Shuteye for the Timebroker Read Free Page B

leading up to his cellar. His energy was dribbling back in small increments, and he used some to ascend the rungs.
    In the basement, he dropped the trapdoor and weakly shoved boxes atop it. He jumped as a noise sounded behind him. Jill? No, only a whiskery rat scrambling across some cardboard.
    The cellar stairs were another obstacle, but he conquered them like Hillary taking the last hundred yards of Everest. In the kitchen, he slammed the door shut and locked it, wondering if he had the strength to move the refrigerator in front of it.
    “Clayton?”
    He nearly shot out of his skin. Turning around slowly, he found Granny Little seated at the breakfast table. His loud sigh of relief obviously puzzled her.
    Granny Little was about four feet five inches tall. Her silvery white hair was caught up in a large bun partway back on her head. Thick bifocals in gold frames rested on her hawklike nose. Her knobby, arthritic hands were clasped clumsily atop the table. She wore her unvarying outfit: a gingham dress covered with a homemade cardigan.
    “Where have you been, Clay? I checked your bedroom and found it empty at six. It’s nine now. I was so worried.”
    Clayton began to explain. The singing, his descent to the cellar, and then to the tunnel, his conversation with Captain Jill. When it came time to detail how he had been rendered unconscious and taken advantage of, Clayton paused, unsure of how to phrase it delicately. At last, he bulled ahead, knowing Granny had led no sheltered life.
    Granny nodded knowingly. “I was afraid something like that had happened when I saw the cellar door open.” Granny’s cherubic face assumed a look of worry and sadness. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s all my fault for not warning you, Clay. And once I suspected where you’d gone, I still couldn’t help. My joints, you know.”
    Clayton felt awful that Granny was blaming herself. All his self-pity quickly vanished. What did he have to worry about? At least he was young and healthy. The woman lurking under the house could surely be evicted by someone of his ingenuity and abilities. When he smelled the coffee Granny had perked, he felt even more hopeful.
    “I had completely forgotten about this Jill person,” Granny continued, her look of concern partially overlaid by one of calculation. “There was an old legend about her, but after so many years, no one gave it much thought. It seems now we’ll have to do something about it. Tell me, Clay, what exactly did that chill of hers feel like?”
    Clayton thought a moment, then strove to capture the preternatural sensation in at least a simile.
    “Like being squeezed by a polar bear during an Antarctic midnight while simultaneously having a spinal tap.”
    Granny shook her head in sympathy. “It sounds, son, like you could have used a nice warm sweater between you and that witch.”
    At that instant, having placidly uttered the non sequitur, Granny began to knit.
    Clayton put a hand to his forehead and eyed her uneasily—for the woman had neither needles nor yarn in her hands.
    For almost seventy years, Granny had been a compulsive knitter. Even her arthritis had not slowed her down. The output of her flickering needles had clothed, covered, and comforted dozens of Littles and their neighbors with sweaters, blankets, slippers, mittens, socks, and gloves of every description and size. Nor was Granny a purist. She would knit with wool, rayon, acrylic, even string. She knew every pattern in the books, and dozens that were unique to her. Clayton had worn garments made by her all his life.
    But just recently, Granny had developed a disconcerting habit. Although as capable as ever, she had forsaken the conventional implements and materials of her craft, apparently having exhausted their potential after seven decades of activity. Instead, she seemed content to make busy knitting motions with her empty hands, knitting sheer air, apparently working in a medium invisible to the eye.
    Clayton suspected and