Nightmare Carnival

CORPSE ROSE by Terry Dowling

Not counting the viewports in whatever Apollo CSMs were attached to it during its short active life, Skylab only had the single window in its main wardroom. And when the mission crew finally departed in 1974 and the first US space station was officially abandoned in space at last, the light of Earth shone through that window for more than five years before the station fell from orbit in July 1979, lighting a chill silence broken only by the vagaries of temperature and the occasional peppering of microparticles against the hull, sounding in whatever unvented gases remained, in many ways the noises most human habitats make. For a time Skylab became the newest kind of haunted house, though all stories of the face peering in that solitary window — and, worse yet, peering out — are merely that, stories, with no possible basis in fact. But peering in or out, it is one of the world’s oddest supra-urban myths: this notion of a face in the wardroom window of Skylab before it fell and, yes, as it fell.

— Heinrich Fleymann

The day Jeremy Scott Renton turned eleven, a circus ran away to join him.

Not all at once, mind, but the thirteen members of the Corpse Rose Heirloom Carnival and Former Circus (to give it its full name) came to check him out and give their approval, arriving secretly in their ones and twos, never making a fuss, never drawing too much attention. They stayed long enough for the troupe to gather once more, doing the usual mufti work in bars, stocking supermarket shelves, cleaning swimming pools until they had finally assembled, all thirteen, then confirmed him as theirs and them as his, and went their various ways again.

Every single one had to approve, of course, theirs being one of the seven great lost and hidden carnivals of the world. Things were done differently in the Heirloom Carnivals, or the Sly Carnivals as they were sometimes called — and the Corpse Rose Heirloom Carnival and Former Circus followed the old protocols to the letter.

As for Jeremy Scott Renton — Jem to his friends — he wouldn’t learn that it had happened at all for another twenty-five years, eleven days after a carefully placed operative persuaded both a doting grandmother and fond older sister in Perth that a round-trip ticket on the Indian-Pacific and a week at Cottesloe Beach would be the perfect birthday gift for a thirty-six-year-old grandson and younger brother just back from five years with the Australian Design Council in London. The Indian-Pacific running from Sydney to Perth via Adelaide was one of the remaining great train journeys in the world, all 2,698 miles of it, and it seemed like a grand idea.

Jem had five weeks’ leave owing and was glad to spend part of it with his west-coast kin before settling down to his new posting. He thoroughly enjoyed the Sydney to Adelaide leg of the journey and had every expectation of enjoying the longer haul across the vast Nullarbor Plain as well. Outback Australia was one of the no-time, slow-time places of the world and, by association, so too was the inside of the Indian-Pacific when it made that crossing.

It was when the train made its customary stop at the not-quite-ghost-town of Cook, 513 miles northwest of Port Augusta in the middle of the Nullarbor, population anything from four to fifteen on an Indian-Pacific day, that what had been set in motion twenty-five years before reached the end of this particular recruitment phase, and the next part of the old Sly Carnival spell that had planted the seed of an idea with grandmother and sister was engaged.

Jem was standing with a hundred or so other passengers by the trackside stalls and pull-up shopfronts, stretching his legs in the heat and glare and examining the souvenir tea-towels, velveteen cushion covers, and other handcrafts with half a mind of getting something for his Gran. The long blast of a car horn made him look up to see a battered old Jeep Cherokee arrive in its cloud of dust, making him immediately think that some last-minute passenger was joining the train.

Jem noticed two things then: the weathered, thirty-something brunette in work shirt, jeans, and boots who climbed out from behind the wheel, a tall, solidly built woman — statuesque was the word — and the motif on the vehicle’s door: a coffin with a bright red rose laid across it, with maybe half a dozen words underneath.

It was that motif — coffin and rose inside its faded rondel — that did it, triggered an all-purpose compulsion spell, what’s called an obligato in the old Sly Carnival speak.

When the Indian-Pacific pulled away twenty minutes later and the town settled back into its usual silence — just the murmur of the tea-towel brigade packing up and the sound of crows and currawongs out on the flats — Jem was standing beside the track, and more than happy to climb into the Jeep alongside the woman and set off into the northwest.

He wasn’t thinking too clearly right then, but it was his first official contact with the Corpse Rose Heirloom Carnival and Former Circus.

They were ten minutes along a dirt road stretching across land as flat as a table when he finally drifted back.

“How did you manage that—?”

“Mally,” she said, warmly enough. She had a tanned, pleasant face, a good smile. “Short for Millicent Quinn, at your service. We’ve got tricks we can use.”

“I’ll say. I don’t feel pissed off but know I should.”

“Part of the package. You can get even later.”

“Figure you won’t let that happen. So where we going again?”

Mally gave him a long hard look. “Usually we just say you’re going to a carnival for a day or so, and leave it to what we call an obligato to keep it foggy for the sake of a quiet drive out. But Mr F. said you’d probably be special, and I could make up my own mind. We’re going about a hundred miles or so.”

“So the name on your door there? The Corpse Rose Heirloom Carnival and Former Circus. What’s with the Former part? How does that work?”

“Once the animals are gone a circus automatically becomes a carnival. That’s what Mr Fleymann says, though there’s no single ruling. Gipsy carnivals do it different. Taureg carnivals.”

“Are there Gipsy carnivals? Taureg carnivals?”

“Hard to say. Put up a tent. Tell a fortune. Juggle some balls. When does it become official? Sometimes there’s a clear business plan. Sometimes it’s just passed on.”

“The heirloom part.”

“See. You’re getting the hang of it already. Mr F. did pick well this time.”

This time, Jem noted, but wanted to keep it light, get his bearings. He wasn’t in the train anymore. Something extraordinary had happened yet didn’t feel like it. He knew that should bother him as well, his lack of concern, but felt no alarm whatsoever, which, somewhere back in there, was dimly, remotely troubling. It had to be what Mally had said, part of the package.

Jem went along with it, sat scanning the distances. “So, hey, look where we are.”

“Exactly. Can’t think of a better thing for making a body really see the world than flying at three thousand feet or spending time in a desert.”

“Unless it’s spending time at a carnival in a desert.”

Mally struck the steering wheel in agreement. “Right you are, Jem Renton!”

“Or maybe flying over a carnival in a desert in the middle of nowhere. That’d really make you curious, really make you want to go down and check it out.”

Mally’s grin held but she gave him another hard look, as if he had just said something profound, then went back to playing her own part in keeping it light. “Works for us, Jem. Never short of people dropping by.”

“So why out here?”

Mally kept her eyes on the road. “Now that’s the question. Part of it’s about words. Names for things. Where they come from. What they mean. How you say them.”

“Like Heirloom.”

“There you go. Used to be the name for an important family entitlement. Something passed on in trust. From the word for a tool, an instrument. Ask Mr F.”

“Right. And Corpse Rose?”

“What it says. Plant a rose bush on someone’s grave and you get a very strong-smelling rose. Very sweet. Beauty from corruption. A special fragrance with a hint of carrion, some say, but that’s nonsense.”

Jem considered that, then gathered his thoughts enough to ask: “Mally, why am I here?”

“Can’t say too much, Jem, but some people have a special gift they’re never aware of. The thirteen in our troupe, well, it’s our job to find these gifted ones, set up ways to bring them to us and use that gift while it’s good and strong. They enable us, see, let us do what we do.”

“And I have this gift? This power?”

“Right.” And she told him how he had been chosen all those years ago, appointed, seconded, whatever it was, making it seem casual but no doubt proceeding according to a careful script.

Jem sat smiling and nodding in the pleasant buzz of wheels on sand, sun on his face, and accepted it all. These sorts of things had to happen all the time. People just never knew.

But he made himself keep at it. “So once they’ve found someone, what do these old Heirloom Carnivals do? Apart from running away to join people.”

Mally grinned again. “Like that, do you? Well, for a start we keep some things to ourselves. We appreciate things done right, using the old traditions. There’s at least one Sly Carnival on every continent, tucked away, making do, getting by, can you believe it? Lots of friendly competition.”

“And what? They stay hidden?”

“Enough people find them.”

“You’re not telling me much.”

“Just what so many words do, Jem. Don’t tell you much. Make you go deeper. But you’ll see for yourself. Not long now.”

For the rest of the drive it was just flat horizon in every direction under a hot blue sky, long sweeps of red earth, stretches of sand and salt pan, scraps of saltbush and bluebush on what modest dunes and ridges there were. Then there was a crusting of something off to one side, a few uncertain shapes that grew to be a clustering of tents and vehicles near what might have once been a watercourse of some kind.

Mally pulled up, opened her door, and jumped out. “I’ll go find Mr Fleymann and tell him you’re here,” she said, and set off amid the tents.

Jem sat a while listening to the day, watching the spot where she had disappeared. It occurred to him vaguely that he should call his Gran and Lucy, though he felt little urgency about that. Still, he was missing from the train. When he did try Lucy’s number there was no signal, hardly surprising, so no way to check in, check facts, confirm terms like Heirloom and Corpse Rose, the rest of the world for that matter. And Mally had taken the keys. He really was cut off from everything.

Except this.

Jem didn’t like the feeling it gave him. It made him decide that, since Mally hadn’t actually told him to stay in the car, he’d take a look around. If this was all he had then he’d have it.

He opened the door and started toward the tents. As far as he could tell there were maybe ten in all, three impressively large, the size of modest family homes, the rest no larger than the average one-car garage. No real fairway running between either; it was much more haphazard than that, more a series of narrow alleys snaking between guy-lines to where some well-used caravans, a few vans, and two weathered SUVs were parked.

Jem studied the scene, listening for voices. The tents stirred in the afternoon breeze, bellying now and then so the entry flaps showed glimpses of darkness. Sand hissed against the canvas. Stays thrummed a little, but as the softest, listen-or-you’ll-miss-it sound.

It was starting to spook him, though Jem told himself that thirteen in the troupe didn’t mean they were necessarily on site. Maybe they were off in a town somewhere or sleeping out the hottest part of the day. The effect was of no-one-at-home quiet, but he sensed he was being watched all the same, that if he turned quickly enough he’d see someone before they pulled back out of sight, maybe catch them peeping out of tents.

At least Mally’s Jeep was still where she had left it. At least there was one other person besides himself.

Had been.

So where on earth was she? Going to find Mr Fleymann, she’d said. Surely no finding was involved, although, going by what she’d said about words, maybe there was.

We appreciate things done right.

Jem shook his head, worried by how easygoing, how unworried he kept feeling about all this. He’d been abducted, tricked, conned. Things were seriously wrong, though it all seemed harmless, no big deal.

And maybe they wanted him to get a sense of the place on his own, check out the different tents, see which ones he’d try. There weren’t that many. That had to be it.

Part of the package.

He moved toward the caravans, taking the alleyway with at least four tents opening onto it. They all had signage of some kind, wooden display boards above the entrance flaps, though most with words so faded he could only make out the nearest. THE WAIT, it said in bleached gold on weathered blue, which made him chuckle since that was exactly what he was doing. Still, hardly the name for your usual fairground attraction.

Maybe the Tauregs and Gipsies did better.

Jem was summoning up the nerve to enter, actually reaching to lift the flap, when Mally appeared at the entrance to the last tent in the row, the big one nearest the vehicles.

“Jem, over here! Come meet the boss!”

He waved in acknowledgment, as if he were the one who had chosen to interrupt his train journey and pay a visit. He stepped over guy-lines to the largest tent of the lot, probably the closest thing to a big top the carnival had. There was no signboard above the entrance this time.

When Jem stepped inside he saw two masts supporting the canopy, though, again, there was no sign of Mally. It was frustrating, annoying somehow — welcome feelings after the buzz of the drive out from Cook. The world was slowly becoming real again, his again. He blinked, kept allowing that he was being tricked, not seeing people who were right in front of him. The space looked completely empty but for a large display case between the masts, an old waist-high museum-style thing on four wooden legs, the size of a kitchen table, glass top and sides lit from above by a powerful spotlight that created a dazzling pool of light where it stood.

The obvious thing to do, the only thing really, was go see what it contained. Which had him smiling again. All part of the show.

The case held a model of the carnival itself, miniature versions of the tents, caravans, and vehicles, even Mally’s Jeep, showing the alleys running between, the adjacent sand flats, the tiniest tufts of scrub. The spotlight was like the blazing sun outside, and Jem could even imagine the tents stirring ever so slightly in an impossible breeze. It looked so real that it made him wonder if he’d be shown in the diorama if he stepped outside again, which meant he’d have to be out there for it to happen, of course, which meant he could never be in a position to see it. But that was the sense he got, that he’d be shown, that it was all shown in miniature here: a lizard scurrying by, a bird flying through.

“That’s us,” an elderly male voice said, and Jem looked up into shadow to see Mally standing with a tall lean man in an off-white three-piece suit, one that looked bleached and quaint as if made of canvas or sailcloth. It had eccentric pleats and odd little tucks and ruffles like compressed fans, even a rolled cravat of the stuff at his throat.

Mally gestured grandly. “Jem Renton. It’s my great pleasure to introduce our Ringmaster and Master of Ceremonies, Mr Heinrich Fleymann, originally of Gutenberg. Mr F. as we call him.”

“Good to meet you, Jem Renton,” Mr F. said. “It’s been a while.”

Twinkling dry was the right term for him, Jem decided as they shook hands. Dry skin, dry voice, all with a sheen spilling from the eyes, which in themselves looked dry. An old painting of a man, complete with an explosion of white Mark Twain hair and wearing a raw canvas suit waiting for colours, highlights, flourishes.

Obligato courtesy came easy. “I’d say thanks for the invite, Mr F., but I had no choice in that.”

Mr Fleymann spread his hands. “Sorry to say. But we’ll set things right.” His words held only the slightest trace of his German ancestry.

Jem found it easy to play along. “I thought weird carnivals came in on trains.”

“Well, we’re Down Under, see, so it’s all ass-about. We join you. You come to us on the train.” Dry voice, dry smile stretching back, bushy white hair catching the light.

“So why am I here? Mally said I have a hidden power you mean to use.”

“Straight to it, good. You check out the attractions on offer. We have nine tonight. You get to pick three.”

“Pick as in try those tents?”

“Pick as in they’re your three. You try them all. Think of it as partly a fortune-telling thing.”

“That’s what my gift’s for? Lets you read the future?”

“Most surely does. Lets us determine the future, if we’re lucky. It all depends on what choices you make. Life’s about choosing. No point otherwise.”

Jem remembered what Mally had said about words and wondered what Mr Fleymann wasn’t saying. That was the game here. “You picked me. Joined me. How does that work?”

“Checked you out. Laid the old Sly spell, part of it in Perth with your gran and sister, part when you reached Cook. Other folk drop by, see the tents, decide to check us out. That’s the gravy. We chose you. Makes all the difference.”

“But you’re still not saying why.”

“Hey, no, sir! We’ve waited years for your visit. It’s our reward for all the effort.”

“You’ve chosen others? Visited others?”

“We have. We did. We do. Constantly. Got people out scouting right now.”

“Finding new blood.”

“Not our choice of words. Some duds, some misses, but all considered it averages out. It’s how we do what we do.”

“Come on, Mr Fleymann? You’ve got me here. Just what do you do. I don’t see any trade dropping by.”

“Not today, Jem! Not tonight. Tonight you’re here! It’s your turn. You’re the main attraction! We perform for you. Not just anyone can make us cross half a continent scouting.”

“I just visit the tents?”

“Pay each of the nine a visit, yes. Meditate. Reflect. Choose your three. They’ll be the ones we use.”

“For a fortune telling.”

“At the very least. For whatever comes.”

“Mally says there are thirteen in the troupe. Will I get to meet the others?”

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

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

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

“And if I refuse?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re serious?”

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

“Can’t be too obvious.”

“Has to be in plain sight.”

“So I’ve seen it already?”

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

“Then I can go?”

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

“But with no memory of having been here.”

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

“Thanks, Mr F., but I’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, I just go wandering?”

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

“You’re not coming?”

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

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

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

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

“Evenin’, guv. Welcome to the show.”

“I just go in?”

“Do as you please, guv.”

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

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

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

“There’s no wiring.”

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

“But they waste time deciding.”

“Clever, but there’s more to it. They stand to get forever. We’re dripping with clocks. Got ’em all over us. Fingernails growing. Hair. Whiskers. Hunger. Lots o’ clocks. Constant reminders. It’s a Yes/No. Throw the switch! Stop the clocks! Maybe that’s it.”

“Live forever!”

“Free of time! Absolutely!”

“But the heart is a clock. That’d have to stop too.”

“Got me. It would.”

“So much for forever.”

“We’re all just hydrogen atoms being clever, mate. Being this or that. We all go there.”

“That’s the forever?”

“Surely is.”

“No choice at all really.”

“None I’d make. But face it. Some people are thoughtless, careless. Don’t know why we have seasons. Why planes fly. This is for them. You always get some.”

“So you’re culling.”

“Trimming the bush.”

“No thanks.”

“Come back anytime.”

Jem left the tent, moved on to the next. Its signboard read MUM ON THE SOFA, and there was no one by the entrance this time. But when Jem looked inside he saw exactly what the sign promised: a woman in her late sixties wearing a house dress and apron sitting on a sofa knitting and watching an old-style television set. The sound was turned right down, the screen showed only static, but the woman seemed to be watching it intently until she saw him. Then her eyes lit up and she smiled broadly.

“Come in, dearie! Big night ahead. Set a spell. Plenty of room.”

Jem stayed where he was in the entryway. There was something in how the woman’s eyes had brightened too gleefully, in how her grin had spread and locked in the flickering light of her TV, so much like Mr F.’s. Overdoing it, but intentionally, he suspected, and Jem had the sudden notion that if he sat down beside the woman, started watching her white TV snow, he’d never get up again.

“Maybe later,” he said. “Lots to do.”

“Always is,” the woman said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

Jem moved on, passed another empty tent — same lonely spotlight, same spread of empty sand and scrub — then found himself outside one of the larger attractions.

SKYLAB LAND, the sign read, and when Jem stepped inside he saw four tall box pedestals, two to each side of a throne-type chair toward the rear. On each rested what looked like a piece of old grey-white insulation paneling, presumably meant to be scrap salvaged from Skylab when it came down in the late seventies. The figure on the throne was tricked out in what was meant to be a spacesuit of the stuff: incongruous pieces glued and wired over an old ski suit, complete with a makeshift helmet. The pitted and frosted faceplate concealed the wearer’s face entirely.

As Jem moved between the pedestals, the figure stirred, started his spiel. “Skylab was the United States’ first space station.” It was a male voice, one that sounded a lot like Mr F.’s in fact. “Set in place in 1973, abandoned in 1974, completed 38,981 orbits, finally fell to Earth in August 1979. NASA meant to go back, have one of the newfangled space shuttles move it to a higher orbit and reuse it, but that never happened. The station came down. This attraction celebrates its homecoming.”

“That’s it?” Jem asked.

“That’s it. You’re welcome to examine the exhibits.”

Jem glanced at the scraps of metal and plastic, whatever they really were. “Are they genuine?”

“Can’t say. I just wear this, give the spiel.”

“Maybe another time then. Other sights to see.”

“Always are.”

Jem stepped outside to find the sky completely dark now, all traces of light gone from the western horizon. Without a midway to give him his bearings he became disoriented, found himself in the alley he’d been in earlier in the day, facing the signboard reading THE WAIT.

Now the flaps were fixed back. Warm light shone from within. The stocky man by the entrance had an impressive handlebar moustache — fake surely — and wore a showman’s purple velvet suit with embroidered lapels. He immediately assumed his role.

“Evenin’, Mr Renton. I’m Grips Aston, and this is—”

“The Wait.”

“Surely is. Step in.”

Jem ignored the invitation, again settled for what he could see from the entrance. In the middle of a space the size of a family living room, a spotlight illuminated a single bentwood chair.

Jem laughed out loud at the absurdity of such a payoff. Truth in advertising again at least, like MUM ON THE SOFA, though hardly an attraction. Sit in the chair, become the exhibit.

“You’re welcome to take a seat,” Grips Aston said with not a touch of irony, voice as smooth as driftwood left in the ocean just long enough. “Rest a bit. Big night ahead.”

“Have to check out all the attractions. You know not to slow me down.”

The big moustache twitched. “Jem, let a guy do his spiel, okay? I’m meant to say it to anyone who shows up.”

“Even specials like me?”

“Especially specials. It’s only temptation if it works, right? And I’m a genuine Aston. Old circus name down under. Give a guy a break!”

“Another time, Grips.”

Jem stepped away, tried the next tent along. Again the signboard was blank, the lantern on the pole dark. When Jem peered in, he saw just the central mast, the solitary spot, a sad scrappy patch of sand, its exhibit long abandoned or, as Jem thought about it, waiting to arrive. Another kind of truth in advertising really, the promise of other days, other possibilities, that or a memorial for what had once been.

Jem felt an odd emotion building, realized it was quite possibly dread, though dread as a concept, dread without the fear. What was he missing? Things were going on that he wasn’t tracking properly.

He kept on to the next attraction in the alley, taking care with the guy-lines and tent-pegs, and it occurred to him for the first time that simply taking care not to stumble was keeping him focused, kept him paying attention, as if to offset the remaining effects of the obligato.

THE THOUGHTFUL GLASS OF WATER this latest signboard read, and as Jem reached it a middle-aged woman in pink tutu, fishnet stockings, and black Doc Martens, hair coiffed in the most striking fuchsia dreadlocks, made as if to hold the already open flaps aside, gesturing to the feature within: a wooden pedestal with a single glass of clear fluid resting upon it.

“Time out, luvvy!” she said in a passing imitation of a Cockney accent. “You can pee behind the vans whenever y’like, but we need other kinds of refreshment, right? Dinner’s later, all of us together, but for now drink your fill.”

“Why the ‘Thoughtful’?”

“People ponder it like you’re doing.”

“Any takers?”

“Rarely. But they don’t get the prize.”

“There’s a prize?”

“Made you thoughtful again, see. Working already. Quench your thirst.”

“It’s my first time round. Maybe later.”

“Right you are. Press on.”

Jem did so, determined to get it over with. How long he’d been at it he had no idea. It was full night now, the sky filled with stars, streaked with the occasional tektites rushing down.

The next signboard read THE MERMAID, and this time it was Mally by the entrance, still in her flimsy evening finery.

“You know the drill,” she said as Jem stepped inside.

He’d expected someone in a tank, one of the women in a mermaid getup, so what he saw threw him: a large plasma screen showing stars, space, the glowing curve of the world as if seen from low-Earth orbit. Not a still either, he realized, but possibly recorded footage from a station like Skylab had been. In the soft lighting of the tent the effect was powerful, like looking through a window.

“Mally, I don’t get the connection. Where’s the mermaid?”

“I keep asking myself the same thing,” Mally said.

Jem sighed, tired of the trickery, of how off kilter all this was. Why couldn’t they just say what they wanted, spell it out? Let him be on his way?

But there were so few exhibits to go. Without a word he continued along to a signboard reading THE CHEERFUL EXCHANGE OF GASES, whose “attraction” proved to be just as frustrating, as elusively annoying as the rest, nothing but a small tree in a terracotta pot, one of those topiary things like a green ball on a stick. It stood on a low pedestal inside plastic dust-curtains arranged like a makeshift shower stall.

A man in his forties, looking like a pastor in a black suit and plain white shirt, waited inside the entrance, and gestured grandly toward the booth. “Put your head inside, brother, and take a breath of God’s clean air the way it was intended.”

“Just take a breath?”

“Easy in, easy out, friend. One of the Lord’s sweetest gifts. Clear your head. Won’t take but a moment.”

Jem said nothing, just turned and left. Two to go. Only two.

Maybe the obligato was wearing thin. He was feeling unsettled, anxious, vaguely frightened now, more and more aware of how wrong it all was, though the next signboard distracted him a bit. THE ISSUS TRIP, it read, which immediately had Jem recalling his high-school history classes, and how Issus was the town in ancient Turkey where Alexander the Great had defeated some Persian king or other. Curiosity had the better of him. What could it possibly be this time?

Inside he found two large art prints side by side on easels, each under a warm yellow spot, and both dealing with that historical event. A mature-aged woman in spectacles and worn dove-grey suit immediately stepped forward like a museum curator or matronly tour guide.

“On the left we have the Alexander Mosaic dating from around 100 BCE,” she said, “originally from the House of the Faun in Pompeii but presently in the Naples National Archaeologica Museum. It shows Alexander the Great and Darius III in conflict at the Battle of Issus in 333 BCE. On the right you see Albrecht Altdorfer’s 1529 painting The Battle of Alexander at Issus, long regarded as that artist’s best work and presently in the Alte Pinakothek museum in Munich.”

That concluded the presentation, though the woman remained to one side as if ready to answer any questions her visitor cared to ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this one included?”

“Of course. If you need more time—”

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

“Shoot then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you want me to be?”

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

“Please. What have I just done?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

Get it? Ged it?

The Weight.

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

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

“It looks so innocent.”

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

Like why a carnival would set up in a desert.

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

“Come morning—”

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

“The other exhibits—?”

“Have ways of biting.”

“My three?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not just entertainments, distractions?”

“Try harder. Go deeper?”

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

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

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

Mr Fleymann read that hesitation. “Ever heard of the face in Skylab’s window?”

“The what?”

“You picked all our space features.”

“A face in Skylab’s window?”

“Our favorite urban myth. Favorite conspiracy theory so far. Too much time on your hands in space. Lots of boredom. Lots of astronaut humour you never hear about. Pranks among the different mission crews. The Skylab 3 crew leaving dummies wearing flight suits for the final Skylab crew to find, stuff like that. Somewhere in there is talk of a face peering in the single wardroom window, Al Bean seeing it but staying mum, figuring it was just a reflection, rogue optics, then Jack Lousma and Owen Garriott seeing it, which later had them quizzing the other crews, but all agreeing to keep it to themselves. No use drawing bad psych ratings, screwing up reselection eligibility or their pensions. But somehow it got round, somehow it became a face peering out, of course, which became the face peering out when the station fell.”

“Skylab Land!”

“Go on, Jem. It’s your pick. Finish it!”

“Where exactly did Skylab land?”

“That’s the way! Let’s have it!”

“We’re in the debris field!”

“Most certainly are. This is where she came down — all the way from Esperance and Balladonia up to where we’re standing right now.”

“Then your spaceman. That getup!”

“Who knows exactly? Parts of the Multiple Docking Adaptor or the Apollo Telescope Mount. Bits of hull, who can say? We’re not about to call NASA and have them verify what’s what.”

“But the faceplate—?”

“Glass burns up pretty quick, Jem. That may not be any part of the actual window.”

“But—”

“Let’s continue, shall we? This is your test, remember. THE MERMAID?”

“That view from space. It can’t be Mer-maid. It has to be Mir-maid, for the Russian space station Mir that came down in the late nineties!”

Mr F. beamed his approval. “Well done. In March 2001, to be exact. Following some interesting mishaps: a fire in February 1997 and a major collision with a supply ship a few months later, temporary loss of contact with the station at the end of 2000. But we miscalculated, didn’t allow for the extent of official efforts to control reentry. She came down in the Pacific east of New Zealand. We only managed to secure the tiniest fragments.”

“Then the ISS in ISSUS! The Issus Trip has to be the ISS, the International Space Station!”

“Bravo, Jem! You’re a true paragon! Worth a thousand drop-ins.” And in his near-manic delight he gestured up to where the imaginary audience watched, the faces on the inside of this largest tent.

And no obligato could keep that thought from Jem’s mind.

“These tents! Your suits! — ” He tried to speak it.

“Oldest tradition among the Heirloom Carnivals, yes. Something worthwhile passed on. Probably comes from the steppes of Russia long ago, but who can say?”

Jem looked up, again saw beyond the terrible glare of the spot to what lay in the spread of shadow: dozens, hundreds of masks, faces, fixed, peering down. Faces on the canvas. Faces made of canvas!

Canvas made of faces!

The display case miniature the bait, a distraction to keep candidates looking down, looking in, looking away. This is what had happened to those who failed in their choices, the uninvited, the unsuccessful ones. Those tents, all deadly, all capable of biting.

This was how the Heirloom Carnivals replenished themselves, added to themselves, repaired, maintained, made new tents, new suits.

Mr Fleymann may have regretted his exuberance, though it seemed that he always revealed how it was like this. “One Sly Carnival specialises in the sinking of great passenger ships. I’m sure you remember a certain White Star Line vessel meeting an iceberg, and can recall a rather more recent disaster off Isola del Giglio. Another works at upsetting Royal Houses and world governments. Our specialty is bringing down balloons, aircraft, and, more recently, space habitats — the first haunted houses ever to be off the planet. A real cachet in that.”

“What becomes of me?”

“We keep you on a bit longer. Use your services again.”

“Again? Why, what have I done?”

“Enabled us, Jem. Given us the power to begin work on our next target. You could be invaluable. Who knows what else you’ll help us do?”

“Unless I guess your secret name. Some do, you said. It’s likely I’ve seen it, you said.”

“Correct. We keep to the rules.”

Everyone had gone still again, holding, waiting.

Jem looked down at the case, at the tiny world contained there, trying to grasp what he’d seen amid the misdirection, the deflections, the wordplay, desperately seeking a Get Out of Jail Free Card, some ultimate name of power that compelled obedience.

Maybe it was in old carnival lore, old circus customs, like “Hey, Rube!”—the old carny cry for calling for help in a fight, a special Mayday. And Mayday itself — a distress call in all kinds of emergencies, from m’aider—come help me! — in French. Things meant things. Words mattered here. Things half-heard. Misdirection.

Like Skylab Land!

The Mermaid!

And Mr Fleymann! Flayman indeed! Power in names.

Mum on the Sofa. Couch Ma! Cauchemar! Nightmare.

And Mally Quinn, for heaven’s sake! How could he have missed it? Mallequin! Mannequin!

He looked down at the glare and the dazzle, the tiny world, at everything the world was here. The only world.

Corpse Rose!

Could it be? Of course.

That name! That name of power!

That was it! He knew it.

He said it out loud, blurted it, said it a second time.

“Dammit!” someone said, possibly Mally.

“Bugger!” muttered someone else.

Mr F.’s grin held, but the light went out of it like sand sliding around stones. Just the grimace remained, leached and horrid. Finally it relaxed, broke apart.

“Well played, Jem. But no matter. You’ve set us on our way. Tomorrow, the International Space Station will have a small but annoying toilet blockage, and one of its lesser windows will get the first signs of pitting. Nothing major yet, and a bit theatrical, I know, but it made the folks in Washington and Moscow very nervous when those faces appeared in their station windows. More nations involved with the ISS. Harder to hush up. It’s time to bring the house down, but we’ll make sure it’s haunted first.”

“What happens to me?”

“Get Out of Jail Free, lucky boy. You were everything we hoped you’d be.”

Jem woke leaning against a tree in the dusty main street of Cook, legs thrust out in front. Someone was talking to him, a tall weathered brunette who kept glancing at her watch, clearly had things to do.

“Train’s in tomorrow,” she said, then indicated the old man standing next to her. “Pete says you can sleep on his verandah tonight. You’ll be fine.”

Jem fought to get his bearings, remember everything, anything, watched the woman walk over to a Jeep Cherokee, climb in, and start the engine.

“Heat stroke’ll get ya, young fella,” the old man said. “Like the lady says, you’ll be fine in a day or two.”

Jem managed to stand. “Say, Pete, did you see a sign on that Jeep’s door? Name of a property or something?”

“Never did. Mally’s pretty much a loner. You see somethin’?”

“Not sure. For a moment I thought I saw that old name from the Bible. Lazarus.”

“Wasn’t he the fella that rose from the dead?”

Jem watched the Jeep driving off amid the dust. “At the very least.”