Mirror by Graham Masterton Page A

don’t want to talk about it no more.’
    He left, closing the apartment door sharply behind him.
    Martin remained in the kitchen, feeling drained and somehow diminished, as if his dream of being a mollusk had shrunk his consciousness down to a microscopic speck. Tired, probably, and anxious, and unsettled by what had happened in the mirror.
    He went back to bed and fell asleep almost straightaway. He had no dreams that he could remember, although he was aware of blundering through darkness and wondering if it would ever be light, ever again.
    It was nearly eight o’clock, however, when he thought he heard a child’s voice, close to his ear, whisper,‘
Pickle-nearest-the-wind
’.
    He sat up. He looked around the room, which was quite bright now. Everything looked normal, although he had the oddest feeling that the drapes and the furniture had jumped back into place when he opened his eyes, as if the whole room had been misbehaving itself, right up until the moment when he had woken up.
    The drapes stirred a little as if a child were hiding behind them, but then Martin realized that it was only the morning breeze.
    Pickle-nearest-the-wind
. What the hell did that mean?
    But all the same, he went through to the sitting room, and found a scrap of typing paper on his desk and wrote it down in green felt-tip pen. The phrase had a peculiar quality about it that reminded him of something, although he couldn’t think what. Some childhood storybook with drawings of clouds and chimney pots and faraway hills.
    He glanced toward the mirror. The grinning gold face of Pan presided over a scene that appeared to be a scrupulous representation of the real room. Only the blue and white ball on his desk remained uncompromisingly different from the gray tennis ball on his reflected desk.
    Still holding the scrap of paper in his hand, he walked right up to the mirror and stared at his own face. He looked quite well and quite calm, although he didn’t feel it. He wondered if there really was a world beyond the door, a different world, a world where Boofuls had survived after death, a Lewis Carroll world where clocks smiled and chess pieces talked and flowers quarreled, and you had to walk backward to go forward.
     
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
…
     
    He remembered with a smile the words of ‘Jabberwocky’, the mirror-writing nonsense poem in
Alice Through the Looking-Glass
; and how it had always amused him as a small boy to hold the book up to the mirror and read the words the right way around.
    It had always seemed so magical that the lettering obediently reversed itself and gave up its secret, every time.
    He held up the piece of paper on which he had written ‘Pickle-nearest-the-wind’. Perhaps the words meant something if they were reversed: after all, everything
else
that had been happening to him seemed to have some connection with this damned mirror.
    But to his slowly growing astonishment, the words weren’t reversed at all. In the mirror, in his own handwriting, the words clearly said, ‘Pickle-nearest-the-wind’, the right way around.
    He stared at the real piece of paper, his hand trembling. ‘Pickle-nearest-the-wind’, the right way around.
    The words refused to be reversed by the mirror. He crumpled the paper up and then uncrumpled it and held it up again. No difference. For some reason beyond all imagination, those words that had been whispered to him in the early hours of the morning completely denied the laws of optical physics.
    He stood still for a while, looking at himself in the mirror, wondering what to do.
My God
, he thought,
what kind of a game is going on here?
    He left the sitting room, step by step backward, keeping his eyes on the mirror all the time. He shut the door behind him, and locked it, and took out the key. Then he went back to his bedroom, stripped off his bathrobe and dressed.
    Ramone was having breakfast when Martin arrived at The Reel Thing; his