Amber

by Dan-Dwayne Spencer

  Flower caught up with me and had an admit-one ticket for each of us.

  “I don’t want to know how you paid for those,” I said.

  “I didn’t pay. The booth attendant gave them to me.”

  “No shit? I expected them to want a gallon of blood or something.”

  “Don’t be so silly. It’s not blood they’re after.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.” I thought for a moment and asked, “If they don’t want blood, what do they want?”

  She solemnly answered, “Here there is only one currency—your soul.”

  Surely, she hadn’t traded her soul for my ticket, I gasped, “You didn’t actu—”

  “No. I wouldn’t.” Her expression tilted a bit—shyly, she said, “Would you believe I knew the girl running the booth?”

  I nodded. Flower seemed to know everyone in Kansas—even the ghosts.

  Two of the handsome carnies, one man wearing a leather vest and the other a boy my age in a puffy-sleeved shirt, brought a stake and some rope to the canvas billboards. The leather vested guy yelled, “Put another dead man in the ground here to hold the marque down. Mr. Cumberland says it’s going to get rough tonight and we don’t want to lose anything.”

  “Did he say he was going to bury a dead man?” I almost yelled, I couldn’t help it.

  Flower explained, “A dead man is a stake put in with an extra guy-line to hold something down.” She grinned. “It’s carney talk. Carnies have a language of their own.”

  The boy with puffy sleeves looked our way and dropped everything. He rushed to Flower and grabbed her by the waist. “Flechia, it is so good to see you,” he exclaimed.

  “He called her Flechia. She is not telling you everything,” Mr. Dark warned. “Don’t trust her.”

  I answered by thinking, not speaking, “You think I trust her? Well, maybe I do—a little. But why should I trust you any more than her?” I figured he could hear my thoughts like he did at the pond, and by not speaking, people wouldn’t think I’d lost my marbles.

  Mr. Dark didn’t respond. He’d either left or had no comeback to my question.

  When I looked up, the boy lifted Flower off her feet and swung her around. Her gifted laughter, filled with the sound of a young girl’s joy, stirred a warm breeze blowing through the chilly carnival’s lot.

  “Put me down, Seth. It is good to see you too. It has been a long time.”

  “Has it?” he said. “I can never tell. It feels like it’s been summer for a hundred years.” He stepped back and looked her over. “Would it be redundant of me to say you are looking well? But, of course, you are. How else would you be? My dear gifted friend, you barely change at all.”

  “Nor you, Seth.” Her smile faded. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “What brings you to The Cumberland Circus of the Bizarre? You can’t tell me it’s just to visit old friends. You’re not here to see your father, are you? That old bastard is still the grumpiest old sot there is.”

  “What the hell, your father is here?” I exclaimed.

  “I told you not to trust her,” Mr. Dark whispered through my confusion.

  Seth looked up as if seeing me for the first time. “Seth Hawkins is my name.” He stuck a hand out.

  Determined to make a manly impression, I gave it an extra hardy shake. “Arland Loveless. And how do you know Flower?”

  He said, “Her and me wer—”

  Looking straight at me, Flower interrupted. “That’s not important now, we’re in a hurry. I promise to tell you all about it later.” She turned to Seth and said. “Walk with me.” She headed down the midway. “We need to see Phoenix.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Sure you do.” Unmistakable disgust filled his eyes.

  “Don’t be like that.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s important.”

  I looked up in time to see the frontman for the hoochie girls heading my way.

  “How important?” Seth asked.

  Flower pulled me close and without asking pushed my face up close to Seth’s.

  He took one good look at my eyes and cried, “Holy Crap.” Seth recoiled a step back. “You need to see Phoenix.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Carnival

  “Yes, I told you.” Flower said. “Put your personal feelings aside and lead me to Phoenix’s tent.” She looked past Seth to where the hoochie girl’s frontman trotted toward us. “Not a word to Homer. We don’t need his interference, and for heaven’s sake don’t stare at the dancing girls. They have a sensual power over men.”

  With the dancing girl named Calypso behind him, the approaching carney stopped when he saw Seth’s reaction, then suddenly his expression changed—he recognized Flower. “Flechia, sweetheart, what brings you to our miserable part of the world.”

  “Homer, we’ll catch up before I leave.”

  She lied. I was sure of it.

  “Right now I want to show my friend Daddy’s carnival.”

  I avoided meeting his stare. As for Calypso, the swaying of those nerve-racking hips made it hard to ignore her. I locked my eyes on my new sandals and kept them there.

  “Oh, my dear Flechia, I’m sure there’s nothing you would like better than to come back here and bring your friends—to visit.” Hector pulled his black eyebrows close together and furrowed his forehead.

  Seth grabbed my hand and headed the opposite way around the carousel. Homer trailed behind us. The boy sounded as if he was indeed giving me a tour. “And, this is our Eli.”

  Flower leaned over and said, “Eli is carney talk for a Ferris wheel.”

  “Well, yes, and she’s a fine one too. Mr. Cumberland says she’s unique because her decoration was designed by a famous Frenchman. I can’t remember his name—Babdali, or something like that.”

  Flower added, “Bartholdi, Frederic Bartholdi designed the art pieces on this one.”

  I’m sure he must have been famous, but I’d never heard of him. What I knew was, he had built one beautiful antique Ferris wheel. Glancing behind her, Flower took my arm like I was some kind of gentleman. “Remember, stay close. You promised,” she whispered.

  Homer pursued casually, keeping a reasonable distance.

  We passed the Hoochie Coochie Girls and the Tattooed Man placards. All their frontmen were working the crowd. I whispered to Flower, “Where did all these people come from?”

  “Look at them carefully. What do you see?”

  I scanned the crowd closest to me. A few of the men were barefooted and wore overalls, while others were decked out with slicked-back hair, 501s, and leather jackets. Finally, a few were dressed in modern Nehru jackets, bell bottoms, and beads. The women were even more diverse. One woman wore a flimsy knee-length, backless dress covered with layers of sparkly fringe. Her hair was cut in a bob and on her head, she wore a small toque hat with a large feather protruding from the hatband. The woman next to her was wearing a pillbox hat with a tiny veil covering her cat-eye sunglasses. “Some of these people have been here for a long time—a very long time. But a few are wearing hip clothing. Like maybe they just arrived.”

  “Exactly. Most of the rubes, I mean, the carnival-goers, have been here since the curse fell. But every year a few more succumb to temptation and end up trapped—forever.” She squeezed my arm, and I thought a tear welled up in her eye. “Some of them probably came in the main gate by the big top. The allurement is stronger there.”

  I knew what she meant by temptation. I had felt the carnival’s attractive draw bidding me enter and how it calmed my fears. In more than one way, this trip was turning out to be a revelation. But, as stunned and disturbed as I was by the fact Flower was the Flechia from the carnival story and possibly my dream, something in the atmosphere was like a tranquilizer keeping my responses from being too emotional. I should be completely freaked out, my nerves at DEFCON one, but it was easy to control my urge to bolt back to the van. I casually replied, “I thought we came in the main gate.”

  “No.
We came in the back gate. Phoenix wouldn’t put the clock by the main gate. He doesn’t want people to know it’s here—like it would matter.” She bit her lip. “Still, some might get curious why it repeats the hour between 11:00 and 12:00 over and over again. The more people he traps here, the greater his power grows. Someday, if he harvests enough souls, he may become powerful enough to break his oath.” She looked worried.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you are Cumberland’s daughter?”

  She nodded, “I thought it best to take everything one step at a time instead of piling everything on you at once. Now, there’s not much more to my story.” She sighed and looked away. “I’ll tell you everything if you want to know, but it must wait until after we get out of here. Right now, let’s find Phoenix and get our business over with.”

  We passed a snake woman standing out in front of her exhibit dancing with a six-foot python. Next to her booth, another attraction with closed doors and a painted canvas. It advertised The Sightless Child Who Sees All, probably some sort of magic trick.

  Seth announced, “Here we are, The Prison of Passion. This is Phoenix’s exhibit. Mr. Cumberland wasn’t going to let him get away without taking part.”

  Flower started to ask, “Even though he—”

  But Seth interjected, “Yeah, even though.”

  Seth held the tent flap open so we could walk in. I followed Flower. Even with the calming effect the carnival had on me, my nerves shot up to DEFCON three. The tent flap closed behind us.

  The tented ceiling was vaulted to accommodate a series of suspended bars and swings; to me, it looked like some kind of acrobatic rigging. The lighting was dim except for a bright spotlight illuminating the center of the room. What appeared to be a winged man with skin white as porcelain, wearing a white linen tabard, belted at the waist, lay prostrate on the ground. His feathered wings, a mass of violet, gold, blue, and crimson, covered his naked arms, sides, and legs. He raised his beautiful face, allowing his long blond hair to cascade—flowing across his shoulders. When he saw us, he drew himself up and stood erect. The angel was a good ten feet tall with bands of silk wrapped around his wrists like shackles. Chains of satin and velvet were sewn to his wristbands; they trailed down and latched to a small iron ring staked to the middle of the floor.

  “Behold,” the angel said. “Did you come to see the bonds I have forged upon myself? Each link is the physical representation of my love and my oath.” He tilted his head back into the light and for an instant, his wings shimmered. I heard the distinct sound of crystal chimes tinkling and my skin tingled. I closed my eyes when a perfume-like fragrance wafted through the tent. It must have been secreted by his fluttering wings. Instantly, I identified the aroma as lilac and musk. I knew it because it smelled like Brenda Beverly’s math class. She taught ninth-grade remedial math, tenth-grade geometry, and always kept a candle burning. Suddenly, I felt warm and comfortable.

  Opening my eyes, I glanced at Seth standing by me. He beamed with the unmistakable expression of admiration when only moments before he held contempt for the angel.

  “Stop it, just stop,” Flower exclaimed. “You know, since you bound yourself to the Carnival, your charms do not affect me. Your power wanes because of your oath, and your conjuring won’t have any effect on my friend either.”

  “Then your friend is special indeed.” Phoenix beckoned me with his hand. “Come forward, friend of Flechia, so I may see you better. Are you gifted like my Lady-Love?” His voice took on an uncanny resonance—he fluttered his wings again.

  I stood still, refusing to obey his command. I had no doubt he was trying to put me under some kind of spell. His fragrance blew my way, filling my senses with a tingly and strangely gratifying sensation.

  Not wanting to make eye contact, I glanced behind me. There, standing between the tent’s flaps, was Homer. His head peering in—eavesdropping. He had followed us all across the carnival. When my head turned toward the opening, Phoenix saw him too.

  “Homer,” Phoenix shouted. “Don’t you have some visitors to corrupt? Why do you stand there spying on me?”

  Without reply, Homer dogged back and the tent flap closed tight.

  “Ah, friend of Felisha, remain where you are if you wish. I see it would be futile to continue to cast upon you. You are willful and resistant. You should be proud you can resist my glorious charms.”

  Flower huffed, “Pride is a sin. Of all God’s creatures, you should know that.” She crossed her arms and changed the tilt of her head. “I’m only here to ask a question and then you may never see me again.”

  “Lover of my soul. You mock me with vain words. If I thought you spoke the truth, my rage would consume me, for I could not bear a life without you.”

  “Phoenix, watch your idle tongue. How many times has your rage consumed you, and yet, you rise anew?”

  The angel tilted his head in an unassuming pose, and replied, “More times than the years measuring your carnal life.”

  “Yes, and what drove you out of your Master’s graces?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “Wasn’t it foolish talk such as that?” She glared at him in disgust. “Remember, you took your eyes off your Creator and dared to gloat about your carnal love for a woman—and it got you thrown out of paradise. Bridle your tongue or your Master will strike you further. As I recall, He is a jealous God.”

  I stood totally amazed at how Flower utterly despised this guy. She bravely spat her words at him. But, for me, the sheer idea of talking to an angel was thrilling. Not in the amorous way it affected Seth. No doubt the angel entranced him, but rather, I felt excited with the fascination of it all. I had stood my ground and willfully resisted Phoenix’s commanding geas, his mystic charm. I might have been a bit prideful, just a bit. It also didn’t escape my notice how Flower’s speech had changed since we arrived. I always thought she talked funny, not the ha-ha kind, but the weird kind. Still, she had passed funny back at the gate. Ever since then it had progressed into something heavy—something so far-out—it sounded old.

  Phoenix gave us an over-the-shoulder gaze and fluttered his wings so they glimmered once more. This time I heard loud chimes like the gonging doorbell at the Reynold’s house. Seth sighed and said, “Master Phoenix, is there nothing I may do to help your sorrow? Your pain is beyond my measure to contain.”

  “I told you to stop it.” Flower sounded pissed. “There is no need to put Seth through the torment of your charms when it is me you wish to mesmerize.”

  “I can see my effort is in vain, but you cannot fault me for trying.” He sighed. “What is it you desire of me? You need only speak and I will give you an answer.”

  She went straight to the point. “The sheriff of Cherokee County has a vendetta against my commune. It’s unnatural. He is possessed by a spirit and I want to know by whom?”

  A puzzled expression weighed on Phoenix’s face. “Unnatural? Possession? I was not aware of any unnatural possession of the dear magistrate.”

  “He is not acting naturally, therefore, it must be unnatural.”

  “Would you not say, it is natural for one spirit to hold possession of one man?”

  “I would say.” Flower’s expression changed to worry. “Explain.”

  “Dear Flechia, your Sheriff Briggs died in the accident earlier this year.” He paused and Flower stood in deep thought. Phoenix continued, “He had what you might call an out-of-body experience. His spirit left his body in an astral ascension before his heart stopped, leaving his carnal vessel vacant. An apparition, a spiritual minion owned by angel kind, claimed the beating heart as his own. There is nothing unnatural about one spirit inhabiting one body.” The angel scoffed at her assumption.

  “So then, who is it? To whom does this minion hold allegiance?”

  “He belongs to the Herald. The one who has come to make the way straight.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop beating around the bush. This poetic crap is driving me nuts. If you know who it is, give us his name.�
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  Flower said, “I know the name. Phoenix doesn’t have many of his kind here on Earth and as far as I know, only one has been given the title of Herald. The minion possessing the Sheriff belongs to the Herald of the Dawn—Venus.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mr. Dark

  Phoenix closed his eyes and slightly bowed. “Now, Venus comes not to usher in the dawn but the dusk.”

  Flower scoffed at his reply. “Surely not. You must be mistaken—or you’re lying.”

  “I would not lie to my Lady-Love. The truth may burn, but for her, it is a pleasant pain I gladly endure.”

  Flower said, “Being an usher is not her only purpose, she has flooded men’s hearts with lust since time began. Why would she change into the harbinger of death now?”

  As before, Phoenix’s answer was cryptic. A wicked grin spread across his face. “August the month of angels—number eight. The number nine, the number for the Creator of angels. Unless there has been some defiling slaughter raining death on the day set aside for the angel’s Creator—August ninth. Then I am surely mistaken and your fears are unfounded.”

  I thought about what Phoenix said and about what we heard on the Mustang’s radio the day we left on our road trip. As I spent most of my time trying to escape my mother’s ranting, I never paid much attention to the news; it was only by chance the announcer told about the massacre the moment Jimmy turned on the radio…Or was it?

  “Flechia, your expression plainly announces the fact that you are aware of some recent event.” Phoenix exclaimed, “It is as I said. The herald of the dusk has arrived.” He threw back his head and laughed insidiously. As he opened his mouth, he revealed row upon row of needle-sharp teeth, and his eyes glistened with red flashes of light. “Was it a true massacre? How many died?”