Will, his head in a vise, almost screamed.
"Both boys," finished Mr. Halloway, "moved to Milwaukee some weeks ago."
"You," said Mr. Dark, coldly, "lie."
Will's father was truly shocked.
"Me? And spoil the prizewinners' fun?"
"Fact is," said Mr. Dark, "we found the names of the boys ten minutes ago. Just want to double-check."
"So?" said Will's father, disbelieving.
"Jim," said Mr. Dark. "Will."
Jim writhed in the dark. Will sank his head deep in his shoulder blades, eyes tight.
Will's father's face was a pond into which the two dark stone names sank without a ripple.
"First names? Jim? Will? Lots of Jims and Wills, couple hundred, town like this."
Will, crouched and squirming, thought, who told? Miss Foley? But she was gone, her house empty and full of rain shadows. Only one other person ...
The little girl who looked like Miss Foley weeping under the tree? The little girl who frightened us so bad? he wondered. In the last half hour the parade, going by, found her, and her crying for hours, afraid, and ready to do anything, say anything, if only with music, horses plunging, world racing, they would grow her old again, grow her around again, lift her, shut up her crying, stop up the awful thing and make her as she was. Did the carnival promise, lie to her, when they found her under the tree and ran her off? The little girl crying, but not telling all, because--
"Jim. Will," said Will's father. "First names. What about the last?"
Mr. Dark did not know the last names.
His universe of monsters sweated phosphorus on his hide, soured his armpits, reeked, slammed between his iron-sinewed legs.
"Now," said Will's father, with a strange, and to him almost-delightful-because-new, calm, "I think you're lying. You don't know the last names. Now, why should you, a carnival stranger, lie to me here on a street in some town on the backside of nowhere?"
The Illustrated Man clenched his two calligraphic fists very hard.
Will's father, his face pale, considered these mean, constricted fingers, knuckles, digging nails, inside which two boys' faces, crushed hard in dark vise, tight, very tight in prison flesh, were kept in fury.
Two shadows, below, thrashed in agony.
The Illustrated Man erased his face to serenity.
But a bright drop fell from his right fist.
A bright drop fell from his left fist.
The drops vanished through the steel sidewalk grille.
Will gasped. Wetness had struck his face. He clapped his hand to it, then looked at his palm.
The wetness that had hit his cheek was bright red.
He glanced from it to Jim, who lay still now also, for the scarification, real or imagined, seemed over and both flicked their eyes up to where the Illustrated Man's shoes flint-sparked the grille, grinding steel on steel.
Will's father saw the blood ooze from the clenched fists, but forced himself to look only at the Illustrated Man's face, as he said:
"Sorry I can't be more help."
Beyond the Illustrated Man, rounding the corner, hands weaving the air, dressed in harlequin Gypsy colors, face waxen, eyes hid behind plum-dark glasses, the Fortune Teller, the Dust Witch came mumbling.
A moment later, looking up, Will saw her. Not dead! he thought. Carried off, bruised, fallen, yes, but now back, and mad! Lord, yes, mad, looking especially for me!
Will's father saw her. His blood slowed, by instinct alone, to a pudding in his chest.
The crowd opened happily, laughing and commenting on her bright if tattered costume, trying to remember what she rhymed, so as to tell it later. She moved, fingers feeling the town as if it were an immensely complicated and lush tapestry. And she sang:
"Tell you your husbands. Tell you your wives. Tell you your fortunes. Tell you your lives. See me, I know. See me at the show. Tell you the color of his eyes. Tell you the color of her lies. Tell you the color of his goal. Tell you the color of her soul. Come now, don't go. See me, see me at the show."
Children appalled, children impressed, parents delighted, parents in high good humor, and still the Gypsy from the dusts of living sang. Time walked in her murmuring. She made and broke microscopic webs between her fingers wherewith to feel soot fly up, breath fly out. She touched the wings of flies, the souls of invisible bacteria, all specks, mites, and mica-snowings of sunlight filtrated with motion and much more hidden emotion.
Will and Jim cracked their bones, cowered down, hearing:
"Blind, yes, blind. But I see what I see, I see where I be," said the Witch, softly. "There's a man with a straw hat in autumn. Hello. And--why there's Mr. Dark, and ... an old man ... an old man."
He's not that old! cried Will to himself, blinking up at the three, as the Witch stopped, her shadow falling moist-frog cool on the hidden boys.
"... old man ..."
Mr. Halloway was jolted as by a series of cold knives thrust in his stomach.
"... old man ... old man ..." said the Witch.
She stopped this. "Ah ..." The hairs in her nostrils bristled. She gaped her mouth to savor air. "Ah ..."
The Illustrated Man quickened.
"Wait ...!" sighed the Gypsy.
Her fingernails scraped down an unseen blackboard of air.
Will felt himself yip, bark, whimper like an aggravated hound.
Slowly her fingers climbed down, feeling the spectrums, weighing the light. In another moment, a forefinger might thrust to the sidewalk grille, implying: there! there!
Dad! thought Will. Do something!
The Illustrated Man, gone sweetly patient now that his blind but immensely aware dust lady was here, watched her with love.
"Now ..." The Witch's fingers itched.
"Now!" said Will's father, loud.
The Witch flinched.
"Now, this is a fine cigar!" yelled Will's father, turning with great pomp back to the counter.
"Quiet ..." said the Illustrated Man.
The boys looked up.
"Now--" The Witch sniffed the wind.
"Got to light it again!" Mr. Halloway stuck the cigar in the eternal blue flame.
"Silence ..." suggested Mr. Dark.
"Ever smoke, yourself?" asked Dad.
The Witch, from the concussion of his fiercely erupted and overly jovial words, dropped one wounded hand to her side, wiped sweat from it, as one wipes an antenna for better reception, and drifted it up again, her nostrils flared with wind.
"Ah!" Will's father blew a dense cloud of cigar smoke. It made a fine thick cumulus surrounding the woman.
"Gah!" she choked.
"Fool!" The Illustrated Man barked, but whether at man or woman, the boys below could not tell.
"Here, let's buy you one!" Mr. Halloway blew more smoke, handing Mr. Dark a cigar.
The Witch exploded a sneeze, recoiled, staggered away. The Illustrated Man snatched Dad's arm, saw that he had gone too far, let go, and could only follow his Gypsy woman off, in some clumsy and totally unexpected defeat. But then, in going, he heard Will's father say, "A fine day to you, sir!"
No, Dad! thought Will.
The Illustrated Man came back
"Your name, sir?" he asked, directly.
Don't tell him! thought Will.
Will's father debated a moment, took the cigar from his mouth, tapped ash and said, quietly:
"Halloway. Work in the library. Drop by some time."
"You can be sure, Mr. Halloway. I will."
The Witch was waiting near the corner.
Mr. Halloway whetted his forefinger, tested the wind, and sent a cumulus her way.
She flailed back, gone.
The Illustrated Man went rigid, spun about, and strode off, the ink portraits of Jim and Will crushed hard iron tight in his fists.
Silence.
It was so quiet under the grille, Mr. Halloway thought the two boys had died of fright.
And Will, below, gazing up, eyes wet,
mouth wide, thought, Oh my gosh, why didn't I see it before?
Dad's tall. Dad's very tall indeed.
Still Charles Halloway did not look down at the grille but only at the small comets of splashed red color left on the sidewalk, trailed around the corner, dropped from the clenched hands of the vanished Mr. Dark. He was also gazing with surprise at himself, accepting the surprise, the new purpose, which was half despair, half serenity, now that the incredible deed was done. Let no one ask why he had given his true name; even he could not assay and give its real weight. Now he could only read the numerals on the courthouse clock and speak to it, while the boys below listened.
"Oh, Jim, Will, something is going on. Can you hide, keep out from under, the rest of the day? We got to have time. With things like this, where do you begin? No law's been broken, none on the books, anyway. But I feel dead and buried a month. My flesh ripples. Hide, Jim, Will, hide. I'll tell your mothers you've got jobs at the carnival, good excuse for you not coming home. Stay hid until dark, then come to the library at seven. Meantime, I'll check police records on carnivals, newspaper files at the library, books, old folios, everything that might fit. God willing, by the time you show up, after dark, I'll have a plan. Walk easy until then. Bless you, Jim. Bless you, Will."
The small father who was very tall now walked slowly away.
His cigar, unnoticed, fell from his hand, dropped in a spark shower through the grate.
It lay in the square pit glowing its single fiery pink eye at Jim and Will, who looked back and at last snatched to blind and put it out.
Chapter 36
THE DWARF, bearing his demented and wildly lighted eyes, made his way south on Main Street.
Stopping suddenly, he developed a film strip in his head, scanned it, bleated, and blundered back through the forest of legs to reach for and pull the Illustrated Man down where a whisper was as good as a shout. Mr. Dark listened, then fled, leaving the Dwarf far behind.
Reaching the cigar store Indian, the Illustrated Man sank to his knees. Clutching the steel lattice-grille, he peered down in the pit.
Below lay yellow newspapers, wilted candy wrappers, burnt cigars, and gum.
Mr. Dark's cry was muffled fury.
"Lose something?"
Mr. Tetley blinked over his counter.
The Illustrated Man clenched the grate, nodding once.
"I clean under the grate once a month for the money," said Mr. Tetley. "How much you lose? Dime? Quarter? Half dollar?"
Bing!
The Illustrated Man glared up.
In the cash-register window a small fire-red sign jumped high: NO SALE.
Chapter 37
THE TOWN clock struck seven.
The echoes of the great chime wandered in the unlit halls of the library.
An autumn leaf, very crisp, fell somewhere in the dark.
But it was only the page of a book, turning.
Off in one of the catacombs, bent to a table under a grass-green-shaded lamp, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, sat Charles Halloway, his hands trembling the pages, lifting, rearranging the books. Now and then he hurried off to peer into the autumn night, watchful of the streets. Then again he came back to paper-clip pages, to insert papers, to scribble out quotations, whispering to himself. His voice brought forth quick echoes from the library vaults: "Look here!"
"... here ...!" said the night passages.
"This picture ...!"
"... picture ...!" said the halls.
"And this!"
"... this ..." The dust settled.
It had been the longest day of all the days he could remember in his life. He had mingled with strange and not-so-strange crowds, he had searched after the searchers, in the wake of the wide-scattering parade. He had resisted telling Jim's mother, Will's mother, more than they needed to know for a happy Sunday, and meantime crossed shadows with Dwarf, traded nods with Pinhead and Fire-eater, kept free of shadowed alleys, and controlled his panic when, doubling back, he saw the basement pit empty under the cigar store grille and knew that the boys were at hide-and-seek somewhere nearby or somewhere, praise God, very far away.
Then, in the crowds, he moved to the carnival ground, stayed out of tents, stayed free of rides, observed, watched the sun go down, and just at twilight, surveyed the cold glass waters of the Mirror Maze and saw just enough on the shore to pull him back before he drowned. Wet all over, cold to the bone, before night caught him he let the crowd protect, warm, and bear him away up into town, to the library, and to most important books ... which he arranged in a great literary clock on a table, like someone learning to tell a new time. So he paced round and round the huge clock squinting at the yellowed pages as if they were mothwings pinned dead to the wood.
Here lay a portrait of the Prince of Darkness. Next a series of fantastic sketches of the Temptations of St. Anthony. Next some etchings from the Bizarie by Giovanbatista Bracelli, depicting a set of curious toys, humanlike robots engaged in various alchemical rites. At five minutes to twelve stood a copy of Dr. Faustus, at two lay an Occult Iconography; at six, under Mr. Halloway's trailed fingers now, a history of circuses, carnivals, shadow shows, puppet menageries inhabited by mountebanks, minstrels, stilt-walking sorcerers and their fantoccini. More: A Manual of the Air Kingdoms (Things That Fly Down History). At nine sharp: By Demons Possessed, lying atop Egyptian Philtres, lying atop the Torments of the Damned, which in turn crushed flat The Spell of Mirrors. Very late up the literary clock one named Locomotives and Trains, The Mystery of Sleep, Between Midnight and Dawn, The Witches' Sabbath, and Pacts With Demons. It was all laid out. He could see the face.
But there were no hands on this clock.
He could not tell what hour of the night of life it was for himself, the boys, or the unknowing town.
For, in sum, what had he to go by?
A three-o'clock-in-the-morning arrival, a grotesque looking-glass maze, a Sunday parade, a tall man with a swarm of electric-blue pictures itching on his sweaty hide, a few drops of blood falling down through a pavement grille, two frightened boys staring up out of the earth, and himself, alone in mausoleum quiet, nudging the puzzle together.
What was there about the boys that made him believe the simplest word they whispered up through the grille? Fear itself was proof here, and he had seen enough fear in his life to know it, like the smell from a butcher's shop in summer twilight.
What was there about the illustrated carnival owner's silences that spoke thousands of violent, corrupt, and crippling words?
What was there in that old man he had seen through a tent flap late this afternoon, seated in a chair with the words MR. ELECTRICO bannered over him, power webbing and crawling on his flesh like green lizards?
All, all, all of it. And now, these books. This. He touched Physiognomonie. The secrets of the individual's character as found in his face.
Were Jim and Will, then, featured all angelic, pure, half-innocent, peering up through the sidewalk at marching terror? Did the boys represent the ideal for your Woman, Man, or Child of Excellent Bearing, Color, Balance, and Summer Disposition?
Conversely ... Charles Halloway turned a page ... did the scurrying freaks, the Illustrated Marvel, bear the foreheads of the Irascible, the Cruel, the Covetous, the mouths of the Lewd and Untruthful? the teeth of the Crafty, the Unstable, the Audacious, the Vainglorious, and your Murderous Beast?
No. The book slipped shut. If faces were judged, the freaks were no worse than many he'd seen slipping from the library late nights in his long career.
There was only one thing sure.
Two lines of Shakespeare said it. He should write them in the middle of the clock of books, to fix the heart of his apprehension:
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
So vague, yet so immense.
He did not want to live with it.
Yet he knew that, during this night, unless he lived with it very well, he might have to live with it all
the rest of his life.
At the window he looked out and thought, Jim, Will, are you coming? will you get here?
Waiting, his flesh took paleness from his bones.
Chapter 38
THE LIBRARY, then, at seven-fifteen, seven-thirty, seven-forty-five of a Sunday night, cloistered with great drifts of silence and transfixed avalanche of books poised like the cuneiform stones of eternity on shelves, so high the unseen snows of time fell all year there.
Outside, the town breathed back and forth to the carnival, hundreds of people passing near where Jim and Will lay strewn in bushes to one side of the library, now ducking up, now ducking down to nose raw earth.
"Cheezit!"
Both smothered in grass. Across the street there passed what could have been a boy, could have been a dwarf, could have been a boy-with-dwarf-mind, could have been anything blown along like the scuttle-crab leaves on the frost-mica sidewalks. But then whatever it was went away; Jim sat up. Will still lay face buried in good safe dirt.
"Come on, what's wrong?"
"The library," said Will. "I'm even afraid of it, now." All the books, he thought, perched there, hundreds of years old, peeling skin, leaning on each other like ten million vultures. Walk along the dark stacks and all the gold titles shine their eyes at you. Between old carnival, old library and his own father, everything old ... well ...
"I know Dad's in there, but is it Dad? I mean, what if they came, changed him, made him bad, promised him something they can't give but he thinks they can, and we go in there and some day fifty years from now someone opens a book in there and you and me drop out, like two dry moth wings on the floor, Jim, someone pressed and hid us between pages, and no one ever guessed where we went--"
This was too much for Jim, who had to do something to flog his spirits. Next thing Will knew, Jim was hammering on the library door. Both hammered, frantic to jump from this night to that warmer book-breathing night inside. Given a choice of darknesses, this one was the better: the oven smell of books, as the door opened and Dad stood with his ghost-colored hair. They tiptoed back through the deserted corridors, Will feeling a crazy urge to whistle as he often did past the graveyard at sundown, Dad asking what made them late, and they trying to remember all the places they hid in one day.
They had hid in old garages, they had hid in old barns, they had hid in the highest trees they could climb and got bored and boredom was worse than fear so they came down and reported in to the Police Chief and had a fine chat which gave them twenty safe minutes right in the station and Will got the idea of touring churches and they climbed all the steeples in town and scared pigeons off the belfries and whether or not it was safer in churches and especially up with the bells or not, no one could claim, but it felt safe. But there again they began to get starchy with boredom and fatigued with sameness, and were almost on the point of giving themselves up to the carnival in order to have something to do, when quite fortunately the sun went down. From sundown to now it had taken a wonderful time, creeping upon the library, as if it were a once friendly fort that might now be manned by Arabs.