Read Online Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Ray Bradbury
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Jim?'
'A picture.'
'Yeah, but what kind?'
'It was - Jim shut his eyes. 'It was - a picture of a. . .snake. . .that's it. . .snake.' But when he opened his eyes, he would not look at Will.
'Okay, if you don't want to tell me.'
'I told you, Will, a snake. I'll get him to show it to you, later, you want that?'
No, thought Will, I don't want that.
He looked down at the billion footprints left in the sawdust on the empty midway and suddenly it was a lot closer to midnight than to noon.
'I'm going home. . .'
'Sure, Will,' go on. Mirror mazes, old teacher-ladies, lost lightning-rod bags, lightning-rod salesmen disappear, snake pictures dancing, unbroken merry-go-rounds, and you want to go home!? Sure, old friend, Will, so long.'
'I. . .' Will started dwon the tree, and froze.
'All clear?' cried a voice below.
'Clear!' someone shouted at the far end of the midway.
Mr Dark moved, not fifty feet away to a red control box near the merry-go-round ticket booth. He glared in all directions. He glared into the tree.
Will hugged, Jim hugged the limb, tightened into smallness.
'Start up!'
With a pop, a bang, a jangle of reins, a lift and downfall, a rise and descent of brass, the carousel moved.
But, thought Will, it's broke, out of order!
He flicked a glance at Jim, who pointed wildly down.
The merry-go-round was running, yes, but. . .
It was running backward.
The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.
The music, Will thought, it's backward, too!
Mr Dark jerked about, glanced up, as if he had heard Will's thoughts. A wind shook the trees in black tumults. Mr Dark shrugged and looked away.
The carousel wheeled faster, shrieking, plunging, going roundabout-back!
Now Mr Cooger, with his flaming red hair and fire-blue eyes, was pacing the midway, making a last check. He stood under their tree. Will could have let spit down on him. Then the calliope gave a particularly violent cry of foul murder which made dogs howl in far counties, and Mr Cooger, spinning, ran and leaped on the backwhirling universe of animals who, tail first, head last, pursued an endless circling night toward unfound and never to be discovered destinations. Hand-slapping brass poles, he flung himself into a seat where with his bristly red hair, pink face, and incredible sharp blue eyes he sat silent, going back around, back around, the music squealing swift back with him like insucked breath.
The music, thought Will, what is it? And how do I know it's backside first? He, hugged the limb, tried to catch the tune, then hum it forward in his head. But the brass bells, the drums, hammered his chest, revved his heart so he felt his pulse reverse, his blood turn back in perverse thrusts through all his flesh, so he was nearly shaken free to fall, so all he did was clutch, hang pale, and drink the sight of the backward-turning machine and Mr Dark, alert at the controls, on the sidelines.
It was Jim who first noticed the new thing happening, for he kicked Will, once, Will looked over, and Jim nodded frantically at the man in the machine as he came around the next time.
Mr Cooger's face was melting like pink wax.
His hands were becoming doll's hands.
His bones sank away beneath his clothes; his clothes then shrank down to fit his dwindling frame.
His face flickered going, and each time around he melted more.
Will saw Jim's head shift, circling.
The carousel wheeled, a great back-drifting lunar dream the horses thrusting, the music in-gasped after, while Mr Cooger, as simple as shadows, as simple as light, as simple as time, got younger. And younger. And younger.
Each
'A picture.'
'Yeah, but what kind?'
'It was - Jim shut his eyes. 'It was - a picture of a. . .snake. . .that's it. . .snake.' But when he opened his eyes, he would not look at Will.
'Okay, if you don't want to tell me.'
'I told you, Will, a snake. I'll get him to show it to you, later, you want that?'
No, thought Will, I don't want that.
He looked down at the billion footprints left in the sawdust on the empty midway and suddenly it was a lot closer to midnight than to noon.
'I'm going home. . .'
'Sure, Will,' go on. Mirror mazes, old teacher-ladies, lost lightning-rod bags, lightning-rod salesmen disappear, snake pictures dancing, unbroken merry-go-rounds, and you want to go home!? Sure, old friend, Will, so long.'
'I. . .' Will started dwon the tree, and froze.
'All clear?' cried a voice below.
'Clear!' someone shouted at the far end of the midway.
Mr Dark moved, not fifty feet away to a red control box near the merry-go-round ticket booth. He glared in all directions. He glared into the tree.
Will hugged, Jim hugged the limb, tightened into smallness.
'Start up!'
With a pop, a bang, a jangle of reins, a lift and downfall, a rise and descent of brass, the carousel moved.
But, thought Will, it's broke, out of order!
He flicked a glance at Jim, who pointed wildly down.
The merry-go-round was running, yes, but. . .
It was running backward.
The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.
The music, Will thought, it's backward, too!
Mr Dark jerked about, glanced up, as if he had heard Will's thoughts. A wind shook the trees in black tumults. Mr Dark shrugged and looked away.
The carousel wheeled faster, shrieking, plunging, going roundabout-back!
Now Mr Cooger, with his flaming red hair and fire-blue eyes, was pacing the midway, making a last check. He stood under their tree. Will could have let spit down on him. Then the calliope gave a particularly violent cry of foul murder which made dogs howl in far counties, and Mr Cooger, spinning, ran and leaped on the backwhirling universe of animals who, tail first, head last, pursued an endless circling night toward unfound and never to be discovered destinations. Hand-slapping brass poles, he flung himself into a seat where with his bristly red hair, pink face, and incredible sharp blue eyes he sat silent, going back around, back around, the music squealing swift back with him like insucked breath.
The music, thought Will, what is it? And how do I know it's backside first? He, hugged the limb, tried to catch the tune, then hum it forward in his head. But the brass bells, the drums, hammered his chest, revved his heart so he felt his pulse reverse, his blood turn back in perverse thrusts through all his flesh, so he was nearly shaken free to fall, so all he did was clutch, hang pale, and drink the sight of the backward-turning machine and Mr Dark, alert at the controls, on the sidelines.
It was Jim who first noticed the new thing happening, for he kicked Will, once, Will looked over, and Jim nodded frantically at the man in the machine as he came around the next time.
Mr Cooger's face was melting like pink wax.
His hands were becoming doll's hands.
His bones sank away beneath his clothes; his clothes then shrank down to fit his dwindling frame.
His face flickered going, and each time around he melted more.
Will saw Jim's head shift, circling.
The carousel wheeled, a great back-drifting lunar dream the horses thrusting, the music in-gasped after, while Mr Cooger, as simple as shadows, as simple as light, as simple as time, got younger. And younger. And younger.
Each
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