Oy had no idea why he heard anxiety in hiska-dinh’s voice; what he saw was the same as before and what he smelledwas the same as before: her smell, the scent the boy had asked him tofind and follow. And it was fresher now. He ran on along its bright brand.

Four

Jake stopped again five minutes later,shouting, “Oy! Wait up a minute!”

The stitch in his side was back, and it wasdeeper, but it still wasn’t the stitch that had stopped him. Everythinghad changed. Or was changing. And God help him, he thought he knew what it waschanging into.

Above him the fluorescent lights stillshone down, but the tile walls were shaggy with greenery. The air had becomedamp and humid, soaking his shirt and sticking it against his body. A beautifulorange butterfly of startling size flew past his wide eyes. Jake snatched at itbut the butterfly eluded him easily. Almost merrily, he thought.

The tiled corridor had become a junglepath. Ahead of them, it sloped up to a ragged hole in the overgrowth, probablysome sort of forest clearing. Beyond it Jake could see great old trees growingin a mist, their trunks thick with moss, their branches looped with vines. Hecould see giant spreading ferns, and through the green lace of the leaves, aburning jungle sky. He knew he was under New York, must be under New York,but—

What sounded like a monkey chittered, soclose by that Jake flinched and looked up, sure he would see it directlyoverhead, grinning down from behind a bank of lights. And then, freezing hisblood, came the heavy roar of a lion. One that was most definitely notasleep.

He was on the verge of retreating, and atfull speed, when he realized he could not; the low men (probably led bythe one who’d told him the faddah was dinnah) were back that way.And Oy was looking at him with bright-eyed impatience, clearly wanting to goon. Oy was no dummy, but he showed no signs of alarm, at least not concerningwhat was ahead.

For his own part, Oy still couldn’tunderstand the boy’s problem. He knew the boy was tired—he could smellthat—but he also knew Ake was afraid. Why? There were unpleasant smellsin this place, the smell of many men chief among them, but they did not strikeOy as immediately dangerous. And besides, her smell was here. Veryfresh now. Almost new.

“Ake!” he yapped again.

Jake had his breath now. “All right,” hesaid, looking around. “Okay. But slow.”

“Lo,” Oy said, but even Jake coulddetect the stunning lack of approval in the bumbler’s response.

Jake moved only because he had no otheroptions. He walked up the slope of the overgrown trail (in Oy’s perception theway was perfectly straight, and had been ever since leaving the stairs) towardthe vine- and fern-fringed opening, toward the lunatic chitter of the monkeyand the testicle-freezing roar of the hunting lion. The song circled throughhis mind again and again

(in the village… in the jungle… hush mydarling, don’t stir my darling…)

and now he knew the name of it, even thename of the group

(that’s the Tokens with “The Lion SleepsTonight,” gone from the charts but not from our hearts)

that had sung it, but what was the movie?What was the name of the goddam mo—

Jake reached the top of the slope and theedge of the clearing. He looked through an interlacing of broad green leavesand brilliant purple flowers (a tiny green worm was journeying into the heartof one), and as he looked, the name of the movie came to him and his skin brokeout in gooseflesh from the nape of his neck all the way down to his feet. Amoment later the first dinosaur came out of the jungle (the mighty jungle), andwalked into the clearing.

Five

Once upon a time long ago

(far and wee)

when he was just a little lad;

(there’s some for you and some for me)

once upon a time when mother went toMontreal with her art club and father went to Vegas for the annual unveiling ofthe fall shows;

(blackberry jam and blackberry tea)

once upon a time when ‘Bama was four—

Six

‘Bama’s what the only good one

(Mrs. Shaw Mrs. Greta Shaw)

calls him. She cuts the crusts off hissandwiches, she puts his nursie-school drawings on the fridge with magnets thatlook like little plastic fruits, she calls him ‘Bama and that’s a special nameto him

(to them)

because his father taught him one drunkSaturday afternoon to chant “Go wide, go wide, roll you Tide, we don’t runand we don’t hide, we’re the ‘Bama Crimson Tide!” and so she calls him‘Bama, it’s a secret name and how they know what it means and no one else doesis like having a house you can go into, a safe house in the scary woods whereoutside the shadows all look like monsters and ogres and tigers.

(“Tyger, tyger, burning bright,” hismother sings to him, for this is her idea of a lullabye, along with “Iheard a fly buzz… when I died,” which gives ‘Bama Chambers a terrible caseof the creeps, although he never tells her; he lies in bed sometimes at nightand sometimes during afternoon naptime thinking I will hear a fly and itwill be my deathfly, my heart will stop and my tongue will fall down my throatlike a stone down a well and these are the memories he denies)

It is good to have a secret name andwhen he finds out mother is going to Montreal for the sake of art and father isgoing to Vegas to help present the Network’s new shows at the Up-fronts he begshis mother to ask Mrs. Greta Shaw to stay with him and finally his mother givesin. Little Jakie knows Mrs. Shaw is not mother and on more than one occasionMrs. Greta Shaw herself has told him she is not mother

(“I hope you know I’m not your mother,‘Bama,” she says, giving him a plate and on the plate is a peanut butter,bacon, and banana sandwich with the crusts cut off as only Greta Shaw knows howto cut them off, “because that is not in my job description”

(And Jakie—only he’s ‘Bama here,he’s ‘Bama between them—doesn’t know exactly how to tell her he knowsthat, knows that, knows that, but he’ll make do with her until the real thingcomes along or until he grows old enough to get over his fear of the Deathfly)

And Jakie says Don’t worry, I’m okay,but he is still glad Mrs. Shaw agrees to stay instead of the latest au pairwho wears short skirts and is always playing with her hair and her lipstick anddoesn’t care jackshit about him and doesn’t know that in his secret heart he is‘Bama, and boy that little Daisy Mae

(which is what his father calls all theau pairs)

is stupid stupid stupid. Mrs.Shaw isn’t stupid. Mrs. Shaw gives him a snack she sometimes calls AfternoonTea or even High Tea, and no matter what it is—cottage cheese and fruit,a sandwich with the crusts cut off, custard and cake, leftover canapésfrom a cocktail party the night before—she sings the same little songwhen she lays it out: “A little snack that’s far and wee, there’s some for youand some for me, blackberry jam and blackberry tea.”

There is a TV is his room, and every daywhile his folks are gone he takes his after-school snack in there and watcheswatches watches and he hears her radio in the kitchen, always the oldies,always WCBS, and sometimes he hears her, hears Mrs. Greta Shaw singingalong with the Four Seasons Wanda Jackson Lee “Yah-Yah” Dorsey, and sometimeshe pretends his folks die in a plane crash and she somehow does becomehis mother and she calls him poor little lad and poor little losttyke and then by virtue of some magical transformation she loves him insteadof just taking care of him, loves him loves him loves him the way he loves her,she’s his mother (or maybe his wife, he is unclear about the difference betweenthe two), but she calls him ‘Bama instead of sugarlove