Tomas Ingleby and the Tale of the Golden Fairy

5. Bedlam

Burn it?

Tomas stared at his mother as if she had announced her intention to auction him off at a market sale.

BURN IT . . .!!!

Images somersaulted through his mind: the dousing of petrol . . . striking a match . . . eruption of flames . . . strange, unearthly smoke . . . multicoloured sparks . . . release of magic . . . shrieks of agony . . .

What did I tell you? Now we're for it.

A declaration of war. You may imagine Naughty Little Monkey leaping out of his seat, smashing, rending, tearing, biting, snarling, scratching, tantrum of tantrums--gold and silver medal of tantrums. He didn't do any of those things. What he did do, helpless, frozen, staring, was . . . nothing.

Not yet.

"I agree it is quite beautiful," Mother conceded, groping for a handkerchief. "Hundreds of years old, they say. Miracle of design and . . . er--" She hesitated, not wishing to sound too praising, it might give him ideas. "Gives me the creeps personally," she added weakly, "but I suppose it must be quite valuable."

"In any event," said the old man. "Not sure burning is quite the solution--at least not yet. Putting it beyond his reach once and for all, as opposed merely to hiding it somewhere, might backfire, damage his mind beyond repair."

"Funny you should say that," said Mrs Ingleby, "because I think things are coming to a head. We get the impression he's going on a journey. Long one."

"Journey?" said the old man, frowning. "What Journey?"

"Not running away or anything like that," Mrs Ingleby replied. "Not in the conventional sense at least. It's just that the more he withdraws into that imaginary world of his, the less inclined he is to return to this one. There comes a point, we fear, he's going away for good."

The pair of them stared at Tomas as if they expected him to turn bright red or protest with vehement denial, but he maintained his peace and said nothing.

"That's why we came to you," Mrs Ingleby went on. "Either that or an exorcism. Before it's too late."

"I see."

"Then you have an answer?"

"I might--"

Tomas stared from one to the other. So this was the game, was it? A crafty, greedy, lying old man, up to no good. Told him not to burn it--yet?

"We could always sell the blanket," suggested Mrs Ingleby. "Or give it away."

"Won't be necessary," Farquharson went on, watching the boy closely. "If the procedure works--and I'm sure it will work. If it works, well, his cure will be complete, and by then it will not matter either way. No harm done and he can keep it, as a memento."

Procedure? What procedure?

"Well then," said Mrs Ingleby. "If you're sure. We'll try anything once, you understand. Anything."

"Given the history of the case," pursued the old man, pleased, "the fantasies, which is to say his 'enemies', and of course his--er--special, fictional 'friends', whoever and whatever they are, may, and indeed will resolve themselves without the need for further therapy. They will simply cease to exist."

"I hope you're right," rejoined Mrs Ingleby. "No more nightmares, no more sleepwalking. He'll be free--an ordinary child like any other . . . Think about it, Tomas."

Tomas was thinking about it--and hating every minute.

"You can't put a price on that, eh?" said the old man, sucking what remained of his teeth.