Americarnie Trash

by Jon Jacks

  They had been on Earth as men for a surprisingly long time; perhaps too long.

  They had become used to, even enjoyed, earthly pleasures.

  Hadn’t they delayed completing their task until morning, until the sun rose?

  Are we really to believe that they refused the relieved and grateful advances of Lot’s daughters?

  What wouldn’t these young girls offer these men who had spared their lives?

  *

  Chapter 14

  When I arrive back at the carnival, I’m confronted by a sight I’ve become familiar with; it’s under siege, surrounded by streams of angry townsfolk.

  The only thing I find unusual about this is the timing. It’s all happening too early.

  We haven’t been here long enough for the Carnival Diabolus to have sucked in its usual payment of lost souls.

  The longer we stay in one particular place, the darker our own, regular carnival becomes.

  It’s not a regular darkness, of course. It’s the darkness of the Carnival Diabolus, spreading into and becoming more a part of the regular carnival.

  Then there’s the inherent darkness of the people themselves; people who wish to experience, to enjoy, the darker side of life.

  And so these two elements of darkness greet each other, wilfully embrace, joyously combine.

  It’s only then that people begin to disappear. And it’s later still when the townies become aware that there have been a number of disappearances.

  All seemingly linked to the carnival.

  It’s then that we normally find ourselves besieged. Then that we have to prepare for an overnight flight.

  As I draw closer, I realise that there are no police amongst the crowd, no officials insisting on calm, making promises that those responsible for the disappearances will be severely dealt with. There are no abusive yells, no threats of vengeance.

  No angry faces.

  Their faces are blissful, ecstatic, similar in so many ways to the young couple who had followed me to the cemetery, who still followed me even now, at a distance.

  They talked of ‘our child’: I’m surprised they’re still together, as a couple. Marriage isn’t allowed. It only enslaves women.

  Perhaps, ironically, it was the illness of the child that had kept them together, supporting each other, pooling what little strength they had as individuals.

  The couple rush to join others amongst the joyously clamouring people, perhaps recognising someone, perhaps recognising that they are believers, like themselves.

  They glance my way excitedly every now and again, everyone they speak to looking my way with equally wide-eyed awe.

  It isn’t supposed to happen like this.

  It’s dangerous.

  For them, these new believers, so foolishly open in their adoration.

  For us, for preaching and promoting blasphemy.

  Perhaps we’ll have to move on early; perhaps even tonight.

  *

  Chapter 15

  When I wake the next morning, we're hundreds of miles away.

  In a new state. I don’t know which one. I don’t need to know.

  It’s also a different time, too.

  Not, of course, hundreds of years different.

  Just a few years different either way; some time in what would have been our future, or our past.

  It’s pretty much the same to us, thankfully.

  The carnival looks entirely different now, of course.

  New banners. New name.

  We could just appear overnight in a field by a town. Already set up. Everything already in place.

  In just the same, miraculous way we vanished overnight from the plot we’d taken up in the last town.

  Obviously, we try to make our sudden vanishing appear as natural as possible.

  We leave the holes in the ground, where our poles had been, our pegs driven into the ground. There are also the patches of packed, trodden earth, where booths had stood, people walked. There are enough things left behind, too, including rubbish, discarded items, to give the impression we’ve made a midnight flight.

  They expect that of us anyway, don’t they?

  That, like thieves in the night, we’re well practised at fleeing a town where we have become unwelcome.

  Americarnie trash. Tramps. Thieves.

  It’s one thing to leave a town so suddenly. It would be a different thing entirely to abruptly appear in the midst of a town.

  So, like any carnival of old, we announce our arrival with a gay procession.

  One of brightly coloured flags, banners, exotic costumes, rarely seen animals.

  Even the horses drawing our caravans and floats are gaily decked out, with high-rising plumes of feathers, with trailing streamers of every colour and tone imaginable.

  And then, of course, there are us, the performers.

  The acrobats are reasonably fortunate, having to do little but tumble, leap and somersault along the edges of the slowly moving procession.

  Fire eaters dash alongside the people lining the streets, letting out the odd, amazing burst of flames.

  Jugglers grab objects from the crowd, throw them up in the air, return them safely.

  The freaks are, well, just freaks; they simply wave as they walk by, or, unable to move, from their seat on one of the floats,

  Floats are a strange word for carts that jolt and judder with every large stone or hole we encounter.

  And it’s this that makes certain acts, including mine, even more dangerous than they would otherwise be.

  Fortunately, for most of the procession I’m allowed to simply sit on a suspended swing, or slide gracefully, like a twining serpent, down hanging ropes.

  Yet every now and again, along with Jeserel and Verelda, I’m expected to leap from one high swing to another.

  And a sharp jolt of the float at the wrong time sends the bar you’re reaching out for swinging chaotically, unpredictably.

  Similarly, the tamers of the more ferocious animals suffer from the unexpectedly sharp jolts, any one of which can anger their caged lions, wolves, bears and tigers.

  They’re safe for the moment, naturally; but later, when they have to prepare their charges for the shows, the animals are irritable, as unpredictable as the roads that caused the problem in the first place.

  Even so, despite these dangers, I’m enjoying myself.

  It’s always nice, the warmly welcoming crowds lining up to greet us. The overly excited children, already pestering their parents to buy tickets, to take them to see the shows as soon as possible.

  Our arrival into a town is always a cause of celebration.

  The early days are the good days.

  We never really know how soon it will be before we outstay our welcome.

  *

  Chapter 16

  We’d only been in town a few days when the Senator arrived.

  I wasn’t really sure who he was.

  I’ve never been interested in politics. I hardly ever read the few newspapers that are available.

  No matter who you vote for, they all seem the same to me.

  Same old promises. Same old lies.

  Lorn used to say he didn’t trust any of them: they didn’t represent us, understand us, or look out for us.

  Even back to the time when the politicians had been our own people, they had betrayed us. Sold us out. Just for their own benefit, their own easy way of life.

  ‘You know the story of the Mite?’ Lorn had once said to me.

  ‘The one in the Testament? Sure,’ I’d replied.

  ‘I meant the modern version; the Americarnie version. See, the rich man who sneers at the old lady putting her mite into the charity box, he doesn’t leave it at that. He’s a good man, isn’t he? So he approaches her, tells her off for being miserly; for letting people worse off than her suffer. So he takes her arm, twists it – makes her put everything she has into that poor box. Then, when the old lady leaves, he helps himself to some o
f that charity money. For he’s the one, isn’t he, who made sure that poor box was filled?’

  Lorn might not have believed we were descended from angels: but he’d certainly believed we had once been a proud people, brought low by our own crooked leaders, selling us out for their own ease and comfort.

  They were, he’d said, like our fathers, the father of the children of the carnie; they took no responsibility for the results of their actions, denied it was anything to do with them, saying it would all have naturally happened like that anyway.

  All they’d done, hadn’t they, they’d say, was help ease us into this new world, a world that no one had any real control over any longer.

  We just had to accept what we were given.

  The Senator is given a tour of the carnival, Master Elias all deferential, acting like the Senator’s honouring us with his visit.

  Truth is, Elias hates these Senators just as much as any Americarnie. But he knows they have the power and wherewithal to cause the carnivals trouble.

  Every bottle of ElixiAir that Kevarn had added the Diabolus waters to has been emptied, refilled with our own useless version.

  ‘We don’t need miraculous cures drawing attention to us!’ Master Elias had stormed when he’d heard why we’d had to flee our last town much earlier than expected.

  We’ve already been in our new town much longer than we’d managed there. The carnival is beginning to experience the signs of the gradually spreading darkness.

  Lights are dimmer.

  There’s an increasing air of menace about the place.

  The visiting crowds are expecting more of us – more thrills, more drunkenness, more debauchery. More of everything that is usually strictly limited to them throughout their day to day life.

  And so we’ve seen more people briefly vanishing into the true darkness beyond the lights.

  Some fall across the line, unsteady on their feet after a drink too many.

  Others eagerly run into the shadows, chasing either a giggling or terrified girl. In the first case, both of them will tumble into the darkness.

  Whole groups of aggressively squabbling men are soaked up by the blackness they seek to sort their differences out in.

  When they return – and so far, thankfully, all of them have returned – they can’t remember where they’ve been. What they’ve done.

  They still remain, naturally, unware of the darkness.

  They’re dazed. Yet also, they sense, ecstatic.

  Satisfied beyond their wildest wishes.

  And so, if truly sated, they could, if they wished, leave it at that. They could survive the Carnival Diabolus by simply refusing to return.

  But they’ll be back.

  They don’t know why. They just know that they have to return.

  Because this is where they felt so impossibly euphoric. Where all their dreams came true.

  And so they’ll come until they’re finally entirely absorbed by the welcoming darkness.

  The darkness that now lies, waiting, beyond the smiling, touring Senator.

  Just a few steps back, and…he would vanish too.

  But he won’t, of course.

  He hasn’t been called.

  And yet…I get the impression that he’s not completely unaware of the presence of the patiently waiting darkness.

  Does he sense that it’s there?

  Is he so observant that he’s noticed few people glance that way, as if avoiding the scenes of a ghastly accident, eyes averted, heads tilted?

  I could be mistaken, naturally, that he senses the border between our worlds.

  Just as the carnie try and hide their averted gazes (thereby, ironically, drawing the attention of anyone who’s truly vigilant), he seems to me to be forcing himself to act as if he doesn’t know it’s there.

  It’s not the usual way townsfolk behave when passing along the dividing line. Normally they step away as if, suddenly, recalling something else they had to do. Or, conversely, as if they had abruptly forgotten their original intentions.

  Like us, the Senator’s trying to avoid drawing attention to it.

  Acting as if it isn’t really there, this sheer blackness beyond the glaring lights. Acting as if it could have absolutely no effect on anyone standing by it.

  But how could he possibly know of its existence?

  Unless – he’s a previous visitor of the darkness.

  *

  He regards me the way he regards the darkness.

  His attempts to hide his interest in me.

  His fleeting, sly glances my way.

  Surely he’s not attracted to me?

  He’s tall, handsome; an almost feminine elegance. He’s a man who knows he’s beautiful, too, playing off his charming smile, the humorous sparkle in his eyes. The almost hypnotic effect of slim, animated hands.

  But he’s way too old for someone my age.

  Is that, though, why he ended up in the darkside? (If, indeed, he did, however briefly.)

  It’s a knowing gaze: his eyes bright, alive. Humorous. Confident.

  His face ever so slightly lights up with elation when Master Elias introduces us to each other.

  ‘Ah, yes, yes; the angel,’ he says, admiring the repaired wings I’ve donned once more for tonight’s show.

  ‘Ah, only, of course, Senator, a mythical–’

  ‘Yes, yes; no need to explain, Master – I’m well aware, and a great admirer of your culture. As I’ve explained.’

  He smiles warmly at me, as if partially entranced.

  ‘Angels: such wonderful, mythical creatures, don’t you think…?’

  He waits for me to answer, to provide my name for him.

  ‘Sel, Sir; I mean, Selmerey. And yes, Sir, they are wonderful creatures.’

  He nods, satisfied with my answer, it seems.

  ‘So, tell me, Miss Selmerey: do you think of them as being wholly mythical beings?’

  He’s mistaken my name for my surname. But I’m too busy trying to think of the best way of answering his question to bother correcting him.

  His glittering gaze seems intent on probing my eyes, as if, like the patiently waiting darkness, he’s simply biding his time before springing a trap.

  ‘I think, Sir, that…I think that it would be wonderful if they really existed.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent answer, don’t you think, Master Elias? A bright girl, a very bright girl you have here.’

  A relieved Master Elias nods in elated agreement. Like me, I’d noticed, he had appeared wary of the question, nervous of any answer I might give.

  ‘Oh, and what do you base your portrayal of this angel upon?’ the Senator asks, apparently innocently yet again, the question nevertheless inherently dangerous.

  ‘It’s a traditional costume, Sir: obviously, we have no pictures to verify its accuracy.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ he nods, taking in my spreading wings with what seems obvious interest. ‘I believe what you have here is quite accurate.’

  He looks up, catching the surprise, the unease, on our faces.

  ‘Ah, you’re shocked that a Senator would know of and take an interest in your beliefs, yes?’

  He chuckles mischievously.

  ‘But why not?’ he continues. ‘The founding myths of our great country ultimately make us what we all are today, I believe. I read of such beliefs avidly: a foible, let’s say, of mine. And I, of course, am rather privileged when it comes to the ancient texts placed at my disposal.’

  He looks towards me once again, the eyes narrowing, challenging and sly. Despite his best efforts, he fails to ease or even veil their true nature and intent.

  ‘Have you ever wondered, Miss Selmerey, how angels used to be portrayed?’

  Master Elias forces a smile, everything else about his expression grave and grey.

  ‘I…yes, yes: of course. Purely as a matter of interest, of course.’

  ‘Of course!’

  The Senator grins, amused by the cau
tious qualifications in my answer.

  ‘What say you, Master?’ he continues brightly, giving Elias nothing more than a sidelong glance. ‘Should I show our angel what they used to think she should look like?’

  The Master manages to retain his sickly grin, despite a gulp to his throat, a glint of fear in his eye.

  ‘I’m sure, Sir, that Sel doesn’t need to see–’

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense: in fact, I insist. I’ll send a car for her tomorrow – we must ensure her portrayal of such an important mythological figure is as accurate as possible!’

  *

  Chapter 17

  The car wasn’t what I’d dreamt it would be; it was far, far better.

  I couldn’t have possibly imagined just how wonderful it would be.

  It travelled along the roads so smoothly, it was as if I were travelling on a magic carpet, floating only ever so slightly above the ground. The seats were the softest and most comfortable I had ever sat in.

  Windows of tinted glass went up then down at the push of a button. The seats themselves moved forward and back, up and down, at the push of a few other buttons.

  No matter how hot it became outside, you could remain cool in here, here in this remarkably luxurious world.

  It seemed so amazingly quiet as it moved too, the purring of a contented kitten.

  I had heard of cars, naturally; I had even seen the odd picture of them. Yet nothing could have prepared me for this most glorious way of travelling.

  We completely passed through the town. We left via its deserted, ruined edges on the far side, the road wending its way through crumbling buildings and overgrown streets.

  My sense of ease and luxury gradually subsided, to be replaced with a nagging apprehension.

  What did the Senator want with me?

  Why did we have to meet outside of the carnival? Outside of the town?

  He wasn’t with me yet, of course.

  The car was being driven by a servant. The servant said little to ease my worries; I only caught a glimpse of him every now and again, when he glanced back at me in the minute mirror positioned by his seat.

  He wouldn’t say where we were headed.

  Only that he had his instructions.

  Sit back, enjoy the ride.

  He tried to sound pleasant enough.