Something Wicked This Way Comes (6 page)

A bad thing happened at sunset.

    Jim vanished.

    Through noon and after noon, they had screamed up half the rides, knocked over dirty milk-bottles, smashed kewpie-doll winning plates, smelling, listening, looking their way through the autumn crowd trampling the leafy sawdust.

    And then quite suddenly Jim was gone.

    And Will, not asking anyone but himself, absolutely silent certain-sure, walked steadily through the late crowd as the sky was turning plum coloured until he came to the maze and paid his dime and stepped up inside and called softly just one time:

    '. . .Jim. . .'

    And Jim was there, half in, half out of the cold glass tides like someone abandoned on a seashore when a dose friend has gone far out, and there is wonder if he will ever come back. Jim stood as if he had not moved so much as an eyelash in five minutes, staring, his mouth half-open, waiting for the next wave to come in and show him more.

    'Jim! Get outa there!'

    'Will. . .' Jim sighed faintly. 'Let me be.'

    'Like heck!' With one leap, Will grabbed Jim's belt and hauled. Shuffling backward, Jim did not seem to know he was being dragged from the maze, for he kept protesting in awe at some unseen wonder: 'Oh, Will, oh, Willy, Will, oh, Willy. . .'

    'Jim, you nut. I'm taking you home!'

    'What? What? What?'

    They were in cold air. The sky was darker than plums now, with a few clouds burning late sun-fire above. The sun-fire flamed on Jim's feverish cheeks, his open lips, his wide and terribly rich green shining eyes.

    'Jim, what'd you see in there? The same as Miss Foley?'

    'What, what?

    'I'm gonna, bust your nose! Come on!' He hustled, pulled, shoved, half carried this fever, this elation, unstruggling friend.

    'Can't tell you, Will, wouldn't believe, can't tell you,in there, oh, in there, in there. . .'

    'Shut up!' Will socked his arm. 'Scare heck outa me, just like she scared us. Bugs! It's almost suppertime. Folks'll think we're dead and buried!'

    They were striding now, slashing the autumn grass with their shoes, beyond the tents in the hay-smelling, leaf-mould fields, Will glaring at town, Jim staring back at the high now-darkening banners as the last of the sun hid under the earth.

    'Will, we got to come back. Tonight - '

    'Okay, come back alone.'

    Jim stopped.

    'You wouldn't let me come alone. You're always going to be around, aren't you, Will? To protect me?'

    'Look who needs protection.' Will laughed and then did not laugh again, for Jim was looking at him, the last wild light dying in his mouth, and caught in the thin hollows of his nostrils and in his suddenly deep-set eyes.

    'You'll always be with me, huh, Will?'

    Jim simply breathed warm upon him and his blood stirred with the old, the familiar answers: yes, yes, you know it, yes, yes.

    And turning together, they stumbled over a clanking dark mound of leather bag.

They stood for a long moment over the huge leather bag.

    Almost secretively, Will kicked it. It made the sound of iron indigestion.

    'Why,' said Will, 'that belongs to the lightning-rod salesman!'

    Jim slipped his hand through the leather mouth and hefted forth a metal shaft clustered with chimeras, Chinese dragons all fang, eyeball and moss-green armour, all cross and crescent; every symbol around the world that made men safe, or seemed to, clung there, greaving the boys' hands with odd weight and meaning.

    'Storm never came. But he went.'

    'Where? And why did he leave his bag?'

    They both looked to the carnival where dusk coloured the canvas billows. Shadows ran coolly out to engulf them. People in cars honked home in tired commotions. Boys on skeleton bikes whistled dogs after. Soon night would own the midway while shadows rode the ferris wheel up to cloud the stars.

    'People,' said Jim, 'don't leave their whole life lying around. This is everything that old man owned. Something important - ' Jim breathed soft fire - 'made him forget. So he just walked off and left this here.'

    'What? What's so important you forget everything?'

    'Why - ' Jim examined his friend, curiously, twilight in his face - 'no one can tell you. You find it yourself. Mysteries and mysteries. Storm salesman. Storm salesman's bag. If we don't look now, we might never know.'

    'Jim, in ten minutes - '

    'Sure! Midway'll be dark. Everyone home for dinner. Just us alone. But won't it feel great? Just us! And here we go, back in!'

    Passing the Mirror Maze, they saw two armies - a billion Jims, a billion Wills - collide, melt, vanish. And like those armies, so vanished the real army of people.

    They boys stood alone among the encampments of dusk thinking of all the boys in town sitting down to warm food in bright rooms.

The red-lettered sign said: OUT OF ORDER! KEEP OFF!

    'Sign's been up all day. I don't believe signs,' said Jim.

    They peered in at the, merry-go-round which lay under a dry rattle and roar of wind-tumbled oak trees. Its horses, goats, antelopes, zebras, speared through their spines with brass javelins, hung contorted as in a death rictus, asking mercy with their fright-coloured eyes, seeking revenge with their panic-coloured teeth.

    'Don't look broke to me.'

    Jim ambled across the clanking chain, leaped to a turntable surface vast as the moon, among the frantic but forever spelled beasts.

    'Jim!'

    'Will, this is the only ride we haven't looked at. So. . .'

    Jim swayed. The lunatic carousel world stirred atilt with his lean bulk. He strolled through brass forests amidst animal rousts. He swung astride a plum-dusk stallion.

    'Ho, boy, git!'

    A man rose from machinery darkness.

    'Jim!'

    Reaching out from the shadows among the calliope tubes and moon-skinned drums the man hoisted Jim yelling out on the air.

    'Help, Will, help!'

    Will leaped through the animals.

    The man smiled easily, welcomed him handily, swung him high beside Jim. They stared down at bright flame-red hair, bright flame-blue eyes, and rippling biceps.

    'Out of order,' said the man. 'Can't you read?'

    'Put them down.' said a gentle voice.

    Hung high, Jim and Will glanced over at a second man standing tall beyond the chains.

    'Down,' he said again.

    And they were carried through the brass forest of wild but uncomplaining brutes and set in the dust.

    'We were - ' said Will

    'Curious?' This second man was tall as a lamp post. His pale face, lunar pockmarks denting it, cast light on those who stood below. His vest was the colour of fresh blood. His eyes-brows, his hair, his suit were licorice black, and the sun-yellow gem which stared from the tie-pin thrust in his cravat was the same unblinking shade and bright crystal as his eyes. But in this instant, swiftly, and with utter clearness, it was the suit which fascinated Will. For it seemed woven of boar-bramble, clock-spring hair, bristle, and a sort of ever-trembling, ever-glistening dark hemp. The suit caught light and stirred like a bed of black tweed-thorns, interminably itching, covering the man's long body with motion so it seemed he should excruciate, cry out, and tear the clothes free. Yet here he stood, moon-calm, inhabiting his itch-weed suit and watching Jim's mouth with his yellow eyes. He never looked once at Will.

    'The name is Dark.'

    He flourished a white calling card. It turned blue.

    Whisper. Red.

    Whisk. A green man dangled from a tree stamped on the card.

    Flit. Shh.

    'Dark. And my friend with the red hair there is Mr Cooger. Of Cooger and Dark's. . .'

    Flip-flick-shhh.

    Names appeared, disappeared on the white square:

    '. . .Combined Shadow Shows. . .'

    Tick-wash.

    A mushroom-witch stirred mouldering herb pots.

    '. . .and cross-continental Pandemonium Theatre Company. . .'

    He handed the card to Jim. It now read:

    Our speciality: to examine, oil,

    polish, and repair Death Watch

    Beetles.

    Calmly, Jim read it. Calmly, Jim put a fist into his copious and richly treasured pockets, rummaged, and held out his hand.

    On his palm lay a dead brown insect.

    'Here,' Jim said. 'Fix this.'

     Mr Dark exploded his laugh. 'Superb! I will!' He extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.

    Bright purple, black green and lightning-blue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.

    'Boy!' cried Will. 'You must be the Tattooed Man!'

    'No.' Jim studied the stranger. 'The Illustrated Man. There's a difference.'

    Mr Dark nodded, pleased. 'What's your name, boy?'

    Don't tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?

    Jim's lips hardly twitched.

    'Simon,' he said.

    He smiled to show it was a lie.

    Mr Dark smiled to show he knew it.

    'Want to see more, "Simon"?'

    Jim would not give him the satisfaction of a nod.

    Slowly, with great mouth-working pleasure, Mr Dark pushed his sleeve high to his elbow.

    Jim.stared. The arm was like a cobra weaving, bobbing, swaying, to strike. Mr Dark clenched his fist, wriggled his fingers. The muscles danced.

    Will wanted to run around and see, but could only watch, thinking Jim, oh, Jim!

    For there stood Jim and there was this tall man, each examining the other as if he were a reflection in a shop window late at night. The tall man's brambled suit, shadowed out now to colourJim's cheeks and storm over his wide and drinking eyes with a look of rain instead of the sharp cat-green they always were. Jim stood like a runner who has come a long way, fever in his mouth, hands open to receive any gift. And right now it was a gift of pictures twitched in pantomime, as Mr Dark made his illustrious jerk cold-skinned over his warm-pulsed wrist as the stars came out above and, Jim stared and Will could not see and a long way off the last of the town people went away toward town in their warm cars, and Jim said, faintly, 'Gosh. . .' and Mr Dark rolled down his sleeve.

    'Show's over. Suppertime. Carnival's shut up until seven. Everyone out. Come back, "Simon," and ride the merry-go-round, when it's fixed. Take this card. Free ride.'

    Jim stared at the hidden wrist and put the card in his pocket.

    'So long!'

    Jim ran. Will ran.

    Jim whirled, glanced back, leaped, and for the second time in the hour, vanished.

    Will looked up into the tree where Jim squirmed on a limb, hidden.

    Mr Dark and Mr Cooger were turned away, busy with the merry-go-round.

    'Quick, Will!'

    'Jim. . .?'

    'They'll see you. Jump!'

    Will jumped. Jim hauled him up. The great tree shook. A wind roared by in the sky. Jim helped him cling, gasping, among the branches.

    'Jim, we don't belong here!'

    'Shut up! Look!' whispered Jim.

    Somewhere in the carousel machinery there were taps and brass knockings, a faint squeal and whistle of calliope steam.

    'What was on his arm, Jim?'

    'A picture.'

    'Yeah, but what kind?'

    'It was - Jim shut his eyes. 'It was - a picture of a. . .snake. . .that's it. . .snake.' But when he opened his eyes, he would not look at Will.

    'Okay, if you don't want to tell me.'

    'I told you, Will, a snake. I'll get him to show it to you, later, you want that?'

    No, thought Will, I don't want that.

    He looked down at the billion footprints left in the sawdust on the empty midway and suddenly it was a lot closer to midnight than to noon.

    'I'm going home. . .'

    'Sure, Will,' go on. Mirror mazes, old teacher-ladies, lost lightning-rod bags, lightning-rod salesmen disappear, snake pictures dancing, unbroken merry-go-rounds, and you want to go home!? Sure, old friend, Will, so long.'

    'I. . .' Will started dwon the tree, and froze.

    'All clear?' cried a voice below.

    'Clear!' someone shouted at the far end of the midway.

    Mr Dark moved, not fifty feet away to a red control box near the merry-go-round ticket booth. He glared in all directions. He glared into the tree.

    Will hugged, Jim hugged the limb, tightened into smallness.

    'Start up!'

    With a pop, a bang, a jangle of reins, a lift and downfall, a rise and descent of brass, the carousel moved.

    But, thought Will, it's broke, out of order!

    He flicked a glance at Jim, who pointed wildly down.

    The merry-go-round was running, yes, but. . .

    It was running backward.

    The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.

    The music, Will thought, it's backward, too!

    Mr Dark jerked about, glanced up, as if he had heard Will's thoughts. A wind shook the trees in black tumults. Mr Dark shrugged and looked away.

    The carousel wheeled faster, shrieking, plunging, going roundabout-back!

    Now Mr Cooger, with his flaming red hair and fire-blue eyes, was pacing the midway, making a last check. He stood under their tree. Will could have let spit down on him. Then the calliope gave a particularly violent cry of foul murder which made dogs howl in far counties, and Mr Cooger, spinning, ran and leaped on the backwhirling universe of animals who, tail first, head last, pursued an endless circling night toward unfound and never to be discovered destinations. Hand-slapping brass poles, he flung himself into a seat where with his bristly red hair, pink face, and incredible sharp blue eyes he sat silent, going back around, back around, the music squealing swift back with him like insucked breath.

    The music, thought Will, what is it? And how do I know it's backside first? He, hugged the limb, tried to catch the tune, then hum it forward in his head. But the brass bells, the drums, hammered his chest, revved his heart so he felt his pulse reverse, his blood turn back in perverse thrusts through all his flesh, so he was nearly shaken free to fall, so all he did was clutch, hang pale, and drink the sight of the backward-turning machine and Mr Dark, alert at the controls, on the sidelines.

    It was Jim who first noticed the new thing happening, for he kicked Will, once, Will looked over, and Jim nodded frantically at the man in the machine as he came around the next time.

    Mr Cooger's face was melting like pink wax.

    His hands were becoming doll's hands.

    His bones sank away beneath his clothes; his clothes then shrank down to fit his dwindling frame.

    His face flickered going, and each time around he melted more.

    Will saw Jim's head shift, circling.

    The carousel wheeled, a great back-drifting lunar dream the horses thrusting, the music in-gasped after, while Mr Cooger, as simple as shadows, as simple as light, as simple as time, got younger. And younger. And younger.

    Each time he wheeled to view he sat alone with his bones, which shaped like warm candles burning away to tender years.

    He gazed serenely at the fiery constellations, the children-inhabited trees, which went away from him as he removed himself from them and his nose Finished and his sweet wax ears reshaped themselves to small pink roses.

    Now no longer forty where he had begun his back-spiraled journey, Mr Cooger was nineteen.

    Around went the reverse parade of horse, pole, music, man become young man, young man fast rendered down to boy. . . .

    Mr Cooger was seventeen, sixteen. . . .

    Another and another time around under the sky and trees and Will whispering, Jim counting the times around, around, while the night air warmed to summer heat by friction of sun-metal brass, the passionate backturned flight of beasts, wore the wax doll down and down and washed him clean with the still stranger musics until all ceased, all died away to stillness the calliope shut up its brassworks, the ironmongery machines hissed off, and with a last faint whine like desert sands blown backup Arabian hourglasses, the carousel rocked on seaweed waters and stood still.

    The figure seated in the carved white wooden sleigh chair was very small.

    Mr Cooger was twelve years old.

    No. Will's mouth shaped the word. No. Jim's did the same.

    The small shape, stepped down from the silent world, its face in shadow, but its hands newborn wrinkled pink, held out in raw carnival lamplight.

    The strange man-boy shot his gaze up, down, smelling fright somewhere, terror and awe in the vicinity. Will balled himself tight and shut his eyes. He felt the terrible gaze shoot through the leaves like brown needle-darts, pass on. Then, rabbit-running, the small shape lit off down the empty midway.

    Jim was first to stir the leaves aside.

    Mr Dark was gone, too, in the evening hush.

    It seemed to take Jim forever to fall down to earth. Will fell after and they both stood, clamorous with alarms, shaken by concussions of silent pantomime, blasted by events all the more numbing because they ran off into the night unknown. And it was Jim who spoke from their mutual confusion and trembling as each held to the other's arm, seeing the small shadow rush, luring them across the meadow.

    'Oh, Will, I wish we could go home, I wish we could eat. But it's too late, we saw! We got to see more! Don't we?'

    'Lord,' said Will miserably. 'I guess we do.'

    And they ran together, following they didn't know what on out and away to who could possibly guess where.