Something Wicked This Way Comes. RAY BRADBURY

“I don’t need it,” said Halloway. “But someone inside me does.”

“Who?”

The boy I once was, thought Halloway, who runs like the leaves down the sidewalk autumn nights.

But he couldn’t say that.

So he drank, eyes shut, listening to hear if that thing inside turned over again, rustling in the deep bons that were stacked for burning but never burned.

4

Will stopped. Will looked at the Friday night town.

It seemed when the first stroke of nine banged from the big courthouse clock all the lights were on and business humming in the shops. But by the time the last stroke of nine shook everyone’s fillings in his teeth, the barbers had yanked off the sheets, powdered the customers, trotted them forth; the druggist’s fount had stopped fizzing like a nest of snakes, the insect neons everywhere had ceased buzzing, and the vast glittering acreage of the dime store with its ten billion metal, glass and paper oddments waiting to be fished over, suddenly blacked out. Shades slithered, doors boomed, keys rattled their bones in locks, people fled with hordes of torn newspaper mice nibbling their heels.

Bang! they were gone!

“Boy!” yelled Will. “Folks run like they thought the storm was here!”

“It is!” shouted Jim. “Us!”

They stomp-pound-thundered over iron grates, steel trap-doors, past a dozen unlit shops, a dozen half-lit, a dozen dying dark. The city was dead as they rounded the United Cigar Store corner to see a wooden Cherokee glide in darkness, by himself.

“Hey!”

Mr Tetley, the proprietor, peered over the Indian’s shoulder.

“Scare you, boys?”

“Naw!”

But Will shivered, feeling cold tidal waves of strange rain moving down the prairie as on a deserted shore. When the lightning nailed the town, he wanted to be layered under

sixteen blankets and a pillow.

“Mr Tetley?” said Will, quietly.

For now there were two wooden Indians upright in ripe tobacco darkness. Mr Tetley, amidst his jest, had frozen, mouth open, listening.

“Mr Tetley?”

He heard something far away on the wind, but couldn’t say what it was.

The boys backed off.

He did not see them. He did not move. He only listened.

They left him. They ran.

In the fourth empty block from the library, the boys came upon a third wooden Indian.

Mr Crosetti, in front of his barber shop, his door key in his trembling fingers, did not see them stop.

What had stopped them?

A teardrop.

It moved shining down Mr Crosetti’s left cheek. He breathed heavily.

“Crosetti, you fool! Something happens, nothing happens, you cry like a baby!”

Mr Crosetti took a trembling breath, snuffing. “Don’t you smell it?”

Jim and Will sniffed.

“Licorice!”

“Heck, no. Cotton candy!”

“I haven’t smelled that in years,” said Mr Crosetti.

Jim snorted. “It’s around.”

“Yes, but who notices? When? Now, my nose tells me, breathe! And I’m crying. Why? Because I remember how a long time ago, boys ate that stuff. Why haven’t I stopped to think and smell the last thirty years?”

“You’re busy, Mr Crosetti,” Will said. “You haven’t got time.”

Mr Crosetti wiped his eyes. “Where does that smell come from? There’s no place in town sells cotton candy. Only circuses.”

“Hey,” said Will. “That’s right!”

“Well, Crosetti is done crying.” The barber blew his nose and turned to lock his shop door. As he did this, Will watched the barber’s pole whirl its red serpentine up out of nothing, leading his gaze around, rising to vanish into more nothing. On countless moons Will had stood here trying to unravel that ribbon, watch it come, go, end without ending.

Mr Crosetti put his hand to the light switch under the spinning pole.

“Don’t,” said Will. Then, murmuring, “Don’t turn it off.” Mr Crosetti looked at the pole, as if freshly aware of its miraculous properties. He nodded, gently, his eyes soft. “Where does it come from, where does it go, eh? Who knows? Not you, not him, not me. Oh, the mysteries, by God. So. We’ll leave it on!”

It’s good to know, thought Will, it’ll be running until dawn, winding up from nothing, winding away to nothing, while we sleep.

“Good-night!”

“Good-night.”

And they left him behind in a wind that very faintly smelled of licorice and cotton candy.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *