ivy on the red brick wall; the strange and somehow frightening Latin motto, Fuimus, non sumus, carved in a brief semicircle over the green doors with their thick panes of wire-reinforced glass.
And the Library Policeman standing by the steps is clear, too.
He is not pale. He is flushed. There are pimples on his forehead, red and flaring. He is not tall but of medium height with extremely broad shoulders. He is wearing not a trenchcoat but an overcoat, and that’s very odd because this is a summer day, a hot St Louis summer day. His eyes might be silver; Little White Walking Sam cannot see what color they are, because the Library Policeman is wearing little round black glasses – blind man’s glasses.
He’s not a Library Policeman! He’s the wolf! Beware! He’s the wolf! The Library WOLF!
But Little White Walking Sam doesn’t hear. Little White Walking Sam isn’t afraid. It is, after all, bright daylight, and the city is full of strange – and sometimes amusing – people. He has lived all his life in St Louis, and he’s not afraid of it. That is about to change.
He approaches the man, and as he draws closer he notices the scar: a tiny white thread which starts high on the left cheek, dips beneath the left eye, and peters out on the bridge of the nose.
Hello there, son, the man in the round black glasses says.
Hello, says Little White Walking Sam.
Do you mind telling me thomething about the book you have before you go inthide? the man asks. His voice is soft and polite, not a bit threatening. A faint lisp clips lightly along the top of his speech, turning some of his s-sounds into diphthongs. I work for the Library, you thee.
It’s called The Black Arrow, Little White Walking Sam says politely, and it’s by Mr Robert Louis Stevenson. He’s dead. He died of toober-clue-rosis. It was very good. There were some great battles.
The boy waits for the man in the little round black glasses to step aside and let him go in, but the man in the little round black glasses does not stand aside. The man only bends down to look at him more closely.
Grandpa, what little round black eyes you have.
One other question, the man says. Is your book overdue?
Now Little White Walking Sam is more afraid.
Yes … but only a little. Only four days. It was very long, you see, and I have Little League, and day camp, and
Come with me’ son … I’m a poleethman.
The man in the black glasses and the overcoat extends a hand. For a moment Sam almost runs. But he is a kid; this man is an adult. This man works for the Library. This man is a policeman. Suddenly this man – this scary man with his scar and his round black glasses – is all Authority. One cannot run from Authority; it is everywhere.
Sam timidly approaches the man. He begins to lift his hand – the one holding the package of red licorice, which is now almost empty – and then tries to pull it back at the last second. He is too late. The man seizes it. The package of Bull’s Eye licorice falls to the walk. Little White Walking Sam will never eat red licorice again.
The man pulls Sam toward him, reels him in the way a fisherman would reel in a trout. The hand clamped over Sam’s is very strong. It hurts. Sam begins to cry. The sun is still out, the grass is still green, but suddenly the whole world seems distant, no more than a cruel mirage in which he was for a little while allowed to believe.
He can smell Sen-Sen on the man’s breath. Am I in trouble, sir? he asks, hoping with every fiber of his being that the man will say no.
Yes, the man says. Yes, you are. In a LOT of trouble. And if you want to get out of trouble, son, you have to do eahactly as I thay. Do you underthand?
Sam cannot reply. He has never been so afraid. He can only look up at the man with wide, streaming eyes.
The man shakes him. Do you underthand or not?
Ye -yes! Sam gasps. He feels an almost irresistible heaviness in his bladder.
Let me tell you ectliactly who I am, the man says, breathing little puffs of Sen-Sen in Sam’s face. I am the Briggth Avenue Library Cop, and I am in charge of punishing boyth and girlth who bring their books back late.
Little White Walking Sam begins to cry harder. I’ve got the money! he manages through his sobs. I’ve got ninety-five cents! You can have it! You can have it all!
He tries to pull the change out of his pocket. At the same moment the Library Cop looks around and his broad face suddenly seems sharp, suddenly the face of a fox or wolf who has successfully broken into the chicken house but now smells danger.