Something Wicked This Way Comes. RAY BRADBURY

Children appalled, children impressed, parents delighted, parents in high good humour, and still the Gypsy from the dusts of living sang. Time walked in her murmuring. She made and broke microscopic webs between her fingers wherewith to feel soot fly up, breath fly out. She touched the wings of flies, the souls of invisible bacteria, all specks, mites, and mica-snowings of sunlight filtrated with motion and much more hidden emotion.

Will and Jim cracked their bones, cowered down., hearing:

“Blind, yes, blind. But I see what I see, I see where I be,” said the Witch, softly. “There’s a man with a straw hat in autumn. Hello. And — why there’s Mr Dark, and…an old man…an old man.”

He’s not that old! cried Will to himself, blinking up at the three, as the Witch stopped, her shadow falling moist-frog cool on the hidden boys.

“…old man… “

Mr Halloway was jolted as by a series of cold knives thrust in his stomach.

“…old man…old man…” said the Witch.

She stopped this. “Ah…” The hairs in her nostrils bristled.

She gaped her mouth to savour air. “Ah…”

The Illustrated Man quickened.

“Wait…!” sighed the Gypsy.

Her fingernails scraped down an unseen blackboard of air.

Will felt himself yip, bark, whimper like an aggravated hound.

Slowly her fingers climbed down, feeling the spectrums, weighing the light. In another moment, a forefinger might thrust to the sidewalk grille, implying: there! there!

Dad! thought Will. Do something!

The Illustrated Man, gone sweetly patient now that his blind but immensely aware dust lady was here, watched her with love.

“Now…” The Witch’s fingers itched.

“Now!” said Will’s father, loud.

The Witch flinched.

“Now, this is a fine cigar!” yelled Will’s father, turning with great pomp back to the counter.

“Quiet…” said the Illustrated Man.

The boys looked up.

“Now — “ The Witch sniffed the wind.

“Got to light it again!” Mr Halloway stuck the cigar in the eternal blue flame.

“Silence…” suggested Mr Dark.

“Ever smoke, yourself?” asked Dad.

The Witch, from the concussion of his fiercely erupted and overly jovial words, dropped one wounded hand to her side, wiped sweat from it, as one wipes an antenna for better reception, and drifted it up again, her nostrils flared with wind.

“Ah!” Will’s father blew a dense cloud of cigar smoke. It made a fine thick cumulus surrounding the woman.

“Gah!” she choked.

“Fool!” The Illustrated Man barked, but whether at man or woman, the boys below could not tell.

“Here, let’s buy you one!” Mr Halloway blew more smoke, handing Mr Dark a cigar.

The Witch exploded a sneeze, recoiled, staggered away. The Illustrated Man snatched Dad’s arm, saw that he had gone too far, let go, and could only follow his Gypsy woman off, in some clumsy and totally unexpected defeat. But then in going, he heard Will’s father say, “A fine day to you, sir!”

No, Dad! thought Will.

The Illustrated Man came back.

“Your name, sir?” he asked, directly.

Don’t tell him! thought Will.

Will’s father debated a moment, took the cigar from his mouth, tapped ash and said, quietly:

“Halloway. Work in the library. Drop by some time.”

“You can be sure, Mr Halloway. I will.”

The Witch was waiting near the corner.

Mr Halloway whetted his forefinger, tested the wind, and sent a cumulus her way.

She flailed back, gone.

The Illustrated Man went rigid, spun about, and strode off, the ink portraits of Jim and Will crushed hard iron tight in his fists.

Silence.

It was so quiet under the grille, Mr Halloway thought the two boys had died of fright.

And Will, below, gazing up, eyes wet, mouth wide, thought, Oh my gosh, why didn’t I see it before?

Dad’s tall. Dad’s very tall indeed.

Still Charles Halloway did not look down at the grille but only at the small comets of splashed red colour left on the sidewalk, trailed around the corner, dropped from the clenched hands of the vanished Mr Dark. He was also gazing with surprise at himself, accepting the surprise, the new purpose, which was half despair, half serenity, now that the incredible deed was done. Let no one ask why he had given his true name; even he could not assay and give its real weight. Now he could only read the numerals on the courthouse clock and speak to it, while the boys below, listened.

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