CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

DEAD OR ALIVE?

With fierce thrusts of his arms and hands, Ron pushed his way through the crowd. She had vanished as quickly as she had appeared. But he was sure of what he had seen. It had not been an hallucination, nor had it been a dream. Dreams don’t cast shadows, and Cynthia had done just that.

Crowd roar rose soaring, screams of delight, hysterical.

Most of the crowd wore costumes this night. And masks. Some of the masks were actually head coverings, huge gaping things, eyes popping, teeth bared. Images charted in and out frenziedly, whirling in the cool-blue glare of the night as louder and louder came the sound of hissing, movement in rushes, here, gone; again here, crackling, hissing—then stilled.

Ron was instantly aware there was a different feeling about the carnival tonight. Less of the amusement park atmosphere. More of the... what?

He spun around as the crowd stilled; all became quiet. Perhaps that was why he had noticed it.

A huge wheel of fortune.

It stood out, its silver and gold symbols glittering against the subdued red velvet backdrop. It stood in place of the stage where the Punch and Judy Show had been on previous nights.

Ron watched fascinated for a moment. Then his eyes roamed the crowd restlessly. Why was it, all of a sudden, so deadly quiet? Everything seemed to have stopped, and the wheel, as it turned, seemed to creak and groan under the weight of its own immensity.

Now Ron smelled the stench. The oddly familiar, acrid, spicy smell of lilac. And another, more sickening odor he suddenly realized was that of fear. His own. And now he smelled nothing at all. It was almost impossible to breathe.

Sleep. Tonight... I must get some sleep.

For a long moment Ron thought he had spoken aloud. He turned to stare at the shadowy figures that loomed large and small, watching them shimmer in a thin veil of yellowish light, until finally they resolved themselves into other people, all involved in listening to the woman in black call out the number.

Ron fought back his drowsiness.

“Six,” the woman in black called out.

A loud drone and roar from the multitude, raucous laughter which they kept up until the wheel was spun again, its silver and gold symbols glittering—only this time Christ’s cruciform body was nailed to it, leaving bloodstains on the floor below. As the wheel turned, Christ’s body spun around slowly... and then the wheel rolled to a stop with a rattling, smacking sound. Christ came to rest upside down.

“Sixty-six,” the voice boomed.

Something inside of Ron surged and then came plummeting down. In his palm, dazzling him with facets of red fire, was the tiny flower left by the ghostly visitation. Confusion burst in his head, sweat on his face; he stared at the number sixty-six. It held him nearly hypnotized.

A lunatic impulse came to him, to call out suddenly, to scream: “I’ve won! I’ve won!” No, he warned himself. Move. Move as fast as possible away from here. He lurched forward, staggered slightly, then clutched the edge of the platform to prevent himself from toppling over.

“For heaven sakes!” Isabelle Carroll shrilled. “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you!”

Ron stared vacantly into her eyes. She looked wildly excited. He grinned. His mind had divided, it seemed, had become two separate camps. Part of it remained horror-struck. The other part marveled that he was able to grin and calm down and think reasonably.

The expression of excitement on Isabelle’s face had not changed. “The selecting of the queen is almost upon us,” she said. “At the pavilion. You mustn’t miss it. You do want to see it, don’t you?”

Ron did not answer for a long time. He looked at Isabelle carefully, scrutinizing her. He held up the flower. “Do you know what type of flower this is?”

Isabelle glanced at it nervously. “Odd, isn’t it? I believe... yes, it’s some sort of poppy.”

Poppy, poppy, Ron muttered to himself. Without apparent reason, his eyes had begun to film over.

“Are you all right?” asked Isabelle. Her eyes glowed, the pupils sharp black pinpoints.

“Yes. Why?”

“You look so tired. You’re not sick, are you?”

“No,” he said and whirled away, stuffing the flower into his shirt pocket, oblivious of the laughter shrilling about him in waves.

“Ron, wait!” Isabelle shouted after him.

He never looked back, never acknowledged the little lady who panted after him, who was much too sedate and genteel to keep up with his brisk pace.

Farther on, the green and red neon lights of the concession stands turned the darkness hazy with reflected light. He moved through the crowd faster now, Alister Carroll’s words tolling in his head like a muffled bell. “What you’ve learned in the city will do you no good here. The mountains have their own ways.” Perhaps that had been Ron’s problem all along. Simple everyday logic wasn’t any good here.

He stopped, frowned mentally, and looking at the glittering midway, the frantic bustling clutter of the throng, smelling the intermittent odors of sausages, steak and peppers, pizza in the stifling air, he thought: But if logic wasn’t any good— then what the fuck was?

He turned, took a few more steps, and ducked into the pavilion. About ten feet inside the door where the massive rows of chairs began, he was stopped by a solid wall of jostling people. He started to push his way in, then stopped.

“Alone?” Sheriff Nash asked softly.

Ron turned to face him directly. The man seemed a bit edgy and appeared to be withering in the heat. Thank God, Ron thought; he’d finally found someone else in Brackston who sweated.

“Chandal and Kristy, have you seen them?” he asked.

Nash was about to say something when Ron felt a tug on his arm. A young boy stood alongside him. He wore a deep wine-red, one-piece coverall.

“Are you Mr. Talon?” the boy asked.

Ron nodded.

“Come with me,” he said, and proceeded to push his way gently but firmly through the crowd, opening a path that enabled Ron to move with ease behind each step he took.

Twenty or so little children, each wearing the one-piece coverall, stood at various intervals, ogling each other, the crowd, and, Ron guessed, were acting as ushers. Here and there individual voices called out, “Marsha! We want Marsha!” Or, “Lucinda! Lucinda!” Other voices took up the cry, adding their own preference, until the great hall was shuddering with girls’ names.

The noise inside the hall was loud now, almost deafening, a crescendo of ecstasy accompanied by faces that seemed possessed with happiness. The sound moved in huge waves between the walls of the hall, pulsating, and Ron could only follow the boy in dumb silence, watching, listening.

The lights began to lower slightly as the boy elbowed his way past the last cluster of people. Thereupon he indicated to Ron an empty seat in the front row. He raised his arm slowly, grandly. Your seat, sir, he conveyed proudly with large eyes. Ahead, on the stage, there was a great shower of white drops, pelting, sparkling splashes of light from a massive revolving crystal ball. It hung like a giant moon over all.

Ron wondered how the boy had been able to pick him out of the crowd, and then realized he had simply been told by someone. But who? He was about to ask him but the boy had vanished. Looking around, Ron wondered where Chandal and Kristy were. He stared into the crowd and saw the multitude lift their faces, smiling ecstatically. Confused, he sat.

He glanced around and saw Beatrice Wheatley. She was seated in the second row to his left, surrounded by a group of unknown figures who were all stockily built men with firm, square faces and dressed in work clothes. She wore a dark sackcloth dress and a red headband across her forehead. He had not seen her earlier because of the crowd that kept milling about in the aisles. She saw him now and broke into a smile. She greeted him with a wave of her bony-thin hand.

Ron turned and caught glimpses of Alister Carroll; he sat very still, gazing straight ahead, a thin smile on his face. Lou Harris was seated to Ron’s right next to Matthew Todd. Todd’s heavy shoulders stood out quite sharply against the thinner men who surrounded him.

But where was Chandal? And Kristy? And Mrs. Taylor? There were two empty seats next to Alister Carroll. Perhaps...

Suddenly there was a roll of kettledrums. Above it the sound of flute pipes. The kettledrums reached an impossible crescendo as the hall was plunged into total darkness. Then someone close by said, “Ssssh!” loudly, once, and the hall was all at once silent.

A pink spotlight winked on. All stared upward, gazing in open-mouthed fascination like a crowd of spectators at an air show. A small woman came running onto the stage. There was a smile on her face and she nodded her head in acknowledgment of the hushed greeting uttered as she stepped into the spotlight.

Her eyes were luminous, blinding, as she welcomed everyone to the Forty-Fifth Crowning of the Carnival Queen. She looked thin and frail, but her voice boomed mightily from the loudspeakers on either side of the stage. Her speech was short, charming and before long, she began announcing each contestant. Various colored lights washed over the area as each child was led onto the stage.

The first child looked frightened, but she walked very straight alongside her mother, and the spokeswoman touched her gently as she went along to the other side of the stage. Behind her another mother and daughter, the child appearing a little dazed. Behind them there followed more than half a dozen mothers with children, all dressed in matching outfits, all trying to smile past the fear of the moment.

God, oh, God, Ron moaned inwardly, thunderstruck. Sweat burst out on his face again, nausea rose inside him, gripping his intestines, draining his face away to a milky-white pallor. The contestants—they were all children! Girls five to ten years of age. They stood like young adults, their faces heavily coated with rouge, lipstick and mascara. Their thin little-girl legs stood surprisingly steady in spiked high-heeled shoes. Some of their hands posed tantalizingly on outthrust hips. Good Christ! It wasn’t possible.

“And last but not least,” the woman said, “our final entry... Ms. Kristy Talon. Our guest from beyond the ridges.”

Ron started. Chandal looked straight ahead as she led Kristy onto the stage. Through startled eyes he saw Kristy give him a smile. Chandal stopped and positioned Kristy in front of her and he thought he could see her lips quiver. Kristy moved closer to her mother and reached out with her right hand and took hold of Chandal’s hand. She held onto it for what seemed a very long time, and Ron saw Chandal nod in his direction and smile.

The selection process was brief and painful. “Ahhhhh” from the crowd as each child recited a poem. “Ohhhhh”... as each child paraded down a small runway, bowed gracefully, some not so gracefully, to the six judges who sat like statues off to the side regarding each child for a moment with vacant, heavy-lidded eyes. Smiles, good-naturedly, demurring; frowns slightly as each girl’s description was read aloud.

Those who could dance, did. “Ahhhhh.” Those who could not, sang. “Eeeeee.” The crowd, leaping, roared its joy at the end of each performance. Finally Kristy stepped forward. A blue spotlight hit her full, held; the crowd waited, quiet, expectant.

Smiling distantly, she began to sing. Nodding its approval, the crowd listened, swayed. Ron could feel his legs trembling as she reached for the high notes. Perfect. She sang perfectly, confidently.

Fingers tapped Ron lightly on the shoulder. He turned. A thin finger pointed across the hall, leading Ron’s gaze to Beatrice Wheatley who nodded to him with great satisfaction. Others around him spoke. “Oh, she’s darling.” “Such a delight.” The words were picked up by others until they became an ecstatic whisper of sorts. A moment later there was silence once again from the crowd.

Everyone stared admiringly at Kristy.

As she finished her song, she bowed elegantly, and returned to her mother’s side. High screams of delight from the crowd, ear shattering applause. Ron could only clap his hands twice, sharply, and then his arms fell limp at his sides.

“...Well, folks, that was certainly a wonderful performance. But they’ve all been. It’s been a terrific evening all the way, good and spirited with no exceptions. Over in the corner, our judges are working furiously now, trying to decide who our next queen will be. In just a moment, we, the people of Brackston, will have a new queen!”

A sudden high blood-roar from the crowd as everywhere people began to talk, scream, laugh; they began throwing confetti into the air, calling out to their neighbors. Hoots rose from behind masks, jeering—others crouched in the aisles, gnome-like, dressed in costumes and swilled liquor from flasks and bottles.

Ron shook loose from the crowd and shifted his attention to Chandal. She stood straight, looking at him. Her hands which rested on Kristy’s shoulders were trembling. Kristy yawned, looked around calmly, and appeared bored.

From backstage a young boy dashed forward and swung into a locomotive of information. After handing the spokeswoman a slip of paper and after whispering into her ear, he dashed offstage again.

The great hall grew quiet.

The spokeswoman stepped forward and tapped the microphone to make sure it was working, or maybe she just did it for effect. Whatever the case, it had a startling impact on the crowd. Instantly there was a tremendous explosion of voices.

“Tell us! Tell us who will be queen!”

She looked over the crowd with calm austerity, nodded toward the judges. Then glancing down at the paper she held in her hand, she spoke:

“On behalf of myself, the judges, the Ruling Elders, we wish to thank you all for your kind and generous cooperation this evening. Our children are our future. They are our destiny. We place our trust and our hope in their hands. It goes without saying that the judges had a difficult time in making their selection this evening. Yes, very difficult. But they have reached their decision.”

The crowd gasped in delight.

Around him Ron became aware of people staring at him and pointing in his vicinity. He crossed his legs painfully and stared straight ahead, perplexed, feeling impossibly conspicuous.

With suppressed elation, like a young girl who has just been asked out on her first date, the spokeswoman said, “And the winner is...”

Ron held his breath.

“MS. KRISTY TALON!” the woman shrieked, her words echoing back and forth throughout the immeasurable length of the great hall, terrifyingly.

Oh, God, Ron thought. “Please, dear God, no,” he moaned. In great pain, he looked up and saw Chandal kiss Kristy gently on the forehead. Kristy was smiling shyly, squirming a little.

Then Chandal nodded tightly in Ron’s direction, smiling slightly, as gushes of tears streamed down her cheeks.

Around Ron people started to move forward, shuffling respectfully toward him. Beatrice Wheatley hesitated an instant, then started to move down the aisle with Lou Harris and Matthew Todd and many others. They were all coming his way.

As he stared about him with growing fear, Mrs. Taylor appeared, smiling, her starfish of diamonds winking in the multicolored haze of floodlights.

The noise and confusion was intense. Ron found it difficult to maintain his calm and kept glancing around at the crowd of people who all seemed to have their eyes fixed on him. Some peered jealously. Others with elation. All greatly involved in the moment.

“I know, I know...” Mrs. Taylor said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful! Just wonderful!” Beatrice Wheatley said in a low, husky voice.

Todd and Harris nodded their congratulations.

“Oh. They’re going ahead with the ceremony,” Mrs. Taylor said.

Everyone around Ron started down toward a small platform now, leaving Ron sitting by himself. At the far edge of the stage he suddenly saw Nancy, dressed in a long flowing white gown, moving into view.

“Nancy!” he called out.

She made a despairing gesture, then moved out of sight behind the black velvet curtain which had been lowered in front of the stage. The curtain rippled now as though there was a great flurry of activity taking place behind it.

The lights darkened a little. “Ahhhhh” from the crowd as again they peered up at the stage with oblique respect. Gradually some of the crowd began to sway with the slow rhythm of a chant, intoning the word more and more rapidly. “Kristy... Kristy... Kristy...” Other voices took up the cry until the hall was shuddering with the chant: “KRISTY!”

The lights dropped still lower, almost to darkness; slowly the curtain rose, its black folds lifting like the wings of a hawk, soaring into the archway above. A hot red spotlight beamed, focused on a huge stone that had been moved onto the stage.

The multitude fell hushed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a tiny form began to appear atop the stone. The form rose as if being lifted by an escalator. Rose higher, until Kristy emerged full-blown, standing above all things. She was cloaked in gold, a wondrous mantle which flowed from her shoulders in huge, shimmering folds. In her hands she held a small bouquet of red flowers. Her fingers were jeweled, her features radiant; she looked about the hall with authority.

All at once Nancy appeared below. She hesitated before she started to climb the stone steps leading to the top. She moved slowly, ghostlike, her white gown catching fire as she appeared next to Kristy in the red spotlight. She was carrying a gold crown on a blue velvet pillow. With great ceremony, Kristy knelt.

“Ahhhhh” murmured the crowd, gaping, panting, watching Nancy place the crown carefully on the head of their new queen.

Then backing away, Nancy descended the steps and faded into the darkness, the last flickers of whiteness lingering in Ron’s dazed eyes.

In the distance bells had begun to toll.

Instantly there was total darkness except for the searing spotlight, hard to look upon, which was now a shattering yellow. Kristy smiled in satisfaction; rose. Ushers rushed down the aisles, darted among the crowd and began handing them little snakes which they held wriggling in their hands.

Kristy slowly raised her hand in a gesture of benediction, her features serious and beautiful. Ron was stunned to see people falling to their knees in the aisles, bowing their heads, holding their snakes carefully.

The crystal ball above, suspended, began to revolve slowly, sending a million specks of light dancing in the darkness. Kristy peered out catlike. Voices like thunder shouted:

“Behold—the—QUEEN!”

There was a sudden roll of kettledrum, insistent, and above it Ron could hear the bells tolling jubilantly. The crowd grew quiet. Their silence was followed by a tremendous explosion and a fierce mass of flames rose from behind the stone; the crowd shrank back, but still gazed at the child standing in the burning light. All around her now, flames. She smiled upon her subjects in genial majesty. Then, one at a time, she began to toss the red flowers she held into the crowd.

They scrambled frantically for them as though they were gold, fighting among themselves like animals. Kristy gestured for silence. The crowd grew still. Just as suddenly the drums ceased, and a blood-red spotlight hit Kristy with full force.

Overcome, transfixed, Ron watched her bow. Suddenly the multitude rose. Those who were wearing hats or masks removed them. Others remained kneeling in the aisles with their heads bowed. A moment’s hesitation and then Kristy was gone, having disappeared behind the great stone.

The crowd went wild.

“Marvelous, wasn’t it? Just marvelous!” Alister leaned over the back of Ron’s chair and smiled. “I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Mrs. Taylor rushed forward, shouting, “A masterpiece. A masterpiece!”

The lights began to come up slowly. Ron sat in awestrickened silence for a long time. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He bowed his head, as though crushed by the weight of the entire experience.

People insisted on shaking his hand, their tongues wagging, their eyes popping, their smiles manic and distorted. Transported by joy, they milled about, until finally they began moving out the front door.

As the crowd dwindled, the stillness increased. Ron remained seated, staring straight ahead at the stage, at the papier-maché stone, the red streamers which had been used to create the fire effect. The snakes, he now realized, were also fake. One lay at his feet. It was made of rubber.

Wearily he got to his feet. He sighed heavily and moved off to a side door marked: Backstage.

The small stairway led to an area crowded with equipment, cables, and lights. A door at the rear was propped open, revealing the carnival grounds lost in its own shadows. Some of the mothers stood near the doorway talking. Others were still coming down the stairs Ron had just used.

“Congratulations,” a voice said.

“Thank you,” Ron said flatly.

“She’s so lovely,” another voice said.

“Our best queen ever.”

Ron nodded.

A few doors stood ajar, revealing small rooms, most being used as dressing rooms. People continued to stand around. Most stared at Ron with a heavy, grudging wonder, a sullen envy.

To the rear of the hallway was a door marked: Talon. A crown had already been hammered into place. In gold lettering was inscribed the word: Queen.

Ron was about to open the door when a large dog sprang from a darkened corner. It bared its teeth and began to growl, as if it had assumed personal responsibility as watchdog and had come across a dangerous trespasser. Ron drew back in confusion.

“Hey, keep that goddamn dog quiet,” someone yelled,

A young boy moved beside the dog and fastened a leash to its collar. “Sorry,” he said and led the dog away.

Almost before Ron had entered the room, Chandal was in his arms sobbing. She muttered over and over again, “Ron, she’s queen. She won, can you believe it? She’s queen. Queen.”

Ron looked at Kristy over Chandal’s shoulder. She looked terribly exhausted. Her eyes were swollen and her complexion was now a ghostly white.

“Come on,” Ron said softly. “Let’s go home.”

They slipped out the back door and into the night. Ron stood for a moment uncertain as to which way to walk.

“Wasn’t that fun?” Chandal whispered and Kristy nodded.

Ron glanced around nervously, still feeling a restless sense of anticipation, expectancy, that suddenly seemed out of place on such a calm night. It was like coming out of a movie after having been absorbed in the picture so that the outside world had ceased to exist for a while... And now, here it was. A cool night, waiting.

A breeze had sprung up and little swirls of dust raced along the ground scattering bits of paper and debris and a few programs that had been discarded. The word “queen” peered out at Ron from one of the programs. A reminder that on this day, Kristy Talon, age six, had been crowned Queen of the Carnival of Summer.

“Why, Chandal? Why?”

Chandal rolled over lazily in the bed. “Please, Ron. Not anymore tonight. They wanted Kristy. They begged me to enter her in the contest. What harm has been done? None that I can tell.” The sound of her words died away gently like the most finalizing of final statements ending all discussion.

Ron could only shake his head. Moments later Chandal was asleep. For Ron, it took longer.