Carnival Charlatan

by Skeeter Enright

  “The future is fluid. This card…” I tapped the hooded reaper. “…indicates a need for change. Death is a possibility, if you take the easy path. But, with change, I see…” I took a dramatic pause. “I see hope of a useful life. It is yours if you chose,” I said in a deeper tone.

  “What do I do?” His voice cracked, as if he were ready to sob. He really was close to the edge.

  I took the cards remaining in the deck and smeared them across the table. “Choose your fate,” I said ominously. He pulled the knight of swords. Excellent. I could have made something up on the fly, but this card worked great.

  “This card represents the man you must find. A man who can guide you and help you train your gifts,” I started.

  He leaned forward, his breathing rapid, expression animated—just like a real boy, despite the hardware in his face.

  “He is near, by the lake.” We were not far from Cleveland. I knew a coven there, led by a man who could help this kid deal with his gifts. Mike Stone ran a motorcycle shop on Lakeshore Drive. I met him once a couple years ago. He came to the carnival with his kids, saw my banner, recognized the symbols, and stopped in to talk shop. We kept in touch, Christmas cards and the like. Yes, both Carnies and Witches send Christmas cards.

  Through the witch grapevine, I had heard good things about Mike over the years. Now, all I had to do is give the kid directions. I couldn’t make it too easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy, my Grammy always used to say.

  “This man, he has brown hair, blue eyes, and a white scar on his left hand. He is strong like a rock. I see him with machines…motorcycles,” I paused theatrically. “Tomorrow, seek out this man, tell him of your gift, about this reading. Ask his help. He is wise, he can help you.” Sometimes, I wanted to gag when I did the Madam Magda thing, but it was what the marks expected.

  “You really think he can help me,” the kid asked eagerly.

  “It is not me, but the cards and the spirits who tell. You have to find your path. Do you wish a paper to record the details of your search?” I asked.

  He nodded eagerly. I dropped the sound dampening spell while I ripped a sheet out of my ledger notebook and handed him a pen. He wrote ‘motorcycles, on the lake, blonde, blue-eyed guy with a scar on his hand’.

  I prompted, “Don’t forget he is strong like a rock.”

  He added strong rock to his list. If this kid couldn’t find Mike Stone, he was too dumb to learn to use his power.

  “Your reading is over. Go now. May the Universe be kind to you,” I droned in my most soothing Magda voice. I laid on the accent a bit thicker.

  He stood quickly and clasped my hand. The creepy vibe he’d given off was totally gone. I’d done my good deed for the day. I should have been a Girl Scout.

  “Do you think I can find the guy,” he asked.

  “Anything is possible. You have everything you need,” I said. “Good luck in your search.”

  As he left, he seemed to have a new bounce in his stride. Maybe it was my imagination. I still hoped young Mister Pincushion found his way.

  While I fished the soggy, sweat-soaked bills out of my bra, Myra showed up again. She held out a three-bean salad and a couple of Cokes.

  “It’s so slow, I thought I’d come over for dinner.” She handed me a Coke and a plate of food. “That last guy seemed a little creepy,” she said.

  “He had a little magic in him. I tried to set him on the right path,” I said. At Myra’s surprised look, I continued, “Most people would be amazed at how many with a bit of psychic talent are around. The average person with a talent pushes the gift deep down into their psyche and lets it atrophy. Others, like this kid, can’t control it without training. It can drive them crazy. They end up as suicides or in psych wards, drugged out of their gourds.”

  “Really,” she said. “You’d think having power to do magic would be fun.”

  “It is sometimes, but all magic has its price.” I could feel an itch on my neck caused by the little spell I used on my last client. It would soon pass. “Young witches like me, who are born with powers, tend to do some creative things before they learn how dangerous their power really is.” Boy, I was being chatty tonight. “I’m no exception. I pulled a few stunts as a kid. I’d hate to think what could happen to a born powerful witch who didn’t have someone to train and guide them like I had with my Grammy.”

  At Myra’s inquiring look, I continued, “There is a story from back in ancient times about a kid who had been taken as a slave by the Romans. He ended up in the city of Pompeii, with no guidance, right about the time he hit puberty. It was in 79 AD. We all know how that turned out.”

  “What happened?” Sweet Myra didn’t have a lot of formal education.

  “His uncontrolled magic caused a volcano to blow up. It buried the city, and thousands of people died,” I informed her. “In any case, nowadays, most practitioners try to help gifted kids sort themselves out, like I did with the guy today.”

  “Why didn’t you teach him?” She gave me a leering grin. She really had a one-track mind lately.

  “Oh, Darlin’. I surely didn’t want to take him to raise. He wouldn’t last forty miles with the carney.”

  Myra nodded sagely. “You’re probably right,” she mumbled through a mouthful of beans.

  We finished our meal in a companionable silence. I wondered if I had said too much about the weird world I lived in. Sometimes, a little knowledge can do more harm than good. I wasn’t worried Myra would blab my secrets about the witchy world. Who would believe her anyway?

  People are good at rationalizing any supernatural weirdness they might see. They find all sorts of logical explanations. They see a demon, and it must be an early Halloween costume or a trick of the light. They have sex with a succubus—it must have been too much beer, or they were drugged. No way a supernatural being controlled their mind and drained off some of their life force.

  Myra seemed subdued when she got up to leave. “Airy,” she said with a frown. “If you got powers, why don’t you do more witch stuff?”

  I sighed and said, “Honey, being a Witch isn’t all fun and giggles. It’s dangerous unless you’re very careful. Besides, Witches had a lot of bad press in the dark ages. We got tagged with a Devil-worshipper stigma forever. It is not true, but that’s what a lot of people think. It was what the mark I chilled this afternoon called me. Those religious types can get pretty intense. At least two of my many times great Aunts and one Uncle back in the day were killed for being Witches.”

  “Why wasn’t it on the news,” she asked. Myra had a great heart and was a loyal friend, but she was not the sharpest tool in the box.

  “It was a long time ago. None of us have been caught lately,” I told her.

  “Well, you be careful,” she warned as seriously as I’ve ever seen her. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m always careful,” I reassured her. She did not look at ease, so I continued, “Most of us with gifts try to stay under the radar. We hide in plain sight like me with my Tarot cards, or Vegas magicians who pretend the magic they are doing is an act. Some are brazenly out in the open, witch’s covens online and such. Although, I doubt they’re very powerful, since they can use computers. The most powerful, out of the closet wizard I’ve heard of is this guy up in Chicago who actually advertises in the phone book.”

  Myra brightened at that. “Hey, we’ll be up there when we play Skokie at the end of September. Maybe you could give him a call and get something going.”

  I shook my head. “You are hopeless.”

  “And you will never get laid if you don’t take a chance,” she shot back with a grin.

  I had given Myra too much information, and she did the best she knew how to adjust her personal reality…the one I had shaken.

  It is fortunate most people think anyone who flaunts their occult connections were crackpots and discounted their claims. I never understood why anyone would want to be so blatant as to announce thei
r supernatural status, considering most people associate with our kind with evil.

  Chapter Four

  It was almost dark. The sky had a glow, which lit my tent walls with translucent beauty. I had already triple checked my stakes. Zach flew up to the ridgepole. He was keeping an eye out for scrumptious tidbits dropped by inattentive waifs. Tonight, the pickings were slim. Most birds settle down after dark, but old black Zach had adapted to the carnival’s hours.

  I couldn’t put my finger on what was bothering me. Something ominous hovered in the back of my mind. Maybe I was just out of sorts, because I could feel a storm coming. Storm or bad portent, it was a vague feeling I could really grasp. I have a few spells I can use pretty well, but I’m not always confident about my premonitions. I’m never sure my portents weren’t related to some digestive upset.

  My Grammy had always known what her feelings foretold. She had been an amazing psychic, clairvoyant, and white witch. My Mom too, so they tell me. You would think all that ability would have kept them both from being killed, but it didn’t.

  Mundane people of the work-a-day world don’t know magic is real, that true clairvoyants exist, or that there is another world next to ours full of scary things. The general public doesn’t want to know about the other land, which occasionally deposits unimaginable nastiness into our reality. They never know about people like my Mom and Grammy, who died trying to deal with supernatural situations that had gotten out of hand. Mom and Grammy went down protecting people who had no idea what kind of danger they faced, or who saved them.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Zach cawed insistently from the ridge of my tent. My jaw ached. I consciously unclenched it and relaxed my shoulders.

  We Lands have rare skills even among the magically inclined. We can draw power straight from ley-lines—the magical energy lines that crisscross the Earth. It is a potent gift. I trained on how to use it when I was around ten, as soon as my magic developed. Drawing from ley-lines gave a person a lot of power, which could channel into all sorts of magic. It’s an awesome amount of energy that, if not controlled or if abused, can literally burn a person up.

  I did some breathing exercises to relax. My leg started to shudder. I got up and checked my stakes again. The wind had started to freshen, but it was still hot as a sauna outside. Lightning flashed in distant clouds to the west.

  I thought about my Uncle Terry who’d abused his power when I was little. The family used his story as a warning to the kids. Terry was trying to get back at a girlfriend, and he drew so much energy for a spell that he actually set his internal organs on fire.

  Spontaneous combustion is not a pretty way to go. I read a book about it. They find a person’s leg or hand left over when the rest of the body has burned up. Science couldn’t explain what happened. I always thought those were cases of distracted magical practitioners, or screw-ups like Uncle Terry.

  I know Grammy trained Uncle Terry to be a better practitioner than he turned out to be. Her first rules were, never make spells to hurt people, and never ever throw a spell when you were angry. I guess unrequited love and too much power can cause people to forget their good sense. Maybe looking for a husband wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  I flopped into my chair and mopped my face. I had way too much introspection tonight. By the time I finished blotting, sweat dripped again. Screw the makeup. I scrubbed my face thoroughly.

  The night dragged on. To have something to do, I shuffled my Tarot cards, missed an edge, and the cards flew all over the table.

  “Oh crap,” I said under my breath. If this were a movie, a card would have flipped up, and I, the great mystic, would have been able to prognosticate several amazing omens at a single glance. All I saw was a mess. Sweat dripped on the cards as I picked them up. “Double crap.” From outside, Zach squawked a raucous caw, haw, haw, haw, haw. Stupid bird.

  It was fully dark now, still hotter than hell. I should go out and try to talk up more business, but I had no energy. I sent a little more juice into my door banner hex in case someone walked by. Then, I put the cool crystal ball back in my lap. I opened a book on spells I’d found on a dusty shelf in a used bookstore in Detroit. The words crawled on the page. After I read the same paragraph for the third time, I gave up. I was not usually so restless.

  I read a lot about different types of magic. Everyone needs a hobby. I have recipes for all kinds of spells and potions. If thieves ever realized the rare books and grimoires I have in my motor home, I’d have to do a lot more than set wards to protect them.

  A couple in their thirties, wearing matching T-shirts that said ‘I’m with stupid’ wandered in. They were an easy read. They offered their own interpretation of the cards as I gave the standard reading. They bought a bottle of my love potion—also known as rehydrated passion fruit and kiwi juice. Great marks, no magic needed.

  Grammy always said I could have an amazing amount of magical power if I put my mind to it. I guess I could do a lot of magical things, if I cared to, but I seldom bothered. Grammy might have been right, but it is better to stay under the radar in the supernatural world as far as I’m concerned. You’ll live longer.

  Since Grammy died, the Carnies were my family. They kept me functioning when Grammy disappeared, and later when I found out she was dead. I read their cards and give advice. In turn, the Carnies make sure I’m not hassled by bad marks. They help me keep my motor home running. As crazy as most of them were, I will love them forever. Life’s not so bad. I’m content. What more can anyone ask?

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Over the calls of the busy talker at the Kooch Show, “Beauties from the far corners of the world…” I could hear the music from the Ferris wheel at the back of the lot. It was playing Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. I didn’t hear any other big rides running.

  I shuffled my cards again. This time, I didn’t flub them all over the table. I drummed my fingers and bounced my right leg. I couldn’t get rid of the frown that crept onto my face.

  Maybe I should try a spell to figure out what’s bothering me? Nah, it’s probably nothing. I try not to delve into preternatural problems unless I absolutely have to. Mostly, I use magic to avoid problems. I am especially good at placing wards, barriers sensitive to magical energies. I usually go with Skinny Phil, the advance man, to check out new locations before the carnival moves. I put up warding spells around the new grounds to keep any supernatural weirdness away.

  By nine o’clock, I only had three more customers. I assured a set of newlyweds, who were still in the groping each other phase, that they would have a wonderful future together.

  My final customer was a hugely obese woman who ate a whole funnel cake while I told her how her life was about to undergo a major change. It didn’t take a fortune teller to recognize the sweet smell of diabetes and puffiness of congestive heart failure. I gently counseled her to see a physician, hinting that a relationship might blossom in a medical setting.

  * * * *

  The unease I’d felt all day intensified. It definitely wasn’t related to the cold pizza I’d eaten for breakfast. I could not shake the jittery feeling in my stomach. I realized, even though it was early, I hadn’t heard any of the big rides running on the midway. The rib joint across from my tent had already closed down.

  I put the crystal ball back on the table and saw a flash of my Grammy with her hands on her hips. She looked mad.

  “Oh crap, crap, crap,” I muttered as I jumped up. When your dead grandmother scolds you from beyond the grave, you had better get moving.

  I pulled the string as I dashed out. My heavy tent flap fell closed. Zach took off from his perch and flew into the darkness, cawing raucously. The wind had picked up, heralding the oncoming storm. Papers blew in tight swirls. Not one mark was in sight. This was usually the busiest time of night. How stupid could I be, sitting there feeling sorry for myself and not noticing.

  “Janie,” I yelled to the squat woman organizing stuffed animals by the brightly lit ring toss st
and. “Watch my place a minute.”

  “Sure, Hon. What’s up?” she shouted at my retreating back.

  “Got to check something. Be ready to close up,” I shouted over my shoulder. I ran past the various Elephant Ear, French fry, and Funnel Cake stands. There were almost no locals on the midway. I was so stupid. Slow night my ass! Something weird had scared off the townies. I cut between the empty kiddie rides, to the edge of the lot where I had placed the wards that were a deterrent to most supernatural creepiness. They serve as a warning to magical beings, like a mystical no trespassing sign.

  Although there was nothing to see, I could feel the protective ward barrier, like a half-second of warm resistance, as I passed through. Then, it hit me—the palpable stink of demons nearby. My jaw ached with a vibration I had only felt before in the presence of a powerful fairy.

  Panic tightened my throat. I turned within a step and dove back behind the invisible wards. Scrambling to my feet, I fought the urge to vomit. My pulse had painfully doubled its speed. My chest felt as though I had a lead weight implanted on my sternum. I had no time to be hysterical now.

  Holding up my billowing skirts, I pelted back toward the midway and screamed with my best siren imitation, “Hey, Rube”. This universal call of the distressed Carney was guaranteed to alert everyone nearby.

  Tom Chambers, the sword swallower, reached me first. Relief ran through me like cool water. Tom’s one of the most dependable men on the lot. Tall and angular, he seemed to be all knees and elbows, but I knew he was amazingly strong. He had a baseball bat in one hand.

  “What is it, Airy?” He looked around for an immediate threat.

  Popeye the Freak and Big Mike were on their way as well. Each carried whatever nearby weapon they’d found. Mike had a pipe, and Popeye had what looked like a two-by-four, held like a javelin. Seeing my friends calmed my racing heart. I knew what I needed to do.

  “Something bad is coming, Tom. We have to get the townies off the lot. Everyone needs to hunker down,” I said, my mind racing. “It’s not a stand-up fight. If we can get everybody to their trailers, I’ll do what I can. Spread the word. Tell Mister D to meet me in the cattle barn.”