He handed the card to Jim. It now read:
Our speciality: to examine, oil,
polish, and repair Death Watch
Beetles.
Calmly, Jim read it. Calmly, Jim put a fist into his copious and richly treasured pockets, rummaged, and held out his hand.
On his palm lay a dead brown insect.
“Here,” Jim said. “Fix this.”
Mr Dark exploded his laugh. “Superb! I will!” He extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.
Bright purple, black green and lightning-blue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.
“Boy!” cried Will. “You must be the Tattooed Man!”
“No.” Jim studied the stranger. “The Illustrated Man. There’s a difference.”
Mr Dark nodded, pleased. “What’s your name, boy?”
Don’t tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?
Jim’s lips hardly twitched.
“Simon,” he said.
He smiled to show it was a lie.
Mr Dark smiled to show he knew it.
“Want to see more, “Simon”?”
Jim would not give him the satisfaction of a nod.
Slowly, with great mouth-working pleasure, Mr Dark pushed his sleeve high to his elbow.
Jim.stared. The arm was like a cobra weaving, bobbing, swaying, to strike. Mr Dark clenched his fist, wriggled his fingers. The muscles danced.
Will wanted to run around and see, but could only watch, thinking Jim, oh, Jim!
For there stood Jim and there was this tall man, each examining the other as if he were a reflection in a shop window late at night. The tall man’s brambled suit, shadowed out now to colour Jim’s cheeks and storm over his wide and drinking eyes with a look of rain instead of the sharp cat-green they always were. Jim stood like a runner who has come a long way, fever in his mouth, hands open to receive any gift. And right now it was a gift of pictures twitched in pantomime, as Mr Dark made his illustrious jerk cold-skinned over his warm-pulsed wrist as the stars came out above and, Jim stared and Will could not see and a long way off the last of the town people went away toward town in their warm cars, and Jim said, faintly, “Gosh…” and Mr Dark rolled down his sleeve.
“Show’s over. Suppertime. Carnival’s shut up until seven. Everyone out. Come back, “Simon,” and ride the merry-go-round, when it’s fixed. Take this card. Free ride.”
Jim stared at the hidden wrist and put the card in his pocket.
“So long!”
Jim ran. Will ran.
Jim whirled, glanced back, leaped, and for the second time in the hour, vanished.
Will looked up into the tree where Jim squirmed on a limb, hidden.
Mr Dark and Mr Cooger were turned away, busy with the merry-go-round.
“Quick, Will!”
“Jim…?”
“They’ll see you. Jump!”
Will jumped. Jim hauled him up. The great tree shook. A wind roared by in the sky. Jim helped him cling, gasping, among the branches.
“Jim, we don’t belong here!”
“Shut up! Look!” whispered Jim.
Somewhere in the carousel machinery there were taps and brass knockings, a faint squeal and whistle of calliope steam.
“What was on his arm, 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.