Waking Light Read online

  I just needed to find someone to talk to about it.

  The Steeplechase was the name which leapt out at me from a large sign outlined in dozens of white light bulbs. Built on a tractor-trailer platform, it had a tall tower at one end, kind of like a lighthouse, rising two stories into the air. Issuing from the top of the tower, circling around and around as it descended, was a blue, plastic slide. At the left side of the trailer, opposite the side with the tower, the slide ended at a large, air-filled mattress. It looked like the customers would climb a short bridge going over the end of the slide and onto the trailer bed. They would then wind their way through a short obstacle course until they reached the bottom of the tower. Narrow, twisting stairs circled around and around inside the tower, ending at a small platform at the top.

  The slide shone in the spring sunlight, gleaming from either a fresh coat of paint, a recent hose-down with Armor All, or whatever they did to it. Most of the other plastic or rubber parts shared the same gleam. It all looked washed clean.

  Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the young man tending the ride. Having the chance to observe him as he took tickets from some early customers and direct them up to the trailer, I noted the only thing about the young man which could be called clean was his red Boss Brothers' carnival shirt. His jeans were stained and ripped, though they were new compared to his battered shoes, which might once have shown a Nike swoop on the side. His hair was a Halloween fright wig, sticking out in all directions, and a thin sheen of oil coated his face, where it wasn't disrupted by angry red blemishes.

  A moment later, any remaining thoughts I might have had about joining the carnival were literally blown away, as an errant gust of wind threw aside the curtain concealing the underside of the trailer. There, amid assorted power cables and darker spot of tarmac stained by small oil leaks, lay a mound of blankets rolled into a pillow. Other blankets were laid out beside the pile, making a crude bed. I had no way of knowing if this was where the young ride jockey slept at night, or if it belonged to some other unfortunate, but it was enough to make me turn away.

  No one has ever been able to accuse me of being unwilling to get my hands dirty, and no one ever will. I spent the previous summer working with my uncle at a dredging facility, coming home every day covered in grease, gasoline, crude oil, and worse. Getting dirty didn't bother me, just so long as I could get clean at the end of the day. Judging from the young man's appearance, finding a way to get clean might not be a high priority.

  Now here's the weird part.

  Despite the thoughts running through me just a few moments before, the desire to be a part of the community of carnies, I felt a sense of relief at deciding not to try. Considering what I know now, and what was about to happen to me, I wonder if this speaks to some sense of destiny? How different would this story be if I'd pursued the idea of running away with the carnival?

  Does it maybe provide proof that no man can ever know the full depths of his own mind?

  Or does it just prove sixteen-year old guys are completely unreliable when it comes to making life-altering decisions?

  Regardless of what it meant, this resignation to my family situation, no matter how dysfunctional it felt at times, lifted a weight from my shoulders. The subconscious desire for an escape had been there, a backseat driver who can't resist leaning forward and tapping you on the shoulder when you're close to your next turn. But now it was gone, and suddenly the sights, sounds, and smells of the carnival took on new life, inviting me to enjoy them for what they were meant to be--a temporary indulgence, a momentary escape.

  Leaving the Steeplechase behind, my eye was drawn to one of the louder rides, the Musik Express. Set up like a merry-go-round, it traveled backward at an adrenaline-pumping speed, while ear-shatteringly loud music played from fifteen-foot speakers. Rhythm Syndicate's single hit, P.A.S.S.I.O.N., shook the ground as the ride spun.

  Anything else I might have noticed about the ride--or any others--was lost as a familiar face caught my eye. Her name was Crystal Pierce, and she was perfect: five-four, blond, and curved in all the right places. Remember me talking about how shy I was? Here it was April, and I'd been crushing on this girl since school started the previous September. We had three classes together and had never shared more than the occasional "excuse me" when coming into a room at the same time. That's three blown opportunities a day times however many days of school had already passed, which gives a product of shyness raised to a significant loneliness factor. That's Relationship Algebra, which always gives an answer of one, unless modified by a luck variable.

  Something, you can call it Fate, or Lady Luck, or divine intervention, threw us together and changed the equation.

  The cars on the Musik Express were designed for two people. Since she was alone--a fact which didn't go unnoticed--and was just ahead of me in line, we were placed in the same car. I'm sure we were a laughable sight at first. The ride jockey placed her on the inside of the car, where she hunched miserably as far away from me as she could get.

  Of course, you can probably imagine what her defensive posture did to me.

  Yep, low confidence became sub-zero. It looked like she was doing everything possible to keep away from me because nothing about me was even remotely attractive to her. So, in order to show her that I wasn't one to be trifled with, I huddled as close to the outside of the car as I could get. I might even have managed to look more miserable than she did!

  Then the ride started, and everything else flew out the window.

  I might have understated things earlier when describing the ride as a sped-up carousel. That's what they want you to think so you'll give them your money! This was no tame merry-go-round, but a wild, spinning gyro! Centrifugal force was the star here, and as the ride picked up speed, I was pressed to the outside of the car, unable to even push myself away.

  And Crystal?

  She hung onto the inner rail for all she was worth, letting loose a little squeal at every sudden dip and rise, her long hair streaming sideways into my face.

  For several long minutes she hung there, through the final verse and chorus of P.A.S.S.I.O.N. She might have held on for the duration of the ride, which really couldn't be that long. But the ride jockeys forgot to stop the ride--or maybe they took pity on me--because they kept that sucker spinning for a full five minutes.

  By the time Gonna Make You Sweat by C&C Music Factory took over for Rhythm Syndicate, Crystal lost her battle with physics and literally slid across the seat, squishing me against the outer rail. You won't hear any complaints out of me, though. I even managed to work up enough nerve to push my shyness aside and slip an arm around her back. Had she asked, I would have said it was there to hold onto the back of the car.

  She didn't protest, so there it stayed.

  We exited the ride laughing, walking together. In my mind I was thanking God, the carnival, the ride jockeys, and anyone else that came to mind who might have had something to do with my good fortune. Realizing it was lunch time, I led her to a small food trailer and bought fries and Cokes. The trailer boasted a covered eating area, mostly deserted, so we took seats across from each other at a small table. The crowd was growing, but so far most of the people were crowding the rides.

  Here's where the going got difficult. There were so many things running around in my head, compliments, jokes, observations about the weather--no, seriously--that I didn't know what to say, what not to say, or whether to say anything. When something appropriate finally came to mind, I blurted it out.

  "My name's Johnny."

  Smooth, I congratulated myself.

  "I know," she answered simply, which completely threw me into confusion again. It must have shown on my face, because she laughed. "You see," she continued, "well, this may sound crazy but...um...I've been kind of, well, watching you."

  No, it didn't sound crazy, I wanted to yell. It sounded wonderful, like the crowd cheering when the Redskins won the Super Bowl after the 1987 season.

 
"Seriously," she said, "I noticed you the first day of school, in third period, our first class together. But you didn't seem to notice me, so I didn't say anything. But there you were again only two periods later, then again later in the day."

  "I was stalking you," I said with a smile, which got her to smile in return.

  "Ever since I've just kind of, well, kept my eyes open, thinking maybe you were just shy..." Her voice trailed off as she watched me, judging my reactions.

  "I was shy all right," I said. She leaned forward, making me realize those words had come out barely audible. She had blue eyes, like the cloudless sky above us. Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, I told her the same thing, noticing her, wanting to talk to her, but too shy to try.

  Slowly, our hands reached across the table, and she let me take hold of hers.

  It was one of those Hallmark moments, two shy teenagers sharing a romantic lunch at a questionably-clean picnic table, within sniffing distance of a greasy spoon diner-on-wheels trash can, while crowds of people shouted to be heard over the blaring sounds of a carnival ramping up to full steam.

  It was perfect.

  Our eyes met over the table, and for a wonder, neither of us looked away. The moment stretched into two, and might have lasted several more, except that I could feel a cheesy grin forming on my face. And I could see one forming on hers!

  "Let's go ride the Gravitron!" she said, breaking the spell. Still trying to rid myself of the grin--my uncle had a term for a smile like that, which wouldn't be appropriate to repeat here--I agreed.

  And off we went.

  We spent the rest of the day together. We rode the Gravitron, the pipe roller coaster, the Ferris Wheel. We even went and climbed up the tall tower of the Steeplechase. Our final ride was a second turn on the Musik Express, this time more than happy to be in the same car.

  As the sky began to darken and the carnival to shut down, I waited with Crystal at the east end of the midway for her mother to pick her up. We held hands while we waited, and it was a comfortable thing to do. With the loss of the sun, the air began to grow cool. She moved closer and allowed me to put my arms around her. In that peaceful moment, just as her mother's Mitsubishi Mirage pulled into the parking lot, she turned to me, looking up, and nothing else had ever felt so natural as it did to lower my head.

  The kiss was perfect, sweet and gentle and all too brief. It promised nothing but gave everything.

  The honk of her mother's horn called her away.

  Suddenly, the night was too long, and the time for school couldn't come soon enough!

  Turning for home, knowing I needed to walk back to the other side of the midway, my attention was caught by the sights and sounds of the carnival as it prepared to leave. Though night had come quickly, the midway was bathed in light from high-power halogen lamps, too numerous to count, strung from every conceivable location. Fascinated, I spent long moments watching as the carnies went about their work, pulling up stakes and loosening bolts. Before my eyes, the tall tower of the Steeplechase sunk into itself, like a telescope being pushed together in slow motion. Off to my right, a sudden movement and sound of rippling cloth revealed the tent of The Snake Woman collapsing into a pile of brown canvas. The night rang with the sounds of laughter, as the carnies showed their true spirit--a love for the road and an anticipation for the next journey to begin.

  Shaking my head, feeling a residual trace of the longing to run away from it all, I headed across the midway toward home.

  I wish it were possible to freeze time here and just let this perfect day stand, but times moves on and the day wasn't over yet.

  One more surprise awaited me.

  Chapter 2

  Meet the bad guys

  Leaving the lights of the midway behind, I stepped abruptly into night. Since it was a Sunday, the mall had closed early, and none of the lights in the unoccupied parking lots were on. In hindsight, there had to be something wrong. Shouldn't those lights have turned on automatically? Ahead of me, blocking the route to Independence Boulevard, was the same miniature trailer park I'd passed on the way in. Having navigated it once, it didn't bother me to try it again, since it would certainly take longer to go all the way around. I wasn't afraid of the dark, despite that these were arguably the most prolific years of the slasher flick era.

  Besides, the area wasn’t completely dark. Not really. There were lights strung between the boxy vehicles--little more than bulbs hanging from a wire, really--which gave enough light to illuminate the largest of the power cables and water hoses. Caught up in high spirits from the unexpected way the day turned out--and still jazzed Crystal had kissed me--I was almost through the trailer park when a strange noise reached my ears, a kind of singing.

  Naturally curious, I stopped and strained to hear better.

  I wonder if cats ever realize they're about to do something stupid when curiosity overtakes them.

  Though the distant cacophony of the dismantling carnival continued behind me, this new sound was different, closer, coming from somewhere in the trailer park. There were voices, several of them, rising and falling in a sing-song cadence, like a chant. To my uneducated ear, it had the sound of something religious.

  Some of you reading this, the older people, might remember the brief love affair America had with a collection of songs on an album called Chant by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos, which hit the Billboard Top 40 in 1994. The album gave me such a feeling of remembered dread that any time one of the songs aired, I would change the radio station.

  Unlike those monks, with their beautiful harmonies, this singing was darker, and even without understanding the words, it felt like a perversion of something good, discordant and grating. It was like hearing a bad smell or seeing something so ugly it makes your ears hurt, one of those things the psychiatrists have a fancy word for: synesthesia.

  Of course, that only aroused my curiosity further. Turning in place, I sought the direction the singing was loudest, wanting to see what was happening.

  In the days and weeks to come, I'd have ample opportunity to regret this decision. There would be times when I'd try to rationalize away the doubts and the guilt, telling myself everything still would have happened the same way. Regardless of whether I went looking for the singers or ignored it completely, nothing would have changed.

  Hindsight never placates a grieving heart.

  The sound was loudest toward the middle of the trailer park, so I followed it, stepping over more cables and hoses, ducking between a couple of house-trailers, once barking my right shin on a trailer hitch that jutted out a little farther than I thought. The sound weaved among the trailers, pulling me. It wasn't quite in the center of the parking area, but one row off, and loudest near a heavily draped trailer a little larger than the others around it. There were no lights strung up in this area. None of the surrounding trailers showed any light whatsoever, giving the impression that everyone was still hard at work tearing down the midway. Though the windows were covered, there was a small opening in the drapes, providing the opportunity for a curious young man to peer inside.

  What I saw both appalled and fascinated me. Like a car accident on the side of the road, it was one of those things you can't look away from, no matter how much your conscience tells you to stop rubbernecking.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the trailer, in what passed for a living room, were a dozen or more carnival workers, big guys in their tell-tale Polo shirts and jeans. Kneeling beside each man was a smaller form, a wife or a girlfriend, though these wore robes of some dark material, red or black, which covered them completely from head to toe. Though their backs were to me, they resembled a small religious congregation, maybe even a Carny Cult, so uniform were they in their clothing. The men held red candles and swayed back and forth, singing that weird chant with all the power in their lungs. It felt...wrong...but it wasn't enough to make me turn away.

  Along the far wall of the trailer was a raised platform with a
small, sturdy wooden table positioned in the center, like an altar. There were no statues on it, no idols, no books. Instead, sitting upon the table was a large, black box, or at the least a box-shaped mass. Perhaps three feet across and half that high, it had sharply cut edges and sides, too well-defined to be anything natural. My best guess, at the time, was shaped iron, or painted wood, or maybe obsidian. It had a sheen to it, like it had been painted black, or coated with something that absorbed light rather than reflecting it.

  A sudden movement from within the trailer caught my attention. A figure entered the scene from some side room to my left and pranced his way to the altar. I can't think of a better way to describe his movement. Dressed all in black robes like some evil magician from a fantasy story, he hopped, skipped, and danced his way back and forth in front of the altar, rallying his parish to louder chanting. He must not have cared how they sounded, because they sounded bad, harsh smoker voices screaming at the tops of their lungs. He wanted volume, the louder the better, and they delivered, making the glass of the window vibrate with each shout.

  If the box and the singing carnies weren't enough to send shivers running down my spine, this dude made up the difference. He radiated badness like a furnace does heat, and all I could do was push my face closer to the glass, hoping for a glimpse of his face. He was robed like the small forms beside the carny men, and like them, he wore a cowl to hide his features. His movements, the way he jived back and forth, didn't seem natural. I don't mean like it's not natural for him to act that way, or, where'd that white guy learn to dance like a brother? I mean the way the movements happened. You could see a protrusion in the robes on one side that should be a knee, but then he'd move toward the side, rather than opposite it, like the knee just folded over rather than providing spring in the other direction.

  It was freaky.

  Something else happened to pull my focus away from the dancing preacher. As though inspired by the renewed effort of the carny chorus, the black box began to glow. No, that's not right. Rather, there was a dot of light, like a laser scope aimed by a sniper, shining in the center. The dot grew. It began as only a pinprick, but as the choir sang on it grew bigger and brighter. It came from something within the box, not from any external source, and though it seems childish and silly to admit, the light gave me the feeling that something vulgar and evil was in the room.