or a grimace; it was not always easy to tell what that twisted face meant to convey. His mouth was open slightly, his teeth like the stained and weathered pickets of an ancient fence, as he contemplated me and what I’d said, as if he might inquire further or offer advice, but he was too good a carny to pry. He merely said “Ah” again.
“Sanctuary,” I said, almost wishing he would pry, suddenly struck by the crazy urge to take him into my confidence and tell him about the goblins, Uncle Denton. For months, since the first time I had killed a goblin, I had required unfaltering strength of purpose and character in order to survive, and in that time and through all my travels I had not encountered anyone who seemed to have been tempered by a fire as hot as that which had tempered me. Now, in Joel Tuck, I sensed that I had found a man whose suffering, anguish, and loneliness had been far greater than mine, endured far longer; he was a man who had accepted the unacceptable with uncommon strength and grace. Here was someone who might understand what it was like to live always in a nightmare, without a moment’s respite. In spite of his monstrous face, there was something fatherly about him, and I had the extraordinary urge to lean on him and let the tears flow at last, at long last, and tell him about the demonic creatures that stalked the earth unseen. But self-control was my most precious possession, and suspicion was the asset that had proven most valuable for survival, and I could not easily put aside either attitude. I merely repeated: “Sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary,” he said. “I believe you’ll find that too. I surely hope you do because . . . I think you need it, Slim MacKenzie. I think you need it desperately.”
That comment was so out of character with the rest of our brief conversation that it jolted me.
We stared at each other for a moment.
This time I looked not at the blind, orange orb in his forehead but at his other eyes. In them I thought I saw compassion.
Psychically I sensed in him a reaching-out, a warmth. However, I also perceived a secretiveness that was not apparent in his manner, a discomfiting indication that he was more than he seemed to be—that he was, in some vague way, perhaps even dangerous.
A shudder of dread passed through me, but I didn’t know if I should be afraid of him or of something that would happen to him.
The moment broke like a fragile thread—abruptly but with no great drama.
“See you around,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, my mouth so dry and my throat so constricted that I couldn’t have said more.
He turned and walked away.
I watched him until he was out of sight—the same way that the mechanic, Red Morton, had watched me when I walked away from the Whip.
Again I thought of leaving the carnival and finding a place where the omens and portents were less disturbing. But I was down to my last few pennies, and I was tired of being on the road alone, and I needed to belong somewhere—and I was enough of a seer to know that you can’t walk away from destiny no matter how ardently you might wish to do so.
Besides, the Sombra Brothers Carnival was obviously a good and companionable place for a freak to settle down. Joel Tuck and me. Freaks.
chapter six
DAUGHTER OF THE SUN
The carnival headquarters was lodged in three brightly painted trailers—each white with a brilliant rainbow design sweeping across it. They were arranged in an incomplete square, the front side missing. A portable picket fence surrounded the enclosure. Mr. Timothy “Jelly” Jordan had an office in the long trailer on the left, which also housed the accountant and the woman who dispensed rolls of tickets every morning.
I waited for half an hour in the plain, linoleum-floored room where the bald accountant, Mr. Dooley, was poring through piles of papers. As he worked, he nibbled steadily from a dish of radishes and pepperoncinis and black olives, and his spicy breath permeated the
“Sanctuary,” I said, almost wishing he would pry, suddenly struck by the crazy urge to take him into my confidence and tell him about the goblins, Uncle Denton. For months, since the first time I had killed a goblin, I had required unfaltering strength of purpose and character in order to survive, and in that time and through all my travels I had not encountered anyone who seemed to have been tempered by a fire as hot as that which had tempered me. Now, in Joel Tuck, I sensed that I had found a man whose suffering, anguish, and loneliness had been far greater than mine, endured far longer; he was a man who had accepted the unacceptable with uncommon strength and grace. Here was someone who might understand what it was like to live always in a nightmare, without a moment’s respite. In spite of his monstrous face, there was something fatherly about him, and I had the extraordinary urge to lean on him and let the tears flow at last, at long last, and tell him about the demonic creatures that stalked the earth unseen. But self-control was my most precious possession, and suspicion was the asset that had proven most valuable for survival, and I could not easily put aside either attitude. I merely repeated: “Sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary,” he said. “I believe you’ll find that too. I surely hope you do because . . . I think you need it, Slim MacKenzie. I think you need it desperately.”
That comment was so out of character with the rest of our brief conversation that it jolted me.
We stared at each other for a moment.
This time I looked not at the blind, orange orb in his forehead but at his other eyes. In them I thought I saw compassion.
Psychically I sensed in him a reaching-out, a warmth. However, I also perceived a secretiveness that was not apparent in his manner, a discomfiting indication that he was more than he seemed to be—that he was, in some vague way, perhaps even dangerous.
A shudder of dread passed through me, but I didn’t know if I should be afraid of him or of something that would happen to him.
The moment broke like a fragile thread—abruptly but with no great drama.
“See you around,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, my mouth so dry and my throat so constricted that I couldn’t have said more.
He turned and walked away.
I watched him until he was out of sight—the same way that the mechanic, Red Morton, had watched me when I walked away from the Whip.
Again I thought of leaving the carnival and finding a place where the omens and portents were less disturbing. But I was down to my last few pennies, and I was tired of being on the road alone, and I needed to belong somewhere—and I was enough of a seer to know that you can’t walk away from destiny no matter how ardently you might wish to do so.
Besides, the Sombra Brothers Carnival was obviously a good and companionable place for a freak to settle down. Joel Tuck and me. Freaks.
chapter six
DAUGHTER OF THE SUN
The carnival headquarters was lodged in three brightly painted trailers—each white with a brilliant rainbow design sweeping across it. They were arranged in an incomplete square, the front side missing. A portable picket fence surrounded the enclosure. Mr. Timothy “Jelly” Jordan had an office in the long trailer on the left, which also housed the accountant and the woman who dispensed rolls of tickets every morning.
I waited for half an hour in the plain, linoleum-floored room where the bald accountant, Mr. Dooley, was poring through piles of papers. As he worked, he nibbled steadily from a dish of radishes and pepperoncinis and black olives, and his spicy breath permeated the
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