Nightmare Carnival

He waved in acknowledgment, as if he were the one who had chosen to interrupt his train journey and pay a visit. He stepped over guy-lines to the largest tent of the lot, probably the closest thing to a big top the carnival had. There was no signboard above the entrance this time.

When Jem stepped inside he saw two masts supporting the canopy, though, again, there was no sign of Mally. It was frustrating, annoying somehow — welcome feelings after the buzz of the drive out from Cook. The world was slowly becoming real again, his again. He blinked, kept allowing that he was being tricked, not seeing people who were right in front of him. The space looked completely empty but for a large display case between the masts, an old waist-high museum-style thing on four wooden legs, the size of a kitchen table, glass top and sides lit from above by a powerful spotlight that created a dazzling pool of light where it stood.

The obvious thing to do, the only thing really, was go see what it contained. Which had him smiling again. All part of the show.

The case held a model of the carnival itself, miniature versions of the tents, caravans, and vehicles, even Mally’s Jeep, showing the alleys running between, the adjacent sand flats, the tiniest tufts of scrub. The spotlight was like the blazing sun outside, and Jem could even imagine the tents stirring ever so slightly in an impossible breeze. It looked so real that it made him wonder if he’d be shown in the diorama if he stepped outside again, which meant he’d have to be out there for it to happen, of course, which meant he could never be in a position to see it. But that was the sense he got, that he’d be shown, that it was all shown in miniature here: a lizard scurrying by, a bird flying through.

“That’s us,” an elderly male voice said, and Jem looked up into shadow to see Mally standing with a tall lean man in an off-white three-piece suit, one that looked bleached and quaint as if made of canvas or sailcloth. It had eccentric pleats and odd little tucks and ruffles like compressed fans, even a rolled cravat of the stuff at his throat.

Mally gestured grandly. “Jem Renton. It’s my great pleasure to introduce our Ringmaster and Master of Ceremonies, Mr Heinrich Fleymann, originally of Gutenberg. Mr F. as we call him.”

“Good to meet you, Jem Renton,” Mr F. said. “It’s been a while.”

Twinkling dry was the right term for him, Jem decided as they shook hands. Dry skin, dry voice, all with a sheen spilling from the eyes, which in themselves looked dry. An old painting of a man, complete with an explosion of white Mark Twain hair and wearing a raw canvas suit waiting for colours, highlights, flourishes.

Obligato courtesy came easy. “I’d say thanks for the invite, Mr F., but I had no choice in that.”

Mr Fleymann spread his hands. “Sorry to say. But we’ll set things right.” His words held only the slightest trace of his German ancestry.

Jem found it easy to play along. “I thought weird carnivals came in on trains.”

“Well, we’re Down Under, see, so it’s all ass-about. We join you. You come to us on the train.” Dry voice, dry smile stretching back, bushy white hair catching the light.

“So why am I here? Mally said I have a hidden power you mean to use.”

“Straight to it, good. You check out the attractions on offer. We have nine tonight. You get to pick three.”

“Pick as in try those tents?”

“Pick as in they’re your three. You try them all. Think of it as partly a fortune-telling thing.”

“That’s what my gift’s for? Lets you read the future?”

“Most surely does. Lets us determine the future, if we’re lucky. It all depends on what choices you make. Life’s about choosing. No point otherwise.”

Jem remembered what Mally had said about words and wondered what Mr Fleymann wasn’t saying. That was the game here. “You picked me. Joined me. How does that work?”

“Checked you out. Laid the old Sly spell, part of it in Perth with your gran and sister, part when you reached Cook. Other folk drop by, see the tents, decide to check us out. That’s the gravy. We chose you. Makes all the difference.”

“But you’re still not saying why.”

“Hey, no, sir! We’ve waited years for your visit. It’s our reward for all the effort.”

“You’ve chosen others? Visited others?”

“We have. We did. We do. Constantly. Got people out scouting right now.”

“Finding new blood.”

“Not our choice of words. Some duds, some misses, but all considered it averages out. It’s how we do what we do.”

“Come on, Mr Fleymann? You’ve got me here. Just what do you do. I don’t see any trade dropping by.”

“Not today, Jem! Not tonight. Tonight you’re here! It’s your turn. You’re the main attraction! We perform for you. Not just anyone can make us cross half a continent scouting.”

“I just visit the tents?”

“Pay each of the nine a visit, yes. Meditate. Reflect. Choose your three. They’ll be the ones we use.”

“For a fortune telling.”

“At the very least. For whatever comes.”

“Mally says there are thirteen in the troupe. Will I get to meet the others?”