The Night Library

by T L Barrett

  Gray brought EZ Ed to the Tilt-O-Whirl. Gray walked up the steps and turned on the machinery. Number seven, handlebar in place, glowed in the red, yellow, and blue trim lights.

  “What the hell are we doing at the Tilt-O-Whirl?” EZ asked.

  “I did something cool to it. It’s like no ride you’ve ever seen before. I wanted to show you, first. I knew you would appreciate it,” Gray said, wincing. He looked at the huge wrench leaning against the controls. He didn’t want to have to resort to it.

  “Oh,” he groaned, “all right, but, I have to take a picked wiss,” he declared. He took three steps and undid his jumpsuit.

  As EZ Ed groaned and urinated interminably, Gray looked at number seven. He tried to visualize how Iris had looked, her graceful fingers wound around the handlebar.

  Had she really wanted to die? His instinct said, no. She had wanted freedom. She had wanted, he dared to think, him. But, mostly, Iris wanted the carnival, Homer’s True Carnival.

  Gray swallowed and took out a switchblade from his pocket. He lifted the hand wounded in his acrobatic feat the night before. The wound looked angry and dark in the carnival light. He drew the knife quick and deep across his palm. The dark there spread. He let out a little shivering moan from the pain.

  “Whatzza matter with you?” EZ Ed asked, zipping up his jumpsuit and approaching.

  “I hurt my hand,” Gray answered. He reached down and smeared his bloody palm about the head of the huge wrench.

  “You ought to be more careful, Jack Ass,” EZ Ed drawled and mounted the steps. With his good hand, Gray handed EZ Ed the wrench.

  “What do I do with this?” EZ Ed asked.

  “Just toss it on the ground; I was getting it out of the way,” Gray told him. EZ Ed complied.

  “Now what kind of goddamned thing did you do to the ride, anyway?” EZ Ed asked. Gray turned and put his bloodied hand on EZ Ed’s shoulder and ran his hand down his chest. This close, Gray could smell how badly the man and the suit needed a good washing. That was good.

  “You’re going to love it,” Gray assured him and walked out onto the deck.

  Gray took a deep breath and dove into number seven’s darkened interior. He pulled the handlebar down over his lap, as Iris had done last.

  “Let her rip, EZ, and don’t spare the horses,” Gray yelled. “You won’t believe your own eyes.”

  EZ shrugged, hit the button and pushed the throttle lever to full.

  The Tilt-O-Whirl shuddered to life. It clanked and clamored in the early morning dark. Number Seven rode up a steep slant, held itself at the apex, and flew into a great whirl. Gray spun and spun. His head fell forward, and then he pulled it back. The movement tickled him, and silent laughter poured out of him. Tears flew down his cheeks.

  EZ watched, stupefied, as number seven spun around in a great red blur. Getting bored, EZ pulled back the lever. The machine slowed and finally came to rest. Number seven continued to spin for a half a minute after the rest had stopped. When it did stop, EZ Ed went onto the deck. He grabbed the rim of number seven and turned it toward him.

  Number seven was empty.

  ***

  A Calliope sang out its mystic siren call. Gray opened his eyes to soft carnival light. He saw tents and booths, rides and lights all around him. Barkers in top hats promised miracles, calling all those outside to be brave, step close, and observe wonders.

  Gray walked, scanning his right and left as he went. On his right, a wolf-headed boy frolicked on a wagon stage and let out an unearthly howl, which made the ladies cry with fright, and the children jump. On his left, a woman danced exotically as serpents of flame twined about her.

  Then coming close to an exhibition house, Gray spotted a young woman in a shawl sitting at a little table.

  “Madame Iris, fortunes and palmistry: she sees your future,” colorful script declared. The woman stood and fixed her dark eyes on Gray. She smiled.

  Gray came close. Iris stepped closer and laid a warm kiss on his lips. She tasted of sweet bread.

  “I thought you’d never come,” she said and wrapped her arms around him. “You almost missed your curtain. Here, you better hurry.” She took his arm and led him through the back of the exhibition stage. She gave him a little shove. He stumbled through the curtains and into the stage light.

  Gray looked down. He hadn’t noticed before, but he wore colorful tights beaded with sequins.

  “Ladies and gentleman, wait no further. You are about to be astounded by amazing acts of acrobatics. I give you the Stupendous: Gray Spaulding!”

  The crowd cheered. Gray lifted his arms, took a step, and flew.

  Arthur Penniman, Private First Class

  At the age of three, Arthur Penniman desired to be a duck. He did not wear large shoes or make annoying quaking sounds, nor did he waddle. He simply made a decision and acted upon it.

  Before moving their growing family to the broken down farm in East Bearfield village, the Pennimans had rented a two-story salt box on the outskirts of Bearfield, heading out toward the relative wilderness of Granby. In a little windswept meadow in back of the house there was a duck pond.

  Every morning in the spring of 1977, Arthur would follow his father before work on his morning chores. Decked out in tiny galoshes and checkered overalls, his hair a crazed golden cobweb about his head, Arthur would skip and bound around his father as Wayne Penniman threw bird feed from a large gunny sack to the ducks. Here, on a sunny Tuesday morning, Arthur made his all-important decision.

  The water that morning captivated. It flashed and winked back the morning sun as the wind rippled the pond’s surface, and the ducks scurried to claim bits of food. The ducks, speckled, white or painted in bands, bobbed and cavorted, dipping their graceful bills into the cool deep deliciousness. Their fine bright webbed feet danced with the scintillation upon the waves. Without violence, without anything but cheerful grace, these creatures floated away their happy, happy lives.

  It was then that Arthur made his decision: it was far more attractive a thing to be a duck, upon that water, then it was to be a clumsy plodding human upon the water’s shores. Having made this decision, there was little else to be done about the situation, except the obvious.

  Arthur leapt in. Movement happened all around him, honking and feathers, and a cold sudden splashing.

  And then bubbles and dark depth. Arthur drifted downward, surprised, eyes wide in this hidden other world beyond the hypnotizing flashes above. The light penetrated this deep and mysterious place and lit the far bank, mottled and craggy with root and algae. The shock of being denied the simple pleasure of the duck’s life at the top of the waves astounded Arthur. He, being human, was cursed to manage the life on the bank or that which awaited him in solemn suddenness down below. Arthur, spellbound by his understanding of this circumstance, would have been lost to that depth forever, had not his father been standing right there at his side.

  Wayne Penniman put a leg in and a grasped his son by the hair. Arthur came sputtering and gasping into the world for a second time.

  Arthur would carry the surprised feeling of disappointment for the rest of his life. He remembered it vividly to his day of death, and perhaps beyond, despite moving that year into the old farmhouse in which he would spend the rest of his childhood on the edge of Pawanic Village.

  He remembered the excitement and hardships of moving, too. For that next summer, while standing on the front path that led up to the house, Arthur felt deep empathy for two little birds that were building a home in a thick lilac bush. Arthur knew that the birds would be building their home in the hopes of having chicks together. He also knew that they would use different materials to build their happy home. He knew these things because Arthur had insisted his mother bring home the book, “Our Nest is Best” from the library a total of three times in the past year. In the story a young bird couple like those before him, except these were wearing gender determining headdress, had taken many things to aid in their nest building enterp
rise. One of these was hair from a human head.

  Arthur, a generous soul, went to get his mother’s scissors. He knew just where they were. Normally, he knew that it would be bad to use these without permission, but he was too excited about the domestic possibilities of these new neighbors to worry about his mother’s reaction. Taking the front locks of his curly head in hand, Arthur began to shear away plenty of material and offered it up, dumping it upon the birds, who must have been quite all together disheartened by the strange intrusion.

  Emma Penniman shrieked when he returned to interrupt her phone conversation, beaming sunnily, his pale brow showing in a wide arc cut from the hair upon his head.

  Arthur had only the best of wishes for nearly all of his fellow creatures, but always a special admiration for ducks remained. When the dinosaur fad struck Arthur’s class, his interest outlasted that of his nose-picking colleagues. He remembered dozens of names and spouted them off to anyone who would listen. But unlike the rest of his classmates, he had no particular fondness for the vicious and almost imbecilic hunger of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. No, he favored the Trachadon, with its tiny fore arms and impressive, billed head. He fervently hoped that a lost herd of Trachadon would be found somewhere, and dreamed of stabling one to ride in the old destitute barn that threatened collapse in the corner of their property.

  Arthur, having many brothers, found it difficult to keep up with all of the fads that possessed his classmates with religious hysteria. The ever-changing fads required purchasing, which Arthur knew his folks could not afford.

  One fad never waned, but contained an endless ability to repackage itself: War.

  The art of group combat presented itself in so many dazzling and inviting ways: toy soldiers, toy guns, toy grenades, and army vehicles. Every afternoon, after school, if you saw to your chores ahead of time, you could sit down and witness the most glorious of battles following the exploits of GI Joe and the Transformers. It was every future fighter’s paradise.

  The television programs helped Arthur and his friends understand the fun of armed combat. It only took twenty-four minutes of animated explosions, to have Arthur and his brothers, friends and neighbors up and karate chopping, stick fighting, and digging pit traps to capture the nearest terrorist agent or killer robot.

  The young boys of Arthur’s generation wanted eagerly to model themselves after these afternoon icons, which they understood with savvy and savage clarity. The Joe Team Members might claim they were “Defending Human Freedom”, but Arthur and the others understood. The purpose in life if you were part of GI Joe was to seek out and find anything with a snake emblem on it, and blow it to pieces. Likewise, the wise and noble Autobots were constantly putting the smack down on their rival gang of Robots, and the planet earth was their battlefield. Oh, yes! Earth was the center of the universe when it came to smack down drag out fights that were the kind you could go home and brag about. Arthur and his compatriots wanted in.

  It wasn’t that hard to, either. In fact, if you could not persuade your family to take you to the local department store, you could always find a stick and christen it an Uzi, or an M16 or and M60 (depending upon your personal preference for imaginary bloodshed). Thus the world became their battleground. They warred in the woods around each other’s homes and in the schoolyard. The first snow of the year in late October or November heralded the stockpiling of snowballs behind high banks of snow for the ultimate in firepower fun.

  Arthur’s classmate and fellow gifted student, Isaac Blindow was the leading schoolroom expert on the fine art of war. Isaac’s grandfather had been a career fighting man, with service during World War II. Arthur’s grandfather had been drafted and fought on the beaches of Normandy, but the man had died of the very unheroic death of cancer a few years before Arthur was born, so he did not have any great stories to share. Besides, Isaac’s uncle had died in a transport accident outside of Tripoli, and that was the clincher for sure. If that wasn’t enough, the only child of a heavily career focused couple, Isaac got whatever he asked for, which meant he had every G. I. Joe toy in existence, including the Aircraft Carrier. That had to count for something.

  Isaac, smaller than Arthur, and always secretly bitter of that fact, had perfectly neat hair, which fell at exact angles, while Arthur’s hair was a perpetual tangled mess of curls. Isaac’s perpetual neatness allowed him a clinical authority when it came to the listings of all things ballistic and also when it came to designating rank among his peers.

  One fall, in a grand climax of interest in all-things-that-could-kill, Isaac had lined his fellow classmates up and had done just that. He went down the list and shouted out the mystical names, demanding that each student salute as he did so, and shout out:

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, Sir!” And the tiny 4 star General Blindow would continue on with his rank march.

  “Private!” he shouted for the first time when he came to Arthur. A couple of giggles broke out from the group. “Attention!” he screamed. Mr. Carpenter, the fourth grade teacher, once a company cook himself, grinned and nodded, happy to have the children spending their time so productively. It did not surprise him to see that outspoken Penniman boy breaking rank.

  “Wait a minute,” Arthur protested. “Why do I have to be a private?”

  “Get back in line, soldier!” Isaac ordered.

  “No way, not unless you tell me why I have to be a private.”

  “You get ranks, when you earn ranks, soldier,” Isaac pouted out his thin lips.

  “What do I have to do to earn them, then?” he said, rolling his eyes. Isaac looked about, nervous for a second, and then his eyes fell upon the distant swing set in the corner of the schoolyard.

  “You must climb to the top of that swing set and sit at the top, private,” Isaac proclaimed. The rest of the ‘squad’ murmured their astonishment.

  “Fine,” Arthur said and trotted off to surmise his task. The gray steel of the swing set frame poles stretched up roughly toward infinity, or twelve feet. He leapt and struggled and pulled himself upward, and fell. He considered the chains of the swings themselves, but decided that would be disastrous after pinching his fingers trying to keep a grip as his legs flailed. After recess the kids had all started their new chant.

  “Arthur is the private’s privates! Arthur is the private’s privates!” Arthur decided to practice whenever he could. The palms of his hands burned and pinched, and he lived his recesses as a desperate animal trapped at the bottom of the swing set poles, looking around to make sure that the teacher on duty was not watching his dangerous bid for rank. All the while, Isaac’s army was practicing drills, grenade throwing, and camouflage tactics.

  Three days later, Arthur called out in triumph. Everyone shouted their astonishment, except Isaac. He looked irritated with Arthur. Arthur figured he had interrupted a drill.

  “So what rank do I get?” Arthur asked when he was back on the ground, grinning in triumph.

  “It took you too long. You missed too many drills,” Isaac muttered.

  “I climbed the pole, just like you said. You can’t even climb it yourself,” Arthur accused. Isaac seemed to cringe. His face looked hot.

  “You can go up to Private, first class,” Isaac said.

  “No way, it’s not fair,” Arthur stamped his foot. It took all of his strength not to fold his arms and turn away. He felt that pricking hotness behind his eyeballs.

  “I’ll tell you what: we are having a secret sleep over/war exercise in my woods this weekend. It is only for the higher ranking soldiers. I’ll let you come. We could use a climber. You could be scout.”

  “Really?” Arthur grinned. He liked the sound of that, it seemed full of purpose and responsibility.

  “It’s going to be awesome,” Isaac said, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “We have got this awesome barracks in the woods we can use, and there is an old truck out there we can use as cover. There are even vines to swing on!”

  “Cool! So I can come?” It all seemed too good
to be true.

  “Well, yeah,” Isaac said, suddenly serious, “but maybe you can come over after school. You can help me get the barracks ready. Get it set up.”

  “Sounds good,” Arthur said. It did.

  That afternoon after school, Arthur undertook the arduous journey up out of Pawanic village and into the wooded hills between East Bearfield, Pawanic village, and New Hampshire to the East.

  Leaving the village, Arthur crossed the Pawanic River Bridge and biked uphill onto dirt roads. The nature of the ascent forced Arthur to climb off his bike and face the possibility of moose attack. One evening, when Arthur had been six, a big bull moose had challenged his parents’ car. Arthur remembered how quiet everything got as the moose sized up its oversized rival and lowered its head in challenge. All the while his father had narrated with the mad calm of the nature program host.

  “Some moose, like this big fellow here, get what you call: “worms on the brain.” They swallow the eggs of parasites. Those travel into the brain and start making tunnels. They go crazy and attack everything in sight.”