Nightmare Carnival

“They wouldn’t miss this for the world. Though, like I say, we got some off scouting. Half-Bottle Johnny and Swallowed Girl can’t be here, and one of our two Kabuki Crows sends his apologies.”

“Finding my replacement if I don’t cut it.”

“Your successor whether you do or don’t. It never stops. They find someone, we shut up shop and go check them out like we did you.”

“And if I refuse?”

Mr Fleymann’s face locked. The smile gleamed above the fan of his cravat, hinted, promised.

“Then we lose out this time. You lose out.”

“You have that spell thing going. You could force me.”

“Not how we like it to be. Keep that as one of our Get Out of Jail Free cards. We all get them. Even you get one.”

“You’re serious?”

“Old rules. You could guess our secret name, our special name of power. Every Heirloom Carnival has one. Some visitors get lucky. Most don’t. That lets you cut and run.”

“Can’t be too obvious.”

“Has to be in plain sight.”

“So I’ve seen it already?”

“Most likely. But best you choose your three. Spend time with them, then come tell us. Have a bit of a debriefing on what you’ve understood. Answer a few questions.”

“Then I can go?”

“How it works. Jeremy Scott Renton goes scot-free. He’s off our books.”

“But with no memory of having been here.”

Mr F. snatched dazzle from the spotlight, grinned like a brand-new scimitar. “Still deciding about that. But, hey, Jem, you’re looking tired. Why don’t you go have a nap till later?”

“Thanks, Mr F., but I’m not—”

The third part of the obligato kicked in then. Jem collapsed where he stood, and Mally was there to catch him, every bit as strong as she looked.

When he woke it was evening and he was lying on an old car seat alongside one of the SUVs. To his left the western horizon was a band of gold over a vast blackness, sweeping up to become crimson passing through aqua into richest indigo overhead, already filling with early stars.

To his right the tents were so many jewel boxes, Chinese lanterns, shifting cabinets of light, sides stirring in the breeze off the desert. Daytime drab had become evening miracle, the easy magic of carnivals and circuses everywhere. The heat was going out of the land, but seeing the softly glowing shapes stopped Jem minding too much.

They had deliberately planned it this way, of course, provided the comfortable shift, the right segue from one mode to another. All the tents were illuminated internally, Jem noticed; all had lanterns atop poles by their entrances, a few left dark, most lit to show their signboards. There were people about too, not Mally or Mr F. as far as he could tell, but others, the rest of the troupe, doing last-minute errands, taking their places. There was music playing as well: pipes, Gipsy violins, some light percussion, probably a recording rather than live musicians but muted, far off, entirely appropriate.

In spite of the circumstances, Jem felt genuine excitement, obligato effect or otherwise, though again with a stab of something else behind it, also muted and far off, which, in another time, another place, might have been panic. But he felt excited was the thing.

And here was Mally, wearing finery of her own: the cheekiest, flimsiest, most unlikely ingénue shift that clung to her full body way too well.

“Aren’t you cold?” was all he could manage.

“Surely will be. But, hey, I’ve been in jeans all day. This is playtime! And time to start your tour.”

“What, I just go wandering?”

“Take your time. Any order you like. It’s all about you now.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I’m part of the performance, ninny. Off you go.”

Jem had thought there’d be more to it, more fanfare, more of a fuss. But he stood and stretched, then started for the nearest attraction, half intending to do a clockwise circuit.

The first tent he reached was warmly lit but empty, its lantern and signboard dark. After peering in at the single mast and the small patch of desert under a single yellow spot, he moved on to the next in line.

This one’s lantern showed a single word on its signboard: TIMEWISE, and the smiling long-jawed man in straw boater, plaid jacket, slacks, and the shiniest shoes to one side of the entrance immediately greeted him.

“Evenin’, guv. Welcome to the show.”

“I just go in?”

“Do as you please, guv.”

Jem entered the warmly lit space, saw the single yellow spot illuminating a wooden stand a bit like a lectern. Its only feature was a single throw switch set into a vertical board at the top. The labels ON and OFF were marked clearly in black letters on white.

“What do I do?” Jem asked. “Throw the switch?”

“Do nothing, if you’ve a mind,” the man said. “Or throw it. Some do. Some don’t. Makes some folk feel things are happening if they do.”

“There’s no wiring.”

“There’s always wiring, guv. Could be hidden in the stand, under the sand. Could be a placebo. Makes some folks feel good to throw it. Empowered, you know.”

“But they waste time deciding.”