Something Wicked This Way Comes (9 page)

Moths ticked off the high tin-shaded arc light which swung abandoned above the crossroads. Below, in a deserted gas station in the midst of country wilderness there was another ticking. In a coffin-sized phone booth speaking to people lost somewhere across night hills, two white-faced boys were crammed, holding to each other at every flit of bat, each sliding of cloud across the stars.

    Will hung up the phone. The police and an ambulance were coming.

    At first he and Jim had shout-whispered-wheezed at each other, pumping along, stumbling: they should go home, sleep, forget - no! they should take a freight train west! - no! for Mr Cooger, if he survived what they'd done to him, that old man, that old old old man, would follow them over the world until he found them and tore them apart! Arguing, shivering, they ended up in a phone booth, and now saw the police car bouncing along the road, its siren moaning, with the ambulance behind. All the men looked out at the two boys whose teeth chattered in the moth-flicked light.

    Three minutes later they all advanced down the dark midway, Jim leading the way, talking, gibbering.

    'He's alive. He's got to be alive. We didn't mean to do it! We're sorry!' He stared at the black tents. 'You hear? We're sorry!'

    'Take it easy, boy,' said one of the policemen. 'Go on.'

    The two policemen in midnight blue, the two internes like ghosts, the two boys, made the last turn past the ferris wheel and reached the merry-go-round.

    Jim groaned.

    The horses trampled the night air, in midplunge. Starlight glittered on the brass poles. That was all.

    'He's gone. . . .'

    'He was here, we swear!' said Jim. 'One hundred and fifty, two hundred years old, and dying of it!'

    'Jim' said Will.

    The four men stirred uneasily.

    'They must've taken him in a tent.' Will started off. A policeman took his elbow.

    'Did you say one hundred and fifty years old?' he asked Jim. 'Why not three hundred?'

    'Maybe he was! Oh God.' Jim turned, yelling. 'Mr Cooger! We brought help!'

    Lights blinked on in the Freak Tent. The huge banners out front rumbled and lashed as arc lights flushed over them. The police glanced up. MR SKELETON, THE DUST WITCH, THE CRUSHER, VESUVIO THE LAVA SIPPFR! danced soft, big, painted each on its separate flag.

    Jim paused by the rustling freak show entry.

    'Mr Cooger?' he pleaded. 'You. . .there?'

    The tent flaps mouthed out a warm lion air.

    'What?' asked a policeman.

    Jim read the moving flaps.

    'They said "yes." They said, "Come in."

    Jim stepped through. The others followed.

    Inside they squinted through crisscrossed tent pole shadows to the high freak platforms and all the world-wandered aliens, crippled of face of bone, of mind, waiting there.

    At a rickety card table nearby four men sat playing orange, lime-green, sun-yellow cards printed with moon beasts and winged sun-symbolled men. Here the akimbo Skeleton one might play like a piccolo; here the Blimp who could be punctured every night, pumped up at dawn; here the midget known as The Wart who could be mailed parcel post dirt-cheap; and next to him an even littler accident of cell and time, a Dwarf so small and perched in such a way you could not see his face behind the cards clenched before him in arthritic and tremulous oak-gnarled fingers.

    The Dwarf! Will started. Something about those hands! Familar, familiar. Where? Who? What? But his eyes snapped on.

    There stood Monsieur Guillotine, black tights, black long stockings, black hood over head, arms crossed over his chest, stiff straight by his chopping machine the blade high in the tent sky, a hungry knife all flashes and meteor shine, much desiring to cleave space. Below, in the head cradle, a dummy sprawled waiting quick doom.

    There stood the Crusher, all ropes and tendons, all steel and iron all bone-monger, jaw-cruncher, horseshoe-taffy-puller.

    And there the Lava Sipper, Vesuvio of the chafed tongue, of the scalded teeth, who spun scores of fireballs up, hissing in a ferris of flame which streaked shadows along the tent roof.

    Nearby, in booths, another thirty freaks watched the fires fly until the Lava Sipper glanced, saw intruders, and let his universe fall. The suns drowned in a water tub.

    Steam billowed. All froze in a tableau.

    An insect stopped buzzing.

    Will glanced swiftly.

    There, on the biggest stage, a tattoo needle poised like a blowgun dart in his rose-crusted hand, stood Mr Dark, the Illustrated Man.

    His picture crowds flooded raw upon his flesh. Stripped bare to the navel, he had been stinging himself, adding a picture to his left palm with this dragonfly contraption. Now with the insect droned dead in his hand, he wheeled. But Will, staring beyond him, cried:

    'There he is! There's Mr Cooger!'

    The police, the internes, quickened.

    Behind Mr Dark sat the Electric Chair.

    In this chair sat a ruined man, last seen strewn wheezing in a collapse of bones and albino wax on the broken carousel. Now he was erected, propped, strapped in this device full of lightning power.

    'That's him! He was. . .dying.'

    The Blimp ascended to his feet.

    The Skeleton spun about, tall.

    The Wart flea-hopped to the sawdust.

    The Dwarf let fall his cards and flirted his now mad, now idiot eyes ahead, around, over.

    I know him, thought Will. Oh. God, what they've done to him!

    The lightning-rod salesman!

    That's who it was. Squeezed tight, smashed small, convulsed by some terrible nature into a clenched fist of humanity. . .

    The seller of lightning-rods.

    But now two things happened with beautiful promptitude.

    Monsieur Guillotine cleared his throat.

    And the blade, above, in the canvas sky, like a homing hawk scythed down. Whisper-whisk-slither-thunder-rush-wham!

    The dummy head, chop-cut, fell.

    And falling, looked like Will's own head, own face, destroyed.

    He wanted, he did not want, to run lift the head turn it to see if it held his own profile. But how could you ever dare do that? Never, never in a billion years, could one empty that wicker basket.

    The second happened.

    A mechanic, working at the back of an upright glass-fronted coffin booth, released a trip wire. This made a last cog click within the machinery under the sign, MLLE TAROT, THE DUST WITCH. The wax woman's figure within the glass box nodded her head and fixed the boys with her pointing nose as the boys passed, leading the men. Her cold wax hand brushed the Dust of Destiny on a ledge within the coffin. Her eyes did not see; they were sewn shut with laced black-widow web, dark threads. A waxworks fright, good and proper, she was, and the policemen beamed, viewing her, and strolled on, and beamed at Monsieur Guillotine for his act too, and moving, the police were relaxing now, and seemed not to mind being called late on a jolly venture into a rehearsing world of acrobats and seedy magicians.

    'Gentlemen!' Mr Dark and his mob of illustrations surged forward on the pine platform, a jungle beneath each arm, an Egyptian viper scrolled on each bicep. 'Welcome! You're just in time! We're rehearsing all our new acts!' Mr Dark waved and strange monsters gaped their fangs from his chest, a Cyclops with a navel for a squinted moron eye twitched on his stomach as he strode.

    Lord, thought Will, is he bringing that crowd with him or is the crowd pulling him along by his skin?

    From all the creaked platforms, from the muffled sawdust, Will felt the freaks wheel and fix their eyes, enchanted, as were internes and police, by this illustrated throng of humanity that in one agglomerative move dominated and filled the immediate air and tent sky with silent shootings for attention.

    Now part of the wasp-needle tattooed population spoke. It was Mr Dark's mouth over and above this calligraphic explosion, this railroad accident of monsters in tumult upon his sweating skin. Mr Dark chanted forth the organ tones from his chest. His personal electric blue-green populations trembled, even as the real freaks on the sawdust tent floor trembled, even as, hearing in their most secret marrow, Jim and Will trembled and felt more freak than the freaks themselves.

    'Gentlemen! Boys! We've just perfected the new act! You'll be the first to see!' cried Mr Dark.

    The first policeman, his hand casually nestled to his pistol holster, squinted up at that vast corral of beasts and beings. 'This boy said - '

    'Said?!' The Illustrated Man barked a laugh. The freaks leaped in a frolic of shock, then calmed as the carnival owner continued with great ease, patting and soothing his own illustrations, which somehow patted and soothed the freaks. 'Said? But what did he see? Boys always scare themselves at sideshows, eh? Run like rabbits when the freaks pop out. But tonight, especially tonight!'

    The policemen glanced beyond to the Erector-set-papier mâché relic constricted in the Electric Chair.

    'Who's he?'

    Will saw fire lick up through Mr Dark's smoke-clouded eyes, saw him just as quickly snuff it out. 'The new act. Mr Electrico.'

    'No! Look at the old man! Look!' Will yelled. The police turned to appraise his demon cry.

    'Don't you see!' said Will. 'He's dead! Only thing holds him up is the straps!'

    The internes gazed up at the great flake of winter flung into and held by the black chair.

    Oh gosh, thought Will, we thought it would all be simple. The old man, Mr Cooger, dying, so we bring doctors to save him, so he forgives us, maybe, maybe, the carnival doesn't hurt us, lets us go. But now this, what's next? He's dead! It's too late! Everyone hates us!

    And Will stood among the others feeling the cold air waft down from the unearthed mummy, from the cold mouth and cold eyes locked up in frozen eyelids. Inside the frozen nostrils not a white hair stirred. Mr Cooger's ribs under his collapsed shirt were stone-rigid and his teeth under his clay lips were dry-ice cold. Put him out at noon and fog would steam off him.

    The internes glanced at each other. They nodded.

    The policemen, at this, took one step forward.

    'Gentlemen!'

    Mr Dark scuttled a tarantula hand up an electric brass switchboard.

    'One hundred thousand volts will now bum Mr Electrico's body!

    'No don't let him! Will cried.

    The policemen took another step. The internes opened their mouths to speak. Mr Dark flicked a swift demanding glance at Jim. Jim cried:

    'No! It's all right!'

    'Jim!'

    'Will, yes, it's okay!'

    'Stand back!' The spider clutched the switch handle. 'This man is in a trance! As part of our new act, I have hypnotized him! He could suffer injury if you shocked him from his spell!'

    The internes shut their mouths. The police stopped moving.

    'One hundred thousand volts! Yet he will come forth alive, whole in sound mind and body!'

    'No!'

    A policeman grabbed Will.

    The Illustrated Man and all the men and beasts asprawl in frenzies on him now snatched and banged the switch.

    The tent lights snuffed out.

    Policemen, internes, boys jumped up their flesh in cobbles and boils.

    But now in the swift midnight shuttering, the Electric Chair was a hearth and on it the old man blazed like a blue autumn tree.

    The police flinched back, the internes leaned ahead, as did the freaks, blue fire in their eyes.

    The Illustrated Man hand glued to switch, looked upon the old old old man.

    The old man was flint-rock dead, yes, but electricity alive sheathed over him. It swarmed on his cold shell ears, it flickered in his deep-as-an-abandoned-stone-well nostrils. It crept blue eels of power on his praying-mantis fingers and his grasshopper knees.

    'The Illustrated Man's lips thrust wide., perhaps he yelled, but no one heard against the immense fry, blast, the slam and sizzle of power which prowled in around over under about man and prisoning chair. Come alive! cried the hum! Come alive! cried the storming colour and light. Come alive! yelled Mr Dark's mouth, which no one heard but Jim, reading lips, read thunderous loud in his mind, and Will the same, Come alive! willing the old man to five, start up, tick, hum, work juice, summon spit, ungum spirit, melt wax soul. . . .

    'He's dead!' But no one heard Will, either, no matter how he pushed against the lightning clamour.

    Alive! Mr Dark's lips licked and savoured. Alive. Come alive. He racheted the switch to the last notch. Live, live! Somewhere, dynamos protested, skirled, shrilled, moaned a bestial energy. The fight turned bottle-green. Dead dead, thought Will. But live alive! cried machines, cried flame and fire, cried mouths of crowds of livid beasts on illustrated flesh.

    So the old man's hair stood up in prickling fumes. Sparks, bled from his fingernails, dripped seething spatters on pine planks. Green simmerings wove shuttles through dead eyelids.

    The Illustrated Man bent violently above the old old dead dead thing, his prides of beasts drowned deep in sweat, his right hand thrust in hammering demand upon the air: Live, live.

    And the old man came alive.

    Will Yelled himself hoarse.

    And no one heard.

    For now, very slowly, as if roused by thunder, as if the electric fire were new dawn, one dead eyelid peeled itself slowly open.

    The freaks gaped.

    A long way off in the storm, Jim was yelling, too, for Will had his elbow tight and felt the yell pouring out through the bones, as the old man's lips fell apart and frightful sizzles zigzagged between lips and threaded teeth.

    The Illustrated Man cut the power to a whine. Then, turning, he fell to his knees, and put out his hand .

    Away off up there on the platform, there was the faintest stir as of an autumn leaf beneath the old man's shirt.