Something Wicked This Way Comes

‘Boy!’ cried Will. ‘You must be the Tattooed Man!’

‘No.’ Jim studied the stranger. ‘The Illustrated Man. There’s a difference.’

Mr Dark nodded, pleased. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

Don’t tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?

Jim’s lips hardly twitched.

‘Simon,’ he said.

He smiled to show it was a lie.

Mr Dark smiled to show he knew it.

‘Want to see more, “Simon”?’

Jim would not give him the satisfaction of a nod.

Slowly, with great mouth-working pleasure, Mr Dark pushed his sleeve high to his elbow.

Jim stared. The arm was like a cobra weaving, bobbing, swaying, to strike. Mr Dark clenched his fist, wriggled his fingers. The muscles danced.

Will wanted to run around and see, but could only watch, thinking Jim, oh, Jim!

For there stood Jim and there was this tall man, each examining the other as if he were a reflection in a shop window late at night. The tall man’s brambled suit, shadowed out now to colour  Jim’s cheeks and storm over his wide and drinking eyes with a look of rain instead of the sharp cat-green they always were. Jim stood like a runner who has come a long way, fever in his mouth, hands open to receive any gift. And right now it was a gift of pictures twitched in pantomime, as Mr Dark made his illustrious jerk cold-skinned over his warm-pulsed wrist as the stars came out above and, Jim stared and Will could not see and a long way off the last of the town people went away toward town in their warm cars, and Jim said, faintly, ‘Gosh. . .’ and Mr Dark rolled down his sleeve.

‘Show’s over. Suppertime. Carnival’s shut up until seven. Everyone out. Come back, “Simon,” and ride the merry-go-round, when it’s fixed. Take this card. Free ride.’

Jim stared at the hidden wrist and put the card in his pocket.

‘So long!’

Jim ran. Will ran.

Jim whirled, glanced back, leaped, and for the second time in the hour, vanished.

Will looked up into the tree where Jim squirmed on a limb, hidden.

Mr Dark and Mr Cooger were turned away, busy with the merry-go-round.

‘Quick, Will!’

‘Jim. . .?’

‘They’ll see you. Jump!’

Will jumped. Jim hauled him up. The great tree shook. A wind roared by in the sky. Jim helped him cling, gasping, among the branches.

‘Jim, we don’t belong here!’

‘Shut up! Look!’ whispered Jim.

Somewhere in the carousel machinery there were taps and brass knockings, a faint squeal and whistle of calliope steam.

‘What was on his arm, Jim?’

‘A picture.’

‘Yeah, but what kind?’

‘It was—Jim shut his eyes. ‘It was—a picture of a. . .snake. . .that’s it. . .snake.’ But when he opened his eyes, he would not look at Will.

‘Okay, if you don’t want to tell me.’

‘I told you, Will, a snake. I’ll get him to show it to you, later, you want that?’

No, thought Will, I don’t want that.

He looked down at the billion footprints left in the sawdust on the empty midway and suddenly it was a lot closer to midnight than to noon.

‘I’m going home. . .’

‘Sure, Will,’ go on. Mirror mazes, old teacher-ladies, lost lightning-rod bags, lightning-rod salesmen disappear, snake pictures dancing, unbroken merry-go-rounds, and you want to go home!? Sure, old friend, Will, so long.’

‘I. . .’ Will started dwon the tree, and froze.

‘All clear?’ cried a voice below.

‘Clear!’ someone shouted at the far end of the midway.

Mr Dark moved, not fifty feet away to a red control box near the merry-go-round ticket booth. He glared in all directions. He glared into the tree.

Will hugged, Jim hugged the limb, tightened into smallness.

‘Start up!’

With a pop, a bang, a jangle of reins, a lift and downfall, a rise and descent of brass, the carousel moved.

But, thought Will, it’s broke, out of order!

He flicked a glance at Jim, who pointed wildly down.

The merry-go-round was running, yes, but. . .

It was running backward.

The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.

The music, Will thought, it’s backward, too!

Mr Dark jerked about, glanced up, as if he had heard Will’s thoughts. A wind shook the trees in black tumults. Mr Dark shrugged and looked away.

The carousel wheeled faster, shrieking, plunging, going roundabout-back!

Now Mr Cooger, with his flaming red hair and fire-blue eyes, was pacing the midway, making a last check. He stood under their tree. Will could have let spit down on him. Then the calliope gave a particularly violent cry of foul murder which made dogs howl in far counties, and Mr Cooger, spinning, ran and leaped on the backwhirling universe of animals who, tail first, head last, pursued an endless circling night toward unfound and never to be discovered destinations. Hand-slapping brass poles, he flung himself into a seat where with his bristly red hair, pink face, and incredible sharp blue eyes he sat silent, going back around, back around, the music squealing swift back with him like insucked breath.