It was _how_ he
got here that caused the faint surprise, apparently. He no longer
swaggered, however, but walked carefully, and half on tiptoe, holding
the ivory handle of the cane with a kind of affectionate respect. And
as he advanced, the light closed softly up behind him, obliterating the
way by which he had come. But this he did not know, because he did not
look behind him. He only looked in front, where the corridor stretched
its silvery length towards the great chamber where he knew the cane
must be surrendered. The person who had preceded him down this ancient
corridor, passing through the green baize door just before he reached
it, this person, his father's father, now stood in that great chamber,
waiting to receive his own. Tim knew it as surely as he knew he
breathed. At the far end he even made out the larger patch of silvery
light which marked its gaping doorway. There was another thing he knew as well--that this corridor he moved
along between rooms with fast-closed doors, was the Nightmare Corridor;
often and often he had traversed it; each room was occupied. "This
is the Nightmare Passage," he whispered to himself, "but I know the
Ruler--it doesn't matter. None of them can get out or do anything." He heard them, none the less, inside, as he passed by; he heard them
scratching to get out. The feeling of security made him reckless; he
took unnecessary risks; he brushed the panels as he passed. And the
love of keen sensation for its own sake, the desire to feel "an awful
thrill," tempted him once so sharply that he raised his stick and poked
a fast-shut door with it! He was not prepared for the result, but he gained the sensation and
the thrill. For the door opened with instant swiftness half an inch, a
hand emerged, caught the stick and tried to draw it in. Tim sprang back
as if he had been struck. He pulled at the ivory handle with all his
strength, but his strength was less than nothing. He tried to shout,
but his voice had gone. A terror of the moon came over him, for he was
unable to loosen his hold of the handle; his fingers had become a part
of it. An appalling weakness turned him helpless. He was dragged inch
by inch towards the fearful door. The end of the stick was already
through the narrow, crack. He could not see the hand that pulled, but
he knew it was terrific. He understood now why the world was strange,
why horses galloped furiously, and why trains whistled as they raced
through stations. All the comedy and terror of nightmare gripped his
heart with pincers made of ice. The disproportion was abominable. The
final collapse rushed over him when, without a sign of warning, the
door slammed silently, and between the jamb and the wall the cane was
crushed as flat as if it were a bulrush. So irresistible was the force
behind the door that the solid stick just went flat as a stalk of a
bulrush. He looked at it. It _was_ a bulrush. He did not laugh; the absurdity was so distressingly unnatural. The
horror of finding a bulrush where he had expected a polished cane--this
hideous and appalling detail held the nameless horror of the nightmare. It betrayed him utterly. Why had he not always known really that the
stick was not a stick, but a thin and hollow reed...? Then the cane was safely in his hand, unbroken. He stood looking at it. The Nightmare was in full swing. He heard another door opening behind
his back, a door he had not touched. There was just time to see a hand
thrusting and waving dreadfully, familiarly, at him through the narrow
crack--just time to realise that this was another Nightmare acting
in atrocious concert with the first, when he saw closely beside him,
towering to the ceiling, the protective, kindly Figure that visited his
bedroom. In the turning movement he made to meet the attack, he became
aware of her. And his terror passed. It was a nightmare terror merely. The infinite horror vanished. Only the comedy remained. He smiled. He saw her dimly only, she was so vast, but he saw her, the Ruler of
the Other Wing at last, and knew that he was safe again. He gazed with
a tremendous love and wonder, trying to see her clearly; but the face
was hidden far aloft and seemed to melt into the sky beyond the roof. He discerned that she was larger than the Night, only far, far softer,
with wings that folded above him more tenderly even than his mother's
arms; that there were points of light like stars among the feathers,
and that she was vast enough to cover millions and millions of people
all at once. Moreover, she did not fade or go, so far as he could see,
but spread herself in such a way that he lost sight of her. She spread
over the entire Wing....

And Tim remembered that this was all quite natural really. He had often
and often been down this corridor before; the Nightmare Corridor was
no new experience; it had to be faced as usual. Once knowing what hid
inside the rooms, he was bound to tempt them out. They drew, enticed,
attracted him; this was their power. It was their special strength that
they could suck him helplessly towards them, and that he was obliged to
go. He understood exactly why he was tempted to tap with the cane upon
their awful doors, but, having done so, he had accepted the challenge
and could now continue his journey quietly and safely. The Ruler of the
Other Wing had taken him in charge. A delicious sense of carelessness came on him. There was softness as of
water in the solid things about him, nothing that could hurt or bruise. Holding the cane firmly by its ivory handle, he went forward along the
corridor, walking as on air. The end was quickly reached: He stood upon the threshold of the
mighty chamber where he knew the owner of the cane was waiting; the
long corridor lay behind him, in front he saw the spacious dimensions
of a lofty hall that gave him the feeling of being in the Crystal
Palace, Euston Station, or St. Paul's. High, narrow windows, cut deeply
into the wall, stood in a row upon the other side; an enormous open
fireplace of burning logs was on his right; thick tapestries hung from
the ceiling to the floor of stone; and in the centre of the chamber
was a massive table of dark, shining wood, great chairs with carved
stiff backs set here and there beside it. And in the biggest of these
throne-like chairs there sat a figure looking at him gravely--the
figure of an old, old man. Yet there was no surprise in the boy's fast-beating heart; there was
a thrill of pleasure and excitement only, a feeling of satisfaction. He had known quite well the figure would be there, known also it would
look like this exactly. He stepped forward on to the floor of stone
without a trace of fear or trembling, holding the precious cane in two
hands now before him, as though to present it to its owner. He felt
proud and pleased. He had run risks for this. And the figure rose quietly to meet him, advancing in a stately
manner over the hard stone floor. The eyes looked gravely, sweetly
down at him, the aquiline nose stood out.