Prelude:

Hank clicked on the television, an old Zenith, and frowned at it. There was sound, but no picture. An Emcee was babbling about Miss Thorndale's wonderful personality. Must be the Miss Wisconsin pageant. Hank figured the old set needed a few minutes to warm up before a picture would show up, so he wandered into the kitchen to see if the people who lived here, the had any beer. The Arndots, he remembered from the mailbox.

After a short search, Hank found four cans of Milwaukee's Best. Not his brand, but hell, it was here, and beer is beer. On his way back to the living room, he dropped his gun down on the kitchen table.

The picture had arrived, and after Hank helped Mr. Arndot out of the recliner, he had a seat and popped open a can. Before long, the trailer would start to smell, he thought. Time to move along soon. For now, there was time. And pretty girls on the TV. The Emcee introduced Miss Milwaukee, Aimee Duncan, and when she paraded out onto the stage, Hank dropped his beer.

She was so, so pretty!

Small, with big blue eyes, like Hank's sister had had. But so much prettier than she had been. Nice, small body. Good curves. Nice smile. She made Hank feel warm inside. She made him want to take care of her. To be a better person, for her. He noticed his foot was wet, the spilt beer soaked through his sock. Numbly, he opened another beer, and watched the goddess on the old Zenith. He sat all the way through the pageant, and when Miss Aimee Duncan won the crown, Hank wept with joy for her. And then the local celebrity host congratulated her because she would be going on to compete for the Miss America crown, and Hank cheered for her.

By then the beer was all gone, and nothing else on would compare to the perfect memory he had of her smile, so he threw the heavy glass ashtray from the coffee table across the room and shattered the screen. It pleased him that the old Zenith's last sight would be of Aimee, crying tears of joy, still smiling that perfect smile of hers.

Hank sat there for a while, an hour or two, with his eyes closed. Aimee, he thought. So pretty, he thought. He focused on the memory of her smile until he was sure he'd never forget it. By then, the noises Mrs. Arndot was making in the bedroom were beginning to irritate him, so he got up. "It's a shitty, shitty world, you know?" he said, as he strolled into the kitchen, retrieving his gun. "Everywhere you look, nothing but shit, shit, shit. Kids shitting on their folks, bosses shitting on the people who work for them, politicians and landlords shitting on everyone."

"It's nice, when you see something pretty, you know? Nice that good, perfect things, perfect people exist. It makes the rest of us, here in the shit, feel a little better." Hank stepped almost daintily over Mr. Arndot on his way to the bedroom. He had to go explain things to the Missus. "Mrs. Arndot, I want to tell you about a perfect person. Her name is Aimee. She likes to water-ski and volunteer with the elderly. She likes dogs, has a big one she calls Derby. She's perfect. I'm not. I'm shit. You're shit, too, even if you don't know it. I just want you to know there are perfect people out there. People who aren't shit. Isn't that wonderful?"

Mrs. Arndot didn't look like she thought that was wonderful. So Hank shot her.




Chapter One

The scene: Mr.James, manager of the Carnival’s many gambling tents and games of chance, is leaning over the counter of his booth, smoking a Marlboro, and telling a story to a girl in a wheelchair. The girl is wrapped in a heavy pea-green parka, with the hood up, despite the heat of the afternoon, and she is paying very, very close attention to the story.


Doctor Celestine's Carnival of Souls, it says on the ticket stubs. But I think of it as mine. This is my home. This has become what I do, what I live for. What I live with.

Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about how I came to the Carnival that first time. But not today. That story is a valuable one, and you didn't win that much. But you won a story, young lady, and a story you will have.

The good Doctor's Carnival had arrived in Milwaukee in late October. The trees around the fairgrounds were already bare, and the leaves blown about by the brisk breeze all looked the same shade of rusty brown under the yellow sodium lamps. The lights and screams from the roller coasters and other rides were only a short walk away from my domain, but when they reached me they seemed very distant. The thrills and risks offered by the Tummy Twister and the Merry Go Round (when it isn't broken down) are different from the thrills and risks I offer. In my domain, the double row of booths and stands offering games of chance, it is the thrill of gambling, and the risk is as much or little as the people who play feel they can handle. I oversee perhaps two dozen different Games, from the Wheel of Fortune and the Plinko game to the quasi-legal Vegas tent. It's a lot to keep track of, both in logistics and finance, but it's work I find fulfilling. I even work the Games myself most nights, but this particular night, I was strolling along watching the crowd. Looking for something special. I found it at the edge of a group of locals watching the Wheel of Fortune.

A tall, handsome lad was playing the game and losing. Most do. Now, don't mistake me, I run a fair Game. There's a reason I don't call them Games of Skill, you know. They're Games of Chance. The Wheel is a tricky Game, with lots of options for how to bet, and a seemingly simple balance of odds. The players lose more often then not, and that puts more money in the Carnival's coffers. But it pays off often enough to keep them coming back for more. Anyway, the young man was wearing a college jacket, one that matched those worn by most of his spectators. Athletes of some kind, I thought, based on their slim, strong frames and the high quality of the girls on their arms.

It was one of the girls who caught my attention. All the college boys had girls on their arms, ranging from plain-but-sweet, to the one that caught my eye, who was simply beautiful. She was smallish, I think the polite word is 'petite.' She had ginger-blonde hair and a bored expression. The other girls gave her a wide berth, and she didn't seem bothered by it. Her man was obviously proud to have her with him, but she seemed disdainful of him, as though she were settling for his company until something better came along. While the others were calling advice and support to their friend being played by the Wheel, she was checking her watch often and impatiently tapping her foot. As I approached, the gaudy lights caught on the faux diamond necklace she wore, making it seem to wink at me. She, I thought, was just what I was looking for.

"Bored?" I whispered in her ear, almost distracted from my purpose by the scent of honeydew and cinnamon in her perfume.

Startled, she spun around, and almost slapped me. I got slapped a lot when I first started traveling with the Carnival, but not lately. I'm good at ducking these days. I apologized to her, and as an afterthought, to her escort, for startling her. After introductions, I learned her name was Aimee Duncan, and she was the recently-crowned Miss Wisconsin. She didn't bother to introduce the young man with her, and I didn't inquire. I wasn't about to ask about her necklace, after all; it would be impolite to ask about her other accessory.

When I suggested a different Game, one with different stakes, she seemed intrigued. So I invited them to follow me as I led them to my booth, the one that's closed unless I am running it. The special booth attached to the rear of my trailer, where I play the Game.



Chapter Two

The Scene: An interrogation room at a local precinct. James is explaining to the officers present what happened earlier that night, specifically about the story he told the girl in the wheelchair, the one who is pressing charges against him. One of the officers, a tall, imposing man with a short crew cut and a scowl, paces angrily. His name is Hank.


So, Officer...where was I?

Ah, yes, I was telling her about the Game, wasn't I? Do you gamble, Officer? It is the simplest and oldest magic known to the human species. Observe, as I toss this coin. Heads or tails?

In that moment, when the coin hesitates at the peak of the arc, a crossroads is reached. Heads or tails, right or left, yea or nay, and nothing you or I do can influence the decision. When a wager is placed on the outcome, responsibility is surrendered. We choose to accept the decision of the Game and are so bound by it, by our own will. The decision, be it made by Fate, or random chance, or God…or the Game, is out of our hands. We risk, hoping that the decision will be in our favor. Tonight, just before you arrested me, I was telling a story to a young crippled girl in a wheelchair about a Game Miss Wisconsin played and lost. Shall I continue the tale? Thank you. I shall.

"Let's not play for money," I said, leaning over the counter and holding eye contact with the beauty on the other side. "Money is so cheap, and I have so much more to offer. Now, the intangibles, they are so much harder to come by. They're worth a Game. Tell you what. What do you want? Anything at all, anything you can dream of..."

The beauty queen frowned at me skeptically, wondering, no doubt, what my angle was. She thought I was just another carny out to swindle her out of more money. Fortunately, her escort du jour was less intelligent than she was, and he accepted by words as what they were. Truth. "Aimee wants to be famous."

Her angelic features twisted in a grimace, and she elbowed her mouthy showpiece in the stomach. "I'm already famous." She made a conscious effort to rearrange her face in an expression of beatific humility, and she explained to me that she was the reigning Miss Wisconsin. She'd be going to Atlantic City in three weeks to compete for the Miss America crown, and, she thought, she had a better-than-average chance of winning.

"Is that all?" I asked, unimpressed. "You call that fame?" When she frowned, confused, I proceeded. "I can do better than that. People all over the world have played at this booth, standing just where you're standing now. Right at this counter, I have had producers, newspaper editors, ambassadors and politicians, royalty and paparazzi. People who gambled intangibles with me, and many of them have lost. Many of them owe me favors." By now, she realized what I had to offer, and her eyes gleamed with ambition and greed. And they were such pretty eyes, too. It didn't sit well with me to see such ugliness shining from them, but I continued. "I can make you famous, Aimee. Pageant winners are as common as pageants, and if you should win your pageant, most likely you'll get a year of token appearances, and then be quickly forgotten. Right? Right." I lit a cigarette, and leaned back, perusing the shelf just above the counter. Up there, out of sight of the marks, I keep the Prizes. I took down a mason jar, and set it on the counter. Inside was a star. Not a little gold sticker, or a tin deputy's badge, but a real star. Aimee gazed at it in wonder, because simply, the sight of it was wonderful. While she watched it twinkling and shining, I insinuated my words, "I can make you a household word. People will say Aimee Duncan in the same breath as Kurt Cobain, or O.J. Simpson, Vanessa Williams, or Monica Lewinsky. You'll have your picture on the covers of Time, and Newsweek, and People, and the tabloids will print glorious lies about you that you can hotly deny in other tabloids. Why, a skilled agent can make you the defining celebrity of your generation, and I can make that agent take notice of you. The question, is, what's it worth to you?"

She looked up at me, not quite thinking clearly, I'm sure. With the Prize on my counter, just in front of them, almost nobody thinks clearly. "How much?" she asked.

"Tsk tsk." I took the jar away and replaced it on the shelf out of her view. I made sure, though, that its light shone on my face as I looked back at her. "It's not for sale. Nothing is, here. Even if it were, it isn’t about money, remember? I propose we play a Game. The winner takes what the other chooses to gamble. Understand? No sales, no trades, just...a Game. "What do you have that is worth what I offer? Or shall I choose?"

She was obviously confused, but excited. She'd seen the star, and knew what I was offering was something I could deliver. But she was thinking, thinking, thinking herself in circles. While she hesitated, her somewhat slow athletic companion spoke up again, bless him. "But Aimee's so pretty. Couldn't she do that for herself?"

Before she could rebuke him, I laughed and clapped my hands, delighted. "Perfect!" I leaned over the counter again, and whispered in her ear "What's his name?"

"Pete."

"Pete, thank you for the perfect suggestion. Shall we flip a coin for it, Aimee?" I took down the jar and set it on the counter again, and again I had her attention. "I offer Fame. Should Tails come up on the coin, you win it. Agents will fight to represent you, record labels will bid unheard of sums for your voice, and studios will struggle to show your face to millions, for millions. And you will wager Beauty." I reached under the counter, and produced an empty jar, and a Polaroid camera. "Should the coin land showing Heads, I win the right to take your loveliness," I indicated the camera, "and keep it here with me." I indicated the empty jar, caressing the opening. "Where I will keep it for as long as it pleases me, or until another player beats me in a Game and wins it. Do we have a deal?"

Her brow furrowed, as she again struggled against her own intelligence to comprehend the situation. "You'll take my picture?"

I sighed. "If you must focus on the mundane, then yes. I'll get a picture, or, you'll win a phone number and a letter of reference from me. I like the way I phrased it better." That was her error, you see. She couldn't see beyond the mundane. To the magic of the Game. The good Doctor made me the caretaker of the Game, and it isn't something to be taken casually. It isn't mundane at all. It's the oldest magic.

"You have a deal."

Pet spoke up again. Sorry, I mean Pete. Pete said he had a bad feeling about this, but Aimee ignored him. The magic of the game had her, and all she could see was the Prize.

"Pete," I said, still watching Aimee's face, because I was watching my Prize, as well, "Do you have a quarter? Toss it."

The coin landed Tails up. I won. There was some nervous laughter, no bad feelings, fair and square, and all that. The common pleasantries exchanged between victor and victim. I hate that part of the Game more than any other. I took her picture with the camera, and, being a good sport for me, she smiled beautifully. The picture, I placed in the jar, and sealed it. Both jars were then placed on the top shelf.

"Can I try again?" she asked.

I just shook my head sadly and closed the booth. They never understand at first.

Officer?

Still listening? Good. You looked a million miles away.

Anyway, that's when the story ended. The girl, the one in the wheelchair? The one with the horrible scars on her face, and the one eye? That was Aimee. She'd spent a good deal of time following the Carnival, and when she came, she brought you. She thinks I sabotaged her car, causing the accident that night. She is, of course, wrong.

I understand my rights. I understand that I'm under arrest. I deny any guilt. You heard my side of the story, as did she.

No, I think I'll just wait in my cell for the Doctor to come bail me out. I also think Aimee won't be pressing charges in the morning. She's upset, that's all. It will pass. Besides, nobody welches on my Game. Nobody.




Chapter Three

The scene: Very late that same night, only a few hours before dawn, outside Mr. James’ trailer. Mr. James is seated, leaning against one of the wheels and smoking. He is bleeding, slowly, from two bullet wounds in his chest. He is speaking to Hank, who is struggling in the arms of a garishly dressed clown who is holding Hanks arms pinned behind his back. The clown’s smile, which seems very wide, reveals rows of sharp teeth. Trapped, Hank must listen as Mr. James speaks.


Are you still following me?

I'm glad, because I know this is complicated. I'll sum up when I'm done, and by then you should understand what you're dealing with.

The good Doctor came within the hour. Time enough for me to get to know my cellmates, and to learn that they weren't any good at cards.

How did I get cards in the cell? Oh, cards, dice, chips, since I started traveling with the Carnival, these things have never been far from my hand. Anyway, Doctor Celestine came in with his hearty laugh and his huge smile. Big, expansive gestures and a glint in his eye that bespoke a deep underlying love for all humanity. The cops let me go, apologizing to the Doctor, and taking his letter for the DA and promising to see it on his desk by dawn.

And a good thing, too. I understand you arranged for me to have an 'accident' later that night, didn't you? Naughty boy, very naughty, indeed.

I returned here, to my booth, late last night. Late enough that the Carnival had closed, and with this Carnival, that is very, very late. My boys had locked up for me, and I knew that the cash was all counted up, all the receipts were in order, and all the prizes, as well as my Prizes, carefully accounted for. The Doctor is very good at keeping loyal employees, and as for theft...well. The very thought of a local coming in here and stealing from the Doctor is as absurd as, why, as absurd as thinking one could come in here and kill one of the Doctor's loyal employees. You see my point, I'm sure.

I unlocked my home and turned on the radio. A local station was playing something sad and poignant, with strings, and I deemed it good. I poured a glass of brandy, and turned on the lamp by my desk. Then I sat down with the mason jar that led to my recent incarceration, and took out the contents. Aimee's photograph had changed. Look now, through the open door at the table by the chair in the back of my trailer. Do you see the flower there, in the crystal vase next to the broken snifter? That's it.

You see, a Prize, once claimed, takes a while to ripen. To mature. Aimee's took three hours. At precisely ten minutes after two in the morning, the photograph crumpled in on itself. I was watching. It twisted and changed, the paper becoming something alive and fragile. Petals grew, and the stem grew thorns. Look closer. You see the graceful curve of leaf that resembles a smooth hip? The arc of line between petals that so closely resembles her smile? How the dew gleams like her eyes used to? There on my desk, as my bauble for as long as I choose to keep it, is Aimee Duncan's beauty. The vase that holds it is in fact Carol Simmon's tenderness. There are other Prizes about the room, not just in the jars, and only I know how to make them manifest, so put that thought out of your head right now. In your hands, it would just be a flower. A rapidly fading flower at that. Now, don't struggle. You're only hurting yourself. You can’t hurt our premier clown. Violent Clay doesn’t hurt anymore, the Doctor saw to that.

I was just lighting my cigarette and reclining for an evening's contemplation when she returned. I'd left the door open for her. My booth is also my trailer, and there are four steps up to get in the door. Robbed of her chair by the steps but driven on by her rage and shame, she hobbled in on her stumps. I remained seated, by back to the door. It occurred to me to wonder if she'd brought a gun. She had, but the bullet destroyed only my snifter and splashed some very expensive brandy on the rear wall.

"Come to play again?" I called. Mr. Kay had given me that brandy as a gift, and it annoyed me to see a single drop of it spilled. I was already annoyed at having been locked up that night. Two strikes Aimee, I thought. For your own sake, girl, don't go for three. I don't trust myself when I'm this angry.

"Bastard!" She came around the chair, wobbling unsteadily because either she hadn't had time to relearn how to walk after she got out of traction, or she hadn't made the effort to learn. Her voice had changed, perhaps because of the bit of glass that severed her vocal chord. It was high and reedy, a far cry from the sultry tone she once commanded. "You did this!" She'd lost both her feet, the left leg terminating just below the knee, the right one just above. She'd removed the heavy parka she'd worn when she'd had me arrested, the better to show me what I'd wrought, I assume. They'd done a fine job with the skin graft, but it left much of her scalp bald. Not enough, really. Horrible keloid scars covered her exposed face and upper torso, and her left arm hung limply at her side. The long, wicked scar attested to the fact that they'd gone in and reattached the tendons but I suspect it will take years of therapy to regain full use of the limb. Full strength is probably not an option for her, ever. Her lush figure was drained, empty. The spinal injury had left her in traction for almost a year. Long enough for her golden tan to become sad and pasty, and for her fine muscle tone to atrophy. She was wearing a white tank top that hung loosely on her, showing the outline of her one shapely breast and her other, diminished one. I'm told the hunk of flesh that once supported her right nipple burned away to nothingness before they pulled her from the car.

I'm sorry, is this upsetting you?

Never mind, I'm not sorry at all.

Her nose had been broken, and despite medical attention had not been set properly. Her jaw, too, had shattered and in healing had grown over-large. She had only four teeth left, enough to serve as an anchor for dentures someday. And her right eye was missing, the socket covered by a white eyepatch. For some reason, that struck me as funny. Who makes eyepatches in white? I chuckled, and she shot me. That was even funnier, and I laughed out loud.

She stared at me in frustrated rage, and collapsed on the floor. The gun, forgotten, held limply in her three-fingered right hand. She began to weep, accompanied by the sad strings on the radio. I composed myself, and turned the chair to face her. "You had me arrested, in vengeance for a wager you lost fairly. That's one. You shot my drink. That's two. And you shot my drink! That's three. Now. We. Will. Play. Again."

She looked up at me. "I want it back!"

"Why?"

The question seemed to confuse her. So I enlightened her. "Because, Aimee, you're nothing without it. That's why you want it back, and that's why I wanted it. Beauty is skin deep, they say. Shallow. And that's all you were. Now that it's been shorn away, what's left? A bitter, ugly girl?" I sniffed. "You're a bitter ugly girl with it or without it. Now we will play another Game, another wager. What shall I offer this time? I doubt you still want Fame, not looking like that."

"I want it back," she wept. I noticed no tears came from under her spotless white eyepatch.

"No. Ask for something else."

"I want you to suffer!"

"Me? Not Pete? He was driving that night, he's the one who crashed into that tree, isn't he?"

"He's dead, you fuck!"

That surprised me. Not much surprises me anymore, but that did. I'd called her shallow, but I had no idea. "He is. That's right." I went to my desk and took out a scrapbook. Opening to "B" for "Beauty" I found her entries. I sat down on the floor next to her and showed her what I'd collected within. Newspaper articles, mostly. The first showed her winning her pageant. The second described the accident the night she and Pete Brummel had visited the Carnival. The third was Pete's obituary. He'd been studying environmental law. He'd had a family, including an older brother in the priesthood, who'd presided at the funereal. The fourth mentioned Cindy Cole, who assumed the Miss Wisconsin crown as Aimee Duncan was no longer, and I quote, "able to carry out the duties of Miss Wisconsin." The fifth and final entry was a copy of her medical report. A lengthy medical report. If you'd like, I could show it to you sometime. Clinical professional words that mean, when translated, that something beautiful has been cast down into the shit.

"Why is it that you're here?" I whispered. She got as far as 'I want' before I cut her off. "Because you think I killed Pete? No. Because you think I arranged the accident to ruin your pretty face. You shallow, arrogant, bitch. The one I could understand, even respect. But no, a man's death means nothing to you in light of what you've lost. That's what I'm going to offer. Grief. Because you have none. Only self-pity. A little Grief will nicely put that in perspective."

"But I want it back!" she whined. With her voice so badly damaged, I suppose she can't help but whine. Still, it annoyed me.

"And what if I win? Because I often do, you see. Even when I lose, what I want often happens." I went to the top shelf, above the closed window over the counter, and took down a jar containing a black top. One of those little wooden ones that get so popular around Hanukkah. This one had been painted a matte black, and the Hebrew inscriptions were highlighted in gold. I put it down on the floor in front of her. Mrs. Gould had lost her four children in a boating accident. She'd been on the verge of suicide herself when her husband, desperate to reach her, had brought her here, to the Carnival. He'd hoped to cheer her a bit by reminding her of their courting days. While he'd been fetching corn dogs I caught her attention. We played and she lost. The Grief, my Prize. I have a file on Mrs. Gould, too. She and her husband have another child now. And the near-suicidal Grief I now proffered to Aimee Duncan. Oh, yes, should I lose this wager, I would still win in the end. How long could so weak a soul carry a burden such as that? How long before she died?

Shall I show you something?

Look here. I still have it. Grief in a jar. What does that tell you? It means I won. Now I have two Prizes from Aimee. In this jar, you will notice, is a butterfly. Not a very good one, I'm afraid, it's just made of plastic. This Prize ripened very, very quickly. As soon as she signed the paper, I dropped the pen in the jar and watched it change. A little, plastic, silver-painted butterfly. Its name is Freedom.

Aimee Duncan was lost because she was a pretty girl who wasn't pretty anymore, and she didn't know who the girl inside was. I almost made her wager her dignity, but I think her torment will be all the greater if she is allowed to keep it.

Aimee is a Carny, now. When she lost the toss of the coin, she joined the Carnival. Tomorrow's show at Bloody Mary's tent will feature the former Miss Wisconsin. As will the next show, and the next. For five years. That’s what she lost, because she couldn't live with herself.

Bloody Mary's tent?

Bloody Mary runs the Freak Show, of course. Didn't you realize?

Aimee's a freak.

Is Violent Clay holding you too tightly, Hank? No? Ah, you're just crying. That's sweet.



Epilogue
Hank wept, hanging limp in the embrace of the silent, leering clown. Before him, the carny sat on the ground, smiling up at him. That monster! How dare he sit there, and smile like that! That smiling, shit-eating, bloody abortion!

"Shit! You monster," Hank whispered. "What are you?"

Mr. James got up, ponderously. He was a big man, and not built for grace. A large bloodstain was spreading across the white shirt he wore, the black vest already stained through. Still, he didn't move like a man in pain, just like a man who'd been sitting on his ass long enough for it to fall asleep. "What am I? What are you, Hank?" He reached up, and slowly, deliberately took the badge off Hank's uniform. "I remember you. You were one of the guards at the jail last night. You're the one who paid that biker to slit my throat. He would have, too, if the Doc hadn't sprung me. What about Aimee is so important that you'd do all this? Why'd you come here? Just to shoot me? Aimee shot me three hours ago. Now you've shot me. Now what?"

Hank tried to lunge at him, to wipe that damned smirk off his face, but that monstrous clown had a grip like steel. When Hank stopped struggling again, the clown licked his ear, making him flinch. "You're a freak! This whole fucking Carnival is nothing but a bunch of monsters and demons!"

"Not quite," came another voice from the shadows. A big man stepped into the light, broad and powerful. He wore a red silk shirt, with those big puffy sleeves that faggots like. He even had a big black cape, like some kind of vampire, except that the lining was white. As it flapped in the breeze, it made a sound like wings. It even looked a bit like wings, the way the white lining billowed and contracted... "My name is Doctor Celestine, and this is my Carnival. Is there a problem here?"

Mr. James walked over there and he and the Doctor guy hugged each other. Got blood all over the Doctor's shirt, too, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm shot again."

"Again? James..."

"Hey, it's this guy. He's with the new girl at Mary's, I think. He’s not very talkative, though. He just keeps trying to hurt me."

The Doctor came to Hank, and looked into his eyes. Hank tried to look away, or close his eyes, but the clown squeezed him. Hard. The Doctor had these strange eyes, like a summer night's sky. Looking in them made Hank itch. "Am I shit?" the Doctor whispered.

Hank wanted to scream out 'yes!' but found that he couldn't. Looking into those eyes, he felt like he was seeing himself. Like he was seeing himself very, very clearly, and that if there was anything shitty here, it was him. "No?"

"Were the Arndots shit? Or the Baileys? Or the Whites? Or the Thomlinsons? I could go on, Hank." The Doctor didn't look mad. Just, confused, a little. Like he was trying to understand. And how did he know my name, anyway, Hank wondered. Mr. James didn't look smug anymore, either. Just a little tired. "Eyes front, Hank," whispered the Doctor again. The clown squeezed again, and Hank thought his shoulder was going to go out. "Were they?"

"Probably not."

"Were they?"

"No." Hank felt like he'd eaten that black Jew toy the blonde guy, James, had talked about. He was shit.

"And Aimee? Tell me about her."

Hank broke down completely, crying and crying. His nose ran and he couldn't see, and he kept seeing all the dead people, all the ones he'd killed because they were shit. And Aimee, who had been so pretty, so perfect, and now she was shit, too.

“I wanted to take care of her….” The clown put him down. And Hank cried some more.

"I understand," said the Doctor. Part of Hank thought he still looked confused, a little, but those words were so good to hear, so good. Not shitty at all.

"Doc?" called Mr. James. "Doc, I'm still bleeding over here. You mind?"

"No, that's all right, go ahead."

"Thanks."

The Doctor took out an empty mason jar, and passed it in front of Hank's mouth. Hank suddenly felt tired, and peaceful. He felt...good. Something shiny was in the jar now, but it wasn't anything Hank thought he'd miss. Nothing was shit anymore. Nothing was perfect, either, and that was all right, too. Nothing mattered except that Hank was sleepy, and that the big Doctor would hold him while he slept. "I think we've got a job for you, Hank. Always room for one more in the Carnival. Maybe you can help out with Security, over at the Freak Show. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

Hank saw James walking away toward his booth. He looked like he'd eaten something bad. He hoped he felt better soon, that James, he seemed like a decent fellow. And that funny clown with all the sharp teeth, he was cartwheeling away and laughing. What a nice clown. Hank cuddled into the Doctor's lap, where everything was nice. The Doctor put a jar away, one with something really bright and shining inside. Maybe a really bright firefly? Light bulb? It didn't matter. The Doctor was nice, and he took the hurt away. Even the bad hurt about...what was her name?

Hank drifted off to sleep, feeling fine for the first time in his life. The doctor crooned to him softly as he slept, and as the Carnival slept around them.

I walk around her as she sits in her chair, her one eye red and puffy from weeping. She is a travesty of human form, and that pleases me. Mr. James delivered her to me yesterday, and explained the matter to me over brandy and fine cigars. Mr. James always has the finest cigars, which is a small part of the reason why I like his visits so.
I didn’t actually see the woman yesterday. I merely had Violent Clay pop her in a cage in the back of the tent, as she was screaming and howling and throwing such fits as even I have rarely seen. I figured a night in with real freaks might give her a little perspective.
Seems to have worked. She’s much more subdued today. Of course, a night with Devil, Moon, Star, and their like will do that.
She sits in the chair, and I walk around her. I haven’t seen what she looked like before the accident, so I can’t properly access the damage, but she looks gruesome. She is bald, save a few straggling strands of hair, possibly once blonde. Her scalp and face are runnled with shiny scars, nose melted, lips nearly gone and the remains twisted into a permanent, hideous sneer. Both ears are shriveled lumps at the sides of her head. A part of my mind wonders if they could be pierced. Earrings would be a lovely, disgusting irony. Her one eye is a watery blue in a burst of red veins, eyelid warped by a scar. I have her sitting before me in her underclothes, so I can access the full damage. It is not a pleasant sight, but I study her clinically. Her skin is all jagged scars and ropey burns. It has been rendered a pale white and raw red parody of zebra hide. She has a prosthetic left leg, just below the knee, just a steel-frame peg with a vaguely foot-shaped lump of beige plastic at the end. Her right foot has been replaced by another foot-shaped lump of beige plastic, and I’m wondering if I can get them into high heels. Her torso is a twisted root; breasts only withered bags on her chest. Her arms are long vines, left one limp and dead, that hand missing the pinky and ring finger. Her right arm, save burn damage, seems still usable.
“My, my, my.” I sigh, pulling a long, pungent draw off my cigar and exhaling. “Aren’t you just a mess?”
She glares murder at me through her eye, grinds her teeth, and remains silent.
I offer her a caftan. “Do you need a hand getting that on?” I ask pleasantly.
More murderous glaring as she stands shakily and thrusts herself into the caftan. While she’s doing that, I drag up a chair. We are in my trailer, so I fetch two cans of Pepsi from the small fridge, set them on the nearby table, get my ashtray, and seat myself on the backwards chair. “Have a seat, Aimee.” I say when she’s dressed. “We’re having a bit on an interview here.”
“Fuck you!” She snarls. Or, I’m sure she meant to snarl, but that must be hard to manage with that nasty dog-whistle of a voice.
“Uh, no thanks. Strictly AC, dear.” She continue to stand defiantly, if somewhat shakily.
I half-stand, and demonstrate what a snarl is supposed to sound like. “I said, sit down.” She jumps at my tone and sits promptly, eye wide.
I sit back down, my voice still wallowing around in the gravel of my throat. “You will kindly notice that Violent Clay is not here. That is because I don’t need him here. You will now dismiss thoughts of violence and defiance. This will be a nice, friendly interview, and you will cooperate. You lost your bet, little miss, and you belong to me for the next five years. Keep that fact firmly lodged in the upper levels of your shallow little mind, or I shall be forced to do something to remind you of it.”
She swallows hard, and nods, meek, now.
“Very well.” I say, pleasant again. “Pepsi?” I motion towards the sweating can of pop. She takes it with her right hand and I note a slight trembling as she hefts its minor weight. More work needed there, then. “Wonderful. Now, I can see the surface damage. It’s quite extensive, and grotesque, so I’ll be playing heavily on that in your act. What I need is an idea of how well you work physically. I see you can walk a bit. Is that the best you’ll be able to do, or will therapy improve on it? I understand learning to walk on two prosthetics is fairly difficult.” As I speak, I pull off my gloves and bandana, shaking out my hair. I pull off my jacket and stretch. I’m tired from the show today, and my back aches from all the jumping around. Off with the damn boots, and my feet sigh with relief. Much better. I draw off the cigar, and look pointedly at her.
Looking down, ashamed it seems, she says quietly that her doctor has given her exercises to do, and she should improve some.
“Good!” I say, rubbing my hands together gleefully. “I’m thinking that we’ll do a bit of a parody of your pageant act for your show. What do you think?”
“No! I’m not going out there!”
“Of course you are. This is show business. You get out there and flaunt it, baby. You’re used to using your looks to entertain and get your way. You’re still doing that. It’s just different looks.” I grin nastily. By now, five years of flaunting her hamburger-like body in a swimsuit and heels while singing show tunes must seem like hell. I see the horror burgeoning in her eyes as she considers it. That’s good. That’s just what I want.
It’s all part of the plan.
I tap my cigar into the ashtray and contemplate the shallow terror before me. She has lost everything she had. It will be up to me to give her something to replace it. Me and my freaks.
I believe that we shall attempt to replace it with a human being.
I inform her that she will be rooming with Brenda, the Fat Lady, who was a nurse a lot of years ago, and I send her on her way. As she cripples out, I smile to myself. God knows I love a challenge.

We are sitting in the tent, my Freaks and I. In the rows of folding chairs where an audience would sit, to be precise. Popcorn has been passed around, and drinks. We are working on Aimee’s show – or we were.
Let me explain. We work together on these things. We’re all showmen here. Shit, some of these folks have been in the business since I was crapping my diapers. Bernard has been in various sideshows for almost fifteen years, now. So we have these little meetings all the time. We work on our various acts, we hang out, we play poker, we chat, we brainstorm. Sounds mundane, doesn’t it? Hey, for all the Carnival’s high-falutin’ ideals, part of our job is still to perform. We still have to entertain the folks who come to see the show. So two, three times a week, we get together and practice and socialize. We’re family. Speaking of which, those of the Freaks who have family bring them, and they help. It’s great fun.
Or it was, until Aimee burst into great, whooping tears, fell down on the stage, and proceeded to have one hellified temper tantrum.
Millie, the Bearded Lady, rushed up the steps to her side, and proceeded to lavish motherly sympathy on the spoiled little brat. She cuddled the girl, whispering mother-stuff like, “There, there, it’s all right, everything will be okay,” etc.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Bernard looks up at me and nods empathetically.
“She’s not really one of us.” He sighs. “She wasn’t born this way. Why’d she come here, anyway? Lots of people in accidents just move on.”
“Oh, she didn’t come here. She lost a bet with Mr. James.” I smile. “Twice.”
Bernard shudders. “Damn.”
“She was given to the Freak Show.” I look up as the tent flap opens and closes. Dr. Celestine stands in the shadows. He nods to me and I give a little wave, then look back up to the stage. “Is she quite done up there?” I call to Millie. “Cuz if she is, I’d like to get on with this. I want her show-ready by next week.” Millie begins to tutt-tutt me, and I wave her off. “Aimee, those are nice theatrics, but not the ones I want to see. Now quit your bawling and get up.”
Amongst much sniveling and whining, she blubbers out how horrible and wretched we all are, and what a monster I am, making her do this, and how we have no sympathy for everything she’s lost, yadda yadda yadda. A quick glance around shows varying degrees of affront and offense on the faces of Freaks and family. She squeaks whiningly on about her lost beauty and what all.
I grind my teeth, throw my hands in the air, and shout, “Christ, woman, shut the fuck up!” I wave my hands at the people in the tent. “Look around! What do you see?”
In the tent, the Freaks look up at her. A hushed silence greets Aimee’s gaze. They stand there, their twisted forms greeting her eye unsympathetically. The twins shake both their heads sadly. Bernard huffs. The Human Pin – Glory – pulls a few pins out of her nose and rolls her eyes. Martino takes a surreptitious drink and sighs heavily. Danny – the Tattooed Man – stretches his shoulders, making the spider webs on them dance.
“You’re all monsters!” She yells.
Irritated mutters.
“Since I’m the bitch,” I say mildly, “I’d like to point out that you’re the ugliest ‘monster’ in this tent.”
More crocodile tears.
There is clapping from behind us. We all turn to look strangely at Celestine, who is clapping at Aimee. “Oh! Sorry,” he says, as if startled. “I thought that was her show.” There is the barest hint of facetiousness in his tone. I grin wryly at him. “A lovely performance,” he directs at Aimee. “A bit hammy if I may offer such a critique, but I’m sure Mary will work with you on that.”
I stifle laughter, and plug a cigar in my mouth. I light it, puff thoughtfully in the quiet, and wait.
Aimee’s tears finally taper off. “Wonderful.” I say, and motion for someone to start her music again. “From the top, please.” I call to her. “Try to stay in rhythm if you can, this time. I think it would look better.”
She slowly, humiliated, totters to her plastic feet. Behind the scars and nerve damage, I think I can read an expression of profound embarrassment. It’s too much to hope that she’s embarrassed by her own actions. No, she’s just embarrassed to be up there in front of us, making a mockery of her former life. Well, perhaps the sequined bathing suit is a bit much. Perhaps just a plain black one. Chewing my nail thoughtfully, I look back towards Celestine, and he nods at me . . . approvingly?
I think so.

“Pay attention, sweetie,” the Fat Lady said. “you’re doing fine.”
And lo and behold, the high heels had fit. The earrings had gone in. The few strands of hair had been coaxed into ringlets. The white eye patch had been replaced with a black one; it had sequins. She wore a dazzling white swimsuit with blue pin stripping.
She was horrorific.
We called her Beauty.
She hated me with a deep, intense passion that was evident in her every word and glance. She had made friends with Brenda, though. Her left arm had regained some use, and she was damn near graceful on her prosthetics. Her dance number was stilted, and she seemed like she’d fall with every step, but that was perfect.
Exploitation, you say?
You bet. And she knew it.
The way I figured it, she’d spent years being exploited for her looks. Wasn’t that what the pageant world was all about? The only difference now was what looks were being exploited.
Yeah, we were playing good cop, bad cop with her. I was the bad cop. The Freaks were the good cops. It was working wonderfully. The other day, I swear I heard her flirting with Bernard. It was play-flirting, of course; her heart wasn’t in it. But that was still okay. And Bernard, that sweetheart, would flirt with anything. It was good for her self-esteem.
She was warming up to the Freaks.

I have seen shattered souls walk out of the Carnival whole.
I have watched evil men seize redemption, and realize their own goodness.
I have seen the weak become strong, slaves set themselves free, and the lost find their way.
I have developed a theory.

Since coming to the Carnival, I’ve stopped believing that people are born ensouled. I’ve started believing, however, that we are born with the chance to earn one. Maybe you earn them a piece at a time, and that’s what Celestine has in those jars. I don’t know. All I know is that, according to my theory, I find myself in the process of building a soul for Aimee. I’m trying to fill it full of goldness and butterflies. I am searching for signs that it has taken root in her. I am searching for simple kindnesses, and a laugh. I am watching her make friends. I am waiting for the night she enjoys the show.
Because, when she does, I have something for her. A present.
A shiny gold ticket.
And I have a Cage with two jars and something else in it, waiting for her.

The Ringmaster recedes into the gathering mist, allowing it to swallow him even as it closes around Dante and I.

For a while - time has very little meaning wherever he left us - I wait for Dante to speak. When I look to my left at the artist, I see him gazing at the space where the Ringmaster just left. A tear rolls down his cheek to become lodged in his goatee.

I know Dante very well. I can almost hear his thoughts. He's marvelling at the Ringmaster, pitying him and reminding himself that in his own way, he is Stephan's equal. Or better. I laugh.

"Get over yourself, Dante."

"Hmmm? What?" Too wrapped up in his thoughts to have heard me, of course. Dante spends half his time isolated from the rest of us, awash in impressions that are his alone. At least, that's the party line. Sometimes I think he just doesn't pay attention.

"So. Are we cool?"

The winds pick up again, and the fog swirls about us like, well, like swirling fog. I find the cold air refreshing, and the dim shadowy half-light comforting. Dante too seems at ease. "Yeah. I think we are."

"I'm sorry."

"For cheating? Or for un-cheating later?"

I think. I'm not sorry I cheated. He's my friend, and I'm glad I had the chance to cut him some slack. I'm glad he didn't have to face the Freak Show and the others without his Creativity. I'm glad I could help. But realistically, I have to admit that I couldn't. I'm not sorry I undid my error either. I am proud of what I do. I bear an important trust, and I like to think I carry it well. The Game is a slippery little bastard, and I've managed to keep a grip on it for over a century. That I had to collect from Dante is sad, but I'm glad I had the backbone to actually do it. It means I'm still Carnival material.

"A little of both," I lie.

My friend shakes my hand, and we smile. But the smile we share is different than those I remember. He is more guarded, more careful. I am more cordial, more polite. A line has been crossed, and we will remember it. Nothing will be the same after this. We will still be friends, but it will be a different sort of friendship. And that's all right.

That's life.

And just like that, the windy misty crag fades away. I feel like I'm falling, and a noisy clacking fades into being around me. I am reminded of my dream, and of what wakened me, and I feel a quick pang of panic as I find myself on the caboose of the Carnival's train. But the dream-memory fades, and the bloody madonna's memory with it, and I am once again calm. The train goes clicky-clack down the track, and I breathe in deeply the smell of smoke and manure that is left in our wake. Somewhere on board, Dante is back, too. I suppose he's not done here after all. Aimee will need a teacher if she is to remain sane. Mary and Dante need to find out if there's anything left between them. Stephan needs to address Dante's obedience issues.

Sometimes Stephan lets us break down the Carnival and pack it up like normal folk. Sometimes he just does his mojo and we're halfway to our next stop. This time, we're traveling by train. I like the train. Rolling into town with a dozen eighteen-wheelers and a collection of trailers lacks a certain dignity. I wonder what they'll say back at the last stop, when the storm clears and we're gone without a trace? Outside the train, traffic stops for us, people wave and gasp...it's a good feel. We pass a crossroads, and I see we've arrived in Sarasota. Where is that, Florida? Vermont? What does it matter?

A new town, and in it, new marks. Chained by Greed and Desperation, the victims of life will come to me. We will play a Game, we shall. Sometimes, we will reward the virtuous and punish the wicked...and sometimes we'll get it wrong. But hey, that's life. It's not about being fair, it just is.

"Come one, come all!" I shout at the gawkers.

The more you bet, the more you'll win!
The more you lose, the less you'll care!

I don't know what I shall do. I is so hard seeing my children grow up and leave my care. Dante's son, why, I can remember him as a small child, it seems like just yesterday... ahh how time flies...

I did as I always did when I think... I stood in one place and stared ahead of me. This time it was right at the enterance of the big top. All of a sudden I realized everything. Everything bout my nightmares came to me at once.

"I totally took those things way too far out of my own thinking." Damn, out loud again.

All the reality of what happened then came into clarity. Now I knew better than to come too close to a mad clown. I then realized then the connection of reality and dreams. The lessons weren't for me, I wasn't the one to be playing the games, but to watch them. "I hate it when things roll together so perfectly. ARG! I have to stop thinking aloud."

I thought I heard someone speak to me as I stood there motionless and alone. Something told me it was the ticket taker, but I was coming to a realization, something that comes rarely. Then another realization...

"Wow! I just realized, I actually figured something out! Whoa, I have to tell someone bout this." I started to run off happy to have discovered something without help. Then...

a stop, a look in the hand, "What is this? Two cents?" placed in a pocket.. dart off to where I was going... a stop, "Where was I going off to? I knew it was something important. Oh well, couldn't have been that important."

Dr. Celestine wandered the mists thinking of happier days.

He wanted a place to sit.

And there was.

He eased down into the chair, grumbling about his knees that were grumbling at him.

Some things you never let go of.

He waited for The Ringmaster to arrive. An old-fashioned ass-chewing was on the agenda. He knew it was necessary.

For The Ringmaster anyway.

There were just times that protocal needed to be followed. The fact that Stephan cared enough to yell at him was a compliment.

So what else can you do but wait.

"...I hate waiting."

The ether about him made time stand still. That made it even worse.

He looked up to see Stephan walking toward him through the mist. Might as well give him a reason to start in on me. He stood up and offered his hand to him.

"Well done, Stephan."

Stephan stared at his hand.

He looked up at Dr. Celestine and said;









-------------------------------------------------
Jake: "I see the light!"

Elwood: "...what light?"

The Blues Brothers
-------------------------------------------------

Yep…
The Ring Master, aside from Celestine our face-man and boss…
And his paranoia takes him again.

He seems to feel threatened by me. Why? I’ll explain. He has a regal ness, a charm, and a notion of debonair that sets him apart from the rest. As such he is impressive. Easily thrust into a position of leadership. Once there he is given all the power and authority he needs. With the exception of Celestine he is the undisputed lord of the domain…with one exception.

Although I have it, I do not rely on charm. I carry a sense of natural leadership with me. Therefore one does not have to be told that I am to be followed. It comes without word. It’s not something I actively attempt to do, it just is.
I willingly concede to the ringmaster’s authority given to him. As in the past I have worked under individuals of less confidence. This does not bother me in the least…but it does them. They wonder if their actions live up to my scrutiny. I am judgmental.

Few get their hands dirty. Something that I do and respect in others. I will do the dirty jobs, ask the hard questions, give the un-favored opinions, and play the needed scapegoat. Why? Because that is what comes with owning broad shoulders.

Do I wish For the Ring Master’s position? Not a chance. Why would I want to play the role of the master of domain when I am not? Celestine has him there doing what he does best. Being a face man. Capturing the eye, dazzling the masses, standing in the spotlight.
Like a swan performing his ballet he goes through him motions hoping he has played his role well enough so as to have other swans notice him. I am content to watch him. His show is excellent.

I am self-centered, arrogant, egotistical, and pompous. But it for these reasons that I understand him… For these reasons I feel for him.
Ring Master Stephan, I do not challenge you…I pity you.

So, I looked to the assembled carnies and gave them my sternest face. Most were looking elsewhere so it didn't have much of an impact.

I wanted to get back to the carnival, and clean my shoes, but knew that we were at a crossroads. If they didn't start, in their own twisted ways, to realize what's been going on, they would all truly be lost; and Doctor Celestine along with them.

Dante just looked indifferent, as usual. More than that, though, I sensed that he was challenging me, challenging my words, my actions, my authority.

So I moved on to Mr. James. He seemed contrite and obstinate at the same time. Clay was just Clay. Gypsy and the others seemed to sense that they were part of the solution, but not of the actual problem.

Mary looked as though she were already back under the big top; the far-away look in her eyes was enough to tell me that she'd found her reason to return.

That left Dante...back full circle, I see.

So I let the others slip back to their day-to-day work and kept the three of them; Dante, Mr. James and Doctor Celestine.

Doctor Celestine was really in no position to argue, as he was still recovering from his theatrics.

I turned to Dante, my eyes shards of obsidian, pointing right through him.

"What" I said, "is your problem?"

He just shrugged and continued to look indifferent. But he did cross his arms over his chest. At least that was something.

I turned to Mr. James.

"What happened between you three?" I said, my voice much quieter than it had been. "Why has your personal issue impacted all of us in such a way?"

Mr. James looked me square in the eyes, shrugged and simply said "I fucked up.

"I treated him like a friend; I cheated for him."

I nodded, not truly understanding, but knowing that it was enough of an explanation for Mr. James.

I walked up to the two of them, Doctor Celestine still lying on the harsh ground and put a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Each of you needs to resolve this matter quickly and effectively. However you choose to do it, you must do it."

Dante looked indifferent, but I could tell that he was cracking. Mr. James looked at Dante too.

I left them there and took Doctor Celestine back to the Carnival.

I had a lot of work to do if we were going to get to Sarasota in time for the next show.

If providence shined on the carnival at all, she'd help Dante and Mr. James work out whatever rift existed between them.

It's good to be the Ringmaster.

Fuzzy-haired and muzzy-eyed, I wander from the bedroom into my little kitchen and put on coffee. Standing before the pot, I can lean just a bit, gaze down the short hall, and see my sweet, hair tousled on his pillow, sound asleep.
I smile.
The Carnival will move on shortly.
Aimee is no longer mine. She belongs to Dante now. She will work in the Gallery, and learn to do something with the talent she won.
There are new members to chat with, and so much to do, today. I'll be busy all day, breaking down the tent and readying it to move on.
I stretch, waiting for the coffee to brew, and consider putting on a breakfast for him. To that effect, I search the small 'fridge, and bring out the accoutrements of a proper breakfast. Eggs for me, pancake things for him. Peanutbutter for the pancakes. As I cook, I sip coffee; I smoke; I gaze out the window. Out there in the bright morning light, small cataclysms roll on. They deal with the consequences and the lessons we learned.
Lessons?
Did I learn a lesson?
I smirk, and think of cuts that will take long and long to heal, and of the things I thought and saw and felt.
Lessons, indeed.

do something someone help her help me help yourselves don't fall don't fail turn turn find your path can't end here not like this not like this it will kill her it will kill me it will kill you all ancient one moon lady lucky man soulless clown far-seeing witch no one will be as they are magic will fade magic will

The humming of the wire fades, becoming a plaintive moan barely audible across the cold-blasted rocky landscape...

die

A chunk of rock falls from the edge of the crag Stephan stands on, crashing and rolling down the steep face.

it begins

And the Gypsy, frail and fragile in her unconsciousness, whimpers in fear, but does not wake....

~*~

i cry for you
as i die for you
this pain in my heart -
all for you

Candlebox - "You"

I arrived as I always do; naked, cold. I needed to feel my flesh again, yet reveled in the freedom of being spirit. So on I went back into the Carnival, back to my resting place, but not in a direct route.

I wonder if the boatman will seek me out? And what about the others, the other Carnies? As I move through the Carnival, a feeling of lonliness comes over me. It's not just being spirit and being unseen by anyone. It's the realization that even were I in the flesh here and now, they still wouldn't see me.

A woman stands looking at a point distant from here, trying to pick out some detail. She stands not two inches from my face and sees nothing of me. Even if she could, she would pretend that she hadn't.

I am a man of duty. But I am also a man of heart. Memory. Joy. Humanity. These are the things which allow us to pass the centuries. No. Not just centuries, but millenia. But my joy is fading.

It fades because I'm not sure that the others wil 'get it'. Will they learn their lessons in time, or will their laughter at an old fool follow them in their plummet into Oblivion?

I love them all.

When will they learn to love themselves?

life is good! Life is GRAND!!! and I love my celestine and am so wonderfully happily glad that he can be once again counted among the living!!

I felt as though a little peice of me died with him. Now that peice of me is back but, it is no longer with me it is with him.

my children are no longer afraid, though I had a hard time explaining death to them...perhaps one of these days I shall have to have "Mr. Clay" over as a guest speaker...

I was overwhelmed with darkness. And then sound? His body landed with a thud, the weight echoing throughout my head, its fire searing me. Now I understood what it all meant, that boy, the fire, the cage and me. The boy was Gil, my Gil; the fire was my death that I refused to believe in and the cage, wielded by the now and newly created Doctor who brought me back. But why and why in this form with this ‘gift’ to see the future if I only see images? I could not save him. Yet he held the key, a tie which would forever keep me near him, too him and a part of his existence. Would I want it any other way? No, not really. He was my lifeline. And the Carnival, a life, and an entity that fed each of us. Will most likely continue to feed each of us.

The question was posed if the Carnival would not be better off without our distinguished Doctor…could we live without him. He is our nucleus. Could we thrive without a rooting point? I expect not.

His body lay before me, intangible. His mouth curving into a sardonic smile. What are you thinking my love? Of another soul, another jar? Mine perhaps? No, I doubt it. I wonder if you even remember those childhood days of long ago? But I suppose it truly doesn’t matter now does it my dear? What matters is getting you back. I wonder…

…and the image came to me…A girl dressed in soft muslin with satin slippers. Her head turning around looking and searching, eyes dancing and wishing for an answer. Centered between two columns, she heard the violin music coming from above…

He will live! We will live anew, begin anew…I don’t know when but does that really matter? Now, what do I have to sell or trade, what bargain can I make to speed up the process? Any takers and any suggestions? So saying, I pick up what is left of my tattered cape and stand tall, heading for the big top and its “wonders”

"...there's no earthly way of knowing... which direction we are going..."

Doctor Celestine rolled his eyes before looking over at the singing ferryman, scowling.

"Oh do shut up, William."

The ferryman pulled back his cowl and looked at Celestine with mocking disbelief. "You wound me, old friend. After all... we carpetbaggers should stick together in these most trying of times."

"Why?"

"I've heard it's what friends do."

Celestine quirked an eyebrow. "Not what I meant. Why this facade? You're no more Willy Wonka than I am a jar of marmelade." He almost licked his lips. That sounded good. He was going to miss eating.

"If you're hungry..." He reached into his coat beneath the cloak and produced an Everlasting Gobstopper (tm) and offered it to The Doc. "...have a sweet-treat."

"Thank you." He took it gracefully and popped it into his mouth and winced. "It's a tad bitter, Wonka."

William pulled his cloak over his head and sighed. It always is in the end, Gi-"

"Don't." Celestine was suddenly in front of him, holding him by the front of his shroud, his eyes blazing with intensity. He spat the candy into the river and snarled at him. "Don't even think it."

"As you wish." He continued to push the ferry down the river.

Celestine looked downriver again. "You didn't answer my question."

"Very true."

"Then why not give it a try?" Celestine faced him with impatience on his face.

The Wonka Ferryman seemed to think about this. "All right. Because you're allergic to onions."

They travelled down the river in silence. Celestine staring at the Ferryman. The Ferryman staring at the river ahead. Finally, the Ferryman Wonka looked over at Celestine with a look of genuine concern. "What?"

Celestine stared at him nonplussed. "The answer to 'Why the facade?' is 'Because I'm allergic to onions?'"

"Why not? You wanted an answer? You have recieved one."

"But not the truth."

"It most certainly is!"

"I may be allergic to onions, but that is not why you look like Willy Wonka!"

"Of course it is!"

"WHAT!?"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"...and I thought I was obtuse at times..."

"Don't tell me in all your rhetorical, circular speeches you've never once used absurd logic and explained it away as distant metaphorical association hidden within some riddle?"

"Dammit, Wonka! I was not just some costumed salesman peddling dreams and using double-talk to inspire epiphany!"

The Ferryman Wonka stopped pushing the raft and turned to Celestine. "Weren't you?"

Celestine opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. His jaw hung there like a shoe dangling from a clothesline. The Ferryman Wonka nodded his satisfaction and began to push the raft down the river again. Clearing his throat he began to sing again, the voice echoing throughout the huge underground riverway. "Come with me..."

So... this is it... the end... Celestine wandered through his thoughts.

"...and you'll be..."

...again.

"...in a woooorld of pure imagination..."

He looked about him at the endless cavern overhead, leading into another section of cavern that would lead yet again into another section of cavern...

"...every look.... will defy..."

...and so on and so on and so on... this is worse than I expected. The repetition of my own cycle has reflected here.

"...ex-plenatiooooon...."

I wonder if there will even be a destination. He stared at the river below him. His own face reflected his own disgust at his fate.

"....if you want to viewwwww paradise...."

He hung his head and wept. I can't blieve they let me die.

"...simply look around and view iiiit..."

...I just can't believe...

"...anything you want to, do iiiit...."

Celestine's eyes popped wide open with realization.

"...want to change the world?"

He looked up at William and smiled, singing. "There's nothing to iiit."

William looked down at him reproachfully. "Do you mind?"

Celestine smirked. "Yes. Yes as a matter of fact, I do, Ferryman."

"That's Mr. Wonka, to you, Celestine."

Celestine laughed. It was a huge belly laugh that rolled throughout the chamber. "No... no it's not."

The Ferryman Wonka threw down his pole and snarled at The Doctor. "And why, pray tell, not?"

"I'm not allergic to onions!" His laughter was almost hysterical.

The Ferryman Wonka looked back and forth nervously. "But you are-"

"No." Celestine suddenly stopped laughing and looked at the Ferryman with murder in his eyes. "No, I most certainly am not." His hand reached up and grabbed a handful of "William's" face and tore it off.

The Ferryman reeled back and covered the bare skull left there. "Give that back!"

Celestine looked at the handful of flesh and back at the cowled figure. "No." He tossed it into the river. "No, I don't think I shall. And that is what this has been all about. This is my choice and my order, Ferryman... or Death... whatever you prefer today, brother. I have beaten your game and now I believe I would like to go home. My family is waiting for me."

The Ferryman uncovered his skeletal face and picked up his pole.

Celestine smiled and listened for it.

His heart stuttered.

"It's all about belief, spectre. See, I cannot die. I am Dr. Celestine. I believe in that. They believe in that..." He looked up. "...now."

His heart beat.

"I have offered that belief to so many... and almost forgot to save some for myself. But they..." He pointed upward.

His heart stuttered.

"...they didn't."

Beat.

"I'm afraid I'll be leaving now, brother. Let's do this again sometime."

Beat.

The skull looked at him with no eyes. "We shall, brother... we shall."

Beat.

As he faded from sight within the netherworld, the skeletal face smiled.

But then... they always do.

-------------------------------------------------
"Just who the hell is Celestine anyway?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Myself to my father - 2000

Almost carelessly I pace, moving rapidly from one end to the other of my wire. No intricate steps or fancy tumbling tonight - just me, having a moment in the warm evening air.

wait watch out something

And suddenly the world twists. My wire screams. And only one thought flashes into my head.


Stephan is tired of playing games.


The lightweight material of my costume, so comfortable before, may as well be nothing now for all the protection it offers me. And I'm on the ground again.

Never a good beginning.

"I trust you are all pleased with yourselves?"

Then it hits me. The wave of utter fury from Stephan. A chilling combination of anger and sorrow from my fellow actors. An absolutely devastating nothingness from the rocks around me. Unwillingly, my mind begins to curl inward under the onslaught, and a dull ache spreads through my body.

"This is the end."

Mary growls. Dante looks around. Dav smiles.

"What have we accomplished?"

Tears well in my eyes. The Carnival can't end like this. Not here. Stephan, please, let's go back....

"The show must go on. The show WILL go on."

Agony presses deeper, and the tears come faster. Stephan's words roll over me like waves, dragging me deeper under the sea of emotion roiling around the troupe. I can't take much more of this.

"What'll it be?"

One last coherent thought burns across my mind.


Truth.


I welcome the respite from the maelstrom of emotion as I crumple to the cold rocks.

And the scream of my wire, shaking itself into a frenzy, echoes across the vast nothingness.....

High atop a craggy precipice, the Ringmaster stands.

Wrapped in the warmth of supple leather, he does not notice the biting chill of the winds that whip the crag.

He surveys his domain; or at least what’s left of it, and is saddened.

He gestures, and three rings phase into existence behind him. Within the rings are his associates, Mary, Dante, Mr. James, Gypsy, Dav, Clay, Ambrosia and the rest of the carnies from the Circus.

His nose begins to bleed from the effort of bringing them to this place and this time. His shoes, always spotless, are suddenly sullied as blood drips upon them. This, he notices, and he is even more angered.

He turns to face his associates, adjusts his vest and dabs at his nose.

“This” he says with a sweeping gesture around him, “is what you’ve done. What we’ve done. What we’ve accomplished.

“I trust you all are pleased with yourselves?”

The Ringmaster turns his back on the rest of the Circus, much as the other members of the Circus turned their backs on Dr. Celestine, on the Circus, on themselves.

Perhaps the point was too subtly made, though. Squaring his shoulders, a last dab at his nose, the Ringmaster returns his attention to the wind-swept crag.

This is all that is left of his hopes and dreams. Scrubbed by icy winds, the rocks and vegetation twisted and harsh; as twisted and harsh as his associates, his friends had become. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he and his associates lost track of their purpose.

Of late, it seemed as though Dr. Celestine’s Circus del Sol had lots its purpose. From redemption to debauchery. From elevation and ecstasy to the depths of sorrow and loss, and this is where we are.

Again, the Ringmaster turns to his friends, for he will refuse to give up on them, even if they have given up on themselves and each other.

“Why?” he asks. “What happened to us? Do you all not see what has become of us, of the circus, of the Doctor?”

They shuffle in silence, some chilled by the freezing winds that bite into them, others seemingly quite at home here. Gypsy, of all of them, seems the most affected, and for that, the Ringmaster is truly sorry.

But this must be done, for all their sakes; for the sake of the circus, for the sake of Doctor Celestine.

Mr. James looks as though he has something to say. Mary growls and clenches her fists. Dante looks, again, for a way out. Dav smiles. Clay stands. Gypsy shivers.

“How do we do what we must, if this is all we have?”

Each of us was given something of value by Dr. Celestine. No, he did not give us our creativity, our driving need to perform, our ability to dance upon the wire, but he did give us something.

“He gave us purpose. And we have forgotten that.” The Ringmaster moves closer to the troupe, arms spread wide.

“This is the end. Not just of you, me, us, but of everything. Consider. The level of power and ability present within these rings represents all the Dr. Celestine has accomplished. The landscape surrounding us represents all that we have accomplished.”

Gypsy cries.

“Where did it go wrong? What heralded the beginning of our ending? I have sought the answers to these questions for some time. And yet, it all comes down to what the good god has given us: Free Will.

“It has ever been our choice to do what we will. We have gifts the likes of which most mundane mortals cannot fathom. But what do we do with them? Do we use them to better the lives of others? Remind them that they are alive? Show them what they are missing? Challenge them to soar to greater heights?

“No, we fight and quarrel among ourselves. We hurt each other with tooth and claw, silver and sharp words.

“It ends now. It MUST end now! Else this will truly come to pass. All that we strive for, all that we believe in, all that we are will be lost if we continue.

“The show must go on. The show WILL go on.

“I had toyed with the idea of taking us back to the beginning of the problem, but have determined that I truly do not know what the problem is. And I’d hazard a guess and say that neither do any of you.”

More shuffling, and the Ringmaster smiled to himself; at least they were listening.

“So, either we stay here and tear each other to pieces, or we resolve our unique problems and get back to work.

“What’ll it be?”

Everything is singing. So colorful, like before, but better cleaner now.

But Aimee's down.

I drop to my knees beside her, hoping she's alright. She saved the Doc after all, and the Carnival.

Or is that the same thing?

Everyone is gathered here outside the Big Top. I seem to be the only one noticing her pale grey complexion. Working miracles would, I guess, take a lot out of the strongest of us. But she's looking really bad. Even compared to her "normal" self.

But then something happens. As long as I've been with the Carnival forever forever and longer you'd think I'd be used to strange wonderful things happening around the Carnival....but this one surprises me.

The colors begin to spiral and dance, to spin around everyone. Mary's deep red hue sparkles against the dimmed - though slowly brightening - green around Dante. I look down, and my own blue gleam dances wildly, glowing more than ever before. The flashy gold around Mr James...the deep midnight purple around Ania....Ringmaster Stephan's deep navy...Celestine's brilliant silvery-white...even a few tendrils of orange light drifting from where Violent Clay had crouched, guarding his fallen master.

And they rise. All the colors, from their respective actors, snaking bright ribbons into the air. Slowly, lazily, they move across the soft morning light, joining together here, weaving an intricate knot there, until a fine web is formed, hovering in the air just out of reach over Aimee's prone form.

I watch it, so tempted to reach out and take it from the air...but it begins to spin, revolving in the air above her, expanding and rising as it does so....it stretches and spreads over the Carnival...

Finally, it vanishes, melting into the sky with a soft pop, and as it does so, Aimee opens her eyes and smiles.

"Beautiful," she says. I smile, and kiss her on the forehead, then rise and make my way through the crowd. For some reason, they all step back from me, clearing a path through the Carnival.

I make my way down the midway, reveling in the feel of the warm sun on my face and the damp grass on my bare feet. Nearing my platform, I hear my wire humming softly in the dawn light.

welcome home

i've missed you

I smile softly, resting one hand on a lower rung of the ladder in preparation to ascend, but pause to take one more look down the Midway.

It all looks so strange from down here.

Aimee holds the precious gift in her hands, eyes huge, drinking in the colors of the Carnival as brought to her by Dante’s creativity . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt, the Gypsy standing over him . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and . . .

I stare at Dante, and his apparition, at his notepad, and the elephant slowly blossoming there . . .

Aimee slowly looks down at the pulsing heart in her cupped, trembling hands. It seems huge, pulsing slowly in time with her own beating heart. Each pulse releases a wave of color that drifts over the Carnival, a shinning star in her palms that lights the world . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and . . .

I smile, knowing whom the apparition is. If she stays, the Gallery will become a whole new place. I hope she does. I missed her. The elephant is now fully bloomed on the notepad. Dante turns to look owlishly up at me . . .

What will she do with it? What will she do with this bright star she has won? She glances around. Dante sits just inside the tent, sketching at something. As he peers at the page, she sees the transparent form of the motherly redhead standing at his shoulder, looking down at the paper. Her hand is on his shoulder, and he is smiling. He turns to look up at Mary . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and . . .

“My glasses,” Dante says to me. I cock an eyebrow at him. He uses them for reading, but not anything else. He wants his glasses?
“Your glasses?” I say.
“I need my glasses.”
I look around and whistle sharply. Moon shuffles over. Moon, my page, my gopher, my little helper, snitch for hire, lunatic fringe embodied, looks up at me. “Aye, Lady?” He says . . .

Her eye is burning. Drops fall onto the plastic of the baggie with a soft plop noise. Celestine lays dead. Around him, heart in hand, she sees the fading aura of his Life, ebbing, ebbing, ebbing. It is a gorgeous, golden-silver glow, a Force, maybe even magic. She can feel it, emanating goodness, kindness, wishes and clouds lined in platinum, not silver. Is this what they see in him? she wonders. Is this why they love him so? The Carnival, his creation, echoes his glow, and it is fading, too. She can begin to see the mundane colors of the buildings and ground and sky bleaching as his creation begins to ebb, ebb, ebb, with him . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and . . .

Moon darts off, validated by my orders, and I look up to the ghost -- ? “Staying awhile?” I hear the hope in the question. She is something the Carnival is lacking, the integral keystone that was missing here. I know it; I hear it in the wire’s voice in my mind. The wire is singing, singing, singing her name. She is kindness, uncomplicated. She is strength, personified. She is simply the friend that holds you as you weep, and covers you in blankets, and gives you tea, and tells you that it will be all right. She is the mother figure that slaps you in the back of your head when you are screwing up. She is the lioness that fights for you when you are too broken to fight for yourself. She is what we need, what we have been missing, perhaps the entire reason why the farce of Dante’s trip through the Carnival was perpetrated. I would not put it past her to have planned this entire thing to give herself a doorway into the Carnival. I would not put it past Celestine to have planned this entire thing, to give her a doorway into the Carnival . . .

Aimee looks up at the ghost over Dante’s shoulder, and sees her, really sees her. She shines brilliantly, clear and sharp and right, and no ghost at all to Aimee. “Oh . . . !” Aimee whispers. “Oh,” she sighs. The Carnival is dying with Celestine. The heart beats in her hand. And the ghost looks over at her, straight in the eyes, as if to say . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and . . .

I take the glasses from Moon, and hand them to Dante. He puts them on, and immediately looks much relieved. He looks around, and looks at Aimee, and says, “Oh, my God,”
I turn to look . . .

The tears are falling faster now. She sees it all now. She sees it with a stunning brilliance that was unstoppable. She begins to walk towards Celestine, lying on the ground, in the mud . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in his spotlight, and gestures . . .

I stare at Aimee. I hear Jacqueline’s voice, “Yes, I’ll be staying a while. I’m needed here.” I watch Aimee drop down to her knees before Celestine’s prone body . . .

Creativity . . . Aimee has never felt the electric feel of creativity. She has never known the burning feel of staring down at paper and willing the words to life. She has never stood before a canvas and made the colors sing. She never designed her own costumes, or come up with her own talent, or choreographed her own dance number. For one brief moment, kneeling over Celestine, holding Dante’s Creativity in her hand, she knows all these things with a clarity and power that is like orgasm. But she is a woman, and women harness the power of Creativity in another, different way than men do. Aimee remembers the abortion she had when she was sixteen. She remembers rejecting the life her body was making. She seizes the power of Dante’s Creativity in her mind, feels it riding her nerves, tastes it on her tongue. She melds it with the remembered and lost feel of the little life in her womb, and up-ends the baggie over Celestine. The heart falls out, onto Celestine’s chest. It pulses faster . . .

Celestine lay silent and still in the dirt . . .

The RingMaster stands in spotlight, and gestures, saying to his crowd, “Help her . . . “

I reach out and take Dante’s hand. I feel Jacqueline take my other hand, like touching smoke. I remember Celestine offering me my jar if I would work for him. I never told him all he had to do was ask. I wasn’t worried about my damn jar. With all my heart, I try to help her. With all my heart, I will Celestine to live. I feel the Carnies doing the same, each for their own reasons, all of which, in the end, coming down to the fact that we love him . . .

The heart beats faster . . .

Aimee closes her eye, and feels the Carnival, and wields her Creativity . . .

The heart beats faster . . .

There is a sound like a moan from the Carnies. I feel it in my throat, also. . .

The heart beats faster . . .

Aimee's tears fall on Celestine’s face. The pulsing heart sends out wave after wave of that glorious silver-gold glow . . .

The heart beats faster . . .

The glow touches us all, caressing my skin like feathers. I hear the RingMaster behind me, his voice strained and urgent, “Help her!” I help, as hard as I can. I feel them all, helping . . .

With a sound like thunder, the heart explodes. It shatters into blazing fragments of color, hues no human eye has ever seen, and the fragments pierce us, each of us with a pain like pleasure, and there are sounds all over the tent as we cry out . . .

Celestine pulls in a ragged breath like an indrawn shriek and sits up abruptly, eyes wide open, and screams . . .

Aimee collapses . . .

I hear Jacqueline’s voice, carrying through my soul, drifting through the ethers, touching each of us. She says, simply, with joy, “Be a string, not a chain . . . “

Mr. James, eyes wide with wonder, starts and thinks of kites . . .

Celestine, silent, stands. He throws his arms out, and whispers, “I love you all. Thank you.”

The RingMaster drops his hands and smiles.

The sun breaks over the horizon and glorifies the Carnival. The long night is over.

I squeeze Dante’s hand. The world is more brilliant than it has ever been before.

The old fire was back in my belly. A new wager, and such rich terms! I had one man bet me his soul, once...he won though, and True Love left my collection that day...but never has anyone wagered their life with me.

This girl Aimee was beginning to impress me. Oh, she still took the chance to remind me what I'd done to her, but her anger was at what I'd done to Dante. Surely she knows I'd explained the terms? Surely she knows I'd given him the chance to back out? If Dante had listened to my advice, I'd only have had to claim the price of a few beers from his wallet, not the very keystone from his soul.

I flipped the coin. God, what a rush! A girl lives or dies by the hand of fate. An artist's core lies in the balance.

I don't have many friends.

Okay, realistically I don't have any. The Doc probably comes closest, but he is too fascinated by what I represent than to really know me. I play cards with Mary's crowd every so often, but they're always very careful. Just careful enough to hurt my feelings. They don't trust me. Spooner and the other men who work for me, they don't even speak to me if they have a choice. They fear me for what I've done. Dante tried to befriend me, but he did it with his eyes shut tight, never accepting that I am mistrusted and feared for good reason. Now that he knows, I doubt he'll even try anymore. And watching the coin dance in the air, I don't care. This is my moment of Godhood, riding the Game the way Pecos Bill rode tornados. The moments like this make it all worth it. In between these moments, I tell myself that I have a duty, that I have a responsibility. I think that the Game is safer because I, a man of ethics, am its caretaker. I lie to myself. This is the real reason why I do it. Because I like being a God. I like the power.

God help me, but I do.

The coin lands with a paf! in the sawdust, but before I can look at it, a couple of hundred pounds of Doctor Celestine land two feet away. The Doc is ghastly pale, and his clothes and hair are smoldering. There is a strong smell of ozone that cuts through the fresh rain smell. He is clutching his chest, and I have just enough time to wonder if he's in cardiac arrest when Violent Clay climbs out from underneath him, like some kind of gigantic, garish trapdoor spider. He's snarling and growling, in protection mode. Part of me thought I should back away, but fuck that. I'm in the middle of a Game here. Even Violent Clay in his prime wouldn't dare interfere...and judging by the ribbons of flesh draping from him, he was far from his prime.

I looked again at the coin, and Gypsy stepped in my way. Irritated, I turned to ask her to have a little respect here, I'm trying to see whether Aimee has to die...when I saw her place her hand on the Clown's bloody brow. Clay sped away, and she took his position, guarding the Doctor. Probably unneeded, I thought. He didn't seem to be breathing.

"Will everyone fucking back off?" Aimee screeched in that pathetic voice of hers. Oh, good, somebody at least was paying attention. I glanced at Dante to see if he was on the edge of his seat as well, watching the girl fighting his battle for him...and saw him sketching on his notepad.

"He shouldn't be able to..." I started, but then I saw what he was drawing. A cartoon elephant, very feminine, with large eyelashes. I'd seen my wife, my Jaqueline, draw that same elephant on a placemat in an italian restaurant years ago. Poor Dante was drawing from memory. Didn't he know? Seeing the drawing hit me hard, and for a moment I thought I saw her, my Jaqueline, standing with her hand on Dante's shoulder while he drew. Her gentle eyes, teasingly peering over her glasses, her long red hair...

Then Aimee slapped me.

"Do I win?" she demanded. That's right. The Game. My Game. I didn't get to have a wife and a family anymore, I didn't get to have friends or a personal life. I didn't get happiness anymore unless it was put in a jar by some pathetic wretch who'd never smile again because I did get my Game. They couldn't take that away.

I looked down at the coin, and saw a beautiful skyline etched in moonglowing gold. I saw the Big Top, and the roller coaster, and the ferris wheel, and the ticket gate. It was beautifully done. But what did it mean? If it was heads, did I win?

Oh, no. She hadn't called the coin.

I felt the Game, looming over the scene like a godlike vulture. It was waiting.

The coin had landed Carnival up. I suppose that means the Carnival wins. Celestine still wasn't breathing, but that didn't seem to bother Gypsy. I could claim Aimee's Life and give it to the Doc. But would that be what's best for the Carnival? Would it?

For the first time, I wondered if we'd be better off without Celestine.

"We win." And I gave the baggie to the former Miss Wisconsin, who nearly fell to her knees in relief and shock. I think she thought she'd lose.
Hmmph. "What will you do with it?"

"I...what?"

"You've won something more precious than gold, more valuable than the Fame you once played for. Tell me, now that Dante has so colorfully announced his departure, will you open Duncan's Divine Gallery?"

She looked at the softly beating heart in the baggie in her palm. Her eye seemed to shine, and I know she was seeing it the way Dante would have. How glorious a sight, to see Creativity itself? How tempting? She looked around, her eyes pausing as she beheld each of us through her new eyes. She didn't flinch when she looked at me, but then, neither did Dante. My horror must be deeply buried, then. She looked, truly looked into Gypsy, and the Doctor. She saw Mary in all her glory and Dante in his diminished state. She saw the Carnival and wept with wonder.

"Will you show others what you see now? Your prize makes it possible. You've won it, it's yours. You deserve it."

Aimee Duncan looked at me with doubt and fear and temptation in her eye. I've often thought the serpent in the Garden of Eden had a bum rap. He was probably just a guy, like me. He had a responsibility, a duty it was his lot to perform. Was it his fault if others gave in to temptation? Was it mine?

I watch intently as Mr James leans toward the coin, holding my breath. Suddenly an angry shout help him help them echoes in the big top. Someone's going near the Doc, and his guard-clown isn't having it.

Ania's cursing up a storm, holding her shoulder where apparently he's jabbed her should've known better stay back stay away with the broken length of pole he's holding. Something's wrong. I've never seen him this...off. He's not finished more yet to do right. A light flares in his eyes, something horrible intense.

Rainbow colors swirl around the tent, bouncing and rippling off everyone. The clown's bad stormy grey color worries me a bit. It's a color I've never seen on anyone.

help him only you now

I stop dead in my tracks.

only you

I....must help.....I move closer, hesitating for only a moment. Violent Clay growls softly, a warning.

It's alright, painted man. I'm here to help. Let me near.

To my surprise, he seems to understand, and the growl subsides. I step somewht nearer, my blue shimmer seeming to nudge aside the grey. He barely stifles another growl as I kneel beside the crumpled Doc. And before the clown can move, I reach out and no stop please place my hand on his forehead.

Remember.


~flash~
he dances, laughing and happy, with a dark-haired woman
~flash~
he sits, cold and alone, as she watches, worried
~flash~
he dies, kicking and struggling, at the hands of an angry mob
~flash~
he serves, obedient and angry, following the directions of the doc
~flash~
he huddles, broken and afraid, cowering from a spectre in the Labyrynth
~flash~
he runs, furious and driven, leaving behind the demons to attend the big top show
~flash~


He looks at me, black and white makeup seeming to glow in the dim light of the tent. Understanding seems to dawn in his eyes.

In a voice broken and husky from disuse, foreign even to my own ears, I whisper one word.

"Go."

The clown rises, stalking toward the Labyrynth.

He has a purpose.

Dante looked around to get his bearings. James’ “collection” had happened so quickly after his “discussion” with his partner that it left him quite disorientated. Everything was without color or definite shape nothing but mists. He could hear their voices and he could feel Mary’s touch but his perception of things weren’t there.

If James had only known how interlocked they were. How an artist views the world and his creativity were, perhaps he would just have turned him away. But that wasn’t the case, and one cannot be separated from the other.

Very few people share a similar view of things.

Dante grabbed his head, “Must think, must concentrate.” Pulling out a tablet from his shirt pocket he stared at it with pen in hand. They as with everything else were just mists.

Putting the pen to the paper he tried to bring images to mind…nothing.

A gentle warm breeze flowed in and he began to move the pen. “An elephant..” he said with a light chuckle. He could see the pad now and briefly he looked up to see the situation at hand. Raising one eyebrow it was obvious that he didn’t approve. But that would have to wait for now, this was more important.

James noticing the breeze looked over at Dante working at his picture. Curious he looked a little closer. “He shouldn’t be able to…," he paused.

A misty figure shared the space with Dante, and for a moment he thought he had perhaps caught a glimpse of red hair.

_________________________________________________

“Yes, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll always be here to help you get back up. Now relax and drink your tea before it gets cold.”


-Jacklyn

Time suspends. I wait between breaths, between heart beats, for a conclusion. I see the Ring Master nod to himself as if deciding on something. Through the wire I feel the coin flipping, I feel the coin landing.
Celestine falls . . . how apt.
Violent Clay guards him.
We wait, we wait, I wait between breaths, between heart beats . . .
Dante lays at my feet, blinking up at me.
Time begins. I breathe out. My heart pulses.
And . . .

It's times like these that remind me how truly powerful we really are.

Most of us don't know it, some just don't care. Truth be told, there was a time that I didn't care either.

Then I got it.

Now, I've never been one for airing my dirty laundry in public, and never really did care if the other carnies did it or not. But sometimes, you just have to say something.

Sooner or later, I'll figure out just what I should be saying; till then, I'll just stick to what works best.

I'd been thinking of taking things out of perspective for a while. Taking us back to the beginning.

Doc hasn't been right lately. Or so that's what I've been hearing. I haven't really noticed, though. But...if he isn't right, something needs to be done.

It's time I started interacting with others out there; broke out of my little shell, if you will.

I've had my epiphany, and now, by god, I'm gonna run with it.

I've decided that since Time is so valuable a commodity to everyone, I'll remind them of how precious it is.

Now to figure out how to go about it.

DOOOOOC!!!!!!"
Clay screamed to the sky, his tears mingeling with the blood running from his eyes down his face.
Mustering up what strength he had left in his battered and horribly mutilated body Clay reached for the pill jar that held the very thing Celestine used to summon him to his aid.
His rage.
Clay took a small sip of the liquid in the jar, now glowing white hot, and bellowed in pain.
His body shook and spasamed violently as it started to put itself back together.
Bones slid back into place and the flesh started to knit itself back together.
His twisted, broken spine reasserted itself and Clay whimpered.
Clay looked up at the rest of the carnies in the tent and they watched silently as his face slowly contorted from a grimace of pain to a look of pure rage that only Celestine had seen before.
And that’s when they saw it. Like wax slowly dripping down the edge of a candle, his ghastly clown face appeared.
He hunched over Celestine’s body like an angry dog defending a wounded pup, all the muscles in his body tensed and ready to strike.
Clay was growling like some feral thing, his eyes lit with some strange inner fire, a small string of drool running from his mouth.
Violent Clay was drawing rage from the storm.
And it hurt.

The storm had laid it's fury into him and Dr. Celestine slumped to the top of the Big Top as his cane rolled off the roof.

His foot was still hooked through a loop at the peak. ...that... He looked at the now calmer rainclouds above as ....hurt..... the canvas roof began to tear. Inside he could hear voices yelling. He looked at the top-most part of the pole as the ....when did Gypsy's line fall....? tear grew worse. And now there was a roaring sound. He turned his head to the Ow. side and looked. ...syphoned off... some of... the storm to call... him out...

A blur was coming.

...looks like... it worked... His hand was burning white-hot from the pilljar inside. But the roaring of Violent Clay's approach and the argument downstairs was now being drowned out by his own heartbeat. ...oh... And it was a dying sound. ....no.....

As the buildings crumbled at Violent Clay's arrival from The Labyrynth, ...not... Dr. Celestine looked something he never looked before. ...yet...

Scared.

He could see his clown being shredding to reach him.

...too late?

His heart beat.

The roof tore loose beneath him.

His heart beat.

He dangled for a moment and saw the back of James' head looking at the ground. He would have found it funny had he not realized he couldn't feel his legs any more.

His heart stuttered.

Clay leapt into the air, turning onto his back.

His heart beat.

Doctor Celestine fell from the 100 foot tall post to the arms of Violent Clay, who was still in mid-air.

Stutter.

They tumbled to the ground in a heap next to James.

Beat.

Violent Clay stared into the eyes of Dr. Celestine's vacant gaze. "Doc! DOOOC!"

Stutter.










-------------------------------------------------

......
-------------------------------------------------

A horrid scream escaped the clown’s lips as the building shook with the force of the lightning and thunder assaulted the Labyrynth.
And behind him he could hear Michelle’s mocking, shrill laughter.
”Listen closely love, you can almost hear the screams of your dear friends, and there is NOTHING you can do to help them.” Her words bit deep.
”You are a failure Clay, you always have been and you always will be, and now your friends are paying the price.”
Something snapped deep inside Clay and a voice burrowed into his head.
”Come and get me, Clay.”
It was Celestine’s voice, and this time it wasn’t a command, it was more like a plea.
Clay got to his feet suddenly, his eyes glazed over, with a low growl coming from deep inside him.
His spine was shifting at awkward angles with a sickening grinding sound.
Without so much as a word he took off in a flat out run, following the twisting hallways of the Laybrynth.
Left, then right, then another right, moving faster and faster as he sped through the hallways.
He was rapidly approaching a T intersection, and he wasn’t slowing down.
Clay leaned in, and with a chalky explosion broke through the walls of the Labyrynth.
He barreled through wall after wall until he felt the cold stinging rain beating down on his broken and bloody body.
And still he kept running, blood streaming from his eyes and mouth.
His body was being torn apart by the sheer velocity at which he was moving.
A guttural scream came from deep inside him as he crashed through the buildings that lined the midway.
I…..
A good portion of the booths that held the games of chance exploded as he blew past them.
Will……
Earth and sod flew away behind him as he ran toward the big top.
Not…...
Pieces of clothing and ragged strips of flesh fly from his body as Clay pushed himself to terminal velocity.
Fail!

She screams bet him bet him flip the coin at Mr. James. One of Mary's Freaks. I don't know this one, and I can't help but wonder flip the coin if she knows what she's risking.

My coin tumbles through the air, magick light gleaming from it, impossibly bright in the dim evening air. It seems to dance float, moving so slowly, almost as if time has stopped time no time here and it dances on the wind.

Those who huddle near watch with bated breath as it reaches it's apex and the world freezes for an instant.....then it begins to drop, slowly...turning lazy circles through the tension-heavy air of the carnival....floating down, feather-light, dancing like you your dance turning in the wind come back to me toward the dusty ground....

where it lands, barely audible, but with a soft ~thud~ that seems to shake the entire carnival.........

Though I've been slowly moving closer, I still stand too far away to see....Aimee's face, through the twisted mask of scar tissue, is impossible to read.....Mary shows only fear and anguish for Dante.....

Mr. James leans forward to read the softly glowing coin......

~*~
Past the point of no return -
the final threshold -
the bridge is crossed,
so stand and watch it burn...
We've passed the point of no return...

The scream stretched my throat near to breaking, burned full of rage. I should've let the fucker die, I should've let the fucker die! I leapt up from Gypsy --

no, no, he must, he must, let him, let him,

"Tell your motherfucking wire to shut up!" I yelled, lunging down the bleachers towards Dante. I trip over the TicketMastyr and damn near kill us both, but barrel down anyways.

no, no, it must, he must

I ignore the rope. I ignore everyone. I ignore everything. All I see is James, standing over Dante with a bloody lump of flesh.

Aimee watches the Gamester do his deed, and the old, familiar hatred wells up. Bastard! BASTARD! she thinks.
Aimee stares transfixed as Mary bolts down the bleachers, her rage making her strong enough to overcome her injuries. Mary will kill him, Aimee thinks. Finally, the bitch is good for something!

I skid to a stop, crumpling to my knees at Dante's side. "Dante!" I pull him up into my arms. My eyes are burning. I weep. "James . . . James . . . you fuck,"

Aimee watches her crumple. She watches her weep. She watches the artist curl into Mary's arms. He screams red velvet and spun glass out into the silence of the tent. Aimee remembers . . .

I hold Dante in my arms. He writhes and twists. I feel his straining. I hear him give a high-pitched wheezing, like screams trying to be born. In my head, I hear James, I’m sorry, Mary.

it had to be done, it had to be done

"No. No." I hold him. I didn't cheat. Doesn't that count for anything? The punch I threw should count for James and me.

Aimee remembers screaming in the dark of a tent. Aimee remembers Mary holding Dante afterwards. Aimee remembers . . . love. She remembers their love. She remembers . . . it was beautiful . . .

I hold Dante. He is shaking. “Is this what we do to help?” I say into the silence. “Is this how we help our customers?”

"Moon --" Aimee snatches at the little freak. She leans and whispers to him. He stares at her goggle-eyed. She huffs impatiently. "All the Raisenettes and Whoppers you can stand, you little freak!" She hisses. "Now go!"

I raise my head from Dante's hair. "He's got a little boy. This isn't fucking funny anymore." I whisper a vow into Dante’s hair. I will burn this Carnival down and make a funeral pyre of it for Celestine’s body. What is it he’s so fucking fond of saying? This will not do. And what is it I’m so fond of saying? Oh, yes. I won’t be having with this.

Her hatred for the Gamester is an unparalled ecstasy. But bigger than that is her anger. To destroy Dante . . . She has never known love. She has never felt that lack more fiercely than in the tent, watching Dante with his "son". She doesn't know the artist. She doesn't care if she knows him. All she knows is that what was done to him was wrong. This whole damn Carnival is wrong. They were supposed to help others. Wasn't that what Mary had preached about? Wasn't it?

"You call this helping?" Aimee yells. Her voice is horrid to hear in a yell. High and rusty and nerve grating. "This is what you hypocritical bastards call helping?" James looks up from Moon, who had stopped him, babbling about Mary. He looks behind him, to discover Aimee advancing on him with a wretched lack of grace.
"Who gave you the right to judge us? Who gave you people the right to decide we all need helped! I never had one of your shiny Golden tickets, and you took everything away from me! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO HIM! HE WAS YOUR FRIEND!"
"What -- " Mr. James began, standing there with a handful of dripping meat in a bag, Moon still tugging ineffectually at his coat jacket, staring at the crippled apparition before him.
"SHUT UP!" Aimee snarled. "Whether you cheated or not, did he learn his lessons? Where's the witch? Where's Celestine? I want to know if he learned his lessons! I WANT THAT BACK!" She thrust one hooked finger out at the lump of meat in James' hand. "I will bet you for that."
James stared at her, mouth open.

yes, yes, yes, bet him, bet him

I hear the rope and look up. I see the Gypsy in the bleachers, fist in her mouth, staring at me. “What . . .”

"Bet . . ." James began. Something seemed to take hold of him. "Bet what?"
"Anything. Everything. I know." She stared at him, hard, glaring at him from her one good eye. "What good are you?" She spat. "Mary offers to face crippling fears. The ghost shows you what could be. The artist shows the truth. Even that stupid clown of Celestine’s does security. What do you do? You take. You steal. You destroy. You just ripped the heart out of your best friend! I've heard Mary talk! You two were friends! And you just destroyed him!"
"I only took what I had won. I had to. I cheated when he played the Game." Mr. James had gone pale, but he tried to argue.
"Bullshit." Aimee spat. "You two were friends. What do friends do? They help each other through the bad times. When you have to face something hard, your friends help you! That's what you did. You helped your friend. Fuck your stupid Game! Fuck this stupid Carnival!"
"Now, Aimee --"
"I bet you my Life for Dante's Creativity. Flip your goddamn coin, you bastard."

yes, flip the coin, flip the coin flip the coin flip flip flip

I caught my breath, staring at her, and turned to look again at Dante. Out in the crowd, I spotted the Gypsy, staring, watching, waiting.

"Flip the coin, Gamester. It's a fair bet." She said.
Mr. James reached into his breast pocket, and retrieved a strangely shining gold coin. He held it in one hand, staring at it. It shouldn’t have, but it gleamed.
"Then it's a bet." Mr. James said. "Your Life for Dante's Creativity." And he flipped the coin. It soared up into the air, turning over and over.

I stood, letting Dante rest gently on the floor. Somehow, through the wire, in my mind, I could feel the coin flipping through the air. I could feel it soaring and arcing. My heart matched it. “I want Celestine in here now! Get Celestine in here!” I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but I thought to myself, this is her third bet, third bet. . .

The coin flipped, unknown light flashing and snapping off its edges as it arced. They watched in silence.

three's a charm, three's a charm, three's a charm

Mr. James puffed idly on his cigar, even though the rain had soaked it thoroughly. It had shriveled into a sad, brown plug in his mouth. The girl in front of him looked very small. Soaked to the skin, her brilliant red hair plastered against her skull, even her posture was bowed and meek.

It took him several moments even to recognize her. Frankly, he'd never seen her this close before, and was a little disappointed. When she danced on her wire high above, she seemed ethereal, dreamlike. Poetry in motion had been just a phrase people liked to toss about until Mr. James had seen Gypsy. But here she was. Her feet did not burn when they touched the common earth, and she was shivering from the cold rain. Mortal, as are we all. Another of the Carnival's beautiful illusions broken.

She had made an odd little gesture over her heart as she offered him a shiny gold coin. That had given Mr. James pause. Not the gesture. He had no idea what that meant...it was the shine on the coin. He had spent a very long time dealing with coins since joining the Carnival, almost a hundred and ten years ago. He thought he knew them pretty well. Perhaps not, because coins, to his knowledge, did not gleam and shine in the dim half-light of a storm. In sunshine or moonlight, yes, and prettily at that. This coin had a moonglow about it, dispite the gloom in the air. So he puffed his wet cheroot and stared at the coin. Should he take it?

He thought a very long time.

Long enough for the girl's expression to fade from hope to despair.

Long enough for her to glance up at the storm with trepidation in her eyes, as if she feared it only now.

Then he spat out the cigar and said "Ah, what the hell." And he took the coin.

Gypsy let out a jubilant whoop and sprinted away toward the Big Top, spraying plumes of mud into the air behind her.

There is tension. We see it. In wonder, Mr. James looked up. There, high above, Gypsy's highwire blazed with St. Elmo's Fire. It shook in the wind and danced, as though in Gypsy's absence the wire itself were taking up the burden, and carrying on with the dance. Lightning split the sky, very near. Aaaaah! He realized the wire was speaking to him. "I don't have time for this."

Make time! She's trusting you to help! I'm trusting you!

"But is she trusting the Doctor?"

Lightning again, and this time the wire was hit. The scream that ripped the sky apart nearly drowned out the thunder. The two explosions of sound sent Mr. James to his knees in the mud. Help us you cold bastard! Help us Bret!

Nobody had used his first name since he lost his wife.

When he opened his eyes again, the world was transformed. Objects were highlighted in waves of tension and stress. Breaking points were revealed in sturdy poles and the lines that held the tents fairly pulsed with it. The massive sensory input paralyzed him. He dropped the cricket bat and stared, mesmerized as the impact sent irridescent ripples out along the ground, and pastel waves arcing through the air. Each and every raindrop was a symphony of grace and balance. Every surface a masterwork of strength and tension and...something else.

For a long time, he knelt there in the mud, his eyes on Celestine's trailer in the distance. Veritable tidal waves of tension were crashing down on it from all over the Carnival. "But they can't be physical forces, else it would have been smashed by now. Wouldn't it?"

Then the Ticket Mastyr, Dav, came stolling along. He whistled as he walked, and harmonized by humming along at the same time. Every so often, he'd find an attractive puddle and leap into it, sending curtains of water flying. He'd giggle, and a mischievious gleam showed in his eyes, like a child doing something mildly naughty. He ambled around Mr. James, who could only gape at him. "Nice night."

And then he was gone. Proceeding along toward the Big Top like nothing in the world bothered him. Mr. James looked again at the tension focusing on the good Doctor's trailer. He looked at his hands, noticing waves of the same stuff leaking from him, while other waves stroked him or buffeted him from points unknown. Dav hadn't had any tension waves. No stress. He caused no strife and was unaffected by it all. This was what Gypsy had wanted him to see. Or her wire. One of them, anyway.

Mr. James lifted the bat, and with some difficulty, proceeded to the Big Top. That's where the wire-sight showed him a massive stress point coming. Something was about to break there. Mr. James wasn't going to argue with the wire. He figured this was an area that wires would be expert in.

When he arrived, he bought a beer from the vendor had sat down in the audience. There were no locals here tonight, no paying customers at all. Just carnies, watching other carnies. It had a vague, mastubatory feel to it. This was wrong, too. Probably the Doctor's idea. People should be seeking cover, taking care of each other, comforting each other as the storm frightened them. This? This was denial in its highest form. This was Nero fiddling. This was Rome, burning.

The Doctor, soaking wet, half-dressed, and bleeding freely from his nose came out and gave his pitch. He sounded positively joyful and alive, which, Mr. James thought, he probably was. If the theory he'd shared with Dante held true, then the pain of the painmongers was probably like whisky to the Doc. The Carnival's Confusion was making him drunk. He was tapping more and more power...lightning again. The wire screamed again, gibbering and afraid, and across the way he saw Gypsy flinch. He saw the line that connected her to the wire. He saw the cat's cradle of connectivity between everyone and everyone else. It was badly tangled, but only just recently. While the Doctor finished his spiel, and Stephan got up and began his, Mr. James looked back and forth, following the tangle, looking for the source. It would probably have been quicker to start with Dr. Celestine and follow the tangle to the present, he thought.

Quicker, yes, but also wrong. With horror, Mr. James saw that the Doctor wansn't the cause. He was as much the victim here as anyone else. The tangled cords of tension and strife were wrapping tighter and tighter about his neck, even as he ran outside and into the storm again, but they didn't originate with him. Nor was it Dante.

It was Mr. James.

He had started it all.

The others hadn't helped, each of them adding new knots and new clashes as the crisis built and gained momentum...but he had started it.

How? he thought. What did I do...I was at my booth, minding the Game when Dante came to me...

Another explosion of lightning split the world, and the west wall of the Big Top began to burn. Lightning had hit the very heart of the Carnival. Worse, that was where Gypsy's wire was anchored. As it fell to earth, joining its mistress among the landwalkers, it wept. James couldn't help hearing it.

Hearing Gypsy's wire.

When was the last time he'd felt the touch of the Game?

Usually it was never far. He was very careful to keep it leashed, and under his control. But now? Nothing. He'd even been given a coin, and hadn't felt the urge to toss it. The last time the Game had responded was with Dante!

It was clear to him now. Mr. James knew what he had to do.

He stood and walked over toward Dante. He saw Gypsy and Mary hugging each other and weeping, and with the wire sobbing in his mind he wished he could join them. He saw Stephan shouting orders to his crews, taking care of the fire and trying to maintain order in the tent. And, God bless him, trying to keep the performers going. Because the Doctor said the show must go on, and we love him. He saw the Lady Ambrosia just off to his right. She was holding a dagger, and giving him an ugly look. A threat? Of course. She knew, too. She blamed him as well. He nodded to her, and tried to say with his face that he understood.

Dante sat quietly, watching the commotion all around him and not contributing to any of it. Good lad, Mr. James thought. And, I'm sorry. From his pocket he pulled a plastic baggie, one of those with the zipper along the top to guarrantee a tight seal. "Dante!" he shouted.

Dante looked at him. He saw the bat, and looked again at Mr. James' eyes. He looked...better.

"How are you?"

Dante shrugged. "I am."

He smiled. His friend had finally found the truth he'd been seeking. Good. He held out the bat to him. "Hold this."

When Dante took the bat, curious but trusting, Mr. James reached out and forced the baggie down his throat. He put his back into it, and then his hand and wrist were also down the Artist's mouth. Dante's eyes were round windows, and Mr. James could look inside and see betrayal, confusion, and horror looking out. "I'm sorry," he said, as his elbow slipped past his friend's teeth. "Remember our game? You had an eight." He shifted his weight, forcing Dante down onto the sawdust. The Artist was biting painfully into the meat just above Mr. James' bicep. This wasn't possible...which meant the Game approved. "I had a one, Dante. Eight is better than one. But an Ace still wins."

Dante felt something deep inside himself tear free, and he screamed as best he could. A tear fell from Mr. James to land on Dante's forehead. "You lose."

When the GameMaster's hand came free, dry and unharmed, the baggie had a wet, bloody hunk of meat inside. Dante watched in mindless horror as the piece of meat pulsed. Beat. It was his heart.

"I cheated, Dante. And I'm sorry. We're not allowed to play favorites. If the Carnival is anything, it's fair. I'm so sorry."

Mr. James turned and left the tent. Inside the baggie, Dante's Creativity beat rhythmically. There was a jar he had to fill. As he passed Mary, he repeated "I cheated. And I'm sorry."

Outside, the lightning had stopped. The storm was continuing, but it was better than it had been. Mr. James took that as a good sign. He even stopped to jump in a puddle on his way home.

The storm began to more than rage at the edge of the Carnival. The rain had become a downpour and shelter was the best option for everyone with any sense.

Perhaps that is why Celestine was walking down the center of the midway.

"Everyone get together in the Big Top! Get together at the Big Top!"

Stephan came running out to The Doctor holding his hat on his head from the wind. "Doctor! We can't do this now!"

Celestine squinted through the rain at the Ringmaster, dried blood running from his beard. "The show must go on!"

"It's too late! This has taken too long!"

"I am not about to let things end this way, Stephan!"

"Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier, Doctor."

Doc looked at the ground, digging his cane into the mud. "Perhaps, yes. But it is not too late yet."

"Are you absolutely sure of that?" Stephan said, looking at Celestine with doubt and expectation.

He wheeled around and stuck the end of his cane in The Ringmaster's face. "The show WILL go on, Mr. Kelgorian." Celestine glanced at the House of Horrors and back to Stephan. "Come hell and highwater! And by God, whatever it takes it shall take! I am not giving up! That is what we are all about! Do I make myself clear?"

Stephan smiled. "Crystal." Stephan turned and ran for the Big Top. "Mikala! Grab Gypsy and make room for Mary's Cages! Tell Mr. K to have plenty of coffee ready! We have a show to put on people, let's go!"

Doctor Celestine watched him leave and mused to himself. Really dropped the ball this time, didn't you, Doc? Someone had gotten word to Mary. Her cages were being wheeled into the Big Top. Many of James’ employees were already heading there as well. Ania walked up to him.

“Doc, I got a problem.”

“The Big Top, dear.” He could tell she was licking her lips at the blood on him.

“But-“

He wheeled on her. “I said, the Big Top!” Lightning struck a concession stand. “Or are you accustomed to ignoring me as I have been lax, lately?” He stared at the sky, angry.

It snapped her from staring at the stains on his clothes. “The Big Top. Yes sir.” And off she ran.

He continued walking through the storm. It was moving through the Carnival from the front gate to the Big Top. Yes. Let it culminate there. He was passing the Gallery now. He looked within. There was Dante. There was his shadow. He stared at both of them as their words grew heated. The storm overhead roiled with the battle within. As the flashes of will inside swelled, so did the flashes of light within the clouds.

Time slowed.

Celestine listed his head and watched the currents of electricity join within the thunderstorm and begin to search for their point of display. He looked back down at the Gallery. The arc began it’s snail-crawl pace towards the tip of Dante’s tent. Celestine nodded for time to resume.

“So be it.”

The explosion was incredible. The arc flew in through the tent top and struck them both. A fire began immediatly in the tent.

Celestine walked away.

help me please it’s so scary she’s left I can’t take this won’t she come back

He looked up at the Gypsy’s High Wire. He closed his eyes and spoke gently in his mind. Do not be afraid

no no no you should not can not hear me

Be not afraid. All this shall be over soon. He said, and continued walking towards the entrance. He reached The TicketMastyr’s booth to find Dav still standing within. “Why aren’t you at the Big Top?”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I came looking for the last of us!” Celestine yelled under the now roaring storm. “Are you coming or not?”

Dav looked deep in thought for a moment. Celestine knew that Dav knew his answer already but was making sure of Celestine. “Of course. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you coming along this time or are you going to let us do whatever we want?”

Celestine was enraged. “GOD DAMN IT, DAV!” Lighting struck the light post near them, shaking the ground. Celestine looked back to Dav. “I know… I know… all right? I let it go on and it’s up to me to stop it. I didn’t make this mess but I allowed it to happen. And I am going to stop it.” Dav smiled. “Now… would you mind heading to the Big Top? And find Ambrosia, while you’re at it and get her in there as well?”

Dav took the Doctor by the arm, staring him in the eye. “All you had to do was say so.”

Celestine caught his meaning. “Thank you, Dav. Anything else?”

The TicketMastyr smiled and held up his hand, palm outward. “Five.” He turned and walked toward the Big Top, looked up at the High Wire, smiled and waved.

Dr. Celestine now ran for his trailer. He dashed inside and turned on the overhead light. He took off his clothes and gave himself a quick wipe-down with a damp cloth. Putting on his new suit of clothes, he thought. Five? Five… five… damn it, I’m missing this one… and I thought I was vague sometimes. Picking up a Nat Sherman he lit it and took a long, slow drag off it.

Long enough to be knocked over by the explosion from outside.

He picked himself up off the floor of his trailer and ran outside. He immediately slipped, trying to turn around quickly Damn! I almost forgot it! and caught himself on the door. He reached in, grabbed his vest from before and ran down the midway.

The explosion was from The Gallery. All the turpentine and oil paints and thinner had finally given up all their potential in a grand gesture of fire. Going to have to do this fast. He ran for the Big Top at fast as he could waving the last of the Carnival employees there with yells. “Run! Run! Go! To the Big Top!”

He started to laugh. The storm… the mess… the fire… it was all making him feel alive again. Lightening was striking the ground everywhere now. He reached in the vest pocket and brought out the small pilljar. Here we go boy… job’s not finished yet.

He reached the Big Top.

Stephan had everyone in various seating arrangements. He had to trust that the Ringmaster had everyone here. Almost out of breath, he threw the vest to the ground and held up his hands at the barrage of questions and worries pummeling him.

“Have a drink!” he yelled, laughing. “Have a drink, sit back and relax, the show will begin momentarily, Ladies and Gentlemen. Just reach deep inside and pull out that imaginary emergency survival kit of your life!”

Music began from the calliope.

“Rip out your ticket, stick it under your tongue and let it burn it’s way into your strife! It burn away the blocks within your mind and you shall find that a circus waits for you.” He paused, smiling. They were all listening. “A carnival… if you will.” He held aloft the pilljar and looked at. “Where the clowns aren’t very funny… but they’ll scare the living shit out of you.”

He looked at them. At all of them. Mary. James. Lady Stacybug. Stephan. Dana. Dav. Ambrosia. Ania. Gypsy. Arianna. All of them. They were ready.

Except for Dante. He was not among them.

Mr. K. picked up his vest and held it up. “You dropped this, Sir.”

Celestine laughed heartily. “Yes, yes I did. Keep it.” He twirled his cane as the thunder and lightening outside was reaching a fevered crescendo over the Big Top. “Now if you will excuse me… I have a clown to… ‘fetch’.”

*************************************************

Inside The Labyrynth, Violent Clay twitched.

*************************************************

He looked to Stephan. “Don’t worry… we’ll make our que.” He turned and walked outside. “And so will Dante.”

Stephan stepped forward and began. “Laaaaaaaaaaaaaadieeeeeeeees and Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeentelmen! Crystal Gate Productions is proud to present the greatest show on heaven or earth!”

Outside, Celestine climbed the rope ladder up the side of the Big Top. The wind was terrible. The voices in the storm were all taunting and screaming. Lighting was crashing all around him. The thunder was shaking every structure for miles. His mind his own little cheering section. C’mon, Doc… just get to the top. Just a little further. He reached the top and stared at the storm. And the storm raged back at him. He wrapped his leg around the center post and held aloft his cane in one hand and the pilljar in the other. Celestine bellowed into the face of the storm.

“AAAAAAAAAUGH! YOU WANT HIM?“ Thunder boomed. “YOU WANT ANY OF THEM? YOU CANNOT HAVE THEM! THEY ARE MINE!” Lightening began to coalesce in the clouds. “YOU WANT TO TAKE SOMEONE ON? COME GET ME! C’MON!” The clouds formed an angry face and snarled at him, glowing with electric fury.

“COME AND GET ME!!!”

Lighting flowed together creating a huge arc that shot from the open mouth…

Celestine closed his eyes and gripped the pilljar tighter. …come and get me, Clay…

…and struck the end of Celestine’s cane.

(to be continued)

-------------------------------------------------
"Shocking. Truly shocking."

Sean Connery as James Bond
-------------------------------------------------

...
Nothing...
...Flickering...flashes...a child with no friends...a youth with no love for his passion...a young man without his spiritual mentor...a man lost in responsibilities...
Nothing...

Mirrors shatter down the corridor. A wail to call the banshees from their forests, a sound to awaken the lords in shadow, a cry paralleled to Moses’ peoples’.

The sharpened edge of nothingness… truth as only it shows it self… unabridged and with no mercy.

Dante on one knee, perched on the other foot, braced by three fingers in front slowly lifts his head. “ I am my folly. I dwell within a world created by others definitions. I am only what I truly desire, not others…I fool no other than myself. My pains are self-inflicted my torment self induced and my successes a delusion.”

Slowly he stands, “ I cause deception in my existence. I am not real…I am what others wish of me…A social chameleon…A hypocrite of the grandest magnitude…”

“I think therefore I am, is not true…I am is. I must claim what is mine, not what I’m told is mine.”

Dante slowly walks past Dana, “Thank you”, he says. With a wrinkled chin smile a mother gives a child when they finally learn to walk she gently nods her head.

Dante emerges from the House of Horrors to be hit in the face by loose paper blown in the storm. Looking around he murmurs to himself, “ I have never seen…” he pauses. “ I didn’t even notice. It is like a plague and others have succumbed. It’s time…time for remedy, time for resolution.”

The rain gusting by the wind that viciously pushes it. Forcing him forward to the heart of it. Throwing the slapping flaps aside he enters the Gallery.

There in the chair, there it is awaiting his arrival. Like a wounded slavering dog it speaks.

So you finally arrive. Come forth come see what I have done for you.

Dante approaches the canvas, but it’s not the rendering that catches his attention rather a small card on the ground at his feet. Leaning down he the card up longingly looks at it and puts it in his pocket.

Nothing Dante nothing, I am the only one that is real. I always have been.

"Not the case, you are only an aspect of me. Nothing more."

Only an aspect of you? You are nothing more than the baggage I carry. False in your delusions and hopes, never seeing the truth. Always “kind and forgiving” so noble, so diplomatic, so righteous.

"Righteous, yes I shall show you righteous."

Silhouetted on the canvas wall two figures tumble. The easel smashed in the process. The lantern lighting the interior knocked over and blown out. A scream…lightning strikes the gallery. Exploding into strips and shards…

…Flickering…flashes…a boy without his father…

Then nothing…

__________________________________________________
"You killed him."

"But, I thought you liked him? He liked you."

"He didn't like me! He never liked me!"

-Janet,Magenta and Riff Raff
The Rocky Horror Picture Show

I wait, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to the other, for Mr James to take the coin from me. Softly, in the distance, I don't share with her don't let her know me don't let me know her come save me come save me come save me hear something.....a soft whisper....like the wind...but this is growing.....now audible over the calliope that still plays....now audible over the clanking machinery that runs the generators.....now audible over the raging storm itself....

An ear-splitting scream of pure terror and rage splits the sky. No one else moves, and I know I'm the only one who hears it. So I also know what poor creature lets loose such a cry.

Poor thing. He has to learn to share.

I get out of the shower, and wander out to my little kitchen. I make myself a cup of coffee, dripping all over the place, towel wrapped securely around me. I am tired as I have never been before.
I know that outside, as the storm swells, the shit is hitting the fan. I light a cigarette. Part of me wishes to go running forth and save the day in one fell swoop. It is my nature. I deny it. I am opting out of the endgame. Either Dante will be saved, or he will destroy the Carnival trying. There are scars on my soul from thinking this.
I sit at my little table, sipping coffee, smoking, and discover a note and a girl's red ribbon. The note is from Bernard. It says, simply, Gypsy has come down from the wire. She leaves this for you.
Gypsy has come down from the wire. Oh, my stars and garters.
I went up there to visit her once. I stood on her platform and chatted at her. She is a nice girl. I asked her why she didn't come down. She told me the wire wouldn't let her. I said, Maybe it's time to cut the wire, then.
I tie the ribbon in my hair, and stare out the window, coffee growing cold in my hands, cigarette growing ash as I ignore it. The whispering begins . . .

Dante walked within the House of Horrors, brushing past the plastic skletons and silk strands blowing at the end of the fans. Do people actually get afraid of this stuff anymore? He shrugged the thought off. Dana's attraction was not as innocuous as the cheesy spooky music playing. He pulled himself through the 'Graveyard Ground' and walked toward the mirrors.

The music stopped. There was no sound, not even the storm outside. Facing him in a mirror was his son.

"No. Dammit, no..."

You're right. Dana's voice came through. He is not the issue.

"It's Celestine."

Is it? The image shifted to The Doctor. Is he the cause and the purpose of all this?

"It's not right! This whole thing is..." He stopped when the image shifted to a large jar with two cards face-together inside. "Those fucking things are mine!"

So it is about the Jar.

"Yes! No!" He looked up, clenching his fists and teeth.

The Cards, then?

"They're mine! He has no right!" The image wavered until it was smokey nothingness.

Then he stole them?

"No, they... I...."

Freely given, then?

Dante was livid. "Smoke and mirrors. Twisting everything. That's what the problem is."

Dana's tone went cold. Truth, then. Fact.

Has he stolen from you? Was your child taken from you? You want to see what you are? What your fears are? Take away your son. Take away your friends. What is left?

The mirror shattered.

Dante stared at what was behind the smoke and mirrors. What was really there. What was left.
Dante began to cry. What are you, Dante?

There was nothing there.

In the back of his mind, Dante could hear the broken glass still falling.

-------------------------------------------------
"Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

Willy Shakes
-------------------------------------------------

Dr. Celestine stood at the entrance of the Devine Gallery. He took a deep breath, straightened up and walked into the tent. Dante’s shadow was sitting before the easel, painting gaily away.

Hello, ‘Doc.’ He always said it with a little more than disgust in his voice. Come for a picture?

“Stand up.”

Orders, now?

“I said, stand up.”

The shadow stood, looking smugly at Celestine. Whatever you’re thinking of trying it won’t-

Celestine's cane struck the shadow briskly across it's face. “I do not recall giving you permission to speak, parasite!”

It lifted it’s head up, cradling it’s jaw. That …hurt.

“A complaint!? There. That is precisely what I am talking about! All you ever do is complain!”

The shadow looked confused. What do you think you’re doing?

Celestine’s rage was palpable. “Doing? …DOING!? I’m doing what I should have done. My job. I am cutting you loose! I don’t need a sniveling drunk who can’t create without a mad-on and a bottle of slow death in his hands! HERE!” He thrust two items into the shadow’s whispy hands. “Which one feels more comfortable, hmm? Tell me!” The brush slipped from his translucent right hand and he stared dumbfounded at the little silver claw in his left. “Which fell to the ground, addict? Was it the brush or the bottle opener?“

But… but… I need it… it’s the most important part of my art box…

“Oh, Please! Are going to cry, now? Yes, cry. How helpful… how creative… tears! So original! Cry those lovely tears for your loss!” His tone turned so mocking that the cruelty in it dripped from his lip. “Let me help! I’ve heard you squeal them enough. ‘My brother beat me up! I never knew my father! I drink because I’m lonely! I drink because I’m angry!’ You sicken me. You think your pain is the only pain in the world?”

Now hold on-

“I WILL TELL YOU WHEN YOU CAN SPEAK AND NOT BEFORE!” Celestine bellowed, his nose beginning to bleed again. “DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” The shadow opened it’s mouth but was cut off again. “Oh wait… did I yell at you? Did I hurt your feelings? Remind you of something? Yelling at a child, perhaps? Oh, wait, you’d have to be there to yell at him, wouldn’t you. But he can’t rely on you, can he? For that matter, can I? I hired you to do a job here, and what do you do? Play around in the attractions as though they were your private little playground! ‘Oh, I don’t need to do any art! I can just fuck off and get mad at everyone else, because I’m Dante!’”

That’s Right! The shadow finally snapped. You’re damn right I can! Because I AM Dante!

Celestine snarled, spitting blood from his upper lip. “Not anymore.” He held aloft the jar in his left hand and broke it. The glass shattered outwards as the cards snapped apart in his hands, resting between his thumb and first finger. He tossed them to the ground and turned on his heel taking Mr. K's handerchief from his pocket again and dabbing at his face.

Wha.. what?

Pausing at the door, Dr. Celestine turned his head and said; “You’re fired.”


-------------------------------------------------
"Ah, I see. Spelling America with a 'K', are we?"

The Tick
-------------------------------------------------

As I stand in the darkness, I see faces surrounding me. All faces of those I know, whether I like them or not. I don't even know the names of some. The faces are those of Dr. Celestine, Lady Ambrosia, the ringmaster, my sire, Lillith, Caine, Violent Clay, Mr. James, even a few of my most recent victims (why I would remember those, I don't know). All of them speak at once, not in a whisper, not in a raised voice, but in a menacing yet soothing tone. I tried to catch a few words in the ranting jumble. The most I got was something bout a carnival, lessons to be learned, and something of games to be played.

The voices suddenly become louder. I clutch my ears to drown the noise, but to no avail. The volume continues to climb. Once more I felt pain, not only in my ears, but everywhere. I hate the feeling of pain, now more than ever. I scream only to find myself in my own bed, covered in my blood from sweating. "Fuck, will it end already," was all I managed to say when I heard a loud rumble from outside.

The decision came quickly to me. "I have done nothing but learn my job here. I have met no one, stayed in one place like fucking usual, so now I'm getting bored, plus these fucking nightmares are pissing me off, and I'm talking to myself again! Damn, I have got to stop that."

I decide to get my lazy ass out of bed, for there is much to do. Tonight, I will end these nightmares, learn the carnival better, and those in it. It starts with my new boss, Dr. Celestine. I head off to the only place I figure he would be, his trailer.

"I'm tellin' ya, everthing is changing as of tonight. Talking to myself, again. Damn."

Darkness . . . Silence . . .
I hear my own tortured breathing. It is ragged and frightened. I hear my heart pounding. It is deafening. I lay in a cooling puddle of my own blood. I lay on wood, crumpled, curled. I am weak, and my muscles burn, a thousand ants chewing on my nerve endings. I lay and breath clean air.
Something approaches . . .
I look up. In the darkness, I see a sillouette. My eyes begin to adjust, and I see that it is Empress. Tall and willowy, her bone-white hand reaches out to the Cage door and it swings open at her touch. She looks down at me, her expression a mixture of pleasure and disgust. "It is done as my mistress wished." Her voice is the wind, and she steps back to let me exit.
I drag myself from the Cage and spill boneless to the floor. Wordless, she steps over me and slids like smoke into her Cage. With a great creaking, the door shuts. A bright flare of light, and she is gone.
I lay alone in the tent, weak and sick and tired unto my very bones. I can hear a storm rising outside. The tent shakes with it. I can taste the wrongness of the Carnival on my tongue. Part of this is my fault. I lay in the dirt and the sawdust, bleeding peacefully, shivering. The air slides over my skin, and I sense the depths of damage in the way it breezes. Part of this is my fault. Part of me thinks that it is somehow my job to go and make things right. Part of me says, stand yourself up, go forth, and shake Celestine from his sleep. I silence this voice. I am not the one who will fix these things.
I don't know how long I laid there, breathing, bleeding, waiting. I know that finally, someone found me.
"Aimee?" My voice is hoarse, cracked -- no, ripped to shreds. Screaming will do that.
"Mary?" Awkwardly, she gets down to her knees. "You're hurt!" A twist of disgust flits over her face. "You're bleeding all over!"
"Moon." I sigh, and the little freak slides out of the darkness. Aimee sidles away as he joins us. "What has happened to the Carnival?"
"Bad things, Lady." His voice is a roil of hisses and bubbles. "Th' clowny one, he beat th' artsie one up right good, he done, and Mr. James was awful hurt, 'e was. An' th' Big Man got dragged inta the mazey-like thing."
Celestine was the Big Man. Mazey-like thing? "Maze?"
"Th' clowny one has gots a mazey place. An th' Big Man was hurt there, he was. An th' high one came off the wire, she did. An th' Card Woman has gots a knife after your artist, Lady. An th' Ringmaster is bloody pissed, and Mr. James is waitin on the Big Man with a bloody great stick." Moon looked down at me reproachfully. Almost as if to say, see, you leave for awhile, and the whole place goes to hell.
I manage a grin.
"Aimee. Have Bernard start fixing down the tent if he hasn't already. Get ready for a hellified big storm." I begin the process of dragging myself up as Aimee darts off. My muscles argue about things, but I eventually get to my feet. I am a mess. I am bleeding from a thousand salt-soaked cuts, dirty, bloody, saw-dusty, clothes torn, bruised, battered, and otherwise whipped. These are all the minor parts of the price. It is the greater part I won't be talking about.
I clear my throat and spit out a wad of blood. "Now what's this about Ambrosia and a knife?" I ask Moon. Right down to business.
"Oh, she gots a knife, she does. She's after your lad, there."
"And where's my lad?" I ask.
"He's gone into th House, Lady."
I shudder. "Then Ambrosia's knife is the least of his worries." I start out for my trailer. The Carnival may be going to hell in a handbasket, but I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I had to get the stink of sulphur off my skin. "When the Big Man comes looking, I'll be in my trailer. Keep an eye on Dante, for me, Moon."
"Aye, Lady."

Still shaky, I look back over my shoulder at my platform, swaying slightly all alone come home come back to me in the rising winds. It looks so empty different from down here.

Shrill laughter from Mary's tent. I wonder where dark mistress moon-touched lady she is. I can't picture her hiding licking her wounds moon-crazy killer attacking her friend from the Freaks, I hope she's alright. Bernard sits outside, looking somewhat surprised to see me where you don't belong on the ground. I pause for a second, then untie a scarlet ribbon from my hair and hold it out to him. At first, he just looks at it blankly. Then he glances up into my eyes and understanding crosses his face.

"For the Lady?"

I nod shyly. I've never been to the Freak Show, but I remember once when Mary climbed my ladder. She looks mean tough, but she's always been kind to me.

He reaches out and takes the bright silk band from my hand. He seems about to say something, but instead simply smiles at me. His eyes are sad. He's worried. Don't worry, little man. Your mistress will be fine. Have faith.

Though I speak none of my thoughts aloud, a faint look of relief appears on his face. He understands. They usually do.

As I continue down the midway, the storm grows. The loud growl of thunder splits the air, and a blinding fork of lightning strikes nearby, shattering a tree just outside the board fence near the.......

There wasn't anything over here the other day. What brought a Labyrynth to the Carnival? I approach it, shuddering slightly at the hate anger sadness pain despair emanations from within.

There's someone inside.

It's someone I know, but a hollow empty soulless presence. I can't tell....

Something in the storm whispers softly, a lover's plea in my ear.

~Michelle...~

I don't know any Michelle. It's got to be something someone inside.

Stepping closer, slowly. I reach out and place my hand on the fence. In the distance, I hear my wire vibrating in the wind, an almost pained scream, and a sharp jolt of pain echoes through my mind.

Celestine's clown. It's Violent Clay trapped inside.

There's only one way for him to escape. The knowledge burns behind my eyes as the storm rages around the Carnival.

A war in my mind. The clown doesn't know what he needs to do. He can't do it by himself. No one else can do it for him.

The battle is his.

The weapons are mine.

If I stay out here, he may die.

If I go in, I may never return.

Abruptly, I spin and race though the Carnival, running up to Mr. James where he approaches Dana's House of Horrors. He stops, looking at me calmly.

I hold a small gold coin out to him, hoping he can read the request that I can feel written all over my face, as with my other hand, I find myself unconsciously tracing an ancient Romani symbol over my heart - one meaning either "destiny" or "impossible decision"....

The choice is there. Which will it be?

The storm fed me, fed my anger. I stood in the darnkness, arms outstretched, calling on some force unfamiliar to me. I felt rejuvinated, and this dark light filled my body sending a shock almost like lightning. And I saw...

...Two children ran hand in hand down the ravine. Laughter, light and joy bubbled over. Two pairs of shinning eyes, glittering with life and hope. Two lythe figurs grasping the willow branches and jumping off into the cold water. More laughter more excitement. One set of green eyes and one deep brown...

The light ran stronger through my body, its current almost burning my flesh.

...older this time, two children still, in love with eachother, in love with life. Thier eyes still glowed, just a different light burned within them. And after jumping in the water they embraced...

Burning, you could smell my flesh as the paint covering burned away, as my cape melted under the heat. I began to crumple.

...a kiss...and darkness. A scream. Flalling, searching for his hands and nothing. Just utter darkness and then a cage. Stuck in a cage in a strange sort of gallery. Eyes staring at me. Vulnerable to the public. This must be what animals feel...

Me? Was that me? The jem burned into my flesh. The price to pay for such knowledge. Part of me yearned for more knowledge and the other part of me desperately needed a breath of air. Making a decision I franticly clawed at the jewel and tore it off my forehead. My scream rang in my ears and the hand that held the babble caught fire. And soon the fire caught through my intire body and a voice, no, a laugh..."you are mine."

"...Celestine...is that you?" I faintly saw a person coming near me, deliberately. With an outreached hand and a scream all I remember is black...

Mr. K finished collecting the ticket stubs lying about and sighed.

He glanced at the sign over the entrance.

A coin glistened on the ground. He bent over and picked it up between his old, worked fingers. Blowing on it, he rubbed the dirt from the date, smiled and placed it in his pocket.

He glanced at the sign over the entrance.

He took out his old red handkerchief and wiped at the rain running down his face. He walked over to the entrance and stared at the old english lettering over the doorway.

He glanced at the sign over the entrance.

He walked in.

He walked out shortly with Dr. Celestine over his shoulder.

He glanced at the sign over the entrance.

The rain falling upon his face, Celestine fluttered his eyes open. Mr. K offered him his handkerchief and he took it gratefully, holding it to his nose.

"You know... I been working for you for a lotta years, Doc."

Celestine nodded.

"And it occours to me that I have never seen the Carnival like this." He put something in The Doc's hand. "Shame, really."

He glanced at the sign over the entrance.

And walked away.

Celestine looked at his open hand and stared at what was inside.

Two cents.

He spat some more blood, put the change in his pocket, took his cane from under his arm and walked to his trailer.

Stephan was sitting there on the steps giving Celestine's cricket bat to James. James stared at Celestine and Stephan looked up with a prim expression.

"Doctor."

Celestine spat a tooth that bounced off Stephan's shoe. Stephan looked at his shoe and then at Celestine.

"Fine, thanks, and you?"

Celestine still said nothing. He looked at James holding the cricket bat. He nodded behind the handkerchief and then stepped by Stephan and into his trailer. He emerged with a jar with two cards inside.

He looked at James. At the cricket bat. At James again. James held the bat aloft and said;

"No more."

He nodded at James. Stephan took off his hat and worked at the brim. "There will be no show this evening as there appears to be a severe lack of an audience."

Celestine looked at Stephan and at James and took the handkerchief Mr. K gave him away from his nose. His eyes were already blackening from the impact to his face. As he spoke, it looked as if it hurt.

"The show must go on."

James walked toward Dana's.

Stephan stood and walked back to the Big Top.

Celestine headed for the Gallery.

-------------------------------------------------
"There's a sucker born every minute."

P.T. Barnum
-------------------------------------------------

When I opened my eyes I thought I had died. An angel leaned over me, looking down at me with a disconcerting blend of tenderness and determination.

She glowed, not like a light bulb, but the way pregnant women are supposed to. She had long, jet-black hair, just like my mother's, and soft, dark eyes. When she smiled, briefly, it made me feel loved. Her soft hand caressed my cheek, and I winced. I was still swollen from the beating Mary had given me.

That was when I saw the manacle on her wrist. Whatever else this angel was, she was also one of Mary's Freaks. I started to panic, afraid of Mary's vengeance, but fear had no place is this woman's presence. Just being near her soothed me. She stood, and I became aware that I was lying on a cot in a dimly lit tent. The strange woman shrugged, and her robe fell to the ground around her ankles. She was glorious, exquisite in her nudity. And yet...somehow maternal. She kneeled at my side, and kissed my forehead.

It was like a religious experience. I was blessed. She was like a primal mother-goddess, and her kiss reached deep into my skull and eased a throbbing headache I'd been too disoriented to notice until it left me. She ran her fingers through my hair, and nuzzled my throat. Her touch was electric. She climbed up and sat astride me, ignoring my scream of pain. Mary must have broken a rib or two. I tried to raise my hand to pull her off, but I screamed again upon learning that my right shoulder was dislocated. The woman began unbuttoning my shirt, and her eyes bore into mine, pinning me down. She ran her hands over my chest, her unusually long nails cutting trails in the blond hair. My ribs exploded in pain, but the moan that left my lips was one of pleasure, not pain. She licked the blood from her fingertips, never looking away. She tore the rest of the shirt from me, and licked the wounds she'd just caused.

This was wrong.

It felt...incestuous. Her demeanor still felt motherly, innocent, but her actions were sadistic and lewd. She found every injury, every wound and used it. She was pristine, virginal but maternal, and yet here she was stroking my hurts and smearing the blood all over her body. She was...

Oh, my god.

Bloody Mary.

Later, when we finished, she left. I lay there for a while, and tried to cope. This is what rape feels like. There was a bucket with a sponge nearby, and I began to clean myself. I tried very, very hard not to dwell on that concept. It would be all too easy to scrub and scrub and scrub and still not get clean. I would scrub and scrub and...I stopped. Why didn't this hurt? When I squeezed the sponge and watched the water flow down my chest, the blood was washed away and the flesh beneath was whole. Unmarked. I sat down hard on the cot. I was healed.

I could see why Mary keeps that one chained. She's mean. But I could also see why Mary keeps her around. She's useful.

I wonder what it cost.

But these were thoughts to ponder later. Thunder sounded outside the tent, nearby. It resonated in my bones, and that wasn't good. The Carnival is a place of metaphor and symbolism. It's like living in a story sometimes, and one with a motley assortment of argumentative authors. The coming storm might be a clumsy metaphor, and hardly original, but it was nonetheless real. Lady Ambrosia had warned me, had told me what must not be. Had I failed? Had Mary gone past me and rescued Dante from Clay? Had Violent Clay failed? I couldn't say.

I hate not knowing.

The remains of my pants held together until I reached my trailer. I dressed quickly, in comfortable clothes. Overhead, thunderheads the color of bile massed. The clouds were rolling in from all four points of the compass, and the locals were smart enough to stay home. What few customers were about, were on their way to their cars. Once dressed, I lit a cigar and made my way to the Doctor's tent.

Hmmm. Cognac-dipped cigars. I don't remember buying these. Nice, though.

Stephan, the ringmaster, was sitting on Celestine's steps. As I approaced, I took note of the blood on the dusty ground. Here, Mary and I fought. Mixed in with the clotting mud was a shimmer of silver. Here, Clay and Dante exchanged blows. A rock bore a smear of white paint. Stephan held the cricket bat, swinging it idly back and forth.

"Hand it over."

He blinked in surprise, apparently too caught up in his thoughts to hear me approaching. I exhaled a stream of fragrant smoke toward the stormclouds and held out my hand.

"Celestine let all this happen," he said. "None of it could have happened...without his permission."

"Hand it over."

Stephan instead held it with both hands, the tip planted between his immaculately shined shoes. "The way I see it, Dante started it. But the Doc let him."

"Hand. It. Over."

"Why?"

"Did I ever sing you Sweet Rosie O'Shensky? It's a cute little song that translates to Lead, Follow, or Get the Fuck Out."

"Oh. Why?"

"The Doctor won't fix it. He can't. He'll pay more attention to the symptoms, instead of the disease. Because we are the symptoms, and he loves us."

"Gypsy came down."

That gave me pause. "The storm?"

"Not the rain. But yes, the storm."

"I'm going to do something about it. So will you."

He looked dubious at that, but he gave me the bat. Dante and I once played at fencing with two baseball bats. I nearly took his head off, he says. I did shatter the bat in his hand. Bloody Mary's Bloody Mary left me feeling strong...and angry. And used. Violated. And I intend to do something about it. This has gone on just about long enough.

No more.

I've invested too much of myself in this Carnival to lose it now. I've lost too much.

No more.

the storm...it's evil something evil something bad strange....everyone seems spooked....I think Stephan's afraid because I've abandoned me left me alone sad so sad come down.....

I wonder where Celestine is....

Something's not right....

Close the southern flaps of the tent!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Mendel! Secure the banners on the outside! I don't want that wind stealing our advertising!"

"Right away!"

"You there! Find Mr. Johnson and take him to the animal cages! They must be spooked to beat the band right now!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Mikala! Find Gypsy and get her down from that high-wire outside! Unless she wants to be struck by lightning!"

"Yes, sir!"

"If she has to stay off the ground, she can share yours! And ask her what that storm brewing looks like. Perhaps there may be time to prepare for it's strength if we get a good look at it."

"Understood, Sir!"

Ringmaster Stephan was right at home here. Barking orders, keeping things organized, saving his precious Big Top. His hat never wavered in the breeze. He tugged at his vest and began to roll down his sleeves to button them and put his coat back on.

Stepping out into the wind from the Big Top, he looked down the midway. Mikala was returning with Gypsy. Well, I'll be. She finally came down. Gypsy looked a bit curious and frightened. She hasn't set foot on the ground in quite a while. I hope that bringing her down in the midst of this wasn't a mistake.

He nodded to her. "Gypsy." She smiled and looked up at him. "Thank you for coming down with Mikala."

Mikala looked at him. "She came down on her own, Sir." Stephan took a long breath. If Gypsy was drawn to come down of her own accord leaving her 'wire' behind... things must be chaotic, indeed. Her curiosity was legendary. But so was her fear.

Stephan looked up at the sky as a gentle rain began to fall. The true storm would not be far behind. "Damn you, Celestine... why are you letting this continue?" A far crash of thunder answered him.

Stephan adjusted his top hat and walked toward Celestine's trailer.

-------------------------------------------------
"Humble and helpless
learning to pray
praying for visions
to show me the way
show me the way to forgive you
allow me to let it go
allow me to be forgiving
show me the way to let go"

Thomas by A Perfect Circle
-------------------------------------------------

"I don't care! I don't care whether it was Dante or not, it was his influence."

"Damn" I screamed out. I watched Mr. James
interact with Mary, I watched Clay follow Dante, but it wasn't enough. I had been touched. He wasn't even human. They don't understand. I think Mr. James has an inkling, but that is all. Not even Celestine. Dark laugheter.

That shade, that shadow. Something I remember from before. Vague images of my life before the carnival. But am I willing to find myself there again? Am I willing to focus on the life that I gave up? Does Celestine remember? I don't know. It was so long ago or seems to have been so long ago...I must forget, I want to forget! But this shadow...

...A laugh from my past. The jem upon my forhead glowed deep red as my anger rose. I touched the back of my hand to my lips and saw the blood. Licking my lips only served to further my distaste and bitterness.

I stalked into my room, pulled out a knife and attatched it to my right thigh. I was out for vengance tonight. No shade was going to haunt me. There is more than one way, more than one magic force at play tonight. The knife gleamed with the same intensity as my forehead jem, it was an extension of my anger, given to me years before.

In the darkness all that could be seen were the gleam of my forehead matched by my eyes which had become slits of gold.

I was out for vengance, I was out for me...

Dana stood at the entrance of her attraction and watched the people mill about The Carnival. You could count them on two hands. She was beginning to regret misleading Dr. Celestine about his visitor. I was sure he would notice Dante's shadow. He must be more distracted than we thought. She floated into her attraction and wandered about the spirits inside. The mirrors moaned and bent at her passing. The creatures sat, disturbed and uncomfortable. The building itself was not pleased.

Dana floated out the back and began to cross around front again. Dante was standing at the entrance. He seemed anxious. The storm overhead was beginning to roar like a pride of lions.

She approached him, silently, and offered her hand for his ticket. He shoved it roughly into her hand and began to enter.

Dana's hand shot out and grasped his shoulder with the strength of conviction. He turned and looked into her tragic face as she spoke to him. This is your last chance.

He stood there and his fear and anger fled. All that was left was her decree. He nodded slowly and she allowed him to enter.

Dana wept.

-------------------------------------------------
I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine shall never be parted, bliss or woe.

John Milton, Paradise lost
-------------------------------------------------

He walked to the new painted wall standing at the edge of The Carnival. It was exactly as he had feared. It just seemed to be an opening behind the boards to a curtain.

At least to the general public.

Doctor Celestine's eyes beheld the edifice in it's entirety. And he could feel it's imposition. It was as silent and deadly as a tomb.

He shook his head. It's too soon. This will not do.... Death had come to The Carnival in the form of a Labyrinth. He listened with ears only he had and heard the wails within. The storm overhead forming a perfect framework of sound for the cries and terror. Yet deep below it all was a whimper. It was his clown. No... this will not do at all. He straightened up and walked confidently under the sign that said "The Labyrynth" in old-english lettering.

The first steps led to a junction where there seemed to be endless choices of directions. There were smells and sounds coming from each of them. Tempting and revolting all in the same... there was no correct direction to go by looking.

So he didn't.

He closed his eyes and relaxed, letting the tugging in his pocket guide him. The trip was horrendous. Feelings, noises, smells and the like all pummeled him, attempting to drive him to madness. But Madness was not his goal. His clown was. This thought and driving purpose in mind, he followed the pull until he tripped, falling face-first into a ground that was drenched and spoungy.

Laying under him was Violent Clay, curled in a fetal position and sobbing. Celestine stood, looking at his hands and clothes. He sniffed at them. Blood. Flesh. Looking around, he had the distinct impression that he was at the cnter of the Labyrynth. He bent down cradled his clown into his arms, feeling the living floor beneath them. "Oh, Clayton... I need to get you home."

He is home, philistine.

He almost acted as if he didn't hear the slow, haunting female voice. Then he sighed, wiping the brushmark from his clown's eyes. "That's Celestine, dear. Let's at least be polite with names. And it's Doctor Celestine to you... or at least Mr. I've earned that much." Once Clay was in his arms he stood to face her. Damn... it's her. She was whispy and beautiful, but her menacing tone and demeanor spoke volumes of bitterness toward him and twisted her pretty face.

You do not belong here... Doctor.

"Much better, Michelle." He smiled, mirthlessly. "Technically, neither do you. At least not yet. But I'm willing to overlook that oversight. Good day, Madam." As he turned to leave, (or what he hoped was the way out,) creatures began to converge on them. Twisted and disturbing violations of horror snarled and threatened. He sighed. "Oh, please, Michelle. Must it be played out like this?"

He is mine.

Celestine whipped around. "Oh, no, he is not, young lady. No, he is most certainly not!" He slung Clay over his shoulder. "You dissapoint me, Michelle. I had thought better of you than this."

I will have him.

"Perhaps someday, yes." He reached into his vest pocket and produced the pilljar, holding it as if it were a weapon. "But not today." The shine that issued forth caused Michelle to scream. The creatures reared back and the floor itself seemed to quiver from it.

Celestine bolted toward the one exit from the center that the creatures were guarding. He threw himself around every corner, not thinking, merely making his decisions by the age-old, problem-solving technique that he had kept forever. Choose the door that is not going to get us killed.

Clay began to stir on his shoulder. "...d...Doc..?" Celestine looked back for just an instant to try and see his clown's face.

And ran right into a wall.

His nose exploded in a gout of blood and Clay fell to the ground in a heap. He started to pick himself up, but his eyes were blinded by the pain of the impact.

Violent Clay looked up from the pile that was his body and crawled toward his employer. "..Doc?"

Celestine's nose was a sieve. He sputtered some blood from his mustache and wiped some frome his beard, clumsily. He looked as though he was going to pass out. "First Dante... then James and Mary... now you... my carnival is..." He spit blood. "...falling apart!"

Clay seemed to find strength in this moment of need. "Fuck! Doc? You okay?"

"...this... this will not do...." Celestine tried to focus on where he thought Clay was, slurring. "...this ... will not do... at all."

Doctor Celestine slipped into unconciousness in The Labyrynth of Violent Clay.

-------------------------------------------------
"It's not easy having a good time. Even smiling makes my face ache."

Frank N. Furter - The Rocky Horror Picture Show
-------------------------------------------------

Clinging to the edge of the platform your eyrie your haven from the world below I watch curiously the unusual goings-on below me in the Carnival of Souls.

Something whispers to me an impossible story, a tale that could come more easily from one of your blood a storyteller of legend than any glimpse of reality. Impossible, that Dante of the Gallery he sees beyond sight without trying don't let him see you don't let him see you as you are travels the midway, battling his demons and seeking his answers. That Celestine the ancient one to be feared loathed or loved no one knows for sure had sent the soulless clown poor monster so much potential wasted in such sorrow and rage after him. That Mary went moon-crazy attacked Mr. James just one of his high stakes games he got lucky and was blinded for her troubles.

Afraid to know the truth, but more afraid not to, my decision is made. Slowly, hesitantly, I lower myself over the edge of the boards and begin to descend the ladder. Feeling ground beneath my feet after all this time will be strange indeed.

My wire hums in the soft breeze stay with me please don't go i need you as my bare feet touch the ground and I shakily make my way down the midway, deeper into the carnival.

What lies in store......

She wears a coat of color
Loved by some, feared by others
She's immortalized in young men's eyes
Lust she breeds in the eyes of brothers
Violent sons make bitter mothers

Oblivious to what happens below on the midway, the small figure in ragged mufti dances with an almost impossible grace along her wire. Long since, she's learned the troubles of joining her fellows on the ground.

But tonight, something in the wind whispers...and for the first time in anyone's memory, her foot slips on the wire....somehow, she catches herself and moves quickly to the platform....kneeling on the edge, she peers down....now watching...now wondering...

What now?

The clown awoke suddenly in a dark, empty place. He didn’t recognize his surroundings; it looked nothing like any of the attractions at the carnival.
“Fuckin Dante.” he spat.
The last thing he remembered was Dante throwing paint in his eyes and saying “Remember.”
“Prissy little shit, what the hell was he th…….”
Clay’s ranting was cut short as someone called to him from the darkness.
“You ignorant, pathetic waste of meat.” The voice hissed.
He turned to toward the direction of the voice and peered into the darkness.
Clay cleared his throat and called to the darkness, “And who the fuck are you?”
She slowly walked from the darkness and stood before him looking up to him, “You don’t remember me? I’m hurt.” Her voice held the sweetness of an angel, and the venomous bile of a creature of the pits.
Clay dropped to his knees clutching his side, blood flowing between his fingers. “Miche…” The words caught in his throat as his chest started to collapse inward and blood flowed from his mouth.
The woman grabbed Clay by his hair and wrenched his head back, “How dare you speak to me, and how dare you even look in my direction.” His right eye burst and he howled out in pain.
She threw Clay to the ground with an evil smile crossing her angelic face.
He reached for her, trying to speak, but all he could manage was a rasping, wet gurgle.
“You were told to remember.” She hissed.
Clay’s skull split with a sickening crack, and everything went black.

Clay awoke, as always, before dawn.
He got dressed and tended to the daily chores that were demanded of him.
He fed the various animals and tilled the fields of the farm that was his livelihood. And after the days work was done, he would hurry back to his home where his wife waited with open arms and loving smile.
She was a demure woman, fair of skin, with long dark hair and the face of an angel.
He embraced her and kissed her passionately. He whispered softly into her ear, “Dearest Michelle, how could God have let you slip from heaven into my arms?” She giggled softly and led him to the kitchen where she had dinner waiting for him.
After they had finished with their meal they would lie in front of the fireplace, Clay’s head resting in Michelle’s lap.
She slowly stroked his hair and sang softly to him.
It was a true love, a perfect love, but all good things come to an end.
This perfect harmony would prove to be no exception.

The frost came early and destroyed most of the crops for the season, and with the change in season came a change in Clay too.
He became cold and distant. Michelle became worried; she loved him with every ounce of her soul.
Realizing the financial problems they faced, she took a job at the local saloon.
She had come to an agreement with the owner of the saloon; she would work during the day while Clay worked at the lumber mill, giving her plenty of time to get home before he did.
Well if everything went as people planed it; the world would be a much happier place.

One day, while Clay was working at the mill, the large saw they used to cut the wood into lumber snapped, almost killing Clay in the process. The part they need to repair it would take a few days to be delivered, so Clay went home.
When he returned home to an empty house with no dinner waiting for him he was furious.
He sat and waited for Michelle. The longer he sat, the more his anger grew.
”How could she go off to do who knows what while he worked to keep them fed and clothed?”, He thought. A voice in the back of his mind spoke “She’s probably out whoring around.”.
Clay went to the cupboard and grabbed a bottle.
When she arrived home, she quickly ran into the house and headed to the bedroom to change out of her work clothes and start dinner, she got as far as the living room when she saw him.
Clay reeked of booze. He clumsily got to his feet, threw the bottle of whiskey into the fireplace, staggered to her and grabbed her by the hair.
“WHORE!” he screamed at her. She started to explain but he cut her off with a closed fist to her jaw.
Michelle fell to the floor in a heap sobbing. Clay screamed again, “ WHORE!” and lurched toward her, falling flat on his face.
She got to her feet as quick as she could and ran into the night sobbing.
The next morning Clay awoke to a group of men dragging him from the house, they were Michelle’s brothers.
He tried to speak but was kicked sharply in the head by one of the men.
They said nothing as they slipped the noose around his neck and hoisted him up into the air.
The rope jerked violently as it tightened around his neck, he clawed desperately at the noose around his neck trying to loosen it.
That’s when he heard someone sobbing, Clay looked up just in time to see one of the men level a shotgun and fire.
Once again, the world went dark.

Fleeting memories passed before his eyes.
He saw himself snapping the rope holding him in the air.
He saw himself curled into a ball, sobbing and screaming.
The scene blurred and Clay saw himself wandering aimlessly down an old road.
A man approached him and spoke.
“You seem to be troubled, come, sit and tell me of your grief.” the man’s tone was soothing and almost melodic as he spoke.
Clay told him of his life, of Michelle, of the men who meted out his punishment. When he had finished, Clay broke down and started to weep.
The man embraced Clay and comforted him.
He suddenly jumped up, dusted off his jacket and lifted Clay’s chin.
“I have a proposition for you my good man,” a smile crossing the gentleman’s face, “ My name is Dr. Gillian A. Celestine, and I am the proprietor of a carnival, and I believe I have a place for you in it.”
Dr. Celestine proceeded to explain the carnival to Clay. Clay listened intently, and when he was done he asked Clay a question, “So are you interested?”
Clay nodded weakly.
“Well then, I guess we have a deal. But there is a small matter of payment. You see no one enters the carnival for free.”
He held up a small pill bottle and a primal, guttural scream erupted my Clay as the small bottle filled with a golden liquid.
Images blurred past him, he saw himself entertaining carnival patrons, dressed as a clown, juggling, dancing, and giving candy to children.
He also saw darker images, chasing down people Dr. Celestine had commanded him to, showing to them fear only he could invoke.
He also saw images of jars, filled with a strange golden liquid, and of him delivering them to Dr. Celestine.

Clay awoke to the sound of laughter, straining to look up he saw Michelle staring down at him.
She knelt down and gently stroked his hair, “My poor Clay, did you actually think that HE could actually give you redemption? That is my decision and mine alone.”
She stood slowly and started to walk away, “And I will never forgive you.”
Clay started to sob as his spine twisted and snapped.

Dr.Celestine awoke from his nap with a start.
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes he noticed that his something in his vest pocket was moving, slowly at first, then violently jerking toward the door of his wagon.
He stood, smoothed out his vest and opened the door to his wagon and peered outside.
There was a storm brewing, and off in the distance, near the edge of the carnival grounds a new building had sprung up.
Dr. Celestine grabbed his cane and headed toward the new edifice, “This will not do.”

He strolls through the forests he knew in his youth. Young pines arch above him, their shade fragrant and cool. The trails he walked behind his grandfather's house, where he was young, and innocent, and omnipotent. Here he was Superman, saving the world from the dreaded fungus folk. Here, he was Sherlock Holmes, and this was the creek where he and Moriarty drowned locked in battle. Here was the hollow formed by the low branches of two limping pines, where he made his forts and where he had his first kiss with Kelly Evans.

Those weren't happy days, really. They were hard days to be a round little fat boy with glasses and an overbite. But they were simpler times. He found the small covered bridge his grandfather had built when his uncles were young, and sat on the railing to watch the water dance over the rocks below. The bridge is old, the wood split and faded, and it creaks ominously beneath his weight. He spends a long time in memory, savoring the sheer simplicity of remembrance. As he sits, the seasons change around him. He watches brightly colored maple leaves and clusters of pine needles flow under the bridge beneath him, racing away behind him. He remains seated as the creek freezes, unmoving as the snow grows deep on his shoulders, and he marvels at the intricate dancesteps of animal tracks on the thin blanket of snow over the frozen water beneath. When spring comes, and small frogs frolic in the mud and gaze hungrily at the dragonflies that gather around the banks, he laughs. By the time summer returns, his remembrances have grown melancholy. The water flows under the bridge, and the past slips away. Time is the thief of simplicity, and it leaves in its place doubt and regret and complexity. Joy grows ever more expensive, and as the definition of peace grows more detailed, the acquisition becomes more elusive. Cards float past under him, intermingled with sparlking flashes of sunlight on the surface. Choices, once made, cannot be taken back. The creek below becomes a road. When he shifts his weight, the wooden bridge becomes a wagon, creaking and shifting. The wagon warps and becomes a train, tracks racing away under him. His sense of motion fades, until it seems he remains floating, motionless, while the world around him races about faster and faster. A hailstorm of poker chips, a roulette wheel spinning below like a whirlpool. A hauntingly familiar voice from above sings

Sweet Rosie O'Shensky,
She was a blacksmith by birth,
She got tired of living
And decided to leave this Earth,
She swallowed a ruler,
But dying by inches was hard.
So she went out in the alley
And she died by the yard.

A Wolf howls, and the world fades away. Darkness, the smell of dust and blood, and the sound of the midway in the distance. He knows fear. The Wolf howls again, and he feels searing pain as of fingernails raking down his cheek.

not the claws thank you Moon not the claws

He wondered if his windpipe was crushed.

He'd have to wake to find out.

With regret, he leaves the dream.

If you go to the show, you see that it is Bernard doing the pitch this eve. You see Aimee doing a bit of her dance out front. She looks as if she may be enjoying herself, but perhaps that is just natural showmanship. If you enter the tent, you will see a hell of a Show, but you will not see Bloody Mary, and no Tickets will be cashed at the Freak Show tonight.

If you go by her trailer, you will see that it is dark, and there is an air of depression about the place as it sits, forlorn, missing its Mistress. The curtains are all pulled shut, and the door is locked. The steps are neatly swept, and the awning is rolled up. It is obvious that no one is home, and its emptiness fills the air around the little trailer.

If you peek into the back of the tent, you will see rows of silent Cages in the dark, and the quiet is stiffling. Bloody Mary does not dwell here, either. She is nowhere to be found.

If you wander the grounds, you may run into a strange little man, mishapen and wrong in some way that is not easily definable. You may think the short little fellow has horns, or a forked tail, but your eyes decieve you. The odd gentleman is merely off in some way. If you think to, you might ply him with candy (he particularily likes Whoppers and Raisinettes), and once mellowed, if you ask him the right question, he will tell you he has seen the Bloody Mistress. "Aye," he will say, "I've seen her, I has." He will munch his candy, and if you are patient, he may speak further. "I seen her a bit ago, I did. I seen her bleedin', an she went t' th' tent, she did." He may look at you slyly sideways, and this will be your cue to bribe him again. Mumbling around this fresh flood of cheap chocolate delights, he may finish with, "She gone into her Cage, yes she has. She gone into Empress's Cage." The Freak might shiver at this, for though he is mad, he is not stupid. "Th' Lady'll be gone a bit, she will." And this said, mouthful of chocolate, he shall wander off. If you are quick, you might see his forked tail waving beneath his dirty frock coat. Only if you are very quick.

*************************************************

Sign upon the bloody line
A drop of yours a drop of mine
Nothing's free
Eternally
Nothing's free

~~Alice Cooper~~"Nothing's Free"

Pride severly wounded, guilty conscious screaming vile ephits at me, and eyes bleeding tears I can feel roll hotly down my cheeks, I call Chariot and Temperance to lead me back to my trailer.
Behind me, I leave Celestine and his carefully orchestrated melee to themselves.
Temperance fetches Brenda (the former nurse) to me. With her help, we cleanse and bandage my wounded eyes. I wait in avid torture as she rinses them with good, clean water, teeth ground tight and hands leaving a permanent impression of themselves in the arms of my chair. I hiss in relief as she wraps the tightly, all the while cursing me softly under her breath. I eschew painkillers as punishment to myself for losing my shit on poor James like that. I shall suffer.
Bernard comes, and I tell him he will have to run the Show for a few days. He agrees, and finally, I am alone. It is then that I call to me Empress. I instruct her to go to Mr. James, and send her along with cogniac-dipped cigars and Brandy and such. In her Cage, Empress deals with those who have reached some block in their lives and will go no further. Outside the Cage, this freak is a healer. It is not often that my Caged Freaks leave the back of the tent (with the exception of Moon, who, besides being useful, is fucking insane), but the situation warrants it. Empress will see that no lasting harm comes to Mr. James. And for her services, I will pay the cost . . .


And a mighty cost it is to call the freaks Out of their Cages.

Mary shared her second-hand smoke with me quite generously while we waited, and I finished my Elephant Ear. I didn't share. In my pocket, I felt the weight of my insurance policies; the one I'd retrieved from Ambrosia and the one I'd had since I learned how dangerous Mary could be.

Ambrosia and I share a fondness for sweets as well as a knack with cards. I'd met her at the vendor's stand, seeking solace in sugar just as I was. She bent the rules, too, and gave me a warning. A glimpse into how events must not be allowed to transpire. So here I was.

Sure enough, Dante emerged, pale and with the fire gone from his eyes. Empty-handed, of course. Violent Clay was ready, and the first blow took him in the knees.

Mary lunged, and I tripped her with my foot. From the ground, she looked up at me with narrow, yellow eyes and growled a low warning at me. Not good. Mary was losing control. More not good, Clay was too busy to put her back on the straight and narrow. From my pocket I pulled a pair of cards, and flicked them so they bounced off Mary's abdomen. I deliberately aimed for her womb, to be sure the significance hit her there, too. She glanced at them.

Ambrosia's card and mine lay side by side in the dust next to her. An ornately designed and handpainted Tarot card, which I'm sure Mary recognized as the Lovers. The woman on the card resembled Mary. The man, her ex. My card was less frought with symbolism, but just as plain. The ace of spades lay touching the Lovers. Popularly known as the death card. "Who is Clay striking at, Mary?" I asked, keeping a safe distance while I circled, putting myself between her and Celestine's Trailer. This was Clay's job, not mine. The Carnival could not protect me here, so I had to be careful. "Ask yourself, is Dante so different?"

A meaty thump echoed from behind me, and I lost Mary's attention. She reared to her feet, snarling, and rushed forward. She was at least six inches taller, and growing more. Hair was growing, too, and talons showed at her fingertips as she rushed toward me.

From my other pocket, I took out the scarlet silk drawstring bag I'd been given by Moon almost a year ago. It was heavy in my hand, and I thought for a moment that the sweat on my palm would ruin the silk. My hands were shaking, but I somehow managed to aim it right, thank God.

The silver dust hit Mary in the eyes, and she went down like a sack of bricks at my feet. Immediately, she shrank back down to her normal, petite size, an animal yipe of pain at her lips. She didn't stay down, though. She tackled me and brought me down fast. Every time she blinked, the metal filings in her eyes cut deeper. Blood like tears flowed down her face as she pummeled me, tore at me with her nails (not the claws thank you Moon not the claws) and used her knees to hit me where it really hurt.

She was blind, and in pain. Physical and emotional pain. But she was still kicking my ass. I fought back, since even like this she was plenty capable of killing me. I had over a foot and easily a hundred pounds on her, but I've never been comfortable with hitting women, and the rage I usually felt when violence comes at me wouldn't respond to my call. So for the most part, she pounded me into the ground, and I let her. Every so often, we'd hear a particularly good smack coming from Clay and Dante's melee, and I'd have to sock her a good one just to keep her attention on me. I think Ambrosia was standing over us, waiting to take my place if I fell...maybe waiting for a chance to get her card back. There was dust in my eyes, and while I wasn't as bad off as Mary, it was pretty bad.

This went on for a long time. I glanced over at Dante once, and thought I saw two of him, both battling Clay. I could be wrong, though. There was dust in one of my eyes, and Mary's elbow in the other. She kidney-punched me and I had no more time to watch Clay work. Later, I thought I saw Mr. Kay walking past us, on his way to Celestine's trailer. Was he attending to Dante, or to Clay? Or was the Doctor feeling the pain of our battles, and the good Mr. Kay was coming to help him? Worse, maybe someone over there had died! Mr. Kay would be the one to, er, clean up the mess.

That thought distracted me for only a second, but that was enough. Mary got a hold of my hair and my jaw, and brought my throat down as her knee came up. I wonder if she crushed my windpipe? I couldn't breathe, and the injuries she'd given me stopped hurting as I blacked out...

I walked out onto my trailer steps to see what was to happen.

I spied Dante's 'partner' before he revealed himself to the public. I looked at him and cracked a mirthless smile. "Having fun?" He licked his lips. There was still blood on it from when he attacked Ambrosia. Yes, I had seen that. And I was not amused. I pointed at the drop of blood still on his cheek.

"You missed a spot, Shadow."

He dabbed at it and licked his finger. Yes, I know you violated her, lackey... and it is exactly what Dante would never have done... which is why you did it. He smiled at my thoughts and turned his attention to Dante. It was time to defend his 'Partner'. Clay was doing quite a number on Dante's skull with nothing short of professional pride.

I walked away.

I wanted to see James.

Quite badly.

But it appeared he was busy with Mary.

I had a little more time to prepare a speech for him... but nothing came to mind.

I hope he won't be dissapointed.

Adieu

-------------------------------------------------
"Facing the inevitable is becoming habit."

Jericho Wahl
-------------------------------------------------

It was like the wind had something urgent to tell me. And it wispered to me like a lover speaking something lewd. "Fetch"
I don't think Dante's eyes had a chance to adjust to the midday sun before it happened.
It was like, in an instant, the entire carnival went silent. Dante and I caught each others eyes.
It seemed like we were standing there for an eternity when something broke the mood.
A small gasp from Mary,"Dante".
That's when it happened, with a quick shot to his knee, Dante crumpled to the foot of the stairs leading to Doc's wagon.
It must of hurt like hell but he didn't even wince.
I thought to my self, "I hope he drops the macho act, I don't wanna kill him."
I brought the bat crashing down on his skull, it landed with a meaty crunch, and Dante was knocked flat.
I turned to face Mary, she was flush with rage and it took everything James had to hold her back.
"I'm sorry Mary, I wish there was another way." It was all I could think to say.
I turned my attention back to Dante who was, by now, getting to his feet. And that's when I saw him, He resembled Dante slightly, in a mocking kind of way. He stood behind Dante and whispered something in his ear. Dante flinched and slowly shook his head.
Then Dante's partner stepped between us brandishing a paintbrush.
I snarled at him,"Out of the way, bitch, I don't want this to go on any longer than it has to."
A sickening smile crossed his face. "But what you fail to understand O mighty Violent One…I am Dante…Just not the part you are familiar with."
Then he lashed out with his brush, catching me across the eyes.
“Remember Wade, remember!”
.....................

“Celestine…I want my jar.”

“No”

No? What do you mean no?… “What do you mean no?”

“I said no.”

“But it’s my jar. I demand you give it to me.”

“Come take it then.”

I looked at the rows of shelves he had in his trailer. There must be thousands of jars, large and small, thin and fat, short and tall. It wasn’t there though. I knew what it looked like. It just wasn’t there…”Ok where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“My jar, I want my damn jar.”

He reaches down beside his desk and pulls up an empty jar. “Here.” He tosses it to me. “If a jar was all you wanted, all you had to do was ask. I have a lot of them.”

“Come on…This isn’t my jar. It’s empty.”

“How do you know if it’s yours or not? You don’t even fully understand what’s in yours.”

It’s always a round robin with Celestine. No matter how hard you try to get somewhere with the guy he just turn it back towards you. Pulling out my brush I shake it at him. “Let me make myself very clear. You promised me that my son would not be touched by the carnival. If you ever go back on your word again, I will be looking for you.”

Looking at my brush in hand, Celestine sat up a little straighter. I began to walk out of the trailer as he said. “ You create your own demons Dante. I promised you that your son was safe. I never said the same for you.”

I paused on his doorstep looking out into the cool night air realizing he was right. Damn! Inside I could hear him say “ Dante, I think your ready...Does the word FETCH mean anything to you?”

What the hell does fetch mean?….

I chewed on the end of my cigar, leaning on the side of Celestine's trailer. This was getting out of hand. Had everybody forgotten what we were here for? And there's Clay, with Celestine's fucking cricket bat, waiting for Dante to come out of that damn trailer.
Well, I won't be having with that. Not. At. All.
Sic his damn clown on Dante. Oh, whatever.
Just doing his job, indeed. "Fetch." I mutter to myself, spitting the word out around the butt of my cigar.
I couldn't hurt Violent Clay. Then again, he couldn't do a whole hell of a lot to me, either. Not many folks around the place tonight. The darkening atmosphere was driving off business. I'm fairly sure I could drag Clay, kicking and yelling, if necessary, right into the back of my goddamned tent, then keep him busy while Dante finishes the Carnival.
I spit the butt of my cigar out, disgusted with this turn of events. And after I got done keeping Clay busy, I should just march my ass over to the Divine Gallery and have some words with Dante's "partner". Cheapshit fuck. I felt a growl wanting rise up in my throat and swallowed it back down. Mr. Avatar's idiot partner was going to screw this whole thing up if he wasn't careful.
I saw James approaching. He spotted me.

Causually, as if by accident, he came over.
"Oh! Mary! What are you doing here?" He seemed genuinely surprised to see me skulking here, but I knew better. He was just irritated that I had stolen his favorite skulking spot.

I plugged another cigar angrily between my lips. "What do you think I'm doing?" I said, lighting it. "Same thing as you are. Waiting for the fireworks show."

"Did you see what he did with Ambrosia?"

"That was his fucking 'partner' at work." The growl slipped out this time.

Mr. James lifted an eyebrow at this. "You don't like him, do you?"

"No, I don't. He reminds me of my ex. All stupidity and testosterone." I inhaled a fragrant puff of smoke and blew it out in annoyance. "You see Violent Clay over there, with that damn bat?"

He nodded solemnly. "I must say, that worries me."

"It's bullshit!" I snorted. "Celestine got his head up his ass or what? Sending Clay after Dante. Jesus. He knows it's Dante's partner up to his tricks. Celestine knows better!"

"Well, perhaps he thinks Dante needs a lesson in self-control. After all, if he hadn't let his partner get the upper hand, he wouldn't be in Celestine's trailer having a hissy fit, would he?"

Damn James. He always made sense like that. "Yeah, well --"

"Clay's here to teach something too, Mary. He teaching the consequences of losing control."

Always the voice of logic. Ruining my rant before I could get started. Damn him. He had a point. I hate that.

"Of course, Celestine could just be falling victim to the time-honored tradition of the male cock-test." Mr. James grinned that sly, amused grin of his, and I laughed.

I smoked for a moment. I could just make out voices in the trailer. Things seemed to be coming to a head in there.
"If it gets out of hand, I will be stepping in. We're supposed to be teaching Dante something about himself, not beating the shit out of him and making him look like some kind of bad guy."

"Oh, I agree. But I don't think it will get out of hand. I'm sure Celestine knows what he's doing."

I laughed derisivley. "I think he's making it up as he goes along."

Mr. James laughed at that, then looked up. "Well, show's starting. Here comes Dante."

I turned to watch the show.

As I stood outside Doc's wagon waiting for Dante to emerge I started to think.
Long ago, when I first met The Doc, I promised him my loyalty. I promised not to question any deed he had me do. He said "Fetch" and I'd bring him his fucking prize.
And what do I get out of it all?
A direction, an excuse, to release my rage, my hate and pain.
It really isn't much of a trade, especially now.
My next "deed" is Dante, I know it, no, it's more like I feel it. Cause I know that Doc's just sitting in there with that damn smug look on his face, convincing Dante that he is listening intently.
Truth be told, he's toying with a small pill bottle in his vest pocket, rolling it around in his fingers.
It dosen't matter what Dante says to him, Doc will see fit to have him punished, and I am that punishment.
All of this is unnessessary, he knows it, I know it, hell everybody knows it.
Except Dante.
Well Dante should be done soon, time to go to work......

------------------------------------------------
"This will not do."
Dr. Celestine

I watched Dante storm in my trailer and sighed. There are days like this that I wonder exactly what color the sand is on the beaches of Jupiter. This is not an assumption of dissinterest. It is merely my displeasure with repetitive action.

I stood on the steps and began the climb. Only three, but a mountain at times. Opening my door I went inside to face Dante's Inferno. I am glad I was able to supress the giggle that thought inspired.

He hates it when I laugh at him.

As I set my cane at the door and hung my coat I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them back to relax.

Dante stood there like a rock. It was obvious he wanted to hit me with one. But Dante is not a man of yelling. He will stand there and stare at me until I give him the go-ahead to lay it all down. Then he will be quiet yet assertive if not silently enraged. I wondered how this was effecting his "partner".

I pulled a Jar from the shelves and sat, finally. I stared at the floor, absently. That should sufficiently push him over the edge. Yes, Look like you're not even paying attention. I smiled slightly and could feel the volcano begin to burst.

Dante took one step forward signifying he was to begin. I looked up with a distracted gaze and listened as he began.

-------------------------------------------------
Martin Mull: "Are you trying to make me look like a fool in front of the other guests?"

Tim Curry: "You don't need any help from me sir."

Martin Mull: "That's right!"

Clue
-------------------------------------------------

As I made my way toward the Doctor's trailer, I spied Dante. Rather, I smelled him. He reeked of vodka, bad enough that the smell reached me fifteen meters behind him. For a second, I thought Mary had pulled her punch, and made him face that old demon of his...

Then I saw something that made my blood run cold. In the next lane over, on the other side of the row of trailers, a garishly dressed figure was stalking Dante. Matching him step for step, Violent Clay moved, his eyes on his prey. There were streaks down his cheeks, where tears had cut the makeup, but he moved with grace and purpose, and he had a cricket bat in his hands. I recognized the bat, with its "Everybody! Out of the Pool!" bumper sticker and the band of electrical tape around the middle. It was the Doc's. That Clay was following Dante was bad. That the Doc had armed him was very, very bad. I decided to linger a bit. My qualms with the Doctor had a much longer shelf life than the mess that was brewing at Celestine's trailer now.

Another scent reached me where I stood, and despite my distress and my concern for my friend...all my friends...my gaping mouth began to salivate. Elephant Ears.

I turned on my heel and sought a cheaper satisfaction than Dante's. Later, the Doctor and I would talk. When he felt up to it.

"Go"

--But what can I do. I am just helpless

"Go!" It commanded this time. I sighed as I let the curtain fall, covering the window. With another deep sigh I looked around me and wondered what I could do.

--should I interfere? Do I even have the right to get involved?

"Yesssss" it hissed. "Go NOW!" Looking over I placed my amulet over my forehead, the stone glowing a bright red. My body clothed only in its body paint, was tense, apprehensive almost. I slipped on my cloak and grabbed an ace, I may just need it.

--But what am I going to do?

With trepidatious steps I covered the short distance to Celestine's trailer, his taste still in my mouth, his smell still fresh around me from the night previous. No, not right now, must not think of that now. A few steps, than stop. I looked around. It felt as if hundreds of eyes were bearing down on me, starring, laughing even. Their spitful gaze penitrating within me.

--GO AWAY! I don't care who or why, but just leave. Please.

I looked down unable to take their pressure and mockery. It was thousands of voices talking in my head all giving advice all chidding me, whisperings of failure of deceit and tretchery. My scream pierced through the air and as it did it intermingled with another.

--Oh my sweet Celestine. For the love of God be all right.

I reached the door and pulled it open only to be flung aside by an enraged Dante. Then a stop, a pause and Dante stalked over to where I lay and picked me up. With force he pressed me close to his body and kissed me, tearing open my lower lip and then threw me to the floor. "Give that to your precious Celestine" and he left in a flourish of anger...

...Bloody Mary Black walking down the midway.

Damn! he thought. Dana... we shall have words over this.

He dashed around the side of his trailer and waited patiently for the knocking to come. Bloody Mary knocked on the door, entered and stood there suprised. He had his element of suprise all right. Just not with the right person. This was like holding a suprise party for someone and jumping out for the mailman.

This will not do. He sighed internally, and wandered around the side of the trailer. "Mary."

She jumped with a start. "Ah! Doc! Jeez..."

He looked nonplussed. "What can I do for you, dear?"

"Well," She lit a cigar, "I'm just wonderin' if... well.."

He sighed. "You know I can't answer that."

She nodded and chewed at her cheroot. "He's really stupid-pissed 'atcha."

"I know."

"Yer awful quiet today, Boss."

Celestine took a long breath and dug in the dirt with his cane. "......" He said.

Mary nodded. He's not talking. Don't care for this, much. She looked at his face. Same 'out there' look as usual. Then she looked at the ground. Her eyes widened. The cigar fell out of her mouth and landed in the pattern, sparking. "You... you wouldn't... you can't! He'll leave."

"Perhaps."

She snarled. The thought of striking him actually rose in her mind. He looked up at her. Is that what he wants? She calmed herself. This wasn't her fight. Dante had brought this on himself.

"Celestine!" The voice was Dante's. "You and me. Right now!" He thundered into Celestine's trailer and slammed the door behind him. It occoured to Mary that he never even looked at her.

The Doc bent down and picked up the cigar, dusted it off, and handed it back to Mary. "Miss Black." he said, nodding to her, and stepped into the trailer, cursing his suprise that had been spoiled.

Mary turned an walked toward the Freak Show tent. The next person to face their fears was in for quite a ride.

That much was certain.

-------------------------------------------------
"Oh my."

Captain James Tiberius Kirk's last words
-------------------------------------------------

He came to me, last, and spoke words i did not understand or would not understand. Words, they were words of love words of devotion. And I put up my walls to keep me safe for I did not wish to fall, to complicate matters in life. He spoke of liking turning its face to love, to me. How could this be? Am I dreaming? And then there is silence and just his eyes piercing through me, undressing me and I feel the exposure. And then his hand bringing me closer to his lips, my body to his body and he takes me...

...I don't understand...

but it is what i wanted, I cannot deny that.

Giggling to myself, I slip by both Mr. James and Dante (Dante looks awfully pissed -- wonder what's up?), and beat them to Celestine's door by a few minutes.
After a few knocks, and no answer, I pop the door open and peek in.
Empty.
Huh. I know Celestine was in here -- I saw him heading this way.
Where in the hell did he go?

A cold chill breezes over my shoulders, and I look up from my book. "Hello, Dana." I don't see much of her. She seems to avoid my tent, like the rest.
"He goes to Celestine."
I nod. "Of course he does."
?
"I broke the promise. The boy wasn't to be here. The boy was never to be here. As Celestine said, he doesn't exist to the Carnival."
"How --"
I laugh. "You think Mr. James is the only one with a market in Secrets?"
She smiles, slowly. "Celestine said the boy was never to be touched by the Carnival."
"That's right. But I had to do my job. What else would I have shown Dante, if not that? How do you think my Caged Freaks found out about the boy? What do you think he had to learn from me, if not that?" I closed my book, and stood. "He had to be shown his worst fear, just like I have to show them all. That was it. Was I supposed to cheese something else up for him, just because Celestine made a promise?" I arch one eyebrow, waving a hand. "So he goes to Celestine, and the point is, could he handle it? I told him he won, but has he really? Has he really handled what my Cage had to show him? He may have left the tent, my lady, but that Cage is still in front of him."
“But if he won?”
“What was Dante’s real worst fear, Dana? That he would fail his son, or that the Carnival would get a hold of the boy?”
Dana laughs, and cold air washes over me. In a moment, she is gone, but her laughter still rings.
I walk to the window of my trailer and stare out. Nope, I'm not responsible for what shows up in the Cages. I don't control it. But I have been known to offer a hint from time to time.

He wondered what they all thought of him at one time or another. Sometimes he even knew. But never did he say.

That would be rude.

But now, things were changing so fast. Faster than The Carnival was used to. Things may get out of hand. He thought to himself. No... that's a lie. He sighed. Things will merely be... unpleasant for me. Is it so wrong to want things-

He silenced the thought. The Carnival wasn't here for him. It was here for all of them.

He stared at the door. One of them had to be here soon. Would it be Dante with his outrage? Would it be James with his answers and questions? Would it be the Lady Ambrosia with her mysteries and desires? Would it be his Clown, seething with anger and vengance? Normally this flavor of tension was a treat he indulged but today it was a bitter pitch in his mouth.

Today, I would even take Ringmaster Stephan's chiding as a pleasure. He laughed and closed his eyes. The trailer darkened more than usual as sweat began to strain from his brow. Whispers and rantings began to swell. Even before he opened them, he knew his eyes would behold Them.

"Hello... old friends."

A Giant. Enormous and oppressive. Thick brow and jutted jaw. Dragging knuckles, coarse and blunt. Sloped back and barrel chest. Grunting and slavering, it's tiny eyes seeking new things to destroy with foul and pestulant hand.

An Incubus. Suave and disarming. Flowing hair and charming smile. Graceful hands, supple and expressive. Standing tall with arched back and strong arms. Lightly laughing it licked it's teeth in wonderous anticipation.

A Victim. Frail and shaking. Tear stained cheeks and quivering lip. Bulging tendons straining through grasping hands. Legs curled with terror to chest. Whimpering, weeping and babbling with eyes as big as saucers.

Celestine smiled. "Right on time, boys. Who's first?"

The Incubus stepped forward, voice dripping with sensuality, touching lasciviously. "Indulge, lover... call your blossoming flower from her trailer. Hold her supple cheek to yours... drown in her touch... feel her breath, sharp and ragged against your ear..."

Celestine laughed, pushing the sensual caresses away from him. "No, that would merely distract. I shall take or be taken when the time is correct... or not at all." He smiled and touched the Incubus' cheek. "Next?"

The Giant thundered forward, snatching up The Doctor and shaking him, violently. "DESTROY THEM ALL! BREAK THEM! SETTLE THEIR VILE BREATHINGS WITH CHOKING DESPAIR! SHATTER THEIR DREAMS WITH THEIR BONES!" He smashed The Doc down with a horrible, meaty, crunching sound.

"....n...not...f-f-for all... the... the world...." He laughed/wheezed. "...nuh... next?"

The Giant stormed away and The Victim crawled up. "It's o-o-o-okay t-t-ttto be sc-s-s-sc-scared. Ruh-r-r-rrrrun away! It-it-it-it-it's the Ooooh-oh-oh-only way!"

Celestine wiped the blood from his lip, allowed a tear to fall from his eyes and turned his back to The Victim, whispering. "I can't." He struggled to his chair, crawling like an animal. "Away with you. You've had your fun." They all turned and walked, fading into the nether they came from. He began to climb into his easy chair, feeling the pain of knitting bone and flesh. His strength faded and his grip slipped from the chair arm and his head hit the floor with a resounding thud.

As he lay there, whispy, feminine hands swept under him and braced him in her lap. He opened his eyes to the smiling, crying face of Dana, Mistress of the House of Horrors. She wiped his eyes and smiled. "Still with us, Sir?"

"How could I leave you?" He took his cane from her and lifted himself up. "You'd all fight over my things." The charming smile returned. "Thank you again for the home-viewing of your attraction."

"Of course, Sir." Dana smiled. "You sure, you're alright?"

"Of course not, dear. But as always I'll make it work."

"Good. Ready?" She said, fading.

"Sorry? Ready for...?"

"He's here." And she was gone.

This was going to be his one chance at catching his visitor off guard. He turned on his heel and opened the door of his trailer to see...

I sit and stare at the stars.

Contemplation

I draw in the dirt with my cane.

Confusion

I stare down the lines.

Hope

The Queen in my heart and the dragon in my mouth choke me.

Rememberence

A woman calls to me.

Wistful

A ghost hates me.

Remorse

A creature uses me.

Appropriate

Chances tempt and console me.

Wishes

What?

Anger

What more can I do?

Realization

What more could I do?

Sadness

What more should I do?

Acceptance

I walk to my trailer and wait for my next visitor.



Nothing




Adieu

-------------------------------------------------
"I see dead people."

The Sixth Sense
-------------------------------------------------

Fifteen perhaps twenty steps I make it out of the tent. As I stare looking at the dirt, now on hands and knees, the realization of what just happened overwhelms me. I have always had the ability to deal with the situation at hand on almost instinct rather than conscious thought. This one though…

Confusion…Agony…Pain…Almost more than my small mind can assimilate. I had beaten the daemon but it’s damage was now taking it’s toll. Focus…I need direction.

I was there with you.

I knew he had been. He’s never gone far. My partner and I have somewhat of a symbiotic relationship. I force it to feel the needs and desires, while it reminds me of vengeance, suffering and hate.

You are a self-assured one aren’t you? I give you less credit than you deserve.

His voice mocked me.

Poor little Mary, used in such a fashion.

What are you talking about? This is my trial. It’s her responsibility to do as she does. I didn’t use her!

Of course you didn’t. But someone did, someone whom everyone loves and trusts.

Who?

Celestine…Dante you cause ripples that by the rules he must allow. He can’t be trusted…especially with your bottle. Think of what’s in it. You must go and get it now…

The trials aren’t through. I can’t get it now. He’ll turn me away.

Can you afford not to? I know hope is in your nature. Go to him. Make yourself clear. His lies and deception backed by his hallow word will not be tolerated.

I have direction now. “Celestine…you bastard!” I scream, Almost to collapse my own eardrums. All of the pain and confusion erupting out into the night air.

It doesn’t matter now that I can’t hear my partner. His advice was clear. Apathetically I walk to Celestine’s trailer with one thought in mind.

Never again…

"The artist may be well advised to keep his work to himself till it is completed, because no one can readily help him or advise him with it...but the scientist is wiser not to withhold a single finding or a single conjecture from publicity."
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Essay on Experimentation


From the window of his trailer, James saw the carnies gossiping. "Dante went into the tent!" they had said. "The Freak Show!" "He could die, couldn't he?" "Damn fool." they had said.

That was a while ago. Now they were saying that he had come out again, and he looked bad. James thought he knew why. He'd gone in there and had probably faced The Man. Dante had left all that behind when he'd joined the Carnival. The Man was precious to him, and in coming here, in joining the Carnival, Dante had sought to protect him. Mary could cut deep, deeper perhaps than she should, and the worst cuts make what is most precious bleed.

Dante had left James two hours ago. The Doctor had not come in ablaze with righteous fury or come leaning on his cane looking confused and hurt. James figured that he must be in the clear, then. That in itself raised some issues, but there would be time for them later. He replaced his visor with his battered brown Rex Hamilton hat and made his way carefully to the Freak Show's tent. To the rear.

The Games of Chance were dangerous because they were tempting. The ultimate carrot on a stick, even those who knew the risks had to wonder what they would recieve: carrot or stick. The Carnies knew, and many of them had succumbed to temptation. The Ticketmaster had come, and had walked away a winner, and the Dreams he'd won still no doubt brought him comfort. Mr. Johnson had come and lost, lost something so dear to him that it hurt James to think about it. He'd done what he could to ease that loss, but only so much is allowed. And Moon had come. The freak had come cautiously, and out of curiousity had wagered very little...fortunate, since he had lost, too. The Prize he forfeited was his Secrets. Someday, James would probably declare the debt paid. But today, he had need to invoke it again.

"Moon."

The tent twitched, and one of the stakes came up. A moment later, a large, bulbous face peeked out from under. James dropped to his haunches and leaned down.

"Listen, mate, this is bad."

"I know. Keep the details, they don't concern me. But I need to know, was it The Man?"

The pale freak's huge eyes darted back and forth, and he ducked back inside, to make sure the coast was clear. When he returned, he looked up at the Gamemaster uncertainly. "Dunno. Who's the Man?"

"A boy. Dante's."

Impossibly, the huge eyes widened further. "Wot don't you know, guv?"

James looked down at his feet, and a tear splashed the dust between them. "Not enough. Rest, Moon." He stood, and turned to leave.

"Wait!" James did not turn. "How many Secrets have you won, anyway? Does the Doc know?"

"That's one of my Secrets, Moon. If you must know, you know how to earn the knowledge." James walked away from the whispered obscenity that was his response.

A short walk later, he entered the Divine Gallery. Dante's partner was there, seated behind an easel. There was a second seat and easel set up facing him. James stared at it, and was almost sure it stared back.

"The Man."

I know.

"Don't try it. If you do, he'll never return."

I know. He knows.

James looked at the easel that Dante would use when he faced his partner. There was a title plaque already set up, the name already inscribed. That was what Dante would have to put onto canvas, what he would need to exemplify in order to pass this challenge. It didn't seem fair.

"What will you show him?"

It laughed, and the sound was suggestive, like nothing James had ever heard before. It made him shiver with fear and delight.

I will show him what he cannot see.

"I understand."

I am sorry.

"Because if he fails, you die?"

Because he is my friend, too.

James looked again at it, tried to make his eyes focus. He tried to determine what it was, whether it had a face, and he failed. Dante's partner was not something that could be defined by mundane sight. And the sort of sight that could comprehend and describe it, James lacked. After his futile attempt, James turned and left.

Behind him, in the brightly colored tent, he could hear it mixing the paints it would use against the man who gave it purpose. This was wrong, all of it was wrong. But it was Dante's fault, not the Doctor's. Celestine couldn't be blamed for Dante's death wish. Mary had tried to show Dante the truth, but in her mercy had let Dante come to the wrong conclusion. It was easier for him to blame the Doctor, and she had let him. She loved him, James thought, but is that any reason to let him face that thing in the Gallery with a false impression? When only Truth would save his soul?

James had to go see the Doctor. It had been long enough that by now, Dr. Celestine had figured out what he had to say to James. The speech was prepared, and would only grow more flowery and elaborate if James put it off. He knew the Doctor would give him nothing of substance, nothing of truth, but it would sound good, and it would seem to soothe his feelings. And in listening to it, he would ease the Doctor's feelings, too.

James guessed he owed the Doc that much.

Aimee creeps into the darkness, as silent as she may. She watches . . .

The thing, the twisted demon boy, it grabs the artist's face . . .
It pulls him in, despite his struggles . . .
There is screaming, as if a heart breaking . . .

Such screams -- she voiced those screams herself once upon a time . . .
Looking into a mirror after the accident . . .
Looking into the face of her own hideousness --
She had screamed like that . . .

The artist screams -- for fear and horror -- the son he loves a nightmare, blaming him for everything --
What are these demons the bitch keeps in her tent?
Had she thought the Gamester evil? My God . . .

She thinks of her screams, looking into the mirror, she thinks of the artist's screams, staring at his "son"
He screams because he loves the boy . . .
Love . . .
Love . . .

Pete . . . She had forgotten all about Pete --
He died in the accident --
She still lives . . .
She thinks of her screams, as she looked in the mirror . . .

She watches the artist defeat Mary's demons . . .
He clutches the boy to his chest, weeping, weeping . . .

She had wept, looking at her ruined face . . .
He weeps because his boy is safe . . .
He saved the boy . . .
She wept because her face was ruined --
Did she even go to Pete's funeral?
She doesn't remember going.
She has never loved so deeply as the artist --
A voice in her soul whispers, to love as he loves is a thing of beauty --
It outshines anything you might have been . . .

She watches Mary go to the artist, comforting him --
Is this the Mary that drives her so?
Is this the bitch, holding the artist to her as he cries?
Love . . .
Love . . .
She thinks of her screams as she looked in the mirror.
She thinks of her tears when she saw her face.
Pete died -- she lives --
She cannot even remember his funeral . . .
She feels . . . small. Small, and ugly . . .

And the moon wrapped its arms around me, and in its visceral manner, spoke. My eyes showed nothing but silently I wished that what I said could be given to him, that he would understand and, forgive the weakness…

“Speak to us of Love” it whispered. And with all I could muster, the Lady Ambrosia focused, my mind focused on the man near myself, across the way just a short distance but still miles apart. The clear stone on my forehead began to glow a vibrant gold and silver, cascading shadows across the inside of the trailer, and the voice within my body spoke. “Please hear me.” And the dream began.

.....

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though his sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,

Into the season less world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives not of itself but takes naught from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

.....

I slowly woke up with my forehead burning as I pulled off the chain and the stone. All of me was drained. Was the light still on? Did he hear me call to him? Was the call necessary? And soon I fell to the floor in exhaustion, my body and my mind fighting against each other in a battle I did not understand, a playing field foreign to my understanding and comprehending; love and desire…

I stood outside my trailer. I felt it. Or perhaps to be more honest, I felt him. Odd how one can connect to another, even if it isn't allowed. Or is it? You see those strong features and wild eyes, this desperation and the sorrow of the ages. And yet, and yet I am helpless to aid in the recovery of light to those brilliant orbs. He needs his glow back, the fire of the gods, of my own god...Celestine...

All day I waited inside my tent, waiting with a sinking knowledge that fear and disgust would win out over truth and light. But whose truth? Surely not the globe and never the cards. What were they but mere implements of my own desires? My fortune telling nothing more than a bit of, hmmm...best not to reveal too much. But enough to say that sometimes I can make a future happen. Not always and never without a price. But today the signs were right, the elements aligned. And the moon whispered to me. "Go to him. He needs you." "Needs me, never? What could I offer him?" "The dance..." "No, that is something I refuse. The dance...it isn't time though. I mean, for it to be beautiful, perfect. I'm not ready. And besides, every time I perform I give a bit of my soul to his being. It feeds him in someway and I come away drained but always wanting to give more. I don't know that I could..." "So be it" came the whisper. And then it left and cold surrounded my body, my breasts swelled within the drastic change and even the shine of the moonlight turned itself away from me.

"Celestine” I whispered with vehement and pain. "Why? Why must I be a part of this game? I want to know what he's thinking, but that isn't allowed now is it? Damn!"

So saying I picked up my blanket and went inside my trailer, opening up the front door so I could stare at the light coming from his tent. "I wish..." but then what I wish is ever so selfish."

...and the rain came...

This torrential downpour in my mind. No! I screamed out. Mary is at it again. I forgot the connection I felt each time. As if their lives were interconnected with my own. But that was impossible. It must have been the weather. And then while still in my daze, I saw his shadowy figure walk across the ground, each step heavy with burdens I could not understand. If only I could lighten it? And then his eyes met mine for one brief and unbearable moment and I was overcome with electric pain. Seared and burned I watched him close the door, leave. And I was alone to contemplate the cosmos and to cry my iridescent tears into my pillows and wrap my cloak around my body. Lonely again for one more night…

Dr. Celestine walked toward his trailer. What else could he do? The winds changed even as he left Dante and Mary at her tent. This one… he thought the better of hanging around.

"You could stop this, you know." The voice came shrill and cutting in his mind. "This doesn't have to happen."

“Yes. Yes it does.” He mumbled, and walked the small stairs to his door. Opening it, he glanced towards Lady Ambrosia's trailer. Her trailer and his were always within sight of one another and today he wished they hadn’t been. She was standing there, outside her door. Her stare was a mixture of amazement and borderline disgust.

"You see?" The head-voice hissed, "Even she thinks you cruel."

“Perhaps.”

He nodded lightly to her and stepped inside his trailer.

-------------------------------------------------

Dante stepped inside the tent.

-------------------------------------------------

Dr. Celestine set his cane aside, walked to the shelves and pulled down a Jar. It was the same as the others and yet completely different in it’s own right just as they all were.

-------------------------------------------------

In the tent, Dante’s journey into his own abyss continued. “Is this it?” He says aloud, rolling his eyes. “All that flash and dazzle for this?”

-------------------------------------------------

Dr. Celestine polished one side of the jar as he took it back to his chair. "Can you feel it?" The voice continued, "Everything changing?" After a couple of steps he suddenly felt very heavy and old. After another step, he wished he hadn’t left his cane at the door. "Fool." He collapsed into the chair.

-------------------------------------------------

“No!” Dante yells. “No!”

-------------------------------------------------

Celestine lay on the floor. What was Mary tapping here? This drain she placed on The Carnival at large was epic. And Dante’s rage was…

"Effecting you?" The voice wondered?

Overwhelming him came to mind. What did Mary’s tent show him? And what did the voice know about it?

-------------------------------------------------

Dante Raged. “CELESTINE! YOU PROMISED – NOT MY SON!”

-------------------------------------------------

Darkness.

Celestine Dreamed.

He dreamed about the day Dante first came to the Carnival.

He had been there earlier in the day with his son. He marked him as he passed and waved off potential “earnings” certain employees wished to claim as he had not left the boy with Lady Stacybug.

Celestine had other plans in mind for him.

He started nodding imperceptibly at various staff and they began dropping the hints of fancy that draw interest to the inner circle. Dante was quite receptive. Didn’t miss much, that one. He had a sharp eye. A keen sense of the world around him. He was just missing… one vital fact.

Himself.

He returned later sans bambino and started wandering. I don’t think he even recalled leaving or returning. Probably because he didn’t. His direction seemed aimless until the sniggering and snickering began in the back of his mind. It’s tough being on the butt end of a joke. Everybody pointing and laughing. Just like grade school all over again… his nose running with blood… his brother laughing at him… nobody understanding he just wants to-

“-run?” The stocky man in the green visor asked.

“What?” Dante responded.

“Take a run?” The smile under the half-closed eyes blinked. “At Lady Luck?”

Dante decided that he looked like a young Burl Ives. He smiled. “Lady Luck?” He put his hands in his pockets. “Lady Luck is my bitch.”

The Doctor almost ruined it for everyone by laughing out loud. The man in the visor glanced at the Doctor over Dante’s shoulder. When Celestine does let them out they tend to be quite loud. This would have been bad. Mr. James hates it when a good game is ruined and frankly, so did he.

Dante extended his hand. “Anyone ever tell you, you look like-“

“Burl Ives… yes. Call me James.”

“Do I know you?”

James smiled, disarmingly. “If you know lady luck as well as you think you do, yes.”

Dante cracked an eyebrow. “Care to try me?”

The Doctor was about to intervene before Dante got in over his head when the most shocking thing happened.

Literally.

Lightning struck the ground. Right through Dante.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Everyone else did.

James looked at the sky, said, “Well, that’s my cue.” And walked back into his booth.

“And mine as well!” Celestine said buoyantly, laughing. “Greetings, friend Dante! I am Dr. Celestine. Owner and proprietor of this fine establishment.”

Dante took his hand. “Interesting. How did you know my- ?”

“Please, Mr… Avatar, isn’t it?” He nodded. “I run a Carnival. I had better be good at secrets. Speaking of which… The Lady Ambrosia awaits.” He took his arm and walked him through the Carnival, giving the same pitch given a thousand times. Dante was being a good sport about the fact that he was being railroaded from the very beginning. Perhaps he was just ready to accept what was to happen.

Dante was not very adept at small talk, which was fine. The Doctor excelled at it. He led him to Lady Ambrosia’s trailer and walked over to his own, pausing on the steps to look at Dante. They stared at each other for a moment. Then Dr. Celestine shooed him on in using the ‘Come-on-you-aren’t-the-type-who-is-afraid-of-a-fortune-teller-are-you?’ look.

Works every time.
-------------------------------------------------

There was a knock at the door of The Doctor’s trailer. His eyes popped open from his nap- had he dozed off? - And opened his door. “Yes?”

The old floor sweep, Mr. Kay, stood there with a bottle in his hand. “Mary said she’s done with this.”

“…so is Dante, I’m sure…” Said The Doc.

“Pardon?” He said, cleaning something from his broom.

“Nothing. Thank you, Mr. Kay.” The old man mumbled, bent over to pick up something trivial, and walked away. The ‘Good Doctor’ couldn’t tear his eyes from the bottle. She really went for the jugular, that Mary. But that was what made her so ‘special.’

“Well, well, well… he made it after all. “ Said the voice in his head.

He smiled. “I must admit… that was impressive.”

“As must I.” The little God said, jumping from his head and back into the bottle, “As must I.“ Dr. Celestine put the cap back on him and placed him back on the shelf. He turned around, looked at the floor, picked up the jar he had dropped and put it on his end table. Taking his cane in hand, he walked out into The Carnival to see where Dante might lead him next.

I watch as Dante reaches the show. Celestine walks away, by him, without a sound, without smile or frown. I hold the tent flaps open, and let Dante in. It is the first time he has ever entered my tent.
“I have to ask.” I say, straight-faced. I can smell his fear, but he is putting on a good show. That charming grin I love so much graces his face. His eyes are calm.
“Ask away.” He says, smiling.
“Are you sure?” I lead him towards the back.
Expansively, he says, “Of course.”
“I’m not pulling any punches for you.” I warn one last time, pausing at the back flaps.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
I lean in close and kiss him gently on the forehead, between the eyebrows. I smell the scent of his skin, and taste it on my lips. I can hear his heart beating. I give him a gentle hug, and whisper four little words in his ear.
He goes sickly pale, and blinks at me in shock. Before he can speak, I shove him hard, into the back, and let the flaps fall closed.

Dante hits the saw-dusty ground on hands and knees and looks up. Two things dawn on him immediately. One, that the back of the tent is at least three times bigger than it should be – cavernous. Two, that he is alone, and it is very dark in here.
We face our greatest fears alone.
There is just enough light to see that he is at the beginning of a long row of Cages. He begins his walk down the aisle, seeing that each Cage is gently lit by one small candle. As he passes each set of Cages, their candles go out with a soft “whoosh”. With each step, it becomes slightly darker.
From my position in the shadows, I can smell his fear. It is an acid tang in the air. I wet my lips and taste him again.
He should be able to hear the noise of the Carnival, but it is deathly silent in the tent. Even the echo of his footsteps are deadened. The tension spirals out, a long thin line like a nerve, as irritating as if some one is gently running a salt-dipped finger over that nerve.
He reaches his Cage.
Dante stands in the remaining glow of that lone, small candle, staring into the Cage. His expression slowly grows puzzled. He glances up, around, thinking he is missing something. Surely, this can’t be all there is. He glances behind him. “Is this it?” He says aloud, rolling his eyes. “All that melodrama for this?”
He faces and unimpressive Cage, standard iron bars, base at about knee level on a wood stand. It is a small Cage, door hanging open, only big enough to house the candle, and the bottle sitting in front of it. It is a half-full fifth of Kettle One vodka.
Even I am puzzled. Dante faced that demon long ago and won. He beat that demon before he ever heard of the Carnival.
He crouches down and reaches into the cage, pulling out the bottle. He uncaps it, sniffs it. Yes, it’s vodka. I can smell it from here. He tips the bottle slightly, staring into it, confused.
From the bottom of the bottle, a bubble forms and slides up through the clear liquid, popping at the top with a soft noise. With the pop, blackness spills into the liquid, filling it as if ink was being poured in. Dante thrusts the bottle to arms length, alarmed, a gasp at his lips.
Staring, eyes growing wider, he sees one twisted finger slide out of the opening of the bottle, clutching the rim. There is barely enough room for it to fit out. A second finger creeps out, and there is no room for it – how is it fitting out? It clutches the opposite rim. The bottle still holds nothing but the black liquid, and those two fingers snaking out of nowhere. A stench fills the air. I know that smell – it is the scent of failure. It smells like grease and food. Dante is trembling, but he clutches the bottle, eyes riveted to its rim, breath suspended.
Two more fingers, obviously the second fingers of a hand, impossibly slip out and clutch the rim, and now there is a grunting noise, a sound of effort. Is it – my God, a head, pushing it’s way out of the bottle like the magic act of birth, no way could it fit out – no way!
Like a djinn from a lamp, a baby from the birth canal, it pulls its way out. Dante drops the bottle, falling back on his ass as he recoils, spitting out a strangled cry of disgust and horror. Kicking at the dirt he flails back, staring at the creature half-out of the bottle. It is familiar, a younger version of himself – no –
“No!” Dante yells. “No!” Anger and fear in his tone – it reverberates through out the darkness. Not a younger version of himself, an older version of some one else, some one who bears a striking resemblance to him, twisted and demonized, bloated and lost, the resemblance is there –
“Hello, Daddy,” it hisses, and it’s voice is all childish innocence and blood clots.
Dante screams, high and wavering, face gone paper white, eyes huge and widening still.
His son reaches for him with claw-tipped hands, clutching his head. “I’m just like you, Daddy, just like you, just like you, JUST LIKE YOU!” It finishes on a howling note, dragging him forward and sinking back into the bottle, pulling Dante with him. “It’s all your fault!” It screams as it disappears. “ALL YOUR FAULT ALL YOUR FAULT ALL YOUR FAULT –“ Dante shrieks and shrieks and shrieks – I clap my hands over my ears and cannot block the hideous cacophony – there is a sharp, savage popping noise, and both are gone, the bottle laying there in the softly flickering glow of that cursed candle.
I dart two steps forward and freeze. I cannot interfere, but Jesus, oh Jesus, no --!
The bottle jumps, the liquid splashes, the bottle kicks again, and it’s suddenly jumping like popcorn kernels at the bottom of a pan of hot oil. It thrashes, liquid splashes, and I hold my breath in horror.
Now the bottle kicks and jumps maniacally, and I scrunch my eyes shut so hard color explodes on the backs of the lids; I cannot watch. High and tinny, I hear screams, faintly echoing out of the mouth of the bottle. I peek –
An arm thrusts itself from the mouth of the bottle, clutching at the dirt. Its nails scrabble for purchase, leaving claw marks in the ground. I watch as Dante drags himself from the mouth of the bottle, beaten and battered and clothes soiled and torn, one arm and legs still partially in the bottle. He has a hold of something. He pulls it out, and clutches –
A small, weeping boy to his chest, a cute, normal little boy, his son.
Throwing his head back he screams in a voice stretched taught with outrage: “CELESTINE! YOU PROMISED – NOT MY SON!”
And then, bursting into tears, he buries his face in his son’s hair, holding the little one to him whispering, “I love you, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe, it’s okay, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here …”
As he whispers, I watch the little boy fading, washing out, until he is just smoke, and drifts away.
Dante sits alone in the flickering light of that one wretched candle, bottle aside of him and forgotten, arms tight to his chest and weeping.
It is over. I may go to him, now. I kneel down and hold him gently, silently, while he cries out his horror on my chest. I murmur soothing nothings into his hair until his tears taper off. Finally, he pulls away and looks at me. I am frightened. I hope he doesn’t blame me. I no more control what lurks in the Cages than he controls the visions that sweep him in front of his canvas.
“You win.” I say quietly, and smile a beam of sunshine at him, proud, so proud. The darkness in the tent loses its oppressiveness, and now, he realizes, he’s back in an ordinary, dim tent.
I pull him to his feet, and lead him to the exit. I open the tent flaps wide and release him from the Freak Show’s clutches. He lingers momentarily, unafraid now. Of course he is unafraid. He has won. My tent can hold no more terrors for him. Silently, he hands me his golden ticket, and smiling, I place my mark upon it, blessing him on to his next challenge.
He touches my hair, leans, and kisses me. I am tempted to cry, but I suck it up.
He moves away, fingers trailing across my face, then turns and walks away. He doesn’t say a word to me, but that’s okay. He doesn’t have to.
I watch him walk away, and behind me, I hear a noise very like someone being forcefully diffed in the back of the head. I hear:
“We told you t’ pull yer punches, didn’t we?”
“Wot? Couldn’t ‘ave that, could we? The Lady’uv kicked me arse all over th’ tent!”
“Wot if he’d lost!”
The argument fades as the tent flaps fall closed behind me, and I drink deep of the good night air and take in the sound of the Carnival.
From the corner of my eye, I grin as I see Mr. Kay slipping out of the tent, bottle in hand.
“Tell Celestine thanks for the jar.” I say.
He glances at me, startled. “Oh! What? Of course!”
I’m not sure, but I think I see him sneak a drink, as he heads with the vodka bottle back to Celestine’s trailer.
All you need to defeat a demon is a little faith.
The four words I whispered to him?
“Your son loves you.” It’s all the faith I could give him.

Terry Pratchett wrote a book called “Small Gods”. One scene that seems to come to mind is our lead walking through a desert. All small gods in Discworld will eventually fade into nothing more than wisps of wind holding onto the hope that someone somewhere will once again believe in them, so that they may return and “live” once again. With all his books it is filled with painfully smug little puns and satire that always counterbalance the irony. But this wasn’t a Pratchett novel and there was no satire in James’s story.

As with all things when touched by the soul it changes. Sometimes a state of metamorphosis occurs. Not necessarily for the better or worse, just different. The inspiration I saw that was destined to be James’s had changed dramatically. And left a nasty taste in my mouth.

Celestine as a new “little god”…If that was the case then he had all of the believers he needed. We were here to fulfill his needs and curiosity with no care to our well-being. Some thing told me this was a true and false question with no correct answer. I had my doubts though. I had never known him to be nothing but caring. A little aloof in his meaning sometimes, but caring nonetheless. And if it were to be true, he was sure to know of James’ and my conversation. Few things of importance miss his wandering eyes. Once again I started to worry. What would he do? I was in his backyard and surrounded by his trained guardians. Things are not in my favor.

With all things considered I am doing well so far. Well actually…just making it.
James’ stand I went to first, with a reason and a plan. Whether or not it was a good plan…it was a plan. Who next? I am caught in a game I decided to play without realizing it would be my turn again. Once again I realize I’m screwed.

Throwing my brush into the air I decide there is no difference which one I choose next. They are all just as dangerous and rewarding. Being fairly confident in my abilities and my convictions I watch the horsehairs fall. Pointing to a part of the carnival I knew well. It was Bloody Mary’s freak show. Where stood Mary and Celestine just inside the door.

One must remember that all of the attractions are dangerous. And none of them can actually kill you…except this one.

Celestine is with her…Even though Mary is smiling. Neither is glad to see me.

It’s moments like these that test the mettle of your soul.
The man I love is approaching the Freak Show. I watch him strolling up, hands in pockets, eyes pleasant, but determined. I feel my heart skip beats, and my blood run cold, and my stomach fill with ice.

“Do you hate me?” Celestine had asked me.

“Not yet.” I had told him.

No, I didn’t hate him, foolish man. What fault of his was this? I don’t see a gun in his hands, at Dante’s head.

No, I didn’t hate him. He loved us, as a father loves his children. And sometimes a father does things which seem hurtful or cruel to the child, because they don’t understand. It was a tough love, but it was love.

What had I said, way back at the start? All it takes to defeat a demon is a little faith.

Odd, how my heart can be beating so hard in my chest, yet still be stuffed in my throat.

I have faith. I have faith in Celestine, or I wouldn’t be here. I have faith in Dante, but I’m not the one looking into the Cage.

Yet.

“Do your duty.” Celestine had told me. As if I would shirk it. If Dante fails, Celestine will have a thousand new pieces of my soul to stick in his jars and savor, but I will do my duty.

As much as I love him, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t need the Carnival. And he wouldn’t be at my tent if there weren’t a Cage in the back with his name on it.

He is almost here.

I glance at Celestine. He avoids my gaze. Despite the noise, all is silent for me. I am waiting to do my duty.
I don’t hate you, Celestine, but I wouldn’t mind giving you a good square kick in the ass about now.

I’ve watched people wander away from Mr. James’ stand, dazed, cradling a jar of something precious in their hands. And I’ve seen people like Aimee come away. I’ve watched Dante dash off a picture of brilliant color and blazing truth that stripped the scales off his customer’s eyes. I’ve watched the fiery efforts of his palette shred the illusions of the smugly insecure. I have watched the unlikely face down their Cage and come away strong and hale. And I’ve seen them falter.
Don’t let him falter.
Don't let him falter.

The doctor sat and stared at her so long without speaking that it became uncomfortable. Even for Mary. Her temper began to flare as the doc continued to stare. She had tried many attempts to provoke him, ask the right questions, whatever... but still nothing.
Finally, she snarled and practically roared at him, diving for his head.
He stood and smiled. She stopped immediately.
"Good. Now that I have your attention, you may begin. He is arriving shortly. Do your best. Do your worst. Do what you will. But never forget your duty."
She composed herself and tried to relax, but he had made his point and she was still fuming when she saw Dante approach.
Celestine walked to the entrance of the tent and shot over his shoulder; "Do you hate me?" He paused.
She steadied herself and smiled, fakely, walking to his side, still looking at Dante's approach.
"Not yet."
Celestine nodded and walked away, passing Dante. He neither had a smile nor a frown. Dante looked as though he would say something. Mary made sure to interrupt him with...

The cards never lie...

...but they can confuse the dance, muddle the mind and change a course of action into the wrong. But this time...*Lady Ambrosia shakes her head* no it cannot be. It was planly written and the vision was only for me, not for a customer.

I heard the piercing cry last night while in my tent settling down with a good book and a cup of tea. The cry was piercing, cold. It instantly chilled me and the warmth in the room was sucked out by such a force of fear and pain. Was this real or just merely a figmant of my imagination?

The cards, I must ask the cards. But no, they are vague at best. The water of sight...I tasted it and its bittersweet waters filled me, burned inside. I found myself caught and torn. Two animals, fighting-fleeing. But from what? From eachother, from themselves? It was a maze of light and darkness, overwhelming shadows. And then I awoke this morning to find myself in a huddled heap upon my floor, my shelves overturned and cup spilt of its contents. Thank goodness I didn't break anything. But I knew then, that it would be alright, that this pain outside would eventually pass, and that all would live.

Thank God for that.

As I locked up my trailer and booth and settled in for the evening, I heard a howl echo across the plains.

Mary knew.

For a moment, I was afraid, then I remembered the rules. She was as bound by them as I was. I looked out my window anyway, locking it, as though it would keep the bad things out, and I saw the Doctor walking away from my trailer.

Then I was afraid again.

He had heard everything. If I was wrong in what I told Dante, then the Doctor may think I was spreading lies about him, undermining the faith his friends, and I, put in him. If I was right...if I was right then he knew I knew now. And Dante. I wondered how such a creature as the Doctor might react to the sharing of his secrets. I thought I was safe, maybe, because Dante had won the information fairly. Maybe. But Dante was out there alone. Vulnerable, and walking into the Carnival's teeth.

For the first time in years, since my old life ended, I prayed. I prayed for the safe return of my friend, and for redemption for us all.

I did not sleep well that night.

The Doctor stood by the booth and watched Dante leave. He turned without a smile, without a frown, and walked to his trailer. Taking down a jar he sat with it and watched the cards within. They were 'welded' together face to face.

"Bravo, James, bravo... now, Dante... where shall you go next?"

He laughed to himself.

Little Gods indeed.

Adieu

-------------------------------------------------
"Far beyond a visible sign of your awakening failing miserably to rescue you sleeping beauty."

Sleeping Beauty by A Perfect Circle
-------------------------------------------------

"Aye, what's goin' on?" One voice, from a Cage, in the darkness.
"Some one from the Carnival is comin'." A second voice, a second Cage.
"Oooo, I likes that, I does. Them Carney folk tastes good." Low giggles. They don't sound happy.
"Whozit?" Another voice, low, gravelly.
"He's th' Lady's, he is." The second voice, again.
"Mary's? Th' one that's Mary's?"
"Yup-yup, that's who it is."
"Oooo."
"Somethin' wrong, lad?"
"Aye. Indigestion, I thinks."

"Before we show," I started, but was cut short when he flipped his cards, showing an eight.

"If this were blackjack, I'd say hit me." The joke was one I'd heard before. I didn't respond this time. Dante deserved better than my usual response.

I turned over my card, but I held it so that Dante couldn't see it. The moment stretched on, the pressure so strong that I could almost feel my ears pop. The Game wasn't over. Then I made a decision, and the Game ended. Victor and victim had been declared.

Dante reached up and wiped at the sheen of sweat on his brow, leaving a smudge of dust. He was waiting. "Congratulations," I smiled. "You win. But don't try this again, Dante. My heart isn't up to it."

"So..."

"Right. Your Prize. Come on into my trailer, out of the sun. I'll pour you a vodka cranberry and tell you a story about Dr. Celestine." He frowned at me, unsure for a moment. "Dante, I hear a lot of things here. I believe you once said...

My beloved Celestine, why must you spit bile in my face when I ask a question? Am I the only one who asks the hard questions? Am I the only one who is willing to test your mettle? I ask nothing but for the truth. Am I so wretched a creature for inquiring about you? For if you wish to lead, and you wish to give the inspiration, you must be willing to take and pass the trials of fire...

...did you not?" He blinked, surprised to hear his own words, in his own voice, coming from my lips. Under the table, I released my hold on the small beanie baby Myna Bird, a Prize I'd claimed a long time ago and occasionally found useful. His name was Mimicry. "These are the hard questions that my theory addresses. The trial of fire that the Doctor faced before the Carnival was birthed. Are you ready?"

"What if that wasn't the Prize I wanted?"

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's the Prize you need. Hindsight, you know."

"You can do that? Just...know what I need?" He seemed almost skeptical. But also almost hopeful. It seemed a shame to let him down.

"Nah. I just know a lot. Informed guesses and a little theatre. That, and after a while you get a feel for how the Game works. Come on in."

Once Dante was comfortably settled in, I closed up the booth and poured myself a drink, too. "Okay, Dante, bear with me. I've known or suspected most of this for a while, but I've never really put it into words before, so bear with me. If it seems like I'm rambling, I might be. Just don't call me on it until I'm done. It breaks my chain of thought.

"Once upon a time, a year from now or at the dawn of history, it doesn't make much difference, there was no Dr. Celestine. Then, he was the Celestial. This was his name because this was his definition. He was an emmissary of his Creator, a tiny god with few worshippers. This tiny god, while potent in his limited fashion, was not omniescent. Thus, while he could create a small world, and people it with incarnations of power and significance, people like you and me, when we're working the Carnival, he could not experience it himself. The tiny god knew he had created, and created well, but he could not see his creations, or talk with them, or know how they fared without him. Their prayers, if they had any could not reach him. So the Creator of this little realm went on to create the Celestial, and sent him there in his stead.

"You've heard of the Metatron? The Voice of God? The Celestial was much like that, except he primarily functioned as the Eyes of god. He was sent into the tiny world, which we will call Elsewhere, to enjoy it, as it were, and to see if it was good. When the Creator slept, the Celestial could speak to him in his dreams, and send back reports that all was good in Elsewhere. As it was, because, being a tiny god, the Creator had forgotten to include certain things. Things like pain. Oh, there was hurting, and discomfort, and sometimes, when the muses called for it, there was even death. But pain is different. It's subtle. And since the Creator had forgotten it, and had also created the Celestial, the Celestial didn't know it was missing. Still with me?"

Dante blinked, and sipped his drink for the first time since I'd started. "Are you saying the Doctor is an angel?"

"No. If a God created our world, the real world, it wasn't the same one that made Dr. Celestine. Our creators may be similar, but not the same."

"So he's immortal?"

"Probably not. He's an extension of his tiny god. When the one dies, as he will, someday, so might Elsewhere, and the Celestial, and possibly the Carnival. Though I fear the Carnival may be eternal. You and I work for a Carnival created by a creation of a discout-store diety. Nice, huh?"

Dante looked confused, but not as much as I'd feared. He was processing it, taking my words at face value, at least for now. I continued, "Now here's the kicker: the Creator knew pain. Deep, exquisite, emotional and spiritual pain. True anguish so intense it was almost a physical pain. Perhaps he went mad for a time. Perhaps he retreated into catatonia. But the Celestial didn't know about it. He sent dreams to the Creator about a place where true peace existed, for whoever could accept it. A place where friends were noble, and enemies were just friends you hadn't met yet, hadn't hugged yet. There was a touch of loneliness to these dreams, that made them very poignant. Because the Celestial was still connected to the Creator, he couldn't fully exist in Elsewhere. He was a bridge, a conduit, able to see one world, but only able to interact with the other, and then only with the dreams of he who made him. Even the locals in Elsewhere were probably unaware of the Celestial's existence. I would guess that the most he could do to communicate with them was to make them feel like their god approved of them and loved them.

"One day, the Celestial was...augmented. Made more real, and less. The Creator had withdrawn from his own world dangerously, and projected his awareness into Elsewhere. The Celestial was the conduit that made this possible, and it was a horrible experience for him. His god came to him, and entered him, and nearly destroyed him. His body was made real, and his voice could be heard, but the Celestial was reduced to a glimmer of awareness completely subsumed by the mind of his god. Thus, the Creator, when he dreamt of Elsewhere, could be there. The balance was tipped, and the impossible became possible.

"When the Creator was awake, the Celestial was with him then, too. Instead of being restored to himself in his god's abscence, he was pulled along with him into the real world, where dwell the gods. Imagine holding a soccer ball underwater. Let go. The ball doesn't just float back to the surface, it explodes up and out completely. The Celestial was like that, caught firmly in the grasp of his god until it was time to be submerged again. And it was awful for him, I'm sure.

"He finally got to see the home of his god, as an unnoticed glimmer in his eyes. Still subsumed, and unable to interact, but able to observe. He saw not only his god, but a world completely peopled with gods. And he saw that they were cruel to each other. And he saw that there was no love there, and no peace, not even for gods. And his god, his beloved Creator, was a wretched shell, broken and bent, utterly defeated by the world of gods. Days and weeks this continued, in the land of gods. In Elsewhere, it seemed an eternity. Or a moment. Time, too, was more forgiving there. The Celestial came to know his god well, and came to pity him without understanding him. His god was in pain, and he had no concept of it. So there he was, in bodiless limbo, unable to comfort his Creator, unable to call others to help him. In Elsewhere, in his dreams, the Creator reveled in good drinks, good friends, and a transcendent peace, and in the waking world of gods, he wandered, alone, in the multitude. Lonely. He withdrew more and more.

"Things may have gone on that way for some time, but eventually the Creator caught a break. A few of the other gods turned out to posess a shred of mercy, and the Creator found a core of strength he never knew he had. Perhaps it was the Celestial? Perhaps not. Whatever the case, the tiny god was able to stand up straighter, and cope with his existence a bit more, and he began to withdraw from Elsewhere. Not as much as before, because it was still a comfort to him. But for the Celestial, it was enough. Now he was solid still, but in control of himself. While the Creator slept peacefully for the first time in...well, in some time, the Celestial talked to the other denizens of Elsewhere, and told them of their maker. And because they were good folk, they had compassion for their god.

"The Creator, meanwhile, had had time to take an objective look at his homeworld, and decided that he didn't like it very much. It was cold and cruel, in a thousand spiteful ways, and he knew of a better place. He began to wish he could go to Elsewhere forever. Dante my friend, pray your God never learns to envy you.

"Bad things began to happen. The balance was sundered again, this time not by desperation or dementia, but deliberately. With intent. Forces you and I cannot concieve of, much less name, were shuffled between the worlds. The steps necessary for the god to abandon his higher plane were made, the doorway slowly assembled. I do not think the Creator would have been capable of this alone. He was, after all, a tiny god. I think he had another god or two help him. By tapping this other god's Creativity, as it were, his Creation could be enhanced.

"But certain fundamental laws apply to existence, in every tier. For the Creator to enter his Creation, an exchange had to be made. Unless the Creator could garner a lot more Creative energy, anyway. But he didn't need that much. He had the Celestial, even if he didn't know it. The mightiest of Elsewhere's denizens was ready when the doorway became real, and he entered the world of gods to escort the Creator home, while the Celestial anxiously awaited his cue. It would fall to him to take the Creator's place in the land of gods. How's that for a trial of fire, Dante? How's that?

"But. Tiny gods are weak. When the knock at the door came, and the Creator saw the Warrior who would be his honor guard had come for him, he knew fear. And doubt. When a god doubts his creations, Dante, what matters their faith? This is why I think the Creator had help to get this far, because without another god to believe in Elsewhere, it would have died then. As it was, the door slammed shut. The Warrior, being swift and true, made it back home before the protal was erased, but the Celestial, shocked and confused by his Creator's reaction, was locked here. In the real world, and outside his god.

"He followed his god for a while, and this was the Celestial's darkest time. For, seeing him from the outside, the Celestial came to know the tiny god for what he was. Just a man. A man who'd had a hard life, and too much imagination. And too much pain. Yes, the Celestial came to know pain then. He could not comprehend it, but he could, with effort, concieve of the concept.

"That doens't make sense. If you can't comprehend something, even the concept should be beyond you," Dante interrupted, just like I'd told him not to. Still, I was as in awe of the tale as he was, so I let it slide. The Game was speaking through me now, and I had to go with it.

"Black holes. Childbirth. The sound of one hand clapping. Get it? That's what pain was...is...to the Celestial. A frightening, obscure idea, something that can't happen to him, but that he wants to understand. Folllow?"

Dante nodded, and waved at me to get on with it. "Eventually," I said, pacing now, "the Creator got past his fear. He'd been shown proof that his Elsewhere was real, even if it was a different sort of real than he'd known before, and so his faith returned. And grew, far beyond what it had been before. He shared the story with other gods, and eventually journeyed there. I think he returned, since Elsewhere's nature is that it would have helped him to heal himself, until he no longer needed to be there. But that doesn't matter. We're talking about the Celestial.

"The Celstial learned a lot in the time between the Warrior's coming and the return of the Creator's faith. So much that he felt he'd earned a Doctorate in World of the Gods-ology. Thus his new name, Doctor Celestine. He figured out what Elsewhere lacked and what the gods had in plenty, what made them gods. Pain. Now, while the Dr. had only a vague understanding of pain, he knew that it was the key. He knew those men who harnessed their pain consciously or unconsiously became gods. And knowing this, he decided to stay in the world of gods, as one of them. When the Creator finally journeyed Elsewhere, the Celestial tapped part of the energy used and made for himself a physical form, his first, really. He wandered the world, watching humanity wallow in its pain, and he did envy them, and he did love them. Some, he helped work past their pain, and they came to love the Doctor, too. Others, he took their pain away from them, literally, and they loved him even more. Others, who particularly impressed him, he inflicted greater pain upon them, effectively empowering their godhood, in his eyes. Sound familiar, Dante?

"That's how he got the Carnival. All the workers here, and how they came to love him so. Either he took their pain away, and kept it in a jar in his trailer, or he helped them master their pain themselves. And people like you and I, and Mary, and Violent Clay? We're the ones with extra special pain. For me, it's the Game. I suffer every night my booth is open, agonizing over who to bless and who to curse, and wondering how I can live with myself when the Game slips my control. And it is wrong, often. I have Prizes on my shelf like Faith, and Mercy, and Honesty, and Innocence. These are not things that should be taken from people; not like Greed, and Lust, and Violence, although I've got those, too. Until some luckless bastard wins them. Dante, do you realize that for every person who walks away from here a winner...it means someone else, before, lost. That is the pain the Doctor gave me, and the godhead that comes with it. Think of your own vision, the torments you see every moment, the things you have to put on your canvas lest you go mad yourself. The secrets you paint that you have no right to know about complete strangers. That's your pain. And your blessing. And Bloody Mary? The pretty girl who lives among freaks? She has pain, too. Perhaps when you go there, she'll tell you why you and she can never go out on nights of the full moon."

Dante sat in stunned silence, absorbing what I'd said. So did I. When I'd made the bet with Dante, I hadn't know the half of this. But when the words began flowing, the ideas just seemed to come. Hardly a surprise, considering the grief and anguish I'd felt when Dante had given me that golden ticket. What did this make me? Was I still human? I was working for a living figment, with the ability to transform pain into power. What had he transformed me into? What had I let him do to me? What had I asked him to? Had I begged?

After a long, long time, Dante shakily lit two cigarrettes and handed me one. I gratefully took it. "What about the jars in his tent?" he asked. "I always thought they were, well, you know..."

"Souls?" I asked, still slightly distracted by my own revelations. Or fictions, I couldn't help but think. I could be wrong. The Game is sometimes wrong, and the bet was not cleary lost. I'd fudged. Not cheated, really, not even I could cheat the Game, but...

"Yeah. Souls. Dr. Celestine's Carnival of Souls." Dante didn't like the idea of the Doctor keeping pickled souls in his trailer any more than I did. It seemed...evil. The Doctor wasn't evil, all you had to do was meet him and you'd know that. He was innocent and loving, and he was big-hearted and generous, and utterly unlike anyone in today's world had any right to be. But he wasn't evil. Dante was asking me to tell him that. He wanted it to not be souls. So did I. but I had a bad thought just then.

"What is pain, Dante? If I were to take away your pain, all of it, what would be left?" He was silent, watching the plume of smoke rise from the burning ember he held in front of him. Thinking. I continued, thinking out loud, "Pain defines us. For a good soul, pain is the reason to be a better person, to ease the discomforts of those around us, lest they suffer what we have had to endure. For a wicked soul, pain is the reason to jealously guard what little we have, to take or steal whatever we can, and to destroy what might hurt us more. Pain is a reward, and a punishment. Remember Hank? When the Doctor filled his jar with...that...Hank went from a homicidal, desperate, lovelorn psycho to a mellow, trustworthy, somewhat dimwitted schmoe. He doesn't even remember who Aimee is anymore, much less why he was willing to kill for her. The thought of Aimee caused him pain, and that pain was taken away. People he'd loved had called him shit once, and that pain was taken, too. And the determination and drive those pains had given him, the will he'd posessed to change the world because of the pain that it had inflicted on him, that was taken too. Granted, he wanted to use that will to shoot me, but still. Do you see? In losing his pain, he lost all that was Hank! Pain is life. Pain is power. Pain is what gives every little thing in our lives meaning! Pain is what the Doctor longs to comprehend, and what he collects. The Carnival is his laboratory, in which he conducts experiments in pain, conducts symphonies in pain, gathers great quantities of it and distributes it like grain when it suits him. If the soul is made of anything...I think it's made of pain."

Dante pondered my words. And they were my words, too. The Game had stopped talking through me just before he'd asked about the Doc's jars. I decided not to share with Dante my doubts, or my reasons. I just waited. When his cigarrette had burned down to the filter, unsmoked in his hand, he got up. I produced his ticket, and placed my mark on it. Dante took it, nodded.

"I hope you're wrong."

Me, too, I thought. "Could be," I said. "It's just a theory, remember?" Like Relativity.

"Yeah." Dante left my trailer.

I decided not to reopen again. Even though the sun was just setting, it had been a long night already. I went to the counter and picked up Dante's cards, and pondered the eight. After a moment's thought, I tacked it up on the sideboard, as a reminder of the day Dante came to play. I picked up my card.

Dante, I had decided, had won the Game.
The Game, grudgingly, had let me decide that. I think. I wish I were sure, because then I'd know how accurate my "theory" really was. If I were sure that I'd lost, then I'd be sure that Dante was out there, alone, in the Carnival, armed with truth instead of lies.

Dante's card had beat mine by seven.
I had a one.

There are days that you can feel it all going on.

The breezes carry th wrong scents. The laughter is blowing from the freak show instead of the child's rides. The sound from the children's quarter? Animals.

It all makes a strange sense to me, though.

I have to sit back and watch. It's one of my voyeristic duties.

Dante is my friend.

I want to help.

I really do.

And I am.

Follow it through, boy.

Show me.

Adieu

-------------------------------------------------
"Try harder. Try again!"

Brandon Lee in The Crow
-------------------------------------------------

...An eight. I had remembered my grandmother once telling me about a hand called a dead mans hand. It had eights in it.. Either way it was a middle of the road card.
I am the focus of the font of creativity now. This does come with certain advantages.
But there was no way I could tell James that I saw his theory forming from the ethers as it passed by. I couldn’t explain to him that it was part of what had struck me just shortly before. I was playing for information I had already seen.
I remember one night when James had to help drag me down two flights of steps across a worn path in the grass, back up two sets of stairs, and “gracefully” place me within my apartment. All because I had drank more than was reasonable in a minute period of time. The same look of pity was there in his eyes asking me of what I had been thinking when I started. It was a terrible squeeze I had put upon luck in his opinion. He didn’t have to say anything. This was his game, and I was the interloper.
I focused the question in my mind as he looked at my card. I made my little quite remark as I always did after drawing apparent trash at card games. Thoughts passed through my mind of a time long ago playing cards with him and some lady friends of ours. His playing was outstanding with a couple of drinks in him, and he was all laughs. Gesturing as if never holding anything only to pull the hand out and expose what would lead into the ladies frustration and wild laughter from my side of the table. I loved James for his companionship and his ability to draw the worst and best out of me at the most appropriate times. He was my friend.
But James was all business now. There was no booze involved. There were no ladies involved, nor was there any laughing. Most importantly, at this moment he was not my friend. Now it was for all or nothing.
I looked down at the card I had drawn, knowing it was exactly what I had wanted.
I was not about luck. I had to know if the inspiration of a theory I had saw was supposed to be seen by me.
James flipped his card...

Bloody Mary looked up, squinting into the descending sun, to see Dante walking by. She stood, and began to call out to him, and then the dying sun caught his hand. A bright glint of gold flashed in Mary's sight, and her blood turned to ice in her veins. Her stomach rolled, and her voice caught in her throat. "Oh, God, no," she thought.
The other Freaks saw her stricken face and looked. They saw Dante, gold ticket in hand, advancing towards the Game booth. They looked to Mary, pity, sympathy on their faces. They knew what the gold ticket meant. A few soft sighs, the gentle hand on her shoulder, the half-hug around her waist from Bernard. "It'll be okay, sweetie," he says softly.
"What's going on?" Aimee demands. At the sound of her high, broken voice, Mary turns with a snarl, and there is murder in her eyes, gone feral with fear.
Someone catches her shoulders, just in time, and she jerks away, whirling to face --
Dr. Celestine.
"Take it back," She whispers, tears horrible in her wolf's eyes. "Make him stop."
"I can't." He says gently. "You know that, Mary." There is such pity in his eyes. He knows, too, what this means. Dante is strong. He will eventually find his way here, to the Freak Show. Mary will have to escort her Love into the back, into the darkness, to face the Cages.
She pulls away, body taught with tension, fists clenched, holding something back. There is fire and fear and anger in her eyes.
She twirls, fleeing into the tent. For a moment, there is silence, and then the long, horrid sound of canvas ripping. The metallic crash of folding chairs flung together, short grunts and shrieks of fear and grief and rage, and the Freaks, and even Celestine, back away from the tent. Celestine fingers the bottle in his pocket, wondering if will be neccessary, wondering if even Violent Clay would be enough to hold Bloody Mary in all her rage. The noise from the tent increases as havoc is wreaked, and the shrieks grow, lifting, spiraling up into the deepening twilight.
All over the Carnival, patrons stop as the sound reaches them. They are nervous, reassuring themselves that it is only one of the caged animals. But how an animal could inject such horror into it's voice is a wonder. Such grief. The howl twines on into the night, echoing, growing, full-throated wolfsong trails over the Carnival, and somewhere James pauses in his shuffle to look up, and then briefly at Dante, before continuing.
At the tent, the Freaks start as a great brown blur explodes from the back of the tent and flees, almost faster than the eye can follow. Then, silence spins out long.
"What's going on?" Aimee asks again.
"Are you so stupid?" Martino hisses at her. "Dante is going to Mr. James. I'm sure you know what that means!" He lifts a hand as if to strike, then drops it. What would be the use? She couldn't possibly understand. "God damn it. I suppose we're done for the night, then."
"What do you mean?" Bernard snorts. "The show must go on, with or without her."
Celestine, still gazing after the long gone fleeing shape, looks down in approval. "That's right, Bernard. Make yourselves ready. She'll be back in the morning, and you've only one show tonight." With that, he walks away, welcoming smile back on his face, as he goes to work his crowd. Bernard shakes his head, then looks up to the Freaks. "Well, hop to it, then! The show must go on!" He begins to usher them in, to clean up the tent. Pausing, he looks up at Martino. "Best she's gone to work it off, I supposse. She'll need her wits about her when he gets here."
"You think he will?" Martino asks doubtfully.
"Of course. God is too cruel to spare her that." Bernard shakes his head regretfully.
"Well, all I know is some cattle farmer is going to be pretty pissed, come morning." Says Martino, then follows Bernard into the tent.
The flaps swish gently closed behind them, and far off, only barely heard, by only one, over the Carnival noise, a long howl rings. Celestine pauses briefly shaking a hand, then goes back to his work.

It was a Friday, and our first day in a new town. Someplace in Oklahoma, I think. Lots of flat landscape on the road in. Kansas, maybe. It was early still, not even dark out yet, and there were only a few locals out and about. This early, my Games tend to be neglected. People want to see the show in the Big Top first, or try out the rides. No, I get most of my trade when the day is long gone, when the customers have tried everything else and are desperate for one, last, thrill. Or, when they feel they've been searching for too long in vain for whatever they think they need. Then, in despair, they come to me to play a Game.

I was sitting behind my counter, reading a Terry Brooks novel, trying to figure out why he sells so many of them when a shadow crossed my page. I looked up. "Dante!" The book forgotten, I heartily shook my friend's hand. "What brings you here?" I'm often busy tending my booth, or one of the other tents, but my job is less taxing than Dante's. I work the marks, and count the money afterward. Dante creates art, and displays it in his tent, Dante's Divine Gallery. I offer risk and gain, wagers and loss to those who visit the Carnival. Dante offers something more precious and terrible by far: insight. He puts his visions on canvas, and that can't be done while locals are watching over his shoulder. So it's when I'm free, that Dante is busy doing his most taxing works. We don't see each other often enough. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

Dante doesn't meet my eyes when we shake hands. And when I pull my hand back, there's a golden ticket in it.

"Oh. It's like that, is it?" I drop the ticket in the slot on the countertop, and now it's me who can't meet Dante's gaze. Once given, a golden ticket cannot be returned. Dante had come to play the Game.

"I want answers," he says. Have you got a jar with that in it?" I put on my green plastic visor, and tugged a garter up my sleeve to rest over my bicep. I want to respond to that, but I don't. When that ticket came into my hand, Dante stopped being a friend and a coworker, and became a customer. In this, my duty is clear.

"Sir, I've heard a little about you. You're a man with vision, am I right?" Dante looked confused for a moment, and then he remembered the rules, too. I'm sure my reget showed on my face, not that it mattered. "A man whose vision is frustrated, obscured, and a man who wants...clarity."

"Yes. The Doctor has rebuked my requests for..."

"I know. That is an expensive prize, sir. And not one that can be found in a jar. Not even in the Doctor's trailer. No, the story you search for may not even exist. But I have a theory."

Dante smiled in apparent relief. "Well, a theory can't set me back much, can it? Very well, let's play. I want your theory, Mr. James. What should I bet against it?"

I frowned at him. "Don't think it small just because it's a theory, Dante. Relativity was a theory, too, and it changed the world. Just like this one can change your world. Just like it changed mine. You don't want to risk this. Why don't we play for something else? Like for who buys the drinks at dinner in town tomorrow?"

Dante just shook his head gravely. I understood. He'd come too far already, risked too much to turn back now. He wasn't going to back out now, he was saying, and I had to respect that. Sometimes I envied Steven, or Mary, or Dante. Their attractions were things of import, like mine, with hidden significance and power, like mine. But they had control over theirs. Steven the Ringmaster chose who he pulled from the crowd, what acts he called and in what order. Mary tended her freaks with care, and gained as much from their friendship as her audience lost in each show. Dante decided in advance what meanings his paintings would contain. All I had was the Game, and the Game has its own rules. What Dante was aksing for had a terrible price, and I didn't want to risk exacting it.

"Very well. My theory, against your creativity. Those are the terms."

We stood there, looking across the counter at each other, and I felt something in our friendship die. I wanted to scream, to weep, to give him what he needed because he was my friend, but I didn't. I was the tender of the Game and this was what that meant. I would probably always tend the the game, because I wouldn't wish this on my greatest enemy, if I had one. So there I stood, stoic and firm, and challenged my best friend to risk his defining trait for something that may or may not be true. Sometimes I hate Doctor Celestine. Times like this, in particular. In his innocence, he has no idea what his Carnival does to those of us who live in it. What prices we pay. Dante had been damned by his vision, his only outlet his paints. To lose that outlet would destroy him.

"I accept," he said. Damn.

I took an empty jar from beneath the counter, and placed it to my left. It would be the receptacle of my Prize when Dante lost. To my right, an empty spot on the counter, where his Prize would sit. It made me feel like a tyrant, rubbing his nose in the foolishness of his wager, but that's my job. Shit. Why'd he have to go get a ticket? Why couldn't he just have asked me? Because I probably couldn't have told him, I suppose.

"What'll it be? Dice? Coin? The Wheel?" Dear God, not the Wheel. I always win on the wheel.

"Cards." Oh, good choice, Dante. You were always better at cards than I was. Of course, I've had a lot more practice since joining the Carnival, but it's still a wise move. Now I could look at his face, and what I saw saddened me. Disappointment. Betrayal. Fear. And determination. That's right, Dante, sometimes I lose.

I removed a fresh deck of Hoyle's, and offered it to Dante to inspect. He refused, as he usually did. I was reminded of that night, years and years ago, hanging out at Dante's house and playing strip Euchre with those girls.... Then I got back to business. I unwrapped the cards, and removed the key and the jokers. An automatic I fed the deck through an automatic shuffler, twice, shuffled it by hand. Dante shuffled it as well, twice, and set it down between us. All this was done in silence, without any of the snappy patter that usually accompanies my Game. "We cut the cards, sir. High card wins. Would you like to go first, or shall I?"

"That's it?"

I shrug. "I could think of something more complicated, but it's hard to keep the odds even that way."

"No, this is fine. You first."

I closed my eyes, and pictured a deuce. I reached out to cut and I hesitated. I could feel the Game. A sense of pressure, as though somewhere nearby a barometer was having second thoughts. Time seemed to slow, and I felt a decision being made. I took a small cut, and lifted the top card and placed it face down in front of me. Dante considered, and took the rest of the cards, effectively taking the bottom card as his choice.

"Before we show," I started, but was cut short when he flipped his cards, showing an eight.

"If this were blackjack, I'd say hit me." The joke was one I'd heard before. I didn't respond this time. Dante deserved better than my usual response.

I turned over my card.

Have you ever wondered what it was like to be the rat in the maze? Or better yet, the cheese at the end? One must ask them selves what is the difference. Is one the test subject, or the other?
I had been walking around the carnival. As quite often I do. Not a lot of people seem to have an interest in the Arts when at the shows. They would rather gamble everything at the booths, get their fortunes told, or just plainly have the hell scared out of them by something they call a misfit. Few realize that all of the above are present in the Gallery.
We wouldn’t expect them to. They wouldn’t actually come in if they knew what each portrait had in store. Nonetheless it gave me a privilege the others were not so free to enjoy. A chance to reflect upon ones own self with out the “privilege” of granting someone else insight.
I had for as long as I could remember, known that my attraction best suited me. My artistic skills had always been one of my strongest points. But this carnival wasn’t about placing you in an arena where you were given the upper hand. This also left me in suspicion why everyone else had his or her particular shows.
Now walking around the grounds is safe (as long as our favorite clown isn’t having a bad day). Even talking to the other members can be done with a commodity of safety. Oh, woe to the individual who tries another attraction. It’s not your ground. You are as much a “customer” as you are a “prize”. Even my Gallery has dangers. More then one individual has added a new color to my collection or even worse if my partner gets to do the piece for them. I fear I would have a whole new palate.
I’ve seen people walk away from Celestine’s trailer with their jar. And I remember them coming thru my Gallery. I merely handed them the next grade ticket and smiled. Just then it struck me in the face. Not quite like a bat or anything, just in realization. Celestine had handed me a ticket when I first arrived an eternity ago. Finding it on my own was impossible. I had been told so and as always I believed him. There was only one way to recover a ticket. Get one from the ticket master.
From the back of my head I knew this must be done, but common sense was a voice almost as loud…. almost.
The Ticket Master had a small booth in which he stood. A small but nice gold and red velvet box with a “Pokey Man” sticker on the side rest upon the counter. He wore a white jacket that accented the bright pink “Hello Kitty” watch he wore. With his hair pulled back and a grin on his face he asked, “so what can I do for you?”.
“I’ve come for my ticket” I replied. His eyes narrowed and lifting an eyebrow he began to open the red box. From within he pulled a small silver bell and handed it to me.
“ If you want to “go in” you have to ring the bell your self.
As instructed I gave it a little jingle and immediately went cold. He knew…The Doc now knew. The anxiety was horrifying. I had not long to wait though, for within a few moments I could see Celestine coming.
“Eager aren’t we?” and like a little magic trick he pulled a ticket out of the air.
“Thank you” I said
“I will need your brushes,” he said.
“Why” I replied.
“ We can’t allow the Gallery to go unattended now can we” he stated innocently.
Handing over my brushes I knew who it would be. The only other person who could…. my partner. Nothing was home turf now. I was screwed. And worst of all I had done it my self.
I figured if I had any shot it would be Mr. James’ booths. Lady Luck has always been my bitch . But I’ve heard that James has been taking her out a lot lately……