The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5)

by Kaaron Warren

  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 of 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 towards 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 colors, 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 let’s 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 Scott free. He’s off our books.”

  ”But with no memory of having being 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 c
learly 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.