Twilight Eyes (17 page)

I shook my head. “I don’t think she’s a deceiving person.”

“Oh, we all are, my young friend! We all deceive. Some of us deceive the whole world, every single fellow creature we meet. Some of us deceive only selected people, wives and lovers, or mothers and fathers. And some of us deceive only ourselves. But none of us is totally honest with everyone all the time, in all matters. Hell, the
need
to deceive is just one more curse that our sorry species has to bear.”

“What are you trying to tell me about her?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, his tension suddenly flowing away. He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing.”

“Why are you being so cryptic?”

“Me?”

“Cryptic.”

“I wouldn’t know how,” he said, his mutant face bearing the most enigmatic expression I had ever seen on anyone.

The marks reached the twelfth stall, two couples in their early twenties, the girls with heavily lacquered bouffant hair and too much makeup, the guys in checkered slacks and clashing shirts, a quartet of country sophisticates. One of the girls, the porky one, squealed in fright when she saw Joel Tuck. The other girl squealed because her friend had done it, and the men put protective arms around their women, as if there were a real danger that Joel Tuck would bound off his small stage with either rape or cannibalism in mind.

While the marks made their comments, Joel Tuck lifted his book and returned to his reading, ignoring them when they asked questions of him, retreating into a dignity so solid that it was almost tangible. In fact, it was a dignity that even the marks could sense and that, in time, intimidated them into respectful silence.

More marks arrived, and I stood there for a moment longer, watching Joel, breathing in the odors of sun-heated canvas and sawdust and dust. Then I let my gaze slide to that patch of sawdust-covered earth between the rope and the platform, and again I received images of decomposition and death, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not figure out exactly what these dark vibrations meant. Except . . . I still had the disquieting feeling this dirt would be turned with a spade to make a grave for me.

I knew I would come back. When the midway was closed down. When the freaks were gone. When the tent was deserted. I would sneak back to stare at this portentous plot of dirt, to place my hands against the ground, to attempt to wrench a more explicit warning from the psychic energy that was concentrated here. I had to armor myself against the oncoming danger, and I could not do that until I knew precisely what the danger was.

When I left the ten-in-one and returned to the concourse, the twilight sky was the same color as my eyes.

Because it was the next to the last night of the engagement, and a Friday, the marks lingered longer, and the midway closed up later than the night before. It was almost one-thirty by the time I had locked away the teddy bears at the high-striker and, laden with coins that jingled with every step I took, went down to the meadow, to Rya’s trailer.

Thin, wispy clouds were backlit by the moon, which painted their lacy edges purest silver. They filigreed the night sky.

Having dealt with her other cashiers already, she was waiting for me, dressed much as she had been the night before: pale green shorts, white T-shirt, no jewelry, no need of jewelry, more radiant in her unadorned beauty than she could have been in any number of diamond necklaces.

She was in an uncommunicative mood, speaking only when spoken to, then responding in monosyllables. She took the money, put it away in a closet, and gave me half a day’s wages, which I tucked into a pocket of my jeans.

As she performed these chores I watched her intently, not merely because she was lovely but because I had not forgotten last night’s vision, just outside the trailer, when an apparitional Rya, smeared with blood and bleeding from one corner of her mouth, had shimmered into existence before my eyes and had softly pleaded with me not to let her die. I hoped that, in the presence of the
real
Rya once more, I’d find my clairvoyance stimulated, that new and more detailed premonitions would come to me, so I could warn her about a specific danger. But all that I got from being close to her again was a renewed sense of the deep sadness in her—and sexually aroused.

Once paid, I had no excuse to hang around. I said good night and went to the door.

“Tomorrow will be a busy day,” she said before I took that first step out.

I looked back at her. “Saturdays always are.”

“And tomorrow night is slough night—we tear it all down.”

And Sunday we would set up in Yontsdown, but I did not want to think about that.

She said, “There’s always so much to do on Saturdays that I have trouble sleeping Friday nights.”

I suspected that, like me, she had trouble sleeping
most
nights and that, when she did sleep, she often awoke unrested.

Awkwardly, I said, “I know what you mean.”

“Walking helps,” she said. “Sometimes, on Friday nights, I go out on the dark midway and walk around and around the promenade, working off excess energy, letting the stillness sort of . . . flow into me. It’s peaceful when it’s shuttered, when the marks are gone and the lights are out. Even better . . . when we’re playing at a place like this, where the fairgrounds are in open country, I walk the nearby fields or even the woods if there’s a road through them or a good trail—and if there’s a moon.”

Except for her stern lecture about operating the high-striker, this was the longest speech I had heard her make, and it was the closest she had come to trying to establish rapport with me, but her voice remained as impersonal and businesslike as it was during working hours. In fact, it was even cooler than before because it was without the effervescent excitement of the entrepreneur engaged in hustling a buck. It was a flat voice now, indifferent, as if all purpose and meaning and interest fled her with the closing of the midway and did not return until the next day’s show call. Indeed it was such a flat voice, so drab and weary, that without the special insight of my sixth sense I might have been unaware that she was actually reaching out to me, in need of human contact. I knew that she was trying to be casual, even friendly, but that did not come easy to her.

“There’s a moon tonight,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And fields nearby.”

“Yes.”

“And woods.”

She looked down at her bare feet.

“I was planning on taking a walk myself,” I said.

Without meeting my eyes she went to the armchair, in front of which she had left a pair of tennis shoes. She slipped into them and came to me.

We walked. We wound through the temporary streets of the trailer town, then into open meadow where the wild grass was black and silver in the night-shadows and moonbeams. It was also knee-high and must have tickled her bare legs, but she did not complain. We walked in silence for a while, at first because we were too awkward with each other to settle into comfortable conversation, then because conversation began to seem unimportant.

At the edge of the meadow, we turned northwest, following the line of trees, and a welcome breeze rose at our backs. The towering ramparts of the post-midnight forest rose with castellated formidability, as if they were not serried ranks of pines and maples and birches but, instead, solid black barriers that couldn’t be breached, only scaled. Eventually, half a mile behind the midway, we came to a place where a single-lane dirt road split the woods, leading upward into night and strangeness.

Without a word to each other we turned onto the road and kept walking, and we went perhaps another two hundred yards before she finally spoke. “Do you dream?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

“About what?”

“Goblins,” I said truthfully, although I would begin to lie if she pressed me for elucidation.

“Nightmares,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Are your dreams usually nightmares?”

“Yes.”

Although those Pennsylvania mountains lacked the vastness and the sense of a primordial age that made the Siskiyous so impressive, there was nonetheless a humbling silence of the sort to be found only in the wilderness, a hush more reverent than that in a cathedral, which encouraged us to speak softly, almost in whispers, though there was no one to overhear.

“Mine too,” she said. “Nightmares. Not just usually. Always.”

“Goblins?” I asked.

“No.”

She said no more, and I knew she would tell me more only when she chose to.

We walked. The forest crowded close on both sides. In the moonlight the dirt road had a gray phosphorescence that made it look like a bed of ash, as if God’s chariot had raced through the woods, wheels burning with divine fire, leaving a trail of total combustion.

In a while she said, “Graveyards.”

“In your dreams?”

She spoke as softly as the breeze. “Yes. Not always the same graveyard. Sometimes it’s on a flat field, stretching to every horizon, one head-stone after the other, all of them exactly alike.” Her voice became softer still. “And sometimes it’s a snowy cemetery on a hill, with leafless trees that have lots of black and spiky branches, and with tombstones terracing down and down, all different kinds of them, marble obelisks and low granite slabs, statues that’ve been tilted and worn by too many winters . . . and I keep walking toward the bottom of the cemetery, the bottom of the hill . . . toward the road that leads out . . . and I’m sure there’s a road down there somewhere . . . but I just can’t find it.” Her tone was not only soft now but so bleak that I felt a cold line drawn along my spine, as if her voice were an icy blade impressed upon my skin. “At first I move slowly between monuments, afraid of slipping and falling in the snow, but when I go down several levels and still don’t see the road below . . . I start moving faster . . . and faster . . . and pretty soon I’m running, stumbling, falling, getting up, running on, dodging between the stones, plunging down the hillside . . .” A pause. A breath. Shallow. Expelled with a faint sigh of dread and with a few more words: “Then you know what I find?”

I thought I did. As we reached the crest of a low hill and kept walking, I said, “You see a name on one of the tombstones, and it’s yours.”

She shuddered. “One of them
is
mine. I sense it in every dream. But I never find it, no. I almost wish I would. I think . . . if I found it . . . found my own grave . . . then I would stop dreaming about these things....”

Because you would not wake up, I thought. You would be dead for real. That was what they said happened if you did not wake up before you died in a dream. Die in a dream—and never wake up again.

She said, “What I find when I go down the hillside far enough is . . . the road I’m looking for . . . except it isn’t a road anymore. They’ve buried people and erected headstones right in the asphalt, as if they had so many to plant that they ran out of room in the graveyard and had to put them wherever there was space. Hundreds of stones, four across, row after row, all the way along the road. So . . . you see . . . the road isn’t a way out anymore. It’s just another part of the cemetery now. And below it the dead trees and more monuments just keep shelving down and down, as far as I can see. And the worst thing is . . . somehow I know that all these people are dead . . . because...”

“Because what?”

“Because of me,” she said miserably. “Because I killed them.”

“You sound as if you actually feel guilty,” I said.

“I do.”

“But it’s only a dream.”

“When I wake up . . . it lingers . . . too real for a dream. It has more meaning than just a dream. It’s . . . an omen, maybe.”

“But you’re not a killer.”

“No.”

“Then what could it mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Just dreamstuff, nonsense,” I insisted.

“No.”

“Then tell me how it makes sense. Tell me what it means.”

“I can’t,” she said.

But as she spoke, I had the disturbing impression that she knew precisely what the dream meant and that she had now begun to lie to me just as I would have lied if she had pressed for too many details about the goblins of my own nightmares.

We had followed the dirt road up and then down a gentle hill, along a quarter-of-a-mile curve, through a hurst of oaks where there was less moonlight, perhaps a distance of one mile altogether. Finally we came to the road’s end on the shore of a small lake surrounded by forest.

The gently sloping bank that led into the water was covered with lush, soft grass. The lake looked like an enormous pool of oil and would have looked like nothing whatsoever if the moon and scattered frost-white stars had not been reflected in its surface, thereby vaguely illuminating a few eddies and ripples. The breeze-ruffled grass, like that in the meadow behind the trailer town, was black with a thin silver edge to each tender blade.