Kay…
He learned so much in those somnolent talks. About the Maneater, for example. “How’d he ever get to be a carny, Zee?”
“I can’t say exactly. Sometimes I think he hates carny. He seems to despise the people who come in, and I guess he’s in the business mostly because it’s the only way he can keep his—” She fell silent.
“What, Zee?”
She was quiet until he spoke again. “He has some people he—thinks a lot of,” she explained at length. “Solum. Gogol, the Fish Boy. Little Pennie was one of them.” Little Pennie was the pinhead who had drunk lye. “A few others. And some of the animals. The two-legged cat, and the Cyclops. He—likes to be near them. He kept some of them before he got into show business. But it must have cost a lot. This way, he can make money out of them.”
“Why does he like them, ’specially?”
She turned restlessly. “He’s the same kind they are,” she breathed. Then, “Horty, don’t ever show him your hand!”
One night in Wisconsin something woke Horty.
Come here.
It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t in words. It was a call. There was a cruel quality to it. Horty lay still.
Come here, come here. Come! Come!
Horty sat up. He heard the prairie wind, and the crickets.
Come! This time it was different. There was a coruscating blaze of anger in it. It was controlled and directive, and had in it a twinge of the pleasure of an Armand Bluett in catching a boy in an inarguable wrong. Horty swung out of bed and stood up, gasping.
“Horty? Horty—what is it?” Zena, naked, came sliding out of the dim whiteness of her sheets like the dream of a seal in surf.
“I’m supposed to—go,” he said with difficulty.
“What is it?” she whispered tensely. “Like a voice inside you?”
He nodded. The furious command struck him again, and he twisted his face.
“Don’t go,” Zena whispered. “You hear me, Horty? Don’t you move.” She spun into a robe. “You get back into bed. Hold on tight; whatever you do, don’t leave this trailer. The—it will stop. I promise you it will stop quickly.” She pressed him back to his bunk. “Don’t you go, now, no matter what happens.”
Blinded, stunned by this urgent, painful pressure, he sank back on the bunk. The call flared again within him; he started up. “Zee—” But she was gone. He stood up, his head in his hands, and then remembered the furious urgency of her orders, and sat down again.
It came again and was—incomplete. Interrupted.
He sat quite still and felt for it with his mind, timidly, as if he were tonguing a sensitive tooth. It was gone. Exhausted, he fell back and went to sleep.
In the morning Zena was back. He had not heard her come in. When he asked her where she had been, she gave him a curious look and said, “Out.” So he did not ask her anything more. But at breakfast with Bunny and Havana, she suddenly gripped his arm, taking advantage of a moment when the others had left the table to stove and toaster. “Horty! If you ever get a call like that again, wake me. Wake me right away, you hear?” She was so fierce he was frightened; he had only time to nod before the others came back. He never forgot it. And after that, there were not many times when he woke her and she slipped out, wordlessly, to come back hours later; for when he realized the calls were not for him, he no longer felt them.
The seasons passed and the carnival grew. The Maneater was still everywhere in it, flogging the roustabouts and the animal men, the daredevils and the drivers, with his weapon—his contempt, which he carried about openly like a naked sword.
The carnival grew—larger. Bunny and Havana grew—older, and so did Zena, in subtle ways. But Horty did not grow at all.
He—she—was a fixture now, with a clear soprano voice and black gloves. He passed with the Maneater, who withheld his contempt in saying “Good Morning”—a high favor—and who had little else to say. But Horty-Kiddo was loved by
He learned so much in those somnolent talks. About the Maneater, for example. “How’d he ever get to be a carny, Zee?”
“I can’t say exactly. Sometimes I think he hates carny. He seems to despise the people who come in, and I guess he’s in the business mostly because it’s the only way he can keep his—” She fell silent.
“What, Zee?”
She was quiet until he spoke again. “He has some people he—thinks a lot of,” she explained at length. “Solum. Gogol, the Fish Boy. Little Pennie was one of them.” Little Pennie was the pinhead who had drunk lye. “A few others. And some of the animals. The two-legged cat, and the Cyclops. He—likes to be near them. He kept some of them before he got into show business. But it must have cost a lot. This way, he can make money out of them.”
“Why does he like them, ’specially?”
She turned restlessly. “He’s the same kind they are,” she breathed. Then, “Horty, don’t ever show him your hand!”
One night in Wisconsin something woke Horty.
Come here.
It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t in words. It was a call. There was a cruel quality to it. Horty lay still.
Come here, come here. Come! Come!
Horty sat up. He heard the prairie wind, and the crickets.
Come! This time it was different. There was a coruscating blaze of anger in it. It was controlled and directive, and had in it a twinge of the pleasure of an Armand Bluett in catching a boy in an inarguable wrong. Horty swung out of bed and stood up, gasping.
“Horty? Horty—what is it?” Zena, naked, came sliding out of the dim whiteness of her sheets like the dream of a seal in surf.
“I’m supposed to—go,” he said with difficulty.
“What is it?” she whispered tensely. “Like a voice inside you?”
He nodded. The furious command struck him again, and he twisted his face.
“Don’t go,” Zena whispered. “You hear me, Horty? Don’t you move.” She spun into a robe. “You get back into bed. Hold on tight; whatever you do, don’t leave this trailer. The—it will stop. I promise you it will stop quickly.” She pressed him back to his bunk. “Don’t you go, now, no matter what happens.”
Blinded, stunned by this urgent, painful pressure, he sank back on the bunk. The call flared again within him; he started up. “Zee—” But she was gone. He stood up, his head in his hands, and then remembered the furious urgency of her orders, and sat down again.
It came again and was—incomplete. Interrupted.
He sat quite still and felt for it with his mind, timidly, as if he were tonguing a sensitive tooth. It was gone. Exhausted, he fell back and went to sleep.
In the morning Zena was back. He had not heard her come in. When he asked her where she had been, she gave him a curious look and said, “Out.” So he did not ask her anything more. But at breakfast with Bunny and Havana, she suddenly gripped his arm, taking advantage of a moment when the others had left the table to stove and toaster. “Horty! If you ever get a call like that again, wake me. Wake me right away, you hear?” She was so fierce he was frightened; he had only time to nod before the others came back. He never forgot it. And after that, there were not many times when he woke her and she slipped out, wordlessly, to come back hours later; for when he realized the calls were not for him, he no longer felt them.
The seasons passed and the carnival grew. The Maneater was still everywhere in it, flogging the roustabouts and the animal men, the daredevils and the drivers, with his weapon—his contempt, which he carried about openly like a naked sword.
The carnival grew—larger. Bunny and Havana grew—older, and so did Zena, in subtle ways. But Horty did not grow at all.
He—she—was a fixture now, with a clear soprano voice and black gloves. He passed with the Maneater, who withheld his contempt in saying “Good Morning”—a high favor—and who had little else to say. But Horty-Kiddo was loved by
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