Something Wicked This Way Comes

  Clutching his weapons, he aped down the hidden ivy rungs and dogged the wet grass.

  Witch! Here! He ran leaving patterns, ran feeling crazy fine, wild as a hare who has chewed some secret, delicious, sweetly poisonous root that now gallops him berserk. Knees striking his chin, shoes crushing wet leaves, he soared over a hedge, his hands full of bristly porcupine weapons, fear and joy a tumble of mixed marbles in his mouth.

  He looked back. The balloon swung near! It inhaled, exhaled itself along from tree to tree, from cloud to cloud.

  Where am I going? he thought. Wait! The Redman house! Not lived in in years! Two blocks more!

  There was the swift shush of his feet in the leaves and the big shush of the creature in the sky, while moonlight snowed everything and stars glittered.

  He pulled up in front of the Redman house, a torch in each lung, tasting blood, crying out silently: here! this is my house!

  He felt a great river change its bed in the sky.

  Good! he thought.

  His hand turned the doorknob of the old house. Oh God, he thought, what if they are inside, waiting for me?

  He opened a door on darkness.

  Dust came and went in that dark, and a harpstring gesticulation of spiders. Nothing else.

  Will jumped two at a time up the crumbling stairs, around and out on the roof where he stashed his weapons behind the chimney and stood tall.

  The balloon, green as slime, printed with titan pictures of winged scorpions, ancient phoenixes, smokes, fires, clouded weathers, swung its wicker basket wheezing, down.

  Witch, he thought, here!

  The dank shadow struck him like a batwing.

  Will toppled. He flung up his hands. The shadow was almost black flesh, striking.

  He fell. He clutched the chimney.

  The shadow draped him, hushing down.

  It was cold as a sea cave in that cloud-dark.

  But suddenly the wind, of itself, veered.

  The Witch hissed in frustration. The balloon swam a washing circle up around.

  The wind! thought the boy wildly, it's on my side!

  No, don't go! he thought. Come back.

  For he feared she had smelled his plan.

  She had. She itched for his scheme. She snuffed, she gasped at it. He saw the way her nails filed and scraped the air as if running over grooved wax to seek patterns. She turned her palms out and down as if he were a small stove burning softly somewhere in a nether world and she came to warm her hands at him. As the basket swung in an upglided pendulum he saw her squinched blind-sewn eyes, the ears with moss in them, the pale wrinkled apricot mouth mummifying the air it drew in, trying to taste what was wrong with his act, his thought. He was too good, too rare, too fine, too available to be true! surely she knew that!

  And knowing it, she held her breath.

  Which made the balloon suspend itself, half between inhale and exhale.

  Now, tremulously, experimentally, daring to test, the Witch inhaled. The balloon, so weighted, sank. Exhaled--so freed of vapor--the craft ascended!

  Now, now, the waiting, the holding of dank sour breath in the wry tissues of her childlike body.

  Will waggled his fingers, thumb to nose.

  She sucked air. The weight of this one breath skimmed the balloon down.

  Closer! he thought.

  But, careful, she circled her craft, scenting the sharp adrenalin wafted from his pores. He wheeled, following as the balloon spun, and him reeling. You! he thought, you want me sick! Spin me, will you? Make me dizzy?

  There was one last thing to try.

  He stood very still with his back to the balloon.

  Witch, he thought, you can't resist.

  He felt the sound of the green slime cloud, the kept bag of sour air, the squeal and stir of mouse-wicker on wicker as the shadow cooled his legs, his spine, his neck.

  Close!

  The Witch took air, weight, night burden, star-and-cold-wind ballast.

  Closer!

  Elephant shadow stroked his ears.

  He nudged his weapons.

  The shadow engulfed him.

  A spider flicked his hair--her hand?

  Choking a scream, he spun.

  The witch, leaned out, was mere foot away.

  He bent. He snatched.

  The Witch tried to scream out breath when she smelled, felt, knew what he held tight.

  But, in reaction, horrified, she seized a breath, sucked weight, burdened the balloon. It dragged the roof.

  Will pulled the bowstring back, freighted with single destruction.

  The bow broke in two pieces. He stared at the unshot arrow in his hands.

  The Witch let out her breath in one great sigh of relief and triumph.

  The balloon swung up. It struck him with its dry rattle-chuckling heavy-laden basket.

  The Witch shouted again with insane happiness.

  Clutched to the basket rim, Will with one free hand drew back and with all his strength threw the arrowhead flint up at the balloon flesh.

  The Witch gagged. She tore at his face.

  Then the arrow, a long hour it seemed in flight, razored a small vent in the balloon. Rapidly the shaft sank as if cutting a vast green cheese. The surface slit itself further in a wide ripping smile across the entire surface of the gigantic pear, as the blind Witch gabbled, moaned, blistered her lips, shrieked in protest, and Will hung fast, hands gripped to wicker, kicking legs, as the balloon wailed, whiffled, guzzled, mourned its own swift gaseous death, as dungeon air raved out, as dragon breath gushed forth and the bag, thus driven, retreated up.

  Will let go. Space whistled about him. He turned, hit shingles, fell skidding down the inclined ancient roof, over down to rim, to rainspout where, feet first, he spilled into further emptiness, yelling, clawed at the rain gutter, held, felt it groan, give way, as he swept the sky to see the balloon whistling, wrinkling, flying up like a wounded beast to evacuate its terrified exhalations in the clouds; a gunshot mammoth, not wanting to expire, yet in terrible flux coughing out its stinking winds.

  All this in a flash. Then Will flailed into space, with no time to be glad for a tree beneath when it netted him, cut him, but broke his fall with mattress twig, branch and limb. Like a kite he was held face up to the moon where, at his exhausted leisure, he might hear the last Witch lamentations for a wake in progress as the balloon spiraled her away from house, street, town with in-human mourns.

  The balloon smile, the balloon rip was all-encompassing now as it wandered in deliriums to die in the meadows from which it had come, sinking down now beyond all the sleeping, ignorant and un-knowing houses.

  For a long while Will could not move. Buoyed in the tree branches, afraid he might slip through and kill himself on the black earth below, he waited for the sledge hammer to subside in his head.

  The blows of his heart might jar him loose, crash him down, but he was glad to hear them, know himself alive.

  But then at last, gone calm, he gathered his limbs, most carefully searched for a prayer, and climbed himself down through the tree.

  Chapter 31

  NOTHING MUCH else happened, all the rest of that night.

  Chapter 32

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

  In the rustling drumbeat, a second thing occurred:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Or ... a parade?"

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

  "Criminently!"

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

  "I don't feel funny, Jim."

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

  "The balloon!"

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

  Will was silent.

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

  "Jim, I ..."

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

  "Jim, last night ..."

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

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

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

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

  But there was no time to tell it.

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

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

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

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

  "No." Jim moved on.

  "There's a little girl in there."

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

  "Jim! You hear her!"

  "No! I don't, I don't!"

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

  "Jim--that voice--I know it!"

  "Will, don't go there!"

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

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

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

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

  "No."

  "Jane Franklin?"

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

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

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

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

  "Jim! Will! Oh God, it's you!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Who'll believe?" she wailed.

  "I believe," Will said.

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

  "Can I go now?" he said.

  She nodded.

  And he walked away.

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

  "It can't be!"

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

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

  Silence.

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

  "Miss Foley?" Jim called, softly.

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

  "Miss Foley ...?"

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

  "Miss Foley!" Louder.

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

  "She's gone out to shop," said Jim.

  "No," said Will. "We know where she is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I don't understand--"

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

  Will thought this. Jim thought it, and said:

  "Oh, the poor ... the poor ..."

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