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

Episode 4 – Promised Land
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu, Benedict Almirol, and Candy Dacalos

Previously, on SR…

“You’re going after our carnivalettes. That’s cute, Lab-labs. I approve.”
“But they’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
“This is bitch eat bitch world, Desi.”
“Now I have a plan that will save all your asses from the soup kitchen.”
“I was thinking of teaching Biology to third years here at Philippine Science.”
“You never know what you have until you lose it.”

Now, SR continues.
_______________________________________________________

Wax trickling down the sides. Gray, milky white, black.
A pillar of flames. Rising, falling, silent but passionate. Warm.
The fires mount violently, and intense, encompassing light fills the room, down to its darkest, most secret corners. The flash stitches blindness over his eyes, and he roars in pain.
The most horrible sound she has ever heard.
Cold, unfeeling concrete beneath her palms. Rough, gritty, unchanging and unforgiving. A wall of wood swinging toward her, ending in a terrible din. Latches slipping into place, locks shutting. And the solid, immovable behemoth of her own front door, forever closed.
The most horrible sight she has ever seen.
Twinkling lights, soft, whimsical music, fresh bread – just a fragment of a memory, overshadowed by emotion. A fractured sense of safety. Uncertain footsteps, giving way to breathless sprints. Faster, faster.
But the carnival was gone. And so was everything else. Everything was…over.
A handsome man, his guiding hand; the glint in his eye. His easy words, his easy choices. And a plan unfolding. Years of training, years of deceit.
All for nothing.
Seconds ticking, stretching endlessly into muted forevers. A final warning, a weapon in her hand. Left, right, good, bad, now, never…
She chose them.
Months in a tiny cell, regret dripping down the walls. Acrid echoes keeping her awake at night. Not the tiniest bit of light. Not even in herself.
Then came the eclipse.
Another day, another deal, another set of faces. She’s learned; every fiber in her body is ripe with distrust, and in the darkness of a moon swallowing the sun, she makes her escape. Swimming for hours, water and blood gushing from the side of her mouth.
And now, aimless wandering.
The ink settles on Lydia’s back, washing out over the face of a bespectacled woman, aged far beyond her years. Short, wavy hair, and thick, pouting lips. The tattoo sketches to completion, and the seer is pulled back to the present, decades lost in her shallow exhalation, hundreds of kilometers whizzing by in her mind.
Her hand sweeps across the table involuntarily, and her crystal ball rolls off the table. It shatters into a thousand pieces, and the morning rays streaming in through the window blinds scatter through the shards.
Heavy knocking wakes Lydia from her vision.
“There won’t be a show tonight,” comes Noel’s voice, urgent. “Handle things until Terence and I get back.”
He waits for a response. As he begins to turn around, disappointed, the trailer door snaps open. Lydia pulls the seashell curtains to one side, and walks past him, running her fingers tentatively through her hair.
“I need to talk to Terence first. I’ve an errand for him.”
“Have you found someone to help us?”
The Tattooed Lady stops, and just barely turns her head. From the corner of her lips, she whispers.
“Yes. Her name is Candelen, and she, by far, needs the November Carnival more than anyone else we’ve roped into the ring.”

*****

Chester politely excuses himself between their biology teacher and the man she is talking to, angling his entrance to fit the large object he is carrying under the crook of his arm. He sets the box on their table of six, and pulls the red silk cover away with a flourish.
“Do you guys have any idea how this got into my room?”
Elise unhooks her half of the earphones and returns them to Jethro, who in turn puts away his iPod. Chari manages to break away from the gaggle of guys surrounding her to join them.
“Nice,” says Jethro, giving the cajon a few light taps. Chester sees the wooden sound as concentric rings of light brown and gold. “So this is what you were busy with yesterday. Too bad – we had a good jam session. You should’ve brought this over.”
“I didn’t know what to do with it. It was sitting on my bed together with a painting, of that same beatbox. And lots of colors, just the way I see them.”
“Oh. So you’re still hallucinating,” laughs Jethro.
“I’m not. These colors – whenever something makes noise I can see them. It’s like a superpower, man.”
“Che, maybe you’re just a bit excited. You know. From the carnival and everything. Specials are coming out by the dozens now. Maybe only you can see the colors because you’re forcing yourself to?”
The corners of Elise’s lips slowly fold downward as she surveys the sharp sloping of Chester’s eyebrows, and the adamant look of certainty on Jethro’s face. Chari runs her fingers over the carvings on the wood, and speaks up. The scent of strawberries fills the air.
“You know how to play this?” she asks innocently. Her accent is further obscured by the bubblegum she is chewing on.
“Yeah. Old friends taught me, way back. But I didn’t own one, until yesterday afternoon. I asked all the dormers, and none of them ‘fessed up. They didn’t do it, and they didn’t see who did it.”
The rest of Strontium begins to settle down as Ma’am Dawn enters the room, stomach first. Her smile follows in quick succession, and she steps up onto the platform, pulling down on the projector screen so that it winds back up with a neat snap.
“Okay class, I have an important announcement to make. As you can all see,” she says, turning sideways and giving a little chuckle, “I’m well into my pregnancy. The baby’s doing fine, thanks for asking. We’re going to have a beautiful baby girl.”
Elise leans in to Jethro, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I told you she was pregnant,” Elise whispers through pearly whites.
“Okay, so you’re right. I mean, I had a hunch that she was, but it would be totally awkward and rude if I asked her and she wasn’t.”
“Your momma’s so fat we thought she was pregnant.”
Chari bursts into rich, staccato laughter beside her; it was the first time since she’d arrived on campus that she’d made any noise aside from a quiet word or two. All heads turn to look at her, and Ma’am Dawn stops good-naturedly to let her clutch her stomach. Chester grins lazily, and then yawns, plopping his head back on the table.
“Well now, if Miss Beleran is done, I was just about to introduce you to your new substitute teacher. I’m not sure what his credentials are, but he looks decent enough in a labgown. Please welcome Mr. – actually, I’m sorry,” she says, turning to the man entering the room. He tips his fedora to the class. “What was your name?”
“I regret to inform everyone that no matter how you choose to address me, it will always sound awkward. My name is David, but I don’t like my surname, so you can just call me Sir. Everyone clear on that?”
Strontium sits dumbfounded, and a few jumpy nods break up the collective stillness in the room. Ma’am Dawn bids the class goodbye, taking her jar of candies and plastic animal toys with her.

*****

Yvanne dials again, fingers threatening to punch right through her flimsy cellphone. She puts the device to her ear, scowling at the ringback tone, which by now she is impossibly tired of.
The door to her boss’s lounge opens; cold air-conditioning floods the hallway. Desi frowns, gesturing toward the ongoing meeting, but Yvanne puts up her palm – talk to the hand – and continues tapping her stilettos against the marble.
“She’s not picking up. She should’ve told me they had an out-of-town overnight field trip. And now I owe her Php500 in fees. Ugh.”
“You can deal with finding her later. We have to discuss your future,” sneers Desi, smacking Yvanne’s hand with a metallic pointer. The secretary drops her phone, only to catch it in the other hand.
The ladies return to the table, each one primly straightening out suits and blouses. Two other men sit on opposites sides; one looks rather bored, and the other looks rather large and white.
“Yvanne,” begins the corporate leader, “meet Dominic Albao. Domz for short – it’s plural, with a Z, because he’s so large. And I don’t even need to introduce you to Renz Yrlandre Cabanto, who is running for Senator in the upcoming elections.”
Flipping her long, straight hair to the side, Yvanne nods. She bitterly observes how the superior cushioned seat at the head of the table fits Desi’s big mouth and bigger head.
“Over the past few months, I’ve been underground,” Ms. Mina explains. “Making connections, hooking up with allies, and doing a lot of research. Watching, and waiting. The three of you are here today because of what you can do for me, and what I can do for you.”
“Get on with it, Desi,” grumbles Renz, popping the lid off a bottle of sprite. He holds it to his lips, tilting his head back, and takes his blessed time to drink. Gulp, gulp, gulp. When he finishes, the glass breaks from his lips with an exaggerated Ah. Domz’s face contorts with exasperation; Yvanne smirks and thinks how ridiculous this looks.
How ridiculous this all looked.
“It hasn’t been long since posthumans – people with superpowers – revealed themselves to the world. It started with Iego Tan, the winged freak,” and here Desi’s nose wrinkles, “and soon, many others followed. That’s where Renz came in.”
“Yes. He rode the publicity and made empty claims,” shrugs Domz.
“You’re wrong there,” says Renz, standing up, very theatrical. Yvanne waves away the smell of liquor and more recently, sprite, on his breath. “Desi and I pushed for the legislation of a two-part bill. Posthumans are now not allowed to use their powers in public. Read the papers, Albao. And furthermore,” he says with a flourish, creases forming on his square forehead, “there is now a division which handles superhuman affairs. I am the leader of said division.”
“Sit down, Renz.” Desi points at him with her finger, and as she brings her hand down, the politician plops back into his seat. Yvanne’s eyes narrow.
There’s something freaky about Desi. I mean, aside from the obvious.

*****

“Why’d we head out to a dump like this, Noel? What’s to see?”
Terence rocks back and forth on his heels, hands stuffed cozily into the pockets of his trousers. He watches, head angled as always so that one side of his body leans forward, while Noel runs some sand through his fingers.
A barren wasteland stretches before them in all directions, rolling high and low in little hills. The landscape is broken up only by several misplaced boulders, probably rolled off from the limestone cliffs which border the area. Vegetation is scarce; all the thorny bushes panting along the dried riverbed droop and sigh under the glare of the afternoon sun.
“I was almost a hundred percent sure that we could win them over,” coughs Noel, running his fingers through his hair as the wind blows. Traces of dust remain there, making him seem much, much older. “The November Carnival is like a dream come true for all of us. But I guess we’ve been…cloistered too long.”
“Well, sure, boss. But it’s the good life, right?”
“Recently I realized that the concept of paradise changes from person to person. Not everyone dreams of running away to the circus. Not everyone wants to keep moving from place to place. They’re like us, Terence, but I’ve been out of touch from the outside so long that I’ve forgotten they’re not like us.”
“So what’re you saying?”
Terence impatiently taps his shoes on the ground; his footprints press into the earth at superspeed, so that the impression begins to dig deeper and deeper.
“They need a home, is what I’m saying,” snaps Noel. “Not a traveling gypsy caravan, not trailers, not hammocks tied between concessions booths. They need…a promised land. Somewhere we can all gather and just sit down on the grass and be home.”
Overhead, a hawk blocks out the sun, casting its shadow on the ground. The outline of its widespread wings flutters over the dirt, coming up to Noel. Terence narrows his eyes, wary of the straight line formed by the ringmaster’s parched lips.
“This is going to be home? It looks just like the carnival grounds.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We have to gather the faithful first, and together, as one family, we will transform the entire earth into our Eden. You’ll see; my vision for our dominion is unlike anything the world has ever seen. Specials are like angels, Dy Echo. We’ve come and said our piece; mankind has been warned. Now it’s time to find our way back to the heaven we deserve.”
Terence merely nods his head. He hated it when Noel talked like that; it was so hard to follow. The old Noel went straight to the point; the old Noel was a man of action.
Standing there, watching the new ringmaster kneeling on the ground, carving who knows what into the ground, Terence wearily comes to a stinging conclusion.
The old Noel was gone.
“Look, boss, it was nice shopping for real estate with you, but Lydia -”
“Go.”
“But how are you going to get back? If we’re away from the carnival for too long, we’re going to -”
“Just go, Terence. Fetch the lady.”
Hacking up some spit and shooting it deftly at the ground before him, Terence turns his back, and zips away, accelerating to seven hundred miles an hour. Noel watches as his outline, fading wisps of distorted air and light, follows after him seconds later, throwing up clouds of dust in its wake.

*****

“The human body,” begins David, pulling back his long sleeves to write on the board, “interacts with its environment via nerve connections and electrical signals. I’m sure Ma’am Dawn covered the basics of the nervous system with you, and since I’m not the type to give quizzes,” he says, trying to goad the kids into smiling, “we’ll just talk about something that has fascinated scientists and the general population for a while now: Synesthesia.”
No matter how hard he tries, Jethro can’t seem to ignore the greenish tinge in the new teacher’s skin. He casually mentions this to Elise, who points out the distressing branch-like state of David’s arm.
“Has anyone here ever heard of the phenomenon?”
A few seconds, and the class awkwardly shakes their heads. Chester opens his eyes long enough to find that he is not the only one with his head on the table.
“Our body perceives the world around us by receiving input through one sense, and then having the brain interpret. Sometimes, though, individuals are born with what you might call ‘different wiring’. Information gets sent to the wrong parts of the brain; it gets processed nonetheless. The result is unique perception – tasting words, feeling smells, seeing sounds as colors.”
Chari gently shakes Chester awake; Jethro locks eyes with him.
“This could be considered similar,” continues David, eyes narrowing and smile widening, “to how snakes can see temperature signals with organs called pits. Or how insects detect each others’ pheromones. Those are interesting, too.”
Elise flips through her hardcore Bio book, and notes that his lecture is not on their list of topics for the week. She says so to Jethro, who practically jumps up in epiphany.
“I’ve seen him before,” he says, half to himself. “From the Company…”
“Yes, Mr. Jamon? Something to share with the class?”
Chester and Jethro exchange glances for the nth time. Elise merely grins.
“No? Well, okay then. Pheromones are chemical messengers that animals release to attract mates and instigate breeding. You can think of them as love perfumes. Females of the species may be able to use these pheromones to manipulate the males into strange mating behaviors.”
The bell rings, and Chari practically flies out the door. Boys from their class and from the lower years down the hall converge, tongues all hanging out in comic fashion.
Elise and Chester follow after her; Jethro innocuously steals a last look at their new substitute.
“So, Jethro. How’s normal life? Get those powers under control yet?”

*****

Desi nimbly flips a remote control around in her palm, and uses it to turn on the projector she has brought to the table. The first slide of her presentation flashes on the wall.
“My father has owned this bank ever since his father passed it on to him. Since then, we’ve made a generous sum, loaning money to non-profit organizations, up and coming businesses, and the intrepid ventures of plucky entrepreneurs. We’ve come to be recognized as the bank, the establishment. And with such high interest rates and reliable security, why shouldn’t we be?”
Pictures flicker onscreen – photos from the day the bank first opened, and various shots of important-looking people shaking hands with Mina Senior. Desi beams at first, but as time passes, her lips sink lower and lower. Yvanne satisfactorily nods her head at this.
“But then we got hit by two storms. The first was recession. Businesses tanked, profits fell off the charts; everyone was just poor all of a sudden. I wasn’t here at the time, of course, for reasons we will never discuss, but the important thing is I’m here now. I can fix up all those bad decisions that you and father made, Yvanne. All that trust you put into bad loans….” she says, tsk-tsk-ing.
“Whatever, Desi. Next slide.”
“Just when you all thought things couldn’t get any worse, that’s when the Icarus Incident happened.” Here Desi starts to laugh vigorously, almost…maniacally. Renz’s eyebrow shoots up, in unison with Domz’s upper lip. Yvanne simply rolls her eyes. “Posthumans were discovered. And as it turns out, there are a lot of specials. When their cover was blown, they all just packed up and left town. Pulled out all their investments. We weren’t getting paid back; we had nothing in our vaults.”
“Our, our, our,” hisses Yvanne. “None of this is yours. Just because you share the same last name with our great president doesn’t mean you can lay claim to all our hard work –”
The secretary stops abruptly; her lips snap shut. Desi has her hand out, fingers pinched together. Yvanne wrestles with the invisible strings silencing her, to no avail.
“Would you shut up and let me have the moment, sweetie? So there. To be clear, I’m a posthuman, too. Questions later. Yvanne, Domz, Renz – you all have something in common; you all need cash. The secretary, the budding inventor, the politician in the running. My plan will put enough cash in our laps to make sure we all retire sipping martinis under Malibu sun.”
Desi’s audience waits, irregular breaths audible against the dull hum of the air-conditioning. The walls heave, as though listening intently.
“Renz, with your efforts we’ve created the Posthuman Crises Aversion Team. Our first mission will be to collect stray posthumans and keep them locked up. We accomplish this by first raiding The Company, which, as I will fully explain later on, is a clandestine organization of pigs and idiot specials. Domz, your inventions, funded by what little is left of the bank, will be of great help in subduing them and countering their powers. Finally, we shall use the mechanics of this bank to create an underground black market.”
“Of what? What are we selling?” inquires Yvanne.
“Powers. We’re going to create a bank system that sells superpowers.”

*****

Lydia slips a shawl over her shoulders and steps into the harsh sunlight. She can feel ink oozing through the pores on her back, a blinking, moving radar warning her of an approaching posthuman. The map tattoo on her back vanishes, just as a blast of wind signals Terence’s arrival. Her trailer door flips open, and she rushes back inside.
“You said she was gonna be trouble,” sneers Terence. He shakes his head in disdain. “Didn’t put up a fight. Too slow.”
“Well I’m glad that you’ve discovered you move faster than light. Now, if you don’t mind, give us some space.”
The messenger leaves a translucent trail behind him as he goes, frames of himself left behind in his departure. The liquid light evaporates seconds later, following after him.
Lydia surveys the crumpled mess on her bed, barely breathing. Cuts ran along the length of her arms; her face was smeared with jungle dirt. She notes how the woman’s body is much leaner than in her visions – she hadn’t been eating properly. One of the lenses in her spectacles was cracked.
“Candy. Wake up.”
At the sound of her name, the fugitive bucks, throwing her arms up. Lydia falters, raising her hands over her eyes, but the light Candy emits is pathetically weak – the equivalent of a candle’s illumination.
Kicking against the sheets, Candy edges toward the corner, bracing herself.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You know me, Candelen.”
The fugitive draws in breath, eyes scanning the trailer for exits.
“Perhaps you need help remembering,” Lydia adds, inching closer. Candy sticks her hand out, powering up another attack, but the Tattooed Lady grasps her palm tightly. Too tired to struggle, the fugitive merely cries out as ink streams from Lydia’s fingers into her arm.
A pair of twin tattoos forms on each of their arms – crowned women carrying broadswords, surrounded by a twisting pillar of flames.
The Magician.
“Your mind is…in disarray,” says Lydia, struggling. “Have to dig deeper…. Just one memory….”
Images flash around her, forgotten pasts, fragments of better times. Traces of feelings buried deep within the fugitive’s subconscious. The Tattooed Lady wades deeper into Candy’s mind, her soul, and the vicious hatred wells up again.
Lydia is thrown back, smashing into her bedside wardrobe. She sinks to the floor, panting, and arches in pain. The new tattoo on her arm sizzles away like a crisp ember.
“If you come near me again,” mutters Candy, hugging her knees, “I will gouge your eyes out with my nails.”
The Tattooed Lady ignores the threat, straightening up. Her knees nearly give way to the weight of Candy’s memories, still fresh in her mind.
“Remember. One late November night. You came to us with your family. I met you at the gates. We talked; we shared popcorn. Then you looked up at my face and asked me why I had this leaf tattoo over my eye. Do you remember what I said?”
Candy hesitates, as Lydia rests against the side of her trailer.
“…to remind you how much time has passed.”
“That’s right. Seasons change, and so does this tattoo.”
Lydia brushes back her hair, and the intricate veins of the ilang-ilang leaf stitched across her cheek pulsate with autumn oranges and faint greens.
“That was a long time ago. People change too.”
“Maybe in the way they look, or how heavy their heart is,” says Lydia, drawing closer. Tears begin to stream down Candy’s face, and she fights them off, vigorously rubbing against them with her wrists. “But what’s inside stays the same. Your light, Candelen… You’ve been running for long as you can remember. Isn’t it time to come home?”
“I have no home. I have no family. Twice promised, twice denied. No more.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to accept my offer right now. Just…rest up. You have food waiting for you outside. All you need to do is ask. You might not be home just yet, but for now, you are safe.”
Lydia picks herself up, and hobbles down the steps to the door. She’d forgotten the sting of physical pain; Noel had always been there to take it away.
Not this time.
Silently she wishes Candelen untroubled dreams.

*****

Chester sleepily drags his bag across the uneven table surface, blocking himself from their chemistry teacher’s view. He lays his head on the table, listening to the colored trills of birds outside.
A hand slams a piece of paper onto his desk; he looks up to see Jethro brandishing his most recent test score. The numbers flash bright green – a decent 34. The boy’s smile flashes just as bright.
Turning over his crumpled answer sheet, Chester yawns. Yet another over-perfect score. Jethro’s face turns about as red as the 43/40. He groans loudly, face squelching, and jabs his friend in the arm. Elise laughs, giving him a comforting hug, which does what she intends it to do. She then places her paper beside his, a 39, and chortles, rolling over on the ground.
Over his shoulder, Chester sees Chari smiling serenely at her own paper. She was sitting nearest the door, as usual, farthest away from the blackboard. He supposes she is trying to avoid attention, but notes in his head that she isn’t doing a very good job.
“Hey,” he calls in a low voice, swinging over. He pulls up a creaky old stool, and takes a seat. “How’d you do?”
Chari meekly slips her test toward him. 38.
“I didn’t know you were a Chem nerd,” he says, laughing. Chari’s lips purse tightly, and surprisingly, her eyebrows come together in an angry knot.
“Well of course not,” she hisses. “I’m supposed to be the pretty girl, not the smart one. It would be totally out of character for me to get good grades.”
Chester tilts his head back, and fixes a steady gaze on her. He waits for her to continue, but instead she gets up and glides silently out the door. Heads turn to follow her, but she flashes them a sharp, warning smile, holding up her hand. Moments later she has disappeared down the corridor.
“Do you like it here?” Chester asks, catching up to her in the front lobby. She was sitting on one of the benches, swatting at her admirers with her fan. Chester defensively places his cajon between them, and the bystanders finally take a hint, scowling as they trudge away.
“What?” stammers Chari, looking up. “Yes, of course. The food is…unique, and the dorms are…comfortable. Everything’s fine.”
“Then what was that about, in the Chem room?”
“Nothing. I just thought…” Chari says, before stopping abruptly. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. Everyone likes the pretty girl until she starts to talk.”
“I couldn’t care less what you look like. And I like that accent. Keep talking.”
A dainty patch of red surfaces on the newcomer’s cheeks, and Chester scoots over. He stretches, and as his left arm comes down, he rests it on the table behind her.
“I guess I kind of tricked myself into thinking I could reinvent myself,” Chari mutters. “At my old school, people were tripping all over their words trying to talk to me. It was cute for awhile but then I realized I had no one to talk to. At all.”
“But now you have me.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess I do. But I just wished, for so long, that I could be the sporty girl, or the leader, or the girl who can balance chemical equations like a pro. But no one stops to ask me what my score is. So I’m still just the pretty girl.”
“I know what it’s like to be stereotyped. Trust me,” Chester adds. “They’re always pointing at me, discreetly, saying things like, ‘Oh, he’s a slacker, he’ll never get anywhere’. But look at me now. Cream of the cream of the crop. I think you and I are cool like that. We get to be bigger than the people they want us to be.”
Chester sets his cajon on the ground, and hops on. His legs straddle the sides, like a cowboy saddling onto his bronco. He taps the sides a few times.
“I’m still a bit rusty. Tell you what: hum me that tune, the one I heard when we were at the rails today. I can drum a beat for that.”
“It’s an old song my grandmother used to sing me to sleep, back in the province.”
Chari puts her fan down, and folds one leg at an angle over the other. She takes a deep breath, and begins to hum. Her throat reverberates with memories of old gongs and mountain air.
A few uncertain thumps. Chester watches the rings of dark red blend into the steady stream of green light emanating from Chari’s lips. The colors wash into one another, generating hues and shades he’d never seen before – neon browns, purple-greens, red-yellows. Something stirs in his bones.
He picks up the pace, clenched fists flying up and down the wood. The arcs and waves of color intensify, and where they intercept each other, searing flashes of light erupt. The whole front lobby is intoxicated by the rhythm; upper years, lowers years, even the security guards at the desk and the accountants in the adjacent building were wandering towards him, a dazed look on their faces.
More appreciators pour out of the SHB, gathering in a tight half-circle in front of Chester, who by now can see nothing but the intense ocean of colors. Chari continues to croon behind him, and her own pink lights join the fray.
The drum beats slow down as the wood tires out. Chester’s hands drop to his side; sweat cascades in torrents down his back and along his sideburns. Chari lays a hand on his shoulder, fanning him.
Looking up, they finally notice the crowd gathered before them. Elise and Jethro stand at the forefront, utter astonishment on their faces. The final notes trill into silence, and Chester is left to gape at all the unfamiliar faces, who all stare wordlessly back.

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

Episode 3 – Thicker than Watercolor
written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
co-directed by: Rebecca Yu and Benedict Almirol

Previously, on SR…

“My name is Chari. I just transferred.”
“It was weird, huh? The way they kept talking about specials.”
“About you, you mean. Don’t deny it, Jethro.”
“The Icarus incident. Sound familiar?”
“Desi Mina was a rogue agent. We didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Your debt, David. Do not forget. I certainly will not.”

Now, SR continues.
__________________________________

Snap!
Claudine looks up, startled, and notices the shadow lingering under the crack of her door. The knob begins to turn, and her heart stops beating. Precious seconds pass before she can force her arms to move, stuffing a weatherworn map and a hastily scribbled note inside her backpack.
The door swings open, and a woman stomps inside, heels muffled in the fuzzy carpeting. At full height, she is only a few inches taller than her younger cousin; she makes up for this by scowling ferociously, flipping her thin, straight hair over the shoulder of her newly ironed business suit.
“What are you still doing here? You know I can’t leave the house if you’re still combing you hair,” Yvanne hisses. Claudine clumsily runs a thick brush through her curly black locks, adjusting the strap of her backpack. She notices her guardian’s signature clipboard, which had made the irritating snapping noise – brown, and old, looking very official. Just like her cousin. “Hurry, hurry. Your bus is downstairs.”
“It’ll wait for me,” stammers Claudine, rushing past. She practically leaps down the stairs, as her cousin takes tiny steps in her tight knee-length skirt. The teenager dashes for the fridge, and flings it open, snatching up some food. “Why can’t you drive me?”
“I told you last night, my boss needs me there early today. We’re meeting someone very important. The future of our company is at stake here. And frankly, so is my job.”
“Ditch the bank, Yvanne,” mumbles Claud, chewing.
“And do what? How am I supposed to pay for our bills?”
“Find another job. Something that makes you happier. Less catty.”
Claudine looks up, waiting to see her cousin sneer, but Yvanne is already out the door with her keys, prying open the door to their car. She trots over to the window, choosing to ignore the bright white school bus parked across the lane, and waits. Tap, tap, tap, go her fingers on the window sill.
Leave already.
“Lock the house, okay?” hollers Yvanne, as she pulls out of the driveway.
Claudine nods, throwing two thumbs up, and begins to walk toward the school bus. The banker’s car disappears down the street, making a sharp turn. Sunlight glints off it, momentarily blinding her. She pulls up her colored sleeve, putting her head through the open window.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” roars the driver.
Making some dry, pathetic coughing noises, Claud responds, “I’m sick.”
“You should’ve said so earlier. We wasted twenty minutes waiting for you.”
Claud barely has time to pull her head back when the bus zooms away, leaving clouds of dust in its wake. She takes a few steps back, breathes in deeply, and checks her watch.
“That cab should be here any minute now. I’m coming, Dani.”

*****

Golda lowers the brim of her top hat, fingers sweeping over velvet and silk. She pulls the folds of her blue tuxedo jacket together, crossing her arms to brace against the cutting prairie winds. She hurries away from her trailer, and is already half-invisible when a heavy weight falls on her left shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going, Lab-labs?”
A carnival sideshow steps down onto the dirt, and gracefully saunters over on her slender legs. Golda turns around to wave away the neatly braided claw of hair, and tilts her head.
“You promised you’d go with me to meet the new babies,” Alla says, crushing the last word with an accent. Beh-behs. “I thought you were into that kind of thing – meeting people our own age.”
“Normal seventeen year olds,” sighs the magician, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose as she looks at Alla. Her fair white skin was glowing, as usual, noticeable only for the lack of the beard regularly dangling from her chin. The Bearded Lady, clean shaven at the moment, was a head taller than Golda, and certainly much thinner. “We live in a carnival, Alla dear. Sometimes I need a break from freaks like us.”
Alla waves her hands lightly in the air, dismissing the comment. She busies herself with changing the color of her hair, from a warm auburn to an icy purple and blue.
“Going to the mall? Can you pick me up some earrings? Nothing too fancy, or Lydia will notice and tell us off again.”
The magician wonders what kind of earrings would complement three serpentine tangles of hair, each four feet long.
“Sorry, cuz,” laughs Golda, rich and deep. “Today I’m attending class at that nice scholar’s institution nearby. We passed it on our way out here, remember?”
“Oh!” Alla’s lovely lips make a perfect circle shape. Her dress, bright yellow and violently frilly, shakes and rattles as she turns around. “You’re going after our carnivalettes. That’s cute, Lab-labs. I approve.”
“Alla,” Golda whines, her voice fluctuating in pitch. “I told you I didn’t like him that way.”
“What about the card?”
“It was the Fool. And only because Noel has plans for both of them.”
The Bearded Lady turns to a large mirror, framed by a spiky sun carving, and squints her already naturally narrow eyes. She was exotic, even for the carnival, and delicate – something most passersby miss.
Growth suddenly erupts above her lip, healthy strands of hair emerging, twisting and turning, into a neat little moustache. More tawny, bushy tassels cascade from her chin, lengthening into a full beard. Suddenly she isn’t so delicate.
“Have to put my game face on.”
“Charming. You know, speaking of Noel’s plans…” Here Golda lowers her voice and leans in. Alla’s braids swivel over and rest on her shoulder, pulling her closer. “I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. Twice in this week alone he’s been shot down. Do you think Ti-”
“Shhh! The name, Gizzy, the name. You have to give Noel some time, okay. Being a leader is a tough job. All eyes are on him.”
“But they’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
Alla blinks, and Golda has already disappeared. She watches as the gates to the selling area swing open, then slam shut, creaking eerily.

*****

Yvanne vaguely waves to the guard standing by the entrance, who pushes the glass double doors open for her. He tips his hat – a wasted gesture, as she is already well behind the transactions counter, about to enter the office rooms.
Her heels threaten to shatter the marble; her hair whips from side to side, as though she were walking straight into a giant fan. She clocks in, fashionable and late, before pushing the door to her boss’s lounge open.
“Sir, I’m terribly sorry, my little cousin was being a brat, so I’m a little behind, but I have your appointme– What the hell are you doing here?”
The large cushioned office chair swivels around, and a woman with shoes to rival Yvanne’s drops her feet comfortably onto the varnished wood desk. She grins facetiously, twirling a pen along her fingers.
“Daddy’s little girl,” sneers Yvanne. She closes the door, and takes her seat behind a smaller, clearly inferior table. Her clipboard clatters beside some paperwork, and several pink and yellow paperclips fall onto the rug. “What brings you back to the real world, Miss Party Planner?”
“Business, of course. It sounds like you really missed me.”
“I would show you the jar of tears I cried, but I had to sell it online to pay for my rent.”
Desi gets up from the table, straightening the brooch above her suit’s front pocket. She fluffs her hair, tied in a bun, and looms over Yvanne. Rather than cower under her shadow, the secretary rises to her full height, just under Desi’s nose.
“That’s right, Yvanne. Face the facts. The bank is tanking and all of you are this close,” hisses Desi, bringing her thumb and pointer finger together before the secretary’s eyes, “from losing your jobs. Recession is terrible, isn’t it?”
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”
Blood returns to Yvanne’s palms as she finishes brutally stapling faxes together. She crosses the room, Desi watching in a mixture of irritation and arrogance.
“I’m here because I’ve convinced my dad to give me a second chance with this company. Now I actually have work experience to show for.”
“Doing what? Putting icing on a cake? This is bitch eat bitch world, Desi. We still have no room for you on the corporate ladder. Off the rungs, honey.”
“For your information, Secre-tacky, I was employed at a much bigger Company. I’ve earned my retirement and now I have a plan that will save all your asses from the soup kitchen. Do you want to hear it or will I have the pleasure of my first let-go as new executive?”
Yvanne hugs her files closer, angrily blowing a lock of hair out of her face.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“No, Yvannity. You wouldn’t,” Desi smiles. “Now siddown.”

*****

“When do you think Patty is coming back?”
Elise plugs her keyboard into the socket at the school’s back lobby, and stretches. She places a piano piece on the ground in front of her, and flips to the third page. Jethro sits down beside her, guitar at the ready beneath the crook of his arm.
“Ma’am Kiel was saying something about her foster parents having to be out of town. No one in their house, no relatives… Guess they had to take Patty with them. Don’t you have a copy of the chords for Hymn of the Wind?”
Chester sits with Chari by the ramp rails, and casually points to his two classmates, making motions in the air, and laughing. Chari merely places a handkerchief lightly over her lips to muffle her giggles.
“Hey,” the boy begins, eyes locked on the wispy streams of green and red floating away from Elise’s keyboard. “You can see them, right?”
Chari nods. “Jethro looks like he’s having fun. Elise told me about the Ferris Wheel.”
“No, not that. But yeah, I was there,” says Chester, tilting his head back slightly. His eyes are squinting, as if to keep out the light of his own bright smile. “I mean, the colors. You see them, right?”
The lovely young lady’s lips fold inward, amused. “I’m not, what is that called again, colorblind. Why?”
Moments pass as Chester yet again waves the new student’s pink lights out of his face. Boys pass them, some heading to the cafeteria, others back toward the Science and Humanities Building, all shooting the two looks – admiring Chari, and scowling at the one boy she seems to talk to.
“Forget that,” Chester sighs. “How’re classes?”
“They’re okay. Trying to catch up. We didn’t have those lessons at my old school.”
“Then what did you have?”
Instinctively, Chari’s hand shoots up to her hair, and she begins caressing and brushing the strands. She turns her head, as Chester cocks his in confusion. Very quietly, eyes shifting between groups of passersby, she mumbles, “Trouble.”
The new student gets up, sweeping some dust off her checkered mustard skirt.
“I…have to go to the bathroom.”
Chester watches her go, half a smile still lingering on his face. His thoughts are disrupted by Elise’s loud laughter – which erupts before his eyes as pointy yellow shapes. He looks over to the two and sees that a teacher has joined them.
“Mister V,” says Jethro, getting up. Elise catches his guitar as it falls from his lap, and the boy apologizes. He gives the art teacher a “student five”. “What’re the coats for?”
Ancer Villacruel adjusts his black visor cap.
“I’m planning a Christmas Cosplay,” he answers, bright eyes gleaming. Jethro recalls a previous incident, when those pupils rolled back into white and began to paint the future. The sound of the teacher crunching chocolate snaps him back to the moment. “How about you kids? Anything lined up?”
“We have Paskorus and Paskoncert. Sir, you’d better watch me and Chester. We’re joining the competition this year.”
“Sounds…awesome,” replies Ancer, trying to shift the things he is carrying to give the students a thumbs up. He fails.
“And…we have to get back to practicing,” Elise reminds her friend, as more of their classmates begin to arrive. “Bass, alto – over there. Soprano, here with me. Tenor, sit down! First note!”
“Alright, well, I have to go. Second years are waiting,” says Ancer, putting away his Kitkat bar. He whirls around, and blinks. “You guys saw I was carrying a painting with me, right?”
Chester slumps into place with the other bass singers, as Chari takes noiseless steps away to the gazeboes. Elise begins to go after her, piano notes ending abruptly, and Jethro shrugs.
“The big one on the canvas? Watercolor? Yeah, you were carrying one, sir.”
“Did you see where I put it down?”
Jethro shakes his head; Ancer wanders away, bewildered, up the first of many flights of stairs to the fourth floor.
“Chester, dude. There’s an ACTS meeting later, Earth Sci room. You should try joining us. It’ll be awesome.”
The addressed rests his back against the wall, as Elise comes back without Chari. He suddenly realizes how vastly different she looks without her smile.
“Don’t know,” Chester says, closing his eyes. The colors return, bouncing about in the darkness of his mind in time with footsteps down the hall. “Elise also invited me to SCA.”
“Dude,” Jethro moans, raising an eyebrow.
“Right. I forgot. Whatever, I don’t know. We’ll see, okay?”

*****

Balls of thirsty tumbleweed race around the tents pitched on the carnival grounds, shearing sand close behind in the wind. Noel pads through the dirt, and slips right into the Tattooed Lady’s tent.
“Didn’t our mother ever teach you to knock?” Lydia smirks. Her eyes were pressed shut, hands clasped, and Noel takes a seat opposite her. He drags his gaze across the piles of burnt wood resting in the corner, to the collection of stuffed bears on the shelves, and over the surface of the gleaming crystal ball on the table. His reflection smiles wearily back at him.
“Have you seen Golda? That gift I meant to deliver is gone, but I’m not sure she understood my instructions exactly.”
“You know I can’t find her when she cloaks herself,” sighs Lydia, biting her lips. Ink detaches from her tattoos, spiraling toward the bare space of her back. “Besides, the carnival seems to have no shortage of teenage girls lately.”
A second passes before Noel begins to laugh, rocking on the stool in amusement. Lydia opens one eye, unable to keep her lips from breaking into a fragile smile. The image on her back solidifies, like a charcoal sketch, and even blinks. Tumbling black locks frame a round, youthful face with batting eyelashes and rich lips.
“You’re joking, right? Wait, no. Lyd doesn’t know how to make jokes,” Noel chuckles.
The Tattooed Lady’s smile shatters, and she turns around.
Noel steadies himself, waiting for tension to dissipate.
“Who’s this?”
“Her name is Claudine Duñgo. A special…” Lydia inhales, and the tattoo anxiously looks around at the room. Noel avoids its inky stare. “She’s a body snatcher; watch the eyes. She’s looking for one of us. The insect girl.”
“Will she be useful?”
Lydia turns her head to give Noel a reproachful look, but his figure stands a silhouette at the tent entrance, surveying the grounds.
“It’s too early to tell. Alla is taking our new sisters around the carnival, showing them the ropes. You should join her – you are the new ringmaster, after all.”
Noel can picture the expression on his sister’s face. He closes his eyes, turning around to mutter some kind of apology, but Lydia is already busy with her crystal ball.
“You’re working too hard, Lyd. I can tell. It’s straining your body.”
“And my mind. But blood is thicker than…water. Or ink.”
The carnival barker sighs, pats Lydia on the back gently, and leaves.

*****

Any time now, buddy.
The Company boss twiddles his thumbs, waiting for Ancer to stop screaming. Rather, waiting for the art teacher to cease opening and closing his mouth in a way that mimicked actual surprise.
“But… What? Why? How? I’m confused.”
Ancer thrusts one bony finger in the direction of an old painting propped against the corner of the room. The watercolor depicts an ancient tree crowning the rooftop of a grand countryside estate. David grimaces.
“It’s old news, old friend. I’ve finally decided what I want to do with this new life. I was thinking of teaching Biology to third years here at Philippine Science.”
The professor maneuvers around the easels standing sentry to the fourth floor drafting room, and plugs his keys into a drawer in his desk. He digs through the contents, and finding a chocolate bar that is only slightly melting, he peels the wrapper off and begins to chew.
“But you’re green.”
“Working and hey – founding – the Company, I was greatly involved in genetics and human anatomy. I think I can handle flipping through a few slides and checking papers.”
“No,” says Ancer, wagging his head left and right. “I mean you’re colored green. You look more like the experiment than the instructor.”
David sticks his gloved hands in the pockets of his trench coat, and leans against the rickety plywood walls. He lifts his chin, and Ancer glimpses furious flashes of green where his eyes should’ve been.
“Minor setbacks. I can call in a few favors from my oh-so-persuasive friends. Who needs a teaching degree when a brainwash is a phone call away?”
“Then to what do I owe the visit?” Ancer’s hand instinctively flies to his paintbrushes, and he moves some boxes around to look for blank canvases. “Need new paintings?”
“I just want to know what my chances are. Is this worth my time?”
The art teacher pauses to consider.
“I think I have an old sketch in here somewhere. Trench coat in the Bio room. I think we have a uniform regulation here, though.”
“So I’ll trade in these tattered sleeves for a brand new labcoat.”
“If you’re going to teach here, then who’s -”
“Running the Company?” finishes David. “I think I ought to clock out permanently. It feels good, Ancer. To have passed some form of legacy on, to have others continue your work.”
“That’s what teachers do,” says Ancer, handing him a notebook. He flips to a precognitive drawing of David standing before a class of students in the Biology Room. “We shape the next generation.”
“We craft new heroes,” sighs David, smiling.

*****

“Chester!”
Two sparks – one orange and one periwinkle – light up the young man’s field of vision. From inside the SHB, Jethro marches toward him; arriving from the volleyball court, some dirt smudged on her face, Elise waves.
“We’re about to start. Free food. Can’t resist that,” says Jethro, slapping him on the back. Chester tosses his backpack beside the stone bench behind them.
“Need to find a projector,” says Elise, grabbing Chester by his wrist. She starts to haul him off, but Jethro’s hand falls on his shoulder. The two nearly begin a tug-of-war.
“Whoa, whoa, hands off the merchandise.”
“Che, you’re Catholic. And you’ve been MIA since the start of the year. Today we’re having bible studies and a PowerPoint presentation. And free food of our own,” insists Elise.
“Dude. Just one meeting. I promise you’ll love it. ACTS is open to everyone, okay,” explains Jethro. “It doesn’t matter what your religion is. We’re jamming today in preparation for the praisefest.”
Spotting Ms. Beleran approaching, Elise blinds them all with a smile.
“Chari Vhee is ours, Che-che. Come on.”
“You’re taking Chari and Chester?”
Elise sticks her tongue out.
“I can’t see why I can’t have them both.”
“Whatever, man,” sighs Jethro. “They’re looking for me already. So? Which one is it?”
Chester breaks away from them, just as Chari arrives. She hovers behind Elise, and Jethro just barely resists the urge to stare at her.
“How about I surprise you? Go ahead. Maybe I’ll drop in on both meetings. I don’t know.”
His three friends look at each other, shrug, and then head off, splitting between the left and right corridors of the SHB.
Yawning, Chester bends over to grab his backpack. His fingers brush empty air, and he opens his eyes wider.
It wasn’t there anymore. His backpack was missing.

*****

“This is where the animals are kept when they’re not performing,” Alla explains. “That’s where we have breakfast together every morning, and those are where the concessions stands would go. Oh, and oh, oh my gosh, I almost forgot. That’s my tent. Half of all our visitors detour straight over there,” she adds, laughing.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” interrupts Patty. “Would it be okay to ask if you could put your hair down? I’m getting kind of dizzy trying to follow which direction your braids are pointing.”
The Bearded Lady pauses to consider her request, and then nods deftly. The eight or so tangles of dark red and orange settle behind her, untying from their knots.
“Okay. So like, everyone has some chores to do when we’re not having shows. For example, I keep track of our inventory and basically get to boss everyone around. Third in command,” she winks. “Second actually, since, you know, Lydia and Noel are kind of a package deal. It’s a cool job. Patty, you could probably spend time making some pretty, pretty posters.”
Wordlessly, the teenager smiles in agreement. Her braces glint in the afternoon sun.
“And Dani, you could…train a flea circus.”
A shock of dark, unruly strands rather resembling withered grass nods, and Alla wrinkles her nose.
“I can fix that for you, sweetie. No problem.”
Licking her lips, the carnie waggles her thin, lovely, manicured fingers, parting Dani’s hair to reveal her face. The newcomer’s eyes, however, dart from right to left, furtively following a shadow zipping around the orange tarpaulins.
“Okay, so…snack break,” beams Alla. “If you head over to that tent over there, I’m sure Marj and Kent have whipped up something tasty. After you eat I’ll show you around all of the rides, which, of course, being family, you have totally free access to.”
The Bearded Lady moseys back to her trailer, and Patty starts toward the smell of banana-cues. She halts, and contemplates chatting with her new sister, but the insect girl is already gone.
Dani follows the vivid red speck of a ladybug as it hovers in the late afternoon sun. Its soft, arcane voice whispers to her, beckoning her behind some old crates. The creepy-crawly perches on her shoulder, clambering up above her ear, as a familiar shape emerges from the shadows.
“There you are.”
Clutching a map in one hand and a topaz-encrusted dowsing rod in the other, Claudine takes tentative steps toward her long lost companion. They size each other up, gaze connecting in almost the same way as when they first met, months past. Finally, as though their beating hearts had magnetized, the two friends collapse into each others arms.
“You’re safe,” whispers Claud, sniffing.
“I’m…home,” says Dani, arms shaking, as she captures the carnival behind tightly shut eyes.

*****

The familiar buzz of electric guitars pacifies Jethro, who slumps into a stool. The other members hand out nametags to the first timers, directing each one toward a table well set with chips, sandwiches, pizza, and soda.
“Change of plans,” says a senior, just as Jethro rotates and turns his back. “We’re going to have ‘sharing’ with the small circle before we play.”
Jet merely nods his head, earphones plugged in. His fingers dance along the vibrating strings, and he remembers the vague stories Chester had to tell about the colors he was seeing.
Chester was convinced he was special. Jethro wasn’t sure if he was. Or if he wanted him to be. Automatically he pushes that selfish thought out of his head, and begins to pluck.
Maybe he could make his own colors. Borrowing some electricity from the amp, he lets sparks bleed onto the steel. The neon blue fires slide up and down the frets, and the sound of his song stretches into something entirely new.
Something entirely him.
“Your turn, Jamon,” calls one of the female members. The president. “Since I don’t think you’re aware that we’ve started,” she laughs, “let me fill you in: we were just talking about being thankful for our blessings. One of the freshmen told us a story about losing his iPod.”
“Yeah,” Jethro says. His hands begin to sweat. His nostrils flare. “You never know what you have until you lose it.”
A single name comes to his mind, against his will: Duke.

*****

“And I will sing forever of your love, oh Lord,” croons Elise, clapping her hands. She goes around the room, pulling sleepier SCA members out of their seats, forcing her own infectious energy over them. “For you are my refuge and my strength - Come on!”
Chari watches her with curious eyes, beady and mesmerizing like a doll’s. Even from the farthest table, way back at the edge of the room, touching the walls, Elise’s powerful voice was clear and resonant.
The junior slides by the keyboard, a perfect crescendo complimenting their entrance into the second chorus, and goes around again. The others smile in spite of themselves, and join in.
“You fill the world, with your life-giving spirit that speaks your word – Chari!”
Before the new student can wheedle her way out of participating, Elise yanks her into the middle of the circle of singers. She begins to say she doesn’t know the lyrics, but her friend only beams brighter, chanting louder, and points at the screen, where the words were filing down in marquee.
Chari summons up all her strength to fight the feeling. She wasn’t going to enjoy – she couldn’t. It wasn’t safe.
But Elise firmly closes her hands around a bible; Chari makes a move to return it but Elise’s arms fold over her, caging her in a powerful, warming embrace. The two of them sing, swaying side to side, in a feeling Chari could only describe as peace.

*****

Chester picks up the last of his notebooks, flayed carelessly on the ground with its pages half-torn out. He rubs his eyes, and realizes he is standing right in front of his own dorm room.
“Damn whoever thought this was going to be funny.”
The teenager shoves the door open, and finds his backpack lying at the foot of his bed. The zipper was still hanging open, and the rest of the contents he had not found scattered on school grounds were in disarray on the floor.
He grunts, stooping down to collect his belongings. His mouth drops open as he notices a large square shape sitting on his bed, covered in red silk. Fingers trembling, he pulls the curtain of cloth away.
Five sides of varnished three-quarter inch wood and a sixth face of pale plywood greet him, assembled together into what he quickly declares is the most beautiful cajon he has ever seen. The beat-box stands about little more than two feet tall, and sports impressive gold engravings that suggest it was hand-carved many, many decades ago. This was more than instrument – it was a work of art.
Chester’s breathing escalates from a dull thumping to a thunderous gallop; he could feel the cajon beating in unison. Light begins to flow in thin wisps from the sound hole; somewhere inside, the drum snares were becoming restless. The glow is a color he has never seen before, a variation of a shade of a hue that was invisible to the normal human eye.
The door slams behind him, and he nearly jumps into the air. Swallowing, he convinces himself to calm down. He spots a tag hanging off one of the cajon’s rubber feet; he pries it off and reads.
A gift from NC.
As Chester’s mind erupts into activity, he glimpses another foreign object on his bed – a painting. He wordlessly picks it up, hanging it on the wall, and steps back to admire it.
Violent, but beautiful – the acrylic emanated from the center in arcs, colors blending and breaking into one another, in the same way he saw and heard them. The image is abstract, until Chester notices a silhouette near the bottom of the frame. A young man appeared to be sitting on a rock, arms folded and hooked before him.
Upon closer inspection, Chester realizes that the rock is actually the shadow of a beatbox. He turns his head slowly, ominously, toward the mysterious gift waiting on his bed.
______________________________________________________________________

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.”

________________________________________________________________________