The Shadow Walker

by William R Hunt

  She rolled her eyes, but an involuntary smile pulled at her cheeks, and she found Allen watching her closely, his eyes holding on while his smile slipped away.

  “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” he said softly.

  “Yeah, dad,” she answered. “I think we are.”

  His smile returned. “That’s the first time you’ve called me dad.”

  This was too much for Jenny. She leaned her head against Allen’s arm, right where she had supposedly bruised him, and listened to the woman talk about the heart buried beneath the floorboards while the other adults looked on, smiling at the children, and one of the few happy nights of her life slipped away.

  ___

  The paper blackened, writhing in mute agony, and Meatloaf watched until the last word had turned to ash, ready to be scattered by the next breeze.

  It was a poor revenge, for it did no harm to those who had wronged him most, but he would take what he could get. Had he the strength, he would have carried that burning newspaper back to the forest and set the trees ablaze just for the sheer delight - the eye-drying, bark-sizzling joy - of destruction, for there had only ever been one god in this world and his name was oblivion. That was a god worth sacrificing to, wasn’t it?

  Meatloaf shifted, making himself more comfortable, but did not lift his eyes from the fire. All the world was in those flames—yes, and other worlds, as well. The shapes of the dead danced hand-in-hand—his mother and father, Angel and Bob the Garbageman. All of them beckoning to him.

  Yes, he thought, I will join them, but not just yet.

  This thought came without conscious effort, like a bubble rising free from the waterlogged depths of his mind. And despite the simmer of pain, the throb of places swelling with fresh blood, he understood with cold clarity that what he had always feared was coming true.

  He was going mad.

  He could hear dad asking mom why their “retard of a son” was not like other children. There’s something queer about his eyes, he would say. Like there’s two people looking out of them instead of one. Good old Reggie, the role model father. He didn’t say so much these days, did he?

  Oh no, Meatloaf thought, nodding to himself. Not any more. He’s no more than a side of beef now. He nursed this idea for a few seconds before a burst of laughter ruptured from his lips. The irony of it all! Oh, it was…it was…

  “Oswald? Are you alright?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he growled. “That’s not my name.”

  She said nothing, just sat there by the fire with her arms around her knees, her pet sitting obediently beside her. She must have smelled the smoke and found him that way. Or perhaps the dog had led her to him. The dog was probably licking its chops, just waiting for Meatloaf to keel over and die. It might not have to wait long. He had been reduced to an animal with no higher aspirations than the basic necessities of his body. Right now all he desired was to sleep, so he lay back among the leaves, still watching the burning corpse of the newspaper, and curled himself beside that dying fire…

  When he opened his eyes again, the fire had grown brighter. The girl was dragging a bony log toward the flames.

  “Jenny?” he murmured, sitting up.

  The girl dropped the log into the fire, showering the area with sparks, and turned her face toward him. Her sunglasses were resting on her hat, and her naked eyes seemed to gape at Meatloaf, a green so brilliant it shamed the withered grass around them.

  “Your eyes!” Meatloaf gasped. “Can you…?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No, I can’t see. Not really. But there are shapes—shapes and lights.”

  “Better than the darkness.”

  She nodded, her face growing grave. “Much better.”

  Meatloaf watched the fire lick at the new log. The wood was old and gray, and black ants raced along it in search of escape, then retraced their steps again. Meatloaf took a small, savage comfort in their demise.

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Jenny said.

  “Then leave. Go on without me.”

  She was silent for a few moments. “What’s inside that city?”

  Meatloaf sighed heavily. “Lies. Heaps of lies.”

  “But there are people, right? And if there are people, then there’s food and water. Maybe they can help us.”

  It was Meatloaf’s turn to laugh.

  “What?” Jenny demanded. “Do you have a better plan?”

  In answer, Meatloaf curled himself by the fire again and closed his eyes. He tried to rehearse the old sayings, reminding himself how important he was and what a great destiny he had to fulfill. But, like an echo or a trailing shadow, his father’s voice always had the last word:

  You’re no good, Os. You might as well have stayed in those tunnels because that’s all you are—a rat, a bottom-feeder, a parasite. You’re too damn stupid to ever be a man. A real man wouldn’t have had his ass beaten today. He would have convinced those sentries to let him through—or else shown them the steel end of his boot.

  But no wonder they didn’t let you through. They took one look at you and saw a miserable, groveling, wormy, snot-nosed little—

  He was crying (stupid, stupid tears), unable even to argue with the voice of a dead man, wishing there were a simple way just to end it all, when an arm touched his shoulder.

  “It’s not supposed to be this way,” he whispered to her. “I’m supposed to be important. I’m supposed to accomplish something.”

  She shushed him and promised it would get better, she didn’t know how but it would all get better, and if he could only wait until the rising of the sun…

  “How?” he whispered in that childish, helpless voice he hated but could not now disguise. “How do you know it will get better?”

  “I have faith,” she answered.

  “Faith in what?”

  “In God.”

  He stiffened, and when he spoke it was the old Meatloaf again, the jokester, the man who carried his heart in his pocket: “God left a long time ago, sister. We’re in the devil’s world now.”

  Chapter 28

  Meatloaf’s salvation came in the form of a bow-legged, squint-eyed cattle wrangler who wore a cowboy hat with an image of the flag of the U.S. of A. printed across it. He kept the hat tilted back, exposing an expansive real estate of tanned, hairless forehead. The hair at the back of his head, however, hung long and straggly down his protruding vertebrae, as if it had been strained through the front of his head until it came out the far side, like one of those old Sesame Street Play-Doh toys.

  “Well, haaady,” the cattle wrangler said, tipping his hat toward Jenny and exposing tobacco-stained teeth. His eyes were like two marbles sunk in pudding, his cheeks bristling with coarse boar-fur. “Ain’t I juss tickled to see the likes of strangers.” He placed both hands on the swell of his paunch as if this were the truest expression of good-will.

  Behind the man, strung out along the road, waited a procession of covered wagons pulled by a motley crew of horses and ponies. In the driver’s box of the foremost wagon sat a midget of a man with a bristling unibrow. He seemed to glare at the two strangers, though this may simply have been the effect of his overbearing brow.

  “Whatchu all doin’ out here?” the cattle wrangler asked. Then, leaving no time for an answer, he thrust forward a greasy hand and grinned. “Name’s Jedediah Calhoun, at your pleasure.”

  Meatloaf took the hand. It was like grabbing a toad.

  “We’re trying to get into the city,” Jenny answered.

  Calhoun’s grin broadened. “Well, then, mighty lucky I run into yous. We’s just headin’ that way ourselves.” He studied Meatloaf again. “By the look of it, you already tried gettin’ inside. Don’t look like they was too hospitable, neither. Ain’t that a peach.”

  Meatloaf was still too stunned to speak, so Jenny carried the conversation forward. “What is it you do, Mr. Calhoun? Are you a trader?”

  “Well,” he drawled, hooking his thumbs beneath his suspenders
, “we all tradin’ somethin’, ain’t we? As it so happens, I deal in entetainment.” He leaned close as he said this, lowering his voice as if to protect a trade secret.

  “Why do you ask?” he continued. “Need my help gettin’ inside? If so, I’ll need somethin’ in return. And I don’t want no promises about a reward down the road. The word of a stranger ain’t worth a plugged nickel to me.”

  Jenny paused, thinking…and this was the time Meatloaf spoke, because when inspiration favored you with a smile, there was nothing to do but ask her to dance.

  “You have all kinds of entertainers, don’t you?” he said.

  Calhoun nodded his head proudly. “Sure do—fire-breathers, jugglers, card magicians, shape-shifters, anything you please.”

  Meatloaf considered this, letting his eyes travel along the caravan of wagons and the words (and pictures) painted on the cloth: DARLA’S DANCING DEMONS read the first, showing an image of a fire juggler; PEDRO’S PARLOR, with a long-faced man at a table of cards; and a third (this one at the front) reading THE MINIATURE MAN, presumably in reference to he of the one eyebrow.

  Still, it was a poor display by old-world standards, and Meatloaf made a disappointed clucking sound with his mouth and shook his head.

  “What?” Calhoun asked, frowning at him. “Whatchu lookin’ for?”

  “I don’t see any fortune-tellers.”

  Calhoun’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Curious about the future, or just happy to piss on my parade?”

  “I was thinking we could help each other,” Meatloaf answered.

  Both men fell silent. Meatloaf was glad for Jenny’s blindness just then. Otherwise she might have noticed the distracted parting of Mr. Calhoun’s lips, the buffed shine in his eyes.

  “Truly?” Calhoun asked.

  Meatloaf nodded. “Just ask her. Want to hear your fortune, Jed?”

  “Alright,” the wrangler answered, though his voice had taken a cautious, almost superstition tone. “Tell me, little girl, where does my road wend?”

  Meatloaf set his hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “Go on,” he said. Then he leaned closed enough for his breath to tickle the tiny hairs inside her ear, and whispered, “Do this, and you can have any favor you want from me. Anything.”

  Jenny nodded her understanding. And perhaps it was the prospect of capturing a genie in a bottle, or perhaps she desired nearly as much as Meatloaf to get inside the city. Perhaps, even, she saw this as her one chance to use her blindness to her advantage.

  Jenny lifted her sunglasses, stepped toward the sour-smelling stranger, and placed her hands on his furry cheeks. She stared deep into his face with her alarmingly green eyes.

  “Your road does not go far,” she said. “It will end as it began: in violence.”

  Meatloaf sensed an eerie note of prophecy in the sound of the words. Calhoun must have noticed it too, because as Jenny released his face and stepped back, he was left speechless for several moments.

  Then he gave a hoarse laugh. “She almost had me there for a second, will you believe it?”

  “Do we have an agreement?” Meatloaf asked.

  Calhoun’s head bobbed. “Yes, I suppose we do. Better get this show on the road then, don’t you think?” He shot Jenny a sly, suspicious glance as he turned back toward the wagons, and from then on he gave the girl a wide berth.

  ___

  They rode in a wagon filled with props, manikins, a large box with a false bottom, and other trick items. The wagon smelled of old leather and cheap perfume.

  Meatloaf hummed as they trundled through the blockade. The sentries recognized Calhoun and, after a few words and as many bribes, waved the circus on without searching any of the wagons. This, Meatloaf decided, was called getting the royal treatment.

  Already the shame of his beating at the hands of the guards was fading, though the bruises were still plump and dark. He watched Jenny as the wagon shook beneath them. God or no God, he could not avoid the sense that their paths had crossed for a reason.

  “You’re my only friend in the whole world,” he said. “All the others are just chumps. This Calhoun fellow? He’s just a chump, too.”

  “A smelly one,” Jenny answered.

  Meatloaf chuckled. “Yes. But you, my dear, are a prize. Can you really see the future?”

  Jenny did not answer. She was wearing her sunglasses again, to Meatloaf’s relief, and combing her fingers through Shadow’s fur. That was his name now—Shadow. Meatloaf had casually remarked on how the dog trailed Jenny like her own shadow, and she had decided this was a suitable name. The dog still kept its distance from Meatloaf, perhaps mindful of the games they had once played together, and this was just fine with Meatloaf. The animal was changing. It no longer whined or lowered its head when he stared at it. It was as if Jenny and the dog had developed a symbiotic relationship, the two drawing strength from one another.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Meatloaf said. “You convinced Calhoun well enough. That’s what counts.”

  “But I’ll have to do it again, won’t I? For other people?”

  “All for a good cause, child.” He patted her knee. “All for a good cause.”

  The drone of voices and the smell of food infiltrated the covered wagon. There was fried meat, fish, roasted vegetables, popcorn, fresh bread. Live music serenaded them. Jenny pushed through the back of the wagon and stared at all the lights and the bright colors.

  “There are so many people!” she exclaimed.

  “Sheep,” Meatloaf answered with thinly-veiled disdain. “They may seem like ordinary people, but just remember what they’ll do if you give them the chance. Remember what happened to your eyes. Remember what happened to me when I crossed those soldiers. They’re all demons on the inside—every last one of them.”

  ___

  The traveling circus made its first stop at what had once been called CRESCENT PARK, according to the rusted sign. Much of the once-expansive park, however, had been appropriated for private use. Grass meticulously groomed by one landscaping company or another had since been cut and peeled back, the exposed earth tilled and planted with vegetables.

  The park’s pond, in addition to supplying water to the gardens, also supplied the local residents with water for drinking and cleaning. Any visiting ducks or geese were promptly shot before they had time to pollute the water. That was not much of a problem, however, since the weather was turning and the only geese people saw were the ones cresting beneath the clouds, heading south in a V pattern.

  “Are we getting out?” Jenny asked as the wagon came to a stop. They had been traveling for what seemed a long time, but now traveling always seemed to take a long time. Especially when riding in a wagon that jostled her every time her eyelids began to droop.

  “Time to earn our keep,” Meatloaf answered cheerfully. He dropped lightly to the ground, then took Jenny’s hand and helped her down.

  Jenny felt a stab of fear at this idea. “You know I can’t do it, right?” she asked, searching for sympathy in an unlikely place.

  “Nobody can,” he replied.

  “What if I say no?”

  He was quiet for a few moments. He caught Calhoun’s eye and raised his voice, layering it with false enthusiasm. “Come on, Jenny, time’s a-wasting!”

  Jenny felt his hand wrap around hers and pull her, not gently, away from the wagons. They did not have far to go, however, before Meatloaf found a place suitable for their little operation. While Meatloaf set up the tent, he explained what Calhoun had told him of the circus’s arrangement with the city.

  “They let us come and go as we please,” he said, “and in return, we keep the plebs happy. Oh, and we’re also supposed to keep our ear to the ground. Information is valuable, so if you hear any tidbits of gossip, be sure to pass them on to me.”

  Right, Jenny thought. So you can have all the credit. She was not sure how much she minded this, however, so long as she was fed and kept safe. Tonight, if it rained, she would have a roof over her head—or canvas, at le
ast. She could regain the strength she had lost during the lean days on the road. There were worse ways of living, weren’t there?

  She found herself wondering how life had changed so dramatically since leaving Fairfield. She was only a child caught up in big things beyond her understanding. A phrase from a poem she had studied in school (eons ago, it seemed) drifted across the screen of her mind:

  Hope is the thing with feathers.

  That was written by…let’s see…Emily Dickson, wasn’t it? The teacher had gone on at length - far too long, in her opinion - about the meaning of the poem. The “immutability of hope”—yes, that was how Mrs. Huber had summed it up. No matter what life threw at you, hope was always there, chirping on the windowsill, watching you with its beady eyes.