Nightmare Carnival

“Right.” And she told him how he had been chosen all those years ago, appointed, seconded, whatever it was, making it seem casual but no doubt proceeding according to a careful script.

Jem sat smiling and nodding in the pleasant buzz of wheels on sand, sun on his face, and accepted it all. These sorts of things had to happen all the time. People just never knew.

But he made himself keep at it. “So once they’ve found someone, what do these old Heirloom Carnivals do? Apart from running away to join people.”

Mally grinned again. “Like that, do you? Well, for a start we keep some things to ourselves. We appreciate things done right, using the old traditions. There’s at least one Sly Carnival on every continent, tucked away, making do, getting by, can you believe it? Lots of friendly competition.”

“And what? They stay hidden?”

“Enough people find them.”

“You’re not telling me much.”

“Just what so many words do, Jem. Don’t tell you much. Make you go deeper. But you’ll see for yourself. Not long now.”

For the rest of the drive it was just flat horizon in every direction under a hot blue sky, long sweeps of red earth, stretches of sand and salt pan, scraps of saltbush and bluebush on what modest dunes and ridges there were. Then there was a crusting of something off to one side, a few uncertain shapes that grew to be a clustering of tents and vehicles near what might have once been a watercourse of some kind.

Mally pulled up, opened her door, and jumped out. “I’ll go find Mr Fleymann and tell him you’re here,” she said, and set off amid the tents.

Jem sat a while listening to the day, watching the spot where she had disappeared. It occurred to him vaguely that he should call his Gran and Lucy, though he felt little urgency about that. Still, he was missing from the train. When he did try Lucy’s number there was no signal, hardly surprising, so no way to check in, check facts, confirm terms like Heirloom and Corpse Rose, the rest of the world for that matter. And Mally had taken the keys. He really was cut off from everything.

Except this.

Jem didn’t like the feeling it gave him. It made him decide that, since Mally hadn’t actually told him to stay in the car, he’d take a look around. If this was all he had then he’d have it.

He opened the door and started toward the tents. As far as he could tell there were maybe ten in all, three impressively large, the size of modest family homes, the rest no larger than the average one-car garage. No real fairway running between either; it was much more haphazard than that, more a series of narrow alleys snaking between guy-lines to where some well-used caravans, a few vans, and two weathered SUVs were parked.

Jem studied the scene, listening for voices. The tents stirred in the afternoon breeze, bellying now and then so the entry flaps showed glimpses of darkness. Sand hissed against the canvas. Stays thrummed a little, but as the softest, listen-or-you’ll-miss-it sound.

It was starting to spook him, though Jem told himself that thirteen in the troupe didn’t mean they were necessarily on site. Maybe they were off in a town somewhere or sleeping out the hottest part of the day. The effect was of no-one-at-home quiet, but he sensed he was being watched all the same, that if he turned quickly enough he’d see someone before they pulled back out of sight, maybe catch them peeping out of tents.

At least Mally’s Jeep was still where she had left it. At least there was one other person besides himself.

Had been.

So where on earth was she? Going to find Mr Fleymann, she’d said. Surely no finding was involved, although, going by what she’d said about words, maybe there was.

We appreciate things done right.

Jem shook his head, worried by how easygoing, how unworried he kept feeling about all this. He’d been abducted, tricked, conned. Things were seriously wrong, though it all seemed harmless, no big deal.

And maybe they wanted him to get a sense of the place on his own, check out the different tents, see which ones he’d try. There weren’t that many. That had to be it.

Part of the package.

He moved toward the caravans, taking the alleyway with at least four tents opening onto it. They all had signage of some kind, wooden display boards above the entrance flaps, though most with words so faded he could only make out the nearest. THE WAIT, it said in bleached gold on weathered blue, which made him chuckle since that was exactly what he was doing. Still, hardly the name for your usual fairground attraction.

Maybe the Tauregs and Gipsies did better.

Jem was summoning up the nerve to enter, actually reaching to lift the flap, when Mally appeared at the entrance to the last tent in the row, the big one nearest the vehicles.

“Jem, over here! Come meet the boss!”