G.A. was using a hose near the animal stalls to clean off his face. Either the “partner” had done his homework or he had just got lucky. G.A. has said before that he would stand in the sun and watch his skin bake and burn to dust before he’d wear sunscreen. Especially on his face. It was just a “thing” he had about it. No sticky stuff on the face. G.A. was remembering as he was washing….

***********************************************

“…but.. what..?” This was all too much. I was sure, now, that G.A. didn’t know me. There was no recognition seeping through the pain in his eyes. The blood vessels were beginning to pop in his eyes, making them bloodshot and pink. This was wrong. This was entirely wrong. Some detail… something… was way, way wrong.

I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder, back to the ground, where I’d dropped the tiny gun off of the At-At model. My roommate. My anal-retentive, Star Wars-loving, clean-freak roommate, and friend of six years. My room. The model of the Carnival. It was at the edge of my mind, like I’d woken up from a dream. That little piece of twenty-year-old toy shouldn’t be there. I looked back at Dr. Celestine, and bared my teeth at him. He smirked, and I’m not sure if he thought I was smiling or recognized the feral challenge I’d offered.

The anger and panic melded, just like they always do when I get into situations like this. Options were clear, decisions were made. I remembered the lattice-work I’d noticed between these people before. The two layers, with the intertwining connections. Too complicated. Patterns in nature were simple. No matter how complex they looked, when you zoomed in, they were simple patterns. When this lattice-work of relations was zoomed in upon, it was tangled, knotted, and messy. It was corrupted. It wasn’t supposed to be. Dreams. God damn dreams.

I calmly stood up and walked to the pile of clothes that the good Doctor had just discarded and I picked up G.A.’s pants. I calmly took out each item in his pants’ pockets, and went through the wallet. I put everything back in its place carefully. The anger and panic were leading, now. I was calm, directed, emotionless. That’s what happens. I picked up his flannel-turned-vest. Breast pocket. There it was. I took out what I found, and strode over to G.A. I wouldn’t notice until I was done that the good Doctor had wandered off again. Just like that bastard. I knelt down next to G.A, and showed him what was in my hand.

“You are a Dreamer, G.A. You cannot be the Dream. It is not right.” I made sure he was focusing on the ticket, as I took the end of the thing in both hands. “You will meet me later, but I won’t know you yet. In Ohio. Be sure to do your best at knowing more than you should, but only letting it out a little. You’ll attract my curiosity that way. Say hi to your beautiful child for me, as well.” I showed him his Golden Ticket. None of the attractions were marked off. It was fresh, and clean. I slowly tore it in half, lengthwise, right in front of his eyes. I could see his panic as he felt it tear. I put the remaining halves in my pocket to throw away later.

Nothing to do but wait for that Scottish bastard to come back. That cane called to me. I picked up the piece of the At-At and fiddled with it nervously. Something was nagging at my mind that I hadn’t noticed…

They must have used a Sharpie. Of all the markers to use, they used a thrice-damned Sharpie. You know, it was bad enough when people didn’t notice I have a moustache, because my facial hair is so light, but to draw a moustache on, on TOP of my own, in a black Sharpie marker… ARGH! That shit’s never coming out.

Screw it. I tossed the washcloth back into the basin, and walked back over to the mess tent, where, apparently, hell had intersected with reality once again. In the form of a food fight. Pancakes in G.A.’s face. Mountain Dew and coffee flying (sacrilege!). An ash tray clanging into the no smoking sign. I sighed. This whole mess resembled the daily drama in Lansing life. Probably Saginaw too, where these guys were from. Probably everywhere there were freaks like me and them. Freaks that dreamed, and could meet their dreams.

I started heading back to Celestine’s trailer, because there really was nothing to do until I met the man himself. I had made myself a promise not to visit any more attractions until I talked to the man in charge. I heard all kinds of crashes and curses and people running, but it didn’t matter. The beat and the music were… it almost seemed like they were a little out of control. Like an orchestra without a conductor. Each bit knew it’s own part well enough to *almost* keep it in beat with the rest… but there was that slight, but all-important difference about when it’s actually drawn together perfectly by a conductor.

There was another thing he was noticing. This place wasn’t exactly IN time. I recognized that sort of thing, because I have always, always felt slightly off from the world, whenever time was concerned. I had to pay special attention to the numbers on the clock to plan a day, or be places on time. That anal-retentiveness became habit, then ingrained… but this place. This place synched with me, time-wise. For instance, I knew G.A. He StoryTells a LARP I played in. BUT, I’m not so sure he’s met me yet. I’m not sure, for him, that he’s moved down to Ohio yet.

I sat my rotund ass down on Celestine’s steps and tried to figure out how the people here couldn’t notice these things. I also couldn’t help but wonder if they’d thought about bringing in the future, as they had so neatly brought in the past… that would make for some great rides…

It’s like they didn’t give a damn. I had to blink, my eyes were getting misty. That annoyed me. But they didn’t even notice.

I sat on the steps, shifting every once in a while when one ass cheek started to hurt more than the other. Steps to trailers weren’t the most comfortable chairs. Anyway, the music was still in the back of my head, bass beat and all. Dante had come back, as well as Mr. James. They headed out into this grove of trees that didn’t look like it belonged on the farm. Ten or so minutes later, a hoard of buzzing ladybugs and a giant insect-arachnid-something from a nightmare went into the woods too. I wasn’t surprised. The buzzing made sense after the music had started to sound angry. The nightmare thing must be an angry bit of the carnival, like the Clown. I could dig that.

I lit up a clove, considering my decision to wait here until Dr. Celestine arrived. For the fifth or so time I decided it was a good idea. Things this big have a mind of their own, a will of their own, and the universe seeks to balance itself. Why wouldn’t a mystical carnival? And it’s not like I wasn’t supposed to be here. The spirit of the place was singing to me, and I had the urge to dance in its webs. I took a drag and held the smoke in my mouth, like I always do. It’s not the smoke in my lungs that I like. That hurts. It’s the taste of the smoke. The cinnamon on my lips and the clove coating my mouth. I exhaled, and a smile crept onto my face.

A new mid-range entered the song. Frantic, needing, and wanting. The kind that snags your attention weather you want to give it or not. And then it faded away. Kind of reminded me of a stage magician. Ah, well. Weird images I get sometimes. I took out my Golden Ticket and looked at it while I shifted to the other cheek. There it was. The trailer directly across the midway, in exactly the same setup as Dr. Celestine had. Only… separated. Lady Ambrosia’s Fortune-Telling. I wonder if she used Tarot. I wonder if her Tarot talked back to her like mine did at me. Maybe hers would be a better place to go once I talked to Dr. Celestine instead of Mr. James’ Games of Chance.

I liked the idea of Tarot cards better than randomness any day. I stood up, and brushed off my slacks. My resolve held me there, but how long before I gave in to messing with a fortune-teller? How long would I resist revealing just a glimpse of what most shut their eyes to? Oh, the mischief.

Two things happen when I get very angry. One, my rational mind takes over, to a fault. I become cold and distant. Better than the alternative, I suppose. Two, my mind kicks into high gear. I think through puzzles and such very, very quickly.

I was really pissed off.

I stomped straight from Dante’s tent to the Gypsy’s high-wire. I looked up, crossed my arms, and said, “Better you die than her. She’s dead, and she’s in your wire. Better you.” Then I turned, and walked away. I didn’t notice when the lights over her wire went out. That always happens when I get emotional. I didn’t notice that they were black lights when they turned back on, either.

The music in the back of my head kept shifting. Creepy, then with a strong sense of purpose, then off again. I needed to ground and center. I needed to calm myself. This wasn’t happening. None of this was happening. I needed to be me. I needed to be the center of my own universe again. I stopped in the dead center of the midway. Nobody saw the clown and Dante fighting, so I figured no one would see me. The latticework was starting to slowly work its way around and through me. If that was going to happen, I was going to be me.

I stood in the Midway, and slowly spread my hands outward. No one would see me. I felt the beat of my heart. No one would see me. I imagined a bass thump counter-pointing my heartbeat. No one would see me. I felt both beats pulse through me, and around me. No one would see me. The calliope music became shrill, faster. Its treble only accented the bass that I felt thrumming through myself. I saw in my mind’s eye the CRT in Dante’s tent and the black lights above Gypsy’s high wire. I didn’t notice. I was unthinking, letting the grief and rage twine through the bass beat. No one would see me. A picture of Dr. Celestine’s cane handle flew into and out of my mind. No one would see me. Hope seeped its way into the beat. A midrange to balance the calliope and the grief and anger. No one would see me. The calliope faltered, and started again, becoming unstable. I let the beats of the midrange and the bass enter the back of my mind where it was, letting the music become stable of its own accord. No one would see me. I exhaled slowly, feeling more at peace, and more able to deal with everything around me. I opened my eyes.

Everyone had seen me. More accurately, people were staring at me, eyes open, mouths agape. Even more accurately, people were staring behind me. I whirled around, and saw, coming out of the ground, a pipe framework made of different-colored lengths of neon lights. The framework reached as tall as the Ferris wheel, and encompassed the entire Carnival under its shape. It was a multicolored, neon, dragon. Its wings were spread wide over the carnival, and it was bellowing in rage and pain. As my shock settled in, it seemed to dissolve, as if it was a screen saver, coming undone pixel by pixel. I… I couldn’t have. This couldn’t have been me. Then I remembered, the people. Oh, fuck, everyone had seen. There was really only one thing I could do, though the owner was probably going to beat the shit out of me for it later.

I spun around, threw my arms high in the air, put my best disarming smile on, and bellowed at the top of my lungs, “Remember! This place is for you! Enjoy your stay at the Carnival of Souls!” The carnival music in the back of my head sounded better with the bass beat that had joined it.

I then resolved to sit my rotund ass down on the steps to Dr. Celestine’s trailer, and wait until he showed up, with or without double. I needed to ask him a favor.

My pen hit the sawdust. Just dropped, completely forgotten, out of my hand. I was getting close to figuring out what was going on. It was just forming, in a nice latticework of two primary layers, with interconnecting sub layers…. anyway… whatever. It was forming. I was inches away from figuring out what the relationships were between these people, and the motivations and dreams that were causing this whole deal.

Then a clown beat the shit out of a guy with a paintbrush.

No, I’m serious. A CLOWN. Beat the shit. Out of a guy. With a PAINTBRUSH. Not only that, but Mr. Artist was trying to FIGHT BACK with aforementioned paintbrush. I think the artist stuck his head in the microwave a few too many times. Then, the bad ass clown cut the head off of the mushy (literally) artist, and took it with him. If that wasn’t enough to shatter my reality, especially with this sick, warped, calliope music playing in the back of my skull, the body decayed in ten minutes. Almost completely. Then this mist came up out of the decaying mess, and formed the paintbrush-guy again. Only twenty years older or so. With grey hair.

Yeah. Insane. I really wish that calliope music wasn’t so warped.

I left the notebook and the pen there. I stood up and just started walking. Nobody else was seeing this. I’m crazy. All those times, when I worried about weather I was schizoid, or there really were spirits, this solved it. I was a nut. Completely and irrevocably insane. Oh, well, day couldn’t get any worse, right?

I wandered randomly around the Carnival. I couldn’t help but note the attractions that were listed on the back of my Golden Ticket. BB Wolfe’s Freak Show and Burlesque. Hall of Mirrors. Mr. James’ Games of Chance and the Games of Skill. Gypsy’s high-wire act (that one was marked off… I don’t remember her putting a mark on it). The Big Top. I stopped in front of a tent with a crow’s nest on top of it. This one was on my ticket, too. Dante’s Divine Gallery. Christ, this guy must be more pretentious than Nate. I looked inside, but couldn’t really see anything. Taking off my sunglasses, I decided to give it a go.

—

Truth. That was what the sign said Dante would paint for me. Well, I’m guessing Dante was the nut-job with the paintbrush. He was a dead spirit, I could feel it. I recognized it. He had lived once. Looking at his artwork, it was amazing. But… truth? None of these seemed true. None of these seemed real. What was Truth but a Dream, anyway? Hell, today’s truth certainly was turning out to be a nightmare. I winced as the music got louder in the back of my head. It was like this place had a spirit, and it was desperately trying to talk to me.

Yeah, right. I’m nuts.

There was a small painting in the back, notebook sized, if not smaller. A soaring dragon. I smiled, because I recognized it. I touched the frame of the painting. It felt familiar. I remembered the dragon soaring, angered by a lust for blood that it couldn’t quench. I remembered the dragon destroying herd after herd of cattle and deer and anything it could find, and still its lust for blood and carnage wasn’t quenched. I remembered the dragon coming upon a village, and razing it to the ground. Every single human in that village had been killed. Men, women, and children. The dragon had left nothing living. Nothing. And had felt no guilt. I shuddered, remembering. Maybe the clown wasn’t the only one with enough anger to burn down this entire place, and bring it to its knees.

There was a need for belief in balance. It was required. Too far to either side of the pendulum’s swinging, and bad things happened. I set my jaw, clenched my fists, and vowed once more never to forget that feeling of the lust for blood, so that it would never happen again. I had a job to do.

As I left the tent, I pondered how far apart dreams and truth really were. I never even noticed that the picture frame had become a softly glowing flat-screen monitor. I never even noticed that instead of a still painting, it had turned into a CGI animation of the very scenes I’d remembered. I never even noticed that another attraction was marked on my golden ticket.

Everything in life is a test. I just happen to pass most of them.

I had gone back to my car to fetch some stuff I’d need to make sense of this whole ordeal. My car was beautiful. 1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88. White. Almost mint condition. Anyway, I’d grabbed a notebook that I’d been using for my job interview, a pen, and my sunglasses. I wasn’t used to being out in the sun this much, and I was already turning a pinker color than I usually look.

I had watched Mr. James start in upon one of the customers, but had only gotten to listen for a bit, before there was a crash from inside his trailer. I jotted down some of the bets and Prizes that Mr. James had offered, as well as what he’d asked for. I considered how this might be possible, and how powerful oaths seemed to be here.

I had seen G.A. meet up with Dr. Celestine. I once more jotted down details. Similarities. Differences. Attitudes. Style of walk. There were a lot more similarities than differences, and I can’t say that I was surprised. I had seen that thin blonde woman race back and forth across the carnival grounds, and talk with that red-headed (well, hell, truth be told he was almost completely covered in red hair) man, and shudder a few times during the conversation. Couldn’t forget that. I’d seen Mr. James’ counterpart enter the Ringmasters’ trailer, and come out holding a top hat, tears rolling down his face.

But, it seemed right now, that there were two very important things that I had noticed. The day before, I had seen Dr. Celestine (G.A.’s clone) carry a woman from the big top, a top hat resting on her chest. Then, today, I had seen the blonde woman take tthe very same top hat from Mr. James’ look-a-like, and stuff it in her backpack. They both seemed very intent on the top hat, and just looking at it made the hair on my arms stand on end. Something was in this hat.

I jotted all of this down, played with the order, and the possible meanings of these events, and decided that this was more intricate than any convoluted plot he’d ever come up with while role playing. This was going to take careful watching, note-taking, planning, ordering, and deciding. I sat down. It was easier to write that way. Amongst the sounds of the newly-installed rides, and the cheers and breathless gasps of the customers of the carnival, I started to hear the music of a warped calliope in the back of my mind, where the spirits used to speak.

Yeah, I usually pass tests with flying colors.

Yeah. This was weird. Really damn weird.

Just up in Saginaw for a job interview. That was it. These people were going to hire me at way more than I was worth. Hell, they even put me up in a hotel room while I was here. The interview had gone perfectly. Not a damn twitch. Wearing my usual interview attire. Black slacks, black button-down shirt, black suit coat, and a silver dragon pendant that had been a gift. What? Yeah, so I like black.

I had this dream. So wierd. Ginger… she’d never shown up in my dreams before. I miss her a lot. Probably too much. I ended up having a dream about her that I actually REMEMBERED. Ok, that may not be so strange to you, but it’s a once-a-year occurrence for me. See, she was part of this wandering carnival, and she was the high wire act. She always loved to sing and dance, but she never really learned how. It was some kind of intrinsic talent. She was swaying all the time, and let me tell you, it was sexy.

So, anyway, I had this dream. Her old car, Jilly, had gotten broadsided by a semi truck on the highway. It had flipped a few times, and the car was absolutely totaled. Ginger made it out ok, though. Then I get this white flash of light, and I’m seeing her do this high-wire act. In a leotard. Ok, at this point, the dream might have turned into one of those sex-dreams, but it didn’t! (I mean, c’mon. Leotard.) The wire that she’s doing the act on, that’s wierd. It catches my attention. Then I start hearing her sing, and damn, she’s got a voice. Only, it’s not her that’s singing. It’s the damn wire. Then I woke up. I dismissed it all entirely. I mean, c’mon. Who’s heard of a god damn singing high-wire and a mute redhead doing the act? Pssht. Right.

Except that I just relived it. I passed Big Dav on the way in. He didn’t recognize me. I swear to bob, I just saw my StoryTeller from Ohio walking around, GA. And now this. Ginger, mute, is doing a high wire act. And her wire is singing with her voice. I can only stand and stare. And I HAVE to look wierd. I’m a 6′ computer geek dressed in all black (a suit no less) in the middle of a carnival surrounded by farmers. And I’m just STARING because there’s nothing else I can do! That son of a bitch Draconis must be rolling on the floor with this one.

Ok, that’s now. Recap’s done. I’m standing here, in the middle of this field, watching. Her act ends, and the farmers drift away. Some of the more lecherous ones stick around, hoping that she’ll come down (LE-O-TARD) and I still can’t move. I’m still dumbfounded and staring. My dream, my Ginger, my lord… I don’t even notice when the other farmers drift away, and it ends up just being her and I. She gets up, and strolls (just strolls) over to the pole, and motions me over. I snap out of my trance, and approach. Curiouser and curiouser.

I can feel this pull from the wire, and from her. I couldn’t have stayed in my spot if I’d wanted to. She flips down and around (I’ll never forget how she can move like that), and fingers my pendant. Then I hear, inside my head, where the spirits used to speak, oh yes. with this one, a dragon. I nearly jump out of my skin. Ginger’s voice! Where the voices had once spoken to me! In the back of my head, at the tip of my spine, the base of my skull, the same pressure… I don’t understand.

I feel like the words have to fight their way out, “Yeah. She was singing earlier.” Oh, damn, I remember her voice, when she’d sing along with Godsmack, or anything else, or just sing when she was content… she even sang once when I held her… “She always used to sing.” Ginger… was it even her?… tilted her head, as if she was asking who… “Oh. Sorry, a girl I used to know.” A girl I fell in love with once, and would never forget. Damn you, Draconis, what Trickster aspect are you pulling now?! The Ginger-clone nods to me, and looks at me as if she’s expecting me to do something. Ah, what the hell, this can’t get any stranger.

“This is going to sound really weird….gods, I hate heights…but do you mind if I……” I shook my head. There’s no way Ginger was singing in the back of my mind. The spirits, or voices, or whatever, hadn’t talked to me there in so long… and she was still ALIVE. “Never mind.”

She motioned to follow her. What in the HELL was I doing? I started climbing the ladder on the pole, that’s what. I knelt on the platform (Japanese-style… only way a fat man ever learned out to kneel). Welcome. I’ve missed you, darling. Oh, by Tiamat and all that’s nothing, it WAS her. It WAS her, and she was here in this carnival, in her own clone’s high-wire. I reached out to touch it, and didn’t even notice the alarmed look on the clone’s face. I touched the wire, just like I used to touch her face. And a white flash surrounded me…

And I was in a room I didn’t recognize. Ginger was on the bed, asleep. It looked like a laptop had slid out of her hands while she was typing something. I was floating above the bed, and I could FEEL the dream… feel the connections, the webs, and their undoing. I whisper down to her, “Jilly wa urusai kuruma ja nai. I love you.” In the back of my mind, I hear her reply, I know you do, baby. You’re in my forever, don’t ever forget that. Muaaa. And with that, I am back at the carnival, kneeling on the pillar, a tear rolling down my face. My legs are starting to fall asleep. I sit there, shivering, my mind trying to wrap itself around what’s just happened. And then the clone shoves something out to me, a wrinkled, shiny (oooo… shiny) ticket. It’s golden, which makes me hesitate. Take it. I did. I shivered, it felt as creepy as real gold to me.

In my mind, I couldn’t help but quote Ghostbusters, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”