Nightmare Carnival

Jem studied the prints for a minute or so — the mosaic with Darius in his chariot, the Altdorfer with its grand view of mighty armies locked in battle — then said, “Thank you,” and went outside, feeling incredible relief when he saw that the next tent along was the two-masted one, the big top.

Was this the final exhibit, the ninth, or had he missed one?

When Jem stepped inside, he found it as empty as it had been earlier in the day. There was just the display case under its fierce white spot. Warm yellow elsewhere, dazzling glare for this single display.

He went and studied the miniature again, found it just as unsettling as before. It was too realistic, as if waiting to move yet confined by these glass sides. It made Jem feel like he was a god peering down, which brought the immediate “Russian Doll” reaction that such a god might be looking down on him. That had him glancing upward instinctively, peering first into the terrible glare, then beyond that fierce core of light to what lay in the shadows to either side: dozens, hundreds, thousands of masks, faces, fixed there, staring down, a vast audience.

Jem blinked, strained to make sure what he was seeing.

Then Mr Fleymann spoke. “So, Jem, what’s it to be? Which three will you pick?”

Jem looked down to find the whole troupe gathered about him, about the display case: Mally in her shift, the woman in the tutu and Doc Martens, the pastor in his dark suit, the curator woman, all of them.

“Is this one included?”

“Of course. If you need more time—”

“I’m ready,” Jem said, and realized he was, that he could choose, had already done so.

“Shoot then.”

Jem hesitated only a moment, getting the exact names clear in his head. “Right. My choices. Skylab Land, the Mermaid, and the Issus Trip.”

Mr Fleymann grinned. Mally did. There were immediate smiles on the faces of the troupe, not just of happiness and excitement, but what looked like genuine relief as well.

Mr F. raised a hand, smoothed his cravat in a nervous gesture. “Now think carefully, Jem. You chose Skylab Land, the Mermaid, and the Issus Trip. Very revealing for us here. Very useful given our specialty. But if you had to pick one of the three, just one, which would it be?”

Jem thought immediately of the Alexander Mosaic. “The Issus Trip. No idea why.”

It was like everyone started breathing again, Mr F., Mally, the whole troupe. There were more smiles, more excitement, sheer relief.

“Good choice!” Mr F. said. “You’ve turned out to be everything we wanted you to be, Jem.”

“What did you want me to be?”

“How we operate, sorry. How we have to operate. All the Heirloom Carnivals.”

“Please. What have I just done?”

Mr F. stretched his arms wide in an expansive, almost hieratic gesture. “You’ve just helped us move ahead. Enabled our next target.”

Now it was Jem who went very still. He understood nothing, but sensed that something awful had just happened.

Mr F. could barely contain his delight. “Good thing you didn’t pick THE WAIT. Many do. Looks so easy.”

Jem made himself stay with the flow. “Just sit there till you get the joke, hey?”

Mr Fleymann’s eyes flashed with a fierce delight totally without mirth. “Sit there till you realize that’s all you’ll ever do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wordplay again, Jem. How it seems. How it sounds. How it is for us. Names of power every one. That’s what we trade in here.”

And the grin locked, held. It was a grimace that nudged.

Get it? Ged it?

The Weight.

Jem felt a rush of horror. “You’re joking.”

“Try it when we’re done if you’ve a mind.”

“It looks so innocent.”

“So can a throw switch with an electric current running through it. So can a glass of acid looking like water. Need to think a certain way about things.”

Like why a carnival would set up in a desert.

That thought flashed through Jem’s mind, even as he pictured the humble setup of THE WAIT. How many people never left that chair? Had never been able to? Took their ease. Felt the pressure come.

“Come morning—”

“Wouldn’t find much. It’s exponential.”

“The other exhibits—?”

“Have ways of biting.”

“My three?”

“The only ones that are genuine. The rest kill. You passed the test.”

The implications overwhelmed Jem. The faces on the canvas just now. Visitors dropping by.

“Surely there’d be investigations. Missing person reports.”

“Always are. They find nothing. We have ways.”

“But why? It can’t be just trimming the bush.”

“Much more, Jem. We’re back to words again, see. Names. Ways of saying, seeing. If trees are solar engines exchanging gases, and people are living furnaces, burning away day and night, making more living furnaces, what does that make a carnival like this one? The Heirloom Carnivals? The Sly Carnivals?”

“Not just entertainments, distractions?”

“Try harder. Go deeper?”

“A machine? A device? A means for catching souls? Making a hell on Earth?”

“Too corny. Too clichéd. Harder. Deeper.”

Jem tried to grasp what Mr F. wanted. Completions? Ways of resolving something? He didn’t want to say.