Something Wicked This Way Comes (13 page)

Nothing much else happened, all the rest of that night.

At dawn, a juggernaut of thunder wheeled over the stony heavens in a spark-throwing tumult. Rain fell softly on town cupolas, chuckled from rainspouts, and spoke in strange subterranean tongues beneath the windows where Jim and Will knew fitful dreams, slipping out of one, trying another for size, but finding all cut from the same dark, mouldered cloth.

    In the rustling drumbeat, a second thing occurred:

    From the sodden carnival grounds, the carousel suddenly spasmed to life. Its calliope fluted up malodorous steams of music.

    Perhaps only one person in town heard and guessed that the carousel was working again.

    The door to Miss Foley's house opened and shut; her footsteps hurried away along the street.

    Then the rain fell hard as lightning did a crippled dance down the now-totally-revealed, now-vanishing-forever land.

    In Jim's house, in Will's house, as the rain nuzzled the breakfast windows, there was a lot of quiet talk, some shouting, and more quiet talk again.

    At nine-fifteen, Jim shuffled out into the Sunday weather, wearing his raincoat, cap, and rubbers.

    He stood gazing at his roof where the giant snail track was washed away. Then he stared at Will's door to make it open. It did. Will emerged. Ms father's voice followed: 'Want me to come along?' Will shook his head, firmly.

    The boys walked solemnly, the sky washing them toward the police station where they would talk, to Miss Foley's where they would apologize again, but right now they only walked, hands in pockets, thinking of yesterday's fearful puzzles. At last Jim broke the silence:

    'Last night, after we washed off the roof, and I finally got to sleep, I dreamed a funeral. It came right down Main Street, like a visit.'

    'Or. . .a parade?'

    'That's it! A thousand people, all dressed in black coats, black hats, black shoes, and a coffin forty feet long!'

    'Criminentry!'

    'Right! What forty feet long needs to be buried? I thought. And in the dream I ran up and looked in. Don't laugh.'

    'I don't feel funny, Jim.'

    'In the long coffin was a big long wrinkled thing like a prune or a big grape lying in the sun. Like a big skin or a giant's head, drying.'

    'The balloon!'

    'Hey.' Jim stopped. 'You must've had the same dream! But. . .balloons can't die, can they?'

    Will was silent.

    'And you don't have funerals for them, do you?'

    'Jim, I. . .

    'Darn balloon laid out like a hippo someone leaked the wind out of - '

    'Jim, last night. . .'

    'Black plumes waving, band banging on black velvet-muffled drums with black ivory bones, boy, boy! Then on top of it, have to get up this morning and tell Mom, not everything, but enough so she cried and yelled and cried some more, women sure like to cry, don't they? and called me her criminal son but - we didn't do anything bad, did we, Will?'

    'Someone almost took a ride on a merry-go-round.'

    Jim walked along in the rain. 'I don't think I want any more of that.'

    'You don't think! ? After all this!? Good grief, let me tell you! The Witch, Jim, the balloon! Last night, all alone, I - '

    But there was no time to tell it.

    No time to tell his stabbing the balloon so it gusted away to die in the lonely country sinking the blind woman with it.

    No time because walking in the cold rain now, they heard a sad sound.

    They were passing an empty lot deep within which stood a vast oak-tree. Under it were rainy shadows, and the sound.

    'Jim,' said Will, 'someone's - crying.'

    'No.' Jim moved on.

    'There's a little girl in there.'

    'No.' Jim would not look. 'What would a girl be doing out under a tree in the rain? Come on.'

    'Jim! You hear her!'

    'No! I don't, I don't!'

    But then the crying came stronger across the dead grass, flew like a sad bird through the rain, and Jim had to turn, for there was Will marching across the rubble.

    'Jim - that voice - I know it!'

    'Will, don't go there!'

    And Jim did not move, but Will stumbled and walked until he entered the shade of the raining tree where the sky fell and was lost in autumn leaves and crept down at last in shining rivers along the branches and trunk and there was the little girl, crouched, face buried in her hands, weeping as if the town were gone and the people in it and herself lost in terrible woods.

    And at last Jim came edging up and stood at the edge of the shadow and said, 'Who is it?'

    'I don't know.' But Will felt tears start to his eyes, as if some part of him guessed.

    'It's not Jenny Holdridge, is it. . .'

    'No.'

    'Jane Franklin?'

    'No.' His mouth felt full of novocaine, his tongue merely stirred in his numb lips. '. . .no. . . '

    The little girl wept, feeling them near, but not looking up yet.

    '. . .me. . .me. . .help me. . .nobody'll help me. . .me. . .me. . .I don't like this. . .'

    Then when she had strength enough and was quieter she turned her face, her eyes almost swollen shut with weeping. She was shocked to see anyone near, then surprised.

    'Jim! Will! Oh God, it's you!'

    She seized Jim's hand. He writhed back, yelling. "No! I don't know you, let go!'

    'Will, help me, Jim, oh don't go, don't leave!' she gasped, brokenly, new tears bursting from her eyes.

    'No, no, don't!' screamed Jim, he thrashed, he broke free fell, leaped to his feet, one fist raised to strike. He stopped, trembling, held it to his side. 'Oh, Will, Will, let's get out of here, I'm sorry, oh God, God.'

    The little girl in the shadow of the tree, flung back, widened her eyes to fix the two in wetness, moaned, clutched herself and rocked back and forth, her own child-baby, comforting her elbows. . . soon she might sing to herself and sing that way, alone beneath the dark tree, forever, no one able to join or stop the song.

    '. . .someone must help me. . .someone must help her. . .' she mourned as for one dead, 'someone must help her. . .nobody will. . .nobody has. . .help her if not me. . .terrible. . .terrible. . .'

    'She knows us!' said Will, hopelessly, half bent down to her, half turned to Jim. 'I can't leave her!'

    'Lies!' said Jim, wildly. 'Lies! She don't know us! Never saw her before!'

    'She's gone, bring her back, she's gone, bring her back,' mourned the girl, eyes shut.

    'Find who?' Will got down on one knee, dared to touch her hand. She grabbed him. Almost immediately she knew this was wrong for he tried to tear free, so she let him go, and wept, while he waited near and Jim, far out in the dead grass, called in for them to go, he didn't like it, they must, they must go.

    'Oh, she's lost,' sobbed the little girl. 'She ran off in that place and never come back. Will you find her, please, please. . .?'

    Shivering, Will touched her cheek. 'Hey now,' he whispered. 'You'll be okay. I'll find help,' he said, gently. She opened her eyes. 'This is Will Halloway, okay? Cross my heart, we'll be back. Ten minutes. But you mustn't go away.' She shook her head. 'You'll wait here under the tree for us?' She nodded, mutely. He stood up. This simple motion frightened her and she flinched. So he waited and looked at her and said, 'I know who you are.' He saw the great familiar eyes open grey in the small wounded face. He saw the long rainwashed black hair and the pale cheeks. 'I know who you are. But I got to check.'

    'Who'll believe?' she wailed.

    'I believe,' Will said.

    And she lay back against the tree, her hands in her lap, trembling, very thin, very white, very lost, very small.

    'Can I go now?' he said.

    She nodded.

    And he walked away.

    At the edge of the lot, Jim stomped his feet in disbelief, almost hysterical with outrage and declamation.

    "It can't be!'

    'It is,' said Will. 'The eyes. That's how you tell. Like it was with Mr Cooger and the evil boy - There's one way to be sure. Come on!'

    And he took Jim through the town and they stopped at last in front of Miss Foley's house and looked at the unlit windows in the morning gloom and walked up the steps and rang the bell, once, twice, three times.

    Silence.

    Very slowly, the front door moved whining back on its hinges.

    'Miss Foley?' Jim called, softly.

    Somewhere off in the house, shadows of rain moved on far windowpanes.

    'Miss Foley. . .?'

    They stood in the hall by the bead-rain in the entry door, listening to the great attic beams ashift and astir in the downpour.

    'Miss Foley!' Louder.

    But only the mice in the walls, warmly nested, made sgraffito sounds in answer.

    'She's gone out to shop,' said. Jim.

    'No.' said Will. 'We know where she is.'

    'Miss Foley, I know you're here!' shouted Jim suddenly, savagely, dashing upstairs. 'Come on out, you!'

    Will waited for him to search and drag slowly back down. As Jim reached the bottom of the steps, they both heard the music blowing through the front door with the smell of fresh rain and ancient grass.

    The carousel calliope, among the hills, piping the 'Funeral March' backwards.  

    Jim opened the door wider and stood in the music, as one stands in the rain.

    'The merry-go-round. They fixed it!'

    Will nodded. 'She must've heard the music, gone out at sunrise. Something went wrong. Maybe the carousel wasn't fixed right. Maybe accidents happen all the time. Like to the lightning-rod man, him inside-out and crazy. Maybe the carnival likes accidents, gets a kick out of them. Or maybe they did something to her on purpose. Maybe they wanted to know more about us, our names, where we live, or wanted her to help them hurt us. Who knows what? Maybe she got suspicious or scared. Then they just gave her more than she ever wanted or asked for.'

    'I don't understand - '

    But now, in the doorway, in the cold rain, there was time to think of Miss Foley afraid of mirror mazes, Miss Foley alone not so long ago at the carnival, and maybe screaming when they did what they finally did to her, around and around, around and around, too many years, more years than she had ever dreamed of shucked away, rubbing her raw, leaving her naked small, alone, and bewildered because unknown-even-to-herself, around and around, until all the years were gone and the carousel rocked to a halt like a roulette wheel, and nothing gained and all lost and nowhere for her to go, no way to tell the strangeness, and nothing to do but weep under a tree, alone, in the autumn rain. . . .

    Will thought this. Jim thought it, and said:

    'Oh, the poor. . .the poor. . .'

    'We got to help her, Jim. Who else would believe? If she tells anyone, "I'm Miss Foley!" "Get away!" they'd say, "Miss Foley's left town, disappeared!" "Go on, little girl!" Oh, Jim, I bet she'd pounded a dozen doors this morning wanting help, scared people with her screaming and yelling, then ran off, gave up, and hid under that tree. Police are probably looking for her now, but so what? it's just a wild girl crying and they'll lock her away and she'll go crazy. That carnival, boy, do they know how to punish so you can't hit back. They just shake you up and change you so no one ever knows you again and let you run free, it's okay, go ahead, talk, 'cause folks are too scared of you to listen. Only we hear, Jim, only you and me, and right now I feel like I just ate a cold snail raw.'

    They looked back a last time at the shadows of rain crying on the windows inside the parlour where a teacher had often served them cookies and hot chocolate and waved to them from the window and moved tall through the town. Then they stepped out and shut the door and ran back toward the empty lot.

    'We got to hide her, until we can help - '

    'Help?' panted Jim. 'We can't help ourselves!

    'There's got to be weapons, right in front of us, we're just too blind - '

    They stopped.

    Beyond the thump of their own hearts, a greater heart thumped. Brass trumpets wailed. Trombones blared. A herd of tubas made an elephant charge, alarmed for unknown reasons.

    'The carnival!' gasped Jim. 'We never thought! It can come right into town. A Parade! Or that funeral I dreamt about, for the balloon?'

    'Not a funeral and only what looks like a parade but's a search for us, Jim, for us, or Miss Foley, if they want her back! They can march down any old street, fine and dandy, and spy as they go, drum and bugle! Jim, we got to get her before they - '

    And breaking off, they flung themselves down an alley, but stopped suddenly, and leaped to hide in some bushes.

    At the far end of the alley, the carnival band, animal wagons, clowns, freaks and all, banged and crashed between them and the empty lot and the great oak tree.

    It must have taken five minutes for the parade to pass. The rain seemed to move on away, the clouds moving with them. The rain ceased. The strut of drums faded. The boys loped down the alley, across the street, and stopped by the empty lot.

    There was no little girl under the tree.

    They circled it, looked up in it, not daring to call a name.

    Then very much afraid, they ran to hide themselves somewhere in the town.

The phone rang.

    Mr Halloway picked it up.

    'Dad, this is Willy, we can't go to the police station, we may not be home today, tell Mom, tell Jim's mom.'

    'Willy, where are you?'

    'We got to hide. They're looking for us.'

    'Who, for God's sake?'

    'I don't want you in it, Dad. You got to believe, we'll just hide one day, two, until they go away. If we came home they'd follow and hurt you or Ma or Jim's mom. I got to go.'

    'Willy, don't!'

    'Oh, Dad,' said Will. 'Wish me luck.'

    Click.

    Mr Halloway looked out at the trees, the houses, the streets, hearing faraway music.

    'Willy,' he said to the dead phone. 'Luck.'

    And he put on his coat and hat and went out into the strange bright rainy sunshine that filled the cold air.