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The storm gentleman turned. 'And you?'
The second boy did not move, but lay stomach down on the autumn grass, debating as if he might make up a name. His hair was wild, thick, and the glossy colour of waxed chestnuts. His eyes, fixed to some distant point within himself, were mint rock-crystal green. At last he put a blade of dry grass in his casual mouth.
'Jim Nightshade,' he said.
The storm salesman nodded as if he had known it all along.
'Nightshade. That's quite a name.'
'And only fitting,' said Will Halloway. 'I was born one minute before midnight, October thirtieth, Jim was born one minute after midnight, which makes it October thirty-first.'
'Hallowe'en,' said Jim.
By their voices, the boys had told the tale all their lives, proud of their mothers, living house next to house, running for the hospital together, bringing sons into the world seconds apart; one light, one dark. There was a history of mutual celebration behind them. Each year Will lit the candles on a single cake at one minute to midnight. Jim, at one minute after, with the last day of the month begun, blew them out.
So much Will said, excitedly. So much Jim agreed to, silently. So much the salesman, running before the storm, but poised here uncertainly, heard looking from face to face.
'Halloway. Nightshade. No money, you say?'
The man, grieved by his own conscientiousness, rummaged in his leather bag and seized forth an iron contraption.
'Take this, free! Why? One of those houses will be struck by lightning! Without this rod, bang! Fire and ash, roast pork and cinders! Grab!'
The salesman released the rod. Jim did not move. But Will caught the iron and gasped.
'Boy, it's heavy! And funny-looking. Never seen a lightning-rod like this. Look, Jim!'
And Jim, at last, stretched like a cat, and turned his head. His green eyes got big and then very narrow.
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