Season of Reckoning
Ordinary People. Extraordinary Abilities.
Real People. Unreal Adventure.

Episode One – November
written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
co-directed by: Rebecca Yu, Benedict Almirol, Jethro Jamon, Myrtle Antioquia, and Vianca Atienza
_________________________________________


We own the skies.
The deafening roar of infinity crashes over them, a tidal wave of failing blue and rising stars robbing them of breath. The gondola lurches as it reaches the peak of the Ferris Wheel, and leaning over the edge of the railing, they can see a multitude of dazzling lights sparkling far below them. Soft, intoxicating music sails over the crowd, mixing with the delicious aroma of assorted confections and autumnal air.
Encouraged by the festive freedom of the carnival, Jethro turns to smile at Elise, seated happily beside him. He places a hand on the side of the compartment, tense skin bracing against aged metal, and slows his breathing. He can feel the entire machine shaking – seventy tons of steel in the axle, the struts holding up all of the carts, every nut and bolt keeping the contraption together.
Lightning surges through its skeleton, jumping into his, making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Sharply he exhales, and the orbs of light decorating the frame of their gondola fade into darkness. The Ferris Wheel groans, and abruptly comes to a stop.
For a moment, piercing silence dominates. The faint trill of carnival music below gives way to the immense sound of clouds and darkening heavens.
“What just happened?”
Elise sidles up beside Jethro, and he can feel the warmth of her body against his. His heart erupts into furious beating, thrashing against the walls of his chest. His throat was dry, like desert sand, and he licks his lips, opening his mouth, desperate for words. Images flash through his mind, distant scenes and chains of ideas, lost sequences and rehearsed actions dissolving into the moment.
Ask her. Ask her now. Get it together, Jamon.
“I guess we’re stuck up here,” is all that manages to tumble out of his lips. He runs one hand through his hair in frustration, leaning against the gondola walls for support, hoping she wasn’t going to break contact.
She does. Elise rears up to her full height, and Jethro curses his luck.
“Chester! Can you hear me? We’re going to be trapped up here!” Elise calls, only subtle hints of urgency in her voice. “We’re going to die!”
Her laugh, rich and unrestrained, echoes into the night, rolling over the gathering crowd. To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die, come the lyrics, and Jethro pulls Elise back into the seat.
“Okay. I have something to say. And now’s the time to say it, I guess.”
Better words, Jamon. Don’t back down now!
Elise bows her head slightly, gazing up at him in amusement, curly black locks falling over her bright eyes. “I know, I know. If you don’t say it, then I will.”
Jethro blinks, adjusting his glasses, caught by surprise. Did she know? How? The gondola walls seem to close around him, getting smaller and smaller, making it hard to breathe. Lapses in his hearing, buzzing in his head – he was starting to get dizzy.
“Come on,” she teases, inching closer. The boy’s chest is close to bursting. “Scream it, scream out loud! Let the entire carnival hear you say it!”
Sighing, summoning up every ounce of courage in his body, Jethro begins.
“Elise, will you go to pr---”
“PENIS!!!” she roars, both hands cupped over mouth, amplifying her voice. Somewhere behind them, a rough voice repeats the word – Chester – and Elise raises her hand to high five her companion.
Jethro slumps into the corner of the gondola, head dropping to his side in utter defeat.

*****

Colorful neon lights, soft and foggy, trace lines in the darkness as the evening deepens. Music in the distance beats in time to the choruses of children laughing, dashing down the lanes, excited to take in every sight and inhale every scent. The carnival brims with life, and the crowds continue to pour in.
“Feast your eyes on the bizarre and the impossible! Be free of the bondage of the mundane! Come see the wonders of the November Carnival!”
At the gates, the barker and ringmaster ushers in guests, taking in payments and handing out tickets. The glow of the carnival is reflected in his tinted glasses and his slick, tousled hair; the chains around his waist and legs rattle at the sound of coins filling his hat. With a flourish, he parts his cape, black as the night, and points the way to the rides.
“Don’t be shy! Come one, come all!” he says, before sharply taking in breath. “Ah!” he breathes. “The bearded lady, she waits for you! The Strongman, how he longs to show off his rippling muscles! Hurry on, the night is young!”
Enthralled by his calls, the visitors run off, splitting amongst the paths, trampling dry grass underfoot. The barker smiles, a toothy grin of pearly white.
“Noel.”
The man turns around, and the silhouette of a woman greets him, hidden by curtains of seashells and starfish. She beckons him inside the tent, and once he joins her, she begins untying her robe.
The silken garment falls to the ground in one swift motion, and the half-naked woman takes her place on a chair, back turned, hands clasped as though in prayer. Her arms are netted with the tattoos of vines, blossoming orchids stitched in ink on her shoulders. Butterflies fold their wings to rest on her hips; pictures of the moon and shadowy clouds are hatched on her left thigh. Along the length of her right leg a helix symbol is visible, and half her face is covered by the intricate designs of a leaf.
“Lydia. Saved by the belle,” the ringmaster coughs, shoulder settling onto the doorframe. “Was I doing a good job out there? My face is burning, my throat is sore… Didn’t know how much longer I would’ve lasted.”
She combs her gorgeous, tawny hair forward before speaking, letting it drop over her chest, up to her waist. “Wearing the carcass of a lamb doesn’t guarantee a wolf can bleat. Easy, Noel. You may not have to carry on with your Calvary for much longer. I may have found the one you’ve been looking for. His ability suits your purposes.”
“Good, Lydia, good,” answers the barker. He takes a jar of ink from one shelf, and dips a thin, pointed pipe into it. He stirs briskly, and then moves over to the woman. “Tell me. He or she?”
“A mere boy. Be gent---,” she begins to warn him, as he sticks the pipe into her skin, piercing it. She yelps in pain, and sourly twists her head to look at him. He closes his eyes, mouths an apology, and then raises his hand. Wait.
The ink, thick and purple, drains away, subsiding for a moment before flushing back to the surface. Noel steps back to admire the image forming on Lydia’s bare back – the face of a teenager, in great detail.
“Where is he, now? Is he here at the carnival?”
The Tattooed Lady smirks, and breathes in. A stream of ink detaches from the face etched into her skin, zipping along the length of her back. The liquid pauses in between her shoulder blades, and slowly sketches the outline of the Ferris Wheel.
“There’s a problem,” she sighs. “He hasn’t manifested. Symptoms, perhaps, early signs… but certainly nothing on the level you require. His name…” she pauses.
“You’ve been fantastic, as always, Lydia,” interjects Noel. “But I’d like to know his name myself. Someone worthy of our family – don’t you think we should give him a proper welcome?”
The ringmaster replaces the ink on the shelf, and helps the woman get dressed again. He parts the curtain, and steps outside, but she doesn’t follow.
Eyes closed, she speaks. Slowly, deliberately.
“You won’t hurt him, will you?”
“I don’t see why I should. He’ll cooperate.”
“Like Titus cooperated?”
The edge in Lydia’s voice cuts through the night. She bites her lip, drawing blood. Behind her, still waiting, Noel pauses, rubbing his chin in thought.
“Quiet, Lyd. Don’t forget, this week… we mourn. His name can’t be spoken. You’ll ‘rouse’ his weary soul. You don’t want that, do you?”
The Tattooed Lady brushes past Noel, looking through his glasses into his eyes. She draws up her sleeves, moving almost to slap him, but stops. He grazes his thumb down her cheek, feeling her bones against the tattoo, and then puts something in her hand.
“Go and bring him to me.”

*****

Contented sizzling fills the Company kitchen as Agent Abednego Adre flips over an omelet, whistling a merry tune to himself. He snatches up a pepper shaker, and sprinkles some flavor into the dish, before lowering the heat.
He turns around to adjust his apron, steadying the toque hat on his head for better air flow. Picking up a spoon and a fork, he drums a beat onto the stainless steel kitchen counter and laughs.
Adre turns around again, slipping the spatula under the omelet, which, by now, smells divine. He hoists the meal onto a plate, and turns around to eat.
“I’ll have one of those.”
The agent nearly drops the dish in his surprise, backing into the stove and accidentally laying his right hand inside the frying pan for support. His visitor watches with little interest as his fingers continue to sizzle.
“Doesn’t that hurt? I don’t remember anymore.”
Adre looks down at his self-generated prosthetic hand, coated in a thick, silver alloy. It had been a long time since he’d had to think about it – the loss of his right arm. His ability let him replace it, but there was no feeling in those cold, metallic fingers. He lets it sit in the heat for a while longer, wishing for pain to remind him that he is awake and seeing the ghostly vision before him.
The man seated at the counter was dressed in a heavy brown trench coat, and sported a fedora which covered half of his face. His unruly green hair stuck out in tufts over his ears, and his skin was pale lime.
“D-David,” the agent stutters, pulling his hand off the pan. It glows a bright red, and then fades back into silver.
“An omelet. I asked you for an omelet.”
The Company founder sighs, and places both elbows on the counter, supporting his drooping face with his hands. They looked barky, gnarled and knotted at the joints and wrist. Tiny leaves were sprouting from several places along his fingers.
“You don’t eat eggs, sir,” Adre suddenly remembers.
“It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t do anymore, agent,” David replies, the bitter tone in his voice quite clear in the silence of the kitchen. Adre frowns as the champaca standing in a slender glass vase shrivels up and dies.
“Can I ask you, sir -”
“Stop calling me that. In all likelihood you are probably older than me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Is six in the morning too early to be asking for breakfast?”
Adre chuckles nervously, handing David the omelet on a plate. The Company boss picks up a fork, and the agent expects him to begin eating. Instead, he contemplates the utensil and shakes his head.
“Why are there four prongs on a fork? Why not just three? I’m quite sure that three prongs are capable of performing the same function as four, maybe even five.”
“The last time anyone checked, you were a tree,” Adre finally spits out, laying both hands on the table. The clang of metal echoes down the hall.
David looks up and blinks, catching the agent off guard. His eyes were a brilliant emerald, changing hues like variegated shadows on the forest floor.

*****

The safety mechanism on the door of Jethro and Elise’s gondola unlocks, and they finally disembark from the Ferris Wheel. The ride operator gives them a wry smile, and Elise does her best not to meet his eyes. There was something curious about him – about all the workers at the carnival.
Seconds later, the next cart docks, and a lanky young man with a sleepy expression hops off. He tugs on the straps of his backpack, and joins his friends.
“What? Exciting,” he shrugs, in response to the questioning look on their faces. “Anything interesting happen with you guys up there?”
Jethro makes slicing motions across his neck, and the boy tilts his chin up.
“Gotcha.”
“Chester, I’m hungry,” laughs Elise. “Let’s go.”
With eyes seemingly half-shut, Chester scopes out the carnival from his position on the platform. Rows of red and white striped tents stand before them, different shapes and sizes, folds billowing in the wind. Wooden stalls and glimmering lights take their place in between, popping up along corners, wherever convenient.
Clowns and stilt walkers march down the lanes, blowing horns and handing out balloons. Game operators wave their arms around, some showing off prizes and merchandise, others arguing with frustrated players. To one side, a woman drops into a pool with a splash, doomed by her own daughter’s excellent aim; a snake charmer nearby seemingly floats on air, gaze unbroken between him and his cobra; colorful posters hang from streamers and tent bars, displaying freaks and monsters to be viewed for pleasure.
The entire carnival was hustling and bustling, but buried somewhere under all of that, they could sense a history. Deep, rustic, possibly dark – but hidden. There was more to see, and not enough time for them to see it.
“Alright,” declares Chester. “Cotton candy, or hotdogs?”
“Cotton candy!” cries Elise with delight, skipping ahead of them. As she rounds one tent, Jethro leans in to Chester, whispering in aggravation.
“Dude, I had my chance. I had it and…” he trails off, mashing his fist into his palm. “It’s the first week of November. Classes start again in a few days. It’s two months from prom and I still don’t have a date.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to ask her. I don’t get why people are getting so worked up about this thing.”
“Whatever, man. It was your name she was screaming up there.”
Chester gives him a good-natured jab on the shoulder, and has a hearty laugh. Jethro gives up and smiles again, right as Elise runs up to them holding three sticks of pink and white fluff.
“Thanks Elise,” says Jethro, munching away. “Dude, what about you? You’re not asking anyone?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elise’s smile drop, her eyebrows jump up in anticipation. He feels a pang of jealousy but lets it go.
“I don’t feel like going through all the hassle of flowers and those kinds of stuff. I’ll just go stag. What’s wrong with that?”
Jethro shakes his head, plugging in earphones, and starts walking. The other two follow after him, turning away to avoid any awkward conversation. The sounds of an elephant trumpeting and its tamer calming it down fill the gap.
Moments later, Chester skids to a halt. A tent flap furls to one side, and a woman emerges from within. She smiles at them, eyes gleaming from behind a web of tattoos on her face. She pulls back her sleeve, and draws two tickets from their folds.
“Just who I was looking for. Our ringmaster has expressed his desire to see you at our secret show later tonight. You should be honored; not many people get to see the carnival for what it really is.”
She hands Chester and Jethro each a crimson ticket, batting her eyelashes.
“Why us?” Jethro says, before overlapping mumbled apologies about ungratefulness and lack of tact.
“I would say it was a random ticket drawing, but it’s really more complicated than that,” smiles Lydia, combing her tawny hair over her shoulders.
“Is there going to be free food?” Chester asks casually. The Tattooed Lady tilts her head to one side, as though assessing all of his features. She gives a wry laugh, and jolts an eyebrow in agreement.
“Noel won’t mind putting out refreshments for his honored guests. Don’t turn down the offer, boys. We have a great performance lined up for you. We pledge only top of the line entertainment here at the carnival.”
Jethro clears his throat. “So it’s like a concert or something?”
“You could say that. You’ll be the envy of all your friends.”
“What about me?” protests Elise, as Lydia turns around to step back into her tent.
“Isn’t it about time for regular girls your age to return home? I’m sure,” she says, looking at something behind them, “your father is looking for you.”
Lydia disappears behind the flaps of her tent, just as Elise’s father creeps up behind them. A frown hangs on his face, and he jerks his head back, towards their car parked outside the grounds.
“I thought you said your friend Patty would be with you guys. You know how I feel about you being the only girl.”
“I can take care of myself, dad,” she says, embracing him and planting a sweet kiss on his cheek as he bends down. “Tell me all about the show, guys. See you in school.”
Elise gives the pair one last hopeless glance, waiting for one of them to say something, but her father turns her around and they stride through the crowd.
“Meet the parents yet?” jests Chester, earning himself the ire of Jethro’s elbow.
“It’s seven-thirty. I have half an hour before my mom comes to pick us up. Should we go see the show?”
Chester shrugs, yawning.
“Sure. Why not?”

*****

The clamor of the crowds outside becomes nothing more than indistinct murmuring once Jethro and Chester step into the largest of all the carnival tents. Bleachers rise up against the orange tarpaulin, all facing an enclosed circular platform in the center. Four massive pillars serve to hold the big top up, joined by tightrope lines and a safety net.
“Well, this is exclusive,” Chester remarks as they find their way to the very front, dropping his backpack on the dusty ground before them. Only two or three other people appear to have been invited, fidgeting with their drinks and texting away on their cell phones. “It’s pretty weird, if you think about it. I’ve never even heard of this place. How often does this thing show up around here? And why are we invited to this secret show?”
Jethro only continues to bob his head up and down, intently listening to the music in his iPod. Chester’s cheek twitches in disdain, and he stretches, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in.
Behind the curtain to the performer’s lounge, Noel grinds the silver links of his chains in his fingers. He struggles to control his breathing, and constantly wipes the sweat from his brow.
“How am I supposed to find the words? It’s only my first show, Lydia.”
The Tattooed Lady keeps her eyes on her own reflection in the mirror. Just outside the edges of her vision, blurred by bright incandescent light, Noel’s worried smile falters. She shifts in her seat, watching ink on her arm swivel.
“You should’ve thought about that before you decided to put on this show. Now get out there and introduce us,” she says, her tongue stretching the words beyond breaking point.
Jethro replays the Ferris Wheel failure in his head. It was going to take all of his strength not to howl on those bleachers, not to yank out his earphones and toss his iPod to the ground. They were alone on that gondola; the stars had practically aligned and given him an opening.
Nevermind. Gotta put it out of my mind for now. Focus on…focus on the show.
“A grand welcome to our distinguished guests,” booms a voice, although the two boys cannot locate its source. Strobe lights above them activate, circling the bleachers and then coming together, illuminating the stage.
“The November Carnival,” it continues, “opens its gates only once each year, summoning the spirits of saints and sinners alike to bring you the most spectacular entertainment you’ve ever seen. It is our honor and our pleasure to have chosen your dear San Ildefonso, my brothers and sisters of Ilocos. There was nothing random or mistaken about it. We have our purpose, and in this revelation, here, in this tent, we shall help you find yours.”
Jethro pulls his earphones off and looks around. The limited audience was chewing on popcorn. Chester had leaned forward, a curious look in his eye.
“It was not by chance that you have found your way here, among us. You were selected for the qualities that make you like us – special.”
Here, Jethro gulps. That word had come to mean something sinister to him; darkness washes over him.
“The November Carnival has always been home to those of us whose amazing gifts and peculiar talents have gone by unnoticed, unappreciated…even feared. We provide shelter for those who have lost their way in a world that doesn’t understand them. Even now, they seek us out without knowing who we are.”
Before their eyes, an invisible veil lifts, revealing the entire congregation of carnival sideshows and staff. Chester’s eyes flitter over them one by one – The Bearded Lady, juggling plastic balls with four-foot long tangles of her braided hair; The Living Statue, a cloaked figure tossing sparks into the air as his golden hands clap together; the Strongman, lifting a tiger and a lion on each shoulder; around them, the masquerade clowns, knife thrower, cannonball exhibitionist, and Tattooed Lady stand, bowing and waving.
“This is some crazy stuff!” Chester exclaims, delighted. “Have you ever seen anything like them?”
“Once or twice,” mutters Jethro under his breath.

*****

“Contrary to popular belief, the tree was not a medical condition,” David sighs, finally digging in. He winces at the unfamiliar taste of peppered omelet. “It’s just something I decided to be. I operate on whims, Adre. Remember your mission abroad?”
The agent turns the stove off, and opens the door to a colossal refrigerator. Scanning the shelves, he locates a carton of orange juice, and pours two glasses.
“So you left two inexperienced kids and a one-woman zoo to run The Company by themselves? On a whim?”
“I had my reasons.”
“You just said you didn’t.”
“I have my reasons for that, too.”
“Funky. I think that’s what the kids are saying. You’re funky, boss.”
Adre can tell out of the corner of his eye that several agents have now gathered under the kitchen doorframe, mumbling to themselves and gesturing toward the resurrected plant-man.
“So why’d you come back?” he asks, taking a sip. The cold drink refreshes him, and he clears his throat.
“As a tree, I’ve had a lot of time to think.”
“With what organ? Trees don’t have brains.”
David looks up again, and glares.
“If you’re going to keep interrupting with your questions then we’re not going to get anywhere. Now be quiet and listen to my self-indulgent rant about a bothersome midlife crisis. You don’t hear things often from me; in fact, the last you must’ve heard is the creaking of my branches. We have a long way to go to solving this and we’ve barely gotten started.”
The agent simply shrugs. His stomach growls, loud and embarrassing.
“Fine, fine, go cook yourself something. And make sure it’s better than this egg. I’ve only just remembered how much I disliked omelets.”
Adre starts rummaging through the compartments in the fridge. “Keep going,” he calls.
“Do you know what this kitchen used to be before it became a kitchen?”
“Nope.”
“It was a storeroom for deceased experimental subjects.”
Adre gags, and hits his head on a shelf above as he straightens up.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. But then we had some more funding from our benefactors, and we upgraded. Improved our facilities.”
“You got better equipment and had lower casualty rates?”
“No. We got a bigger storeroom. You’re interrupting again. Anyway, shortly before your arrival here, this hall was renovated, and one genius had the idea of turning it into a kitchen.”
Agent Adre scans the room, surveying the innumerable rows of pots, pans, skillets, sieves, and chopping boards. He can’t help imagining corpses in their place, and human meat puppets hanging off the hooks along the ceiling instead of the assortment of wine glasses and utility knives.
“The point of this little story is that, after renovation, we had a bigger storeroom that served our purposes better. So this room was free to become whatever we wanted, which was apparently, a kitchen.”
David stands up, joining Adre by the fridge. He peers inside and sighs.
“I want to become a kitchen, too.”
“What?”
“Think, agent. Becca and Myrtle have this all covered. Iego’s off somewhere entangled in the exciting life of espionage, betrayal, and internet meme fame. And I…was a tree. There are a couple of things in my life I still want to do and I guess there’s no better time than November to get it all done.”
Adre wonders if he should pat the boss on the back. He refrains, and instead asks, “Why November?”
“Didn’t I tell you to stop asking questions?”

*****

The ringmaster emerges from the crowd of carnies, followed by a young woman in a leotard, jacket, and top hat. The magician girl looks right at Jethro, and smiles. He can feel blood rushing to his cheeks.
She waves her wand, and elongated cards begin to spew forth from her sleeves, spinning wildly through the air and littering the entire tent.
A card lands in Chester’s lap, depicting one of the higher orders of angels – The Judgment. Another card finds its way into Jethro’s hand, and he flips it over: the silhouette of a juggler – The Fool.
“Times are changing, my friends,” says Noel, now addressing both the audience and his band of carnies. “Our great leader, the one we called brother and father, has…departed from us, gone. Gone…on the winds of change.”
Loud gasping breaks out among the carnies. Several dreadful sobs rise up over the chaos. Chester looks to Jethro, who shrugs.
“I’m like all of you - angry, confused. Inconsolable. Even though we had our disagreements, he was family to me. He was family to all of us, and the only reason we’ve survived the test of time. Now his name is our secret, just as this carnival was his.
“We…take solace only in his promise – that as long as the carnival stands together, his power will remain, protecting us, enriching us, guiding us. His power, maybe in the air around us, perhaps in every breath we take, lives on.
“His dying wish – and I was there to hear it – was only that we look to the future. A future of…infinite possibilities. He and I both knew that the world outside our gates was moving….reshaping its image, its ideas. We can no longer turn a deaf ear to the… plight of our brother and sisters outside, who are as lost and persecuted as we once were. It is time to welcome them to our sanctuary, to our…family.
“Tonight we do just that. The winds are howling; they are harsh, unforgiving. But the storming world beyond our silent lights has tossed fugitives our way. They sit here, among us now, awaiting acceptance. They are our family now. Welcome…to the November Carnival.”

*****

All eyes fall on the two boys in the bleachers, thunderstruck and immobile. Beads of sweat trickle down the side of Jethro’s face. His muscle fibers twitch, and every impulse in his body tells him to run.
Suddenly the tent feels like a giant cage. And we’re locked in with the animals.
“W-what did he say?” stutters Chester, as Noel approaches them. His cape falls heavily behind him, and his intentions are lost to the reflections of light in his glasses. He gives them a smile; it was probably meant to comfort them, but Jethro’s heart only beats faster.
He had dealt with groups of posthumans before – the shady Company had plucked him out of Ilocos for assistance months ago, to stop a tsunami. No explanations given, only stern warnings. Was the carnival linked to them? Would they treat him the same way? Or perhaps much worse?
“I don’t like the way they’re looking at us.”
“Chester. We should… we should probably go now. Right now.”
Jethro hurriedly stuffs his gear into his knapsack, and crunches dirt under his shoes as he turns tail. Chester follows him, bewildered. Most of the carnies were unusually tall, and their shadows on the ground were grotesquely twisted. How could he have let himself get into this – a secret show, surrounded by dozens of strange and unpredictable men?
“What are you running for?” says Noel, flexing an arm, ruffling his hair in mild confusion. He suddenly becomes aware of the lapses in his speech, the way he’d paused and scrambled for words. Had they come out right? Did they understand what he meant? Was he even speaking loud enough?
“It’s just a gesture of welcome,” he adds.
“Into what?”
“Our family.”
“What do you expect us to do? Stay here?” Chester asks. He wasn’t flustered or breathing heavily. He just stood there, honestly waiting for an answer.
Noel grins innocently, cramming all of his doubts and anxiety into the space in his mouth behind his teeth. He then sniffs, audibly taking in air. “Does that seem so hard to believe? We understand who – and what – you are. You and Jethro are special, and you have a place here at our table.”
“Yeah…no.”
Jethro closes his eyes, visualizing. Streaks of energy were streaming across the room; he could feel them, prickling and crackling over the hairs on his skin. He wills himself to absorb all of it, and the strobe lights sputter, glass shattering. The tent goes dark, and he runs for the exit.
Silhouettes and outlines of carnies dance over the tarpaulin, desperately reaching out, stretching and colliding in the darkness. He hears them shouting, calling to each other. What about the other audience members? Had they escaped?
What happened to Chester?
Hurling himself through the flaps, Jethro collapses onto the ground outside, throwing up dirt. He brushes himself off, and kicks hard, running as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. The carnival grounds were now devoid of people.
He didn’t know where the ringmaster was. Where Chester was. Where anything was.
I have to go back. Oh crap I have to go back.
Jethro takes a tentative step, still trembling violently. His feet begin to move again, at last, but a hand on his shoulder stops him cold.
“Dude, come on!”
“Chester! What the hell, I thought you got left behind -”
“Go, go, go!”
They spin around, searching frantically for the entrance gate. Ahead of them, looming over several rows of tents, the November Carnival sign was still blinking, lighting the way out.

*****

Noel observes the two boys as they pile into Jethro’s car, slam the door, and drive away. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and frowns. Lydia appears at his side and hands him a large, gnarled staff.
“You’re going to need that from now on. Tell them you can feel his guidance engraved in the petrified dahlia. They’ll believe you.”
She thrusts the relic at him, and he savors the bruising coarseness of its ancient wood against his chest. Clearing the dust with his boots, he throws his cape off his shoulders and takes a seat. The ringmaster passes the staff from one hand to the other, weighing it, feeling the rough bark against his palms. He deftly strikes it on the ground, and arcs of bright red spurt from the tip, cracking the arid earth.
“There’s a first time for everything, Lyd. I screwed up. And I’m sor---”
“Not yet, Noel. The blood hasn’t even dried.”
She watches him, eyes locked on his crouched figure on the ground. She recognizes something in him, only to be inwardly devastated as that memory flickers away. Lydia considers laying a hand on his shoulder, or taking back her words. Instead indignation fills her like hot water through a pipe.
“He would’ve convinced them, you know. His tongue was made of silk.”
“His tongue was made of yarn, Lydia. The boys just need time to reconsider the offer. No one can refuse the charms of the carnival for long. I made sure to give our boy the means to find his way home. He just needs to come to grips with his ability, when it manifests.”
“And the isolation that goes with it, no doubt.”
“That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

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