Young Writers Society

29 CLOSED

The morning dawned muggy and glaring. Shreds of mist curled about the bars of the park gate and pressed against the windows of the Book House.

Christian awoke at seven, stiff, sore, and still tired, pressed against the foyer window with the cat curled in his lap. He pushed the cat off of him, arose with a wince, and turned on the air conditioning. Then he went to the study and dialed the Smithsons’ number.

The telephone rang for so long that his hands went cold with fear—what if Liza hadn’t made it home? But at long last, she picked up.

“Smithson residence.”

“Wrong number,” Christian said, and he hung up.

She had made it home after all. He collapsed into his desk chair, relieved. How could he have explained it to Conrad if she’d vanished on his watch?

He ate breakfast in the foyer, peering out at the white mass of the balloon-cart on the sidewalk beside the park. He certainly didn’t feel like opening it, after the events of last night; he wanted to stay inside with the air-conditioning and his tea and his books.

But his promises to Conrad hung over him. He had already cocked one of them up, upsetting Liza as he had. He never should have taken her out, he thought. She’d been happier when she was miserable.

“It doesn’t make any sense at all, but it’s true,” he said to the cat, who was now nestled in the reading-chair. The cat offered no response.

Christian crossed the street and folded the tarp away, already sweating through his shirt. Waves of heat rose up from the pavement. He kicked at the side of the cart. Likely he wouldn’t have any customers today, with this awful humidity. He grabbed a handful of balloons to get a head start, just in case, and waited for the sound of the park gate scraping open. It never came.

The regular Saturday crowd showed up in ones and twos, nodding at Christian as they passed with their faces shining with perspiration. He nodded in return without looking up from the monkey he was working on, an invention of Conrad’s he had not yet been brave enough to try out. After a while, however, he perceived they were gathered outside the park gate. The stifling air muffled their murmured speech.

The balloon in his hands popped. He left it in rubbery shreds on the cart and joined the group at the park entrance to see what the fuss was about, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he went.

The park should have been open by then, but the gate was closed. A uniformed man pushed through the crowd and barked at them to move back while he fastened a sign to the iron bars. As soon as he was gone, the people at the gate pressed forward to read the sign.

PARK CLOSED INDEFINITELY

WE APOLOGISE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE

The murmurs of the crowd increased in volume and alarm, but Christian mouthed the words to himself. Why would the park be closed indefinitely? What had happened to it?

Goblin, said a nasty voice in his brain. He shifted uneasily and tugged at his damp shirt. The crowd dispersed. He returned to the balloon-cart and closed it up. Then he went back to the Book House, changed into a fresh undershirt and new button-down, and sat in his reading-chair, gazing at the floor with a wrinkled brow.

Tonight he must return to the park. Promise or no promise.

30 CATCHER

As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon that night, Christian slipped out of the Book House and hurried across the street. But no sooner had he arrived at the park wall than he heard a voice behind him.

“Where are you dashing off to, young Abernathy?”

Christian froze. Mr. Catcher strolled up the sidewalk toward him, swinging a cane and whistling.

“Mr. Catcher,” Christian said. “How are you this evening?”

“Excellent, dear boy, excellent. But this business with the park.” The older gentleman shook his head. “Awful. Simply awful. Who would have thought, mm?”

He heaved a mighty sigh, as if to say it was all a terrible shame.

“But what are you doing out so late?” Christian asked.

“Walking, dear boy! Winifred insists upon it. She’s concerned for my health, you know, though she’s not doing so well herself. You’re young yet, but let me tell you, when you get to be as old as I am—” Mr. Catcher pointed the cane at his own round belly and stubby legs. “Normally, of course, I take a turn about the park, but I couldn’t very well do that tonight, could I? No, I’ve been around the block. But I rather think it’s time for me to be getting home, don’t you?”

Thank goodness, Christian thought, but he said, “Indeed.”

Mr. Catcher peered at him with eyes as bright and curious as a bird’s.

“Here, then,” he said, “I suppose you’re on your way home for the night as well, hmm? I didn’t see you on my way past the first time—the balloon-cart was closed, wasn’t it?”

Christian swallowed.

“Yes,” he said. “Only I—I forgot something in the cart. This morning, I mean. A book.”

“A book!” Mr. Catcher chuckled. “Haven’t you enough books in that house of yours? But I suppose it’s a bit upsetting, if you’re in the middle of a book, to find you’ve left it somewhere. Difficult to start something else in the meantime, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Christian said, though he’d never had a problem reading several books at once. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

“In that case I shall let you about your business,” Mr. Catcher said, but instead of moving on to go home, he leaned close and put a surprisingly strong hand on Christian’s arm. “It is quite a terrible business about the park. And so mysterious. If someone were to happen inside and find out precisely what happened, there are interested parties—that is to say—there are some of us who are particularly concerned and would like to know more about it.”

He released Christian’s arm and walked away as if nothing unusual had been said.

Christian stood rooted to the spot until the old man had rounded the corner, blinking in confusion and not a little fear. Then he buried his hands in the vines covering the park wall and began to climb.

31 DARKNESS IN THE GARDENS

Christian jogged through the trees just inside the park wall, dashing the sweat from his brow. The day’s heat and humidity had barely lessened with the sunset, and the trek through the wood seemed to take much longer than usual. He did not realize why until one of his long legs caught the side of a tree stump and sent him sprawling to the ground. He rubbed his shin and looked at the stump in dismay. He had passed it once already, he was certain; it was nearly as wide as he was tall, and its bark was blackened and jagged. Christian stood back up and limped his way in the direction of the Fair. No good running if it got him lost.

The woods were intact, but they were silent. No crickets or toads chirped and croaked, nor could Christian hear the distant noise of the Fair.

He cowered as something clattered above him. Then he realized it was the wind rattling the branches. He shook himself, annoyed. Just the wind, he told himself. Just the wind. Nothing to be concerned about.

Finally he came to the edge of the wood, but he heard nothing. He stood still and listened so intently for a moment he forgot to breathe. Then he stepped out into the clearing.

It was empty. Where the Fair normally stood there was only a mess of trampled grass and mud, cold fire pits, the occasional overturned cooking-pot, torn and abandoned tent silks fluttering in low-hanging tree branches. The corral that had housed the Rovers’ horses had been pulled apart as if someone wanted it for firewood. Half the wagons had vanished; the other half lay on their sides, smashed in.

Christian approached them with his heart in his throat, afraid he might find Imelda’s wagon among them with Conrad dead inside. Their innards were dark, their contents scattered about their entry-ways, but they were deserted. No balloons spilled from them. The accountant continued on his way.

He walked through the ruins in silence, his long legs reaching carefully over artifacts of the Fair to find a clear path through to the other side of the clearing. He felt uneasy about being out in the open where anything might see him, but he was already halfway across. He hurried onward.

The gardens were not as silent as the wood had been, but they were dark. The fairy lights and gas lamps had not yet lit themselves. Small secret things whispered and rustled in the shadows.

Christian’s mouth had gone dry.

“Hello?” he rasped.

The noises ceased. Then the fairy light nearest him flickered on. A moment later the one next to it did the same, then the next, and the next, and the next. It was not their usual rapid lighting; each light flickered on as if it was unsure of itself. The gas lamps lit last, but they burned steadily.

Christian cleared his throat and looked around at the lights.

“Thank you,” he said to no one, and then he moved on.

The squat garden gnomes had awakened and squeaked in fear as Christian passed. They peeked out at him from behind bushes, their toad-liked mouths downturned. Christian could not see the other things hiding in the bushes and trees, but their eyes glowed as they watched him go.