“The name is Dark.”

He flourished a white calling card. It turned blue.

Whisper. Red.

Whisk. A green man dangled from a tree stamped on the card.

Flit. Shh.

“Dark. And my friend with the red hair there is Mr. Cooger. Of Cooger and Dark’s…”

Flip-flick-shhh.

Names appeared, disappeared on the white square:

“…Combined Shadow Shows…”

Tick-wash.

A mushroom-witch stirred mouldering herb pots.

“…and cross-continental Pandemonium Theatre Company…”

He handed the card to Jim. It now read:

Calmly, Jim read it. Calmly, Jim put a fist into his copious and richly treasured pockets, rummaged, and held out his hand.

On his palm lay a dead brown insect.

“Here,” Jim said. “Fix this.”

Mr. Dark exploded his laugh. “Superb! I will!” He extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.

Bright purple, black green and lightning-blue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.

“Boy!” cried Will. “You must be the Tattooed Man!”

“No.” Jim studied the stranger. “The Illustrated Man. There’s a difference.”

Mr. Dark nodded, pleased. “What’s your name, boy?”

Don’t tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?

Jim’s lips hardly twitched.

“Simon,” he said.

He smiled to show it was a lie.

Mr. Dark smiled to show he knew it.

“Want to see more, ‘Simon’?”

Jim would not give him the satisfaction of a nod.

Slowly, with great mouth-working pleasure, Mr. Dark pushed his sleeve high to his elbow.

Jim stared. The arm was like a cobra weaving, bobbing, swaying, to strike. Mr. Dark clenched his fist, wriggled his fingers. The muscles danced.

Will wanted to run around and see, but could only watch, thinking Jim, oh, Jim!

For there stood Jim and there was this tall man, each examining the other as if he were a reflection in a shop window late at night. The tall man’s brambled suit, shadowed out now to color  Jim’s cheeks and storm over his wide and drinking eyes with a look of rain instead of the sharp cat-green they always were. Jim stood like a runner who has come a long way, fever in his mouth, hands open to receive any gift. And right now it was a gift of pictures twitched in pantomime, as Mr. Dark made his illustrious jerk cold-skinned over his warm-pulsed wrist as the stars came out above and Jim stared and Will could not see and a long way off the last of the town people went away toward town in their warm cars, and Jim said, faintly, “Gosh…” and Mr. Dark rolled down his sleeve.

“Show’s over. Suppertime. Carnival’s shut up until seven. Everyone out. Come back, ‘Simon,’ and ride the merry-go-round, when it’s fixed. Take this card. Free ride.”

Jim stared at the hidden wrist and put the card in his pocket.

“So long!”

Jim ran. Will ran.

Jim whirled, glanced back, leaped, and for the second time in the hour, vanished.

Will looked up into the tree where Jim squirmed on a limb, hidden.

Mr. Dark and Mr. Cooger were turned away, busy with the merry-go-round.

“Quick, Will!”

“Jim…?”

“They’ll see you. Jump!”

Will jumped. Jim hauled him up. The great tree shook. A wind roared by in the sky. Jim helped him cling, gasping, among the branches.

“Jim, we don’t belong here!”

“Shut up! Look!” whispered Jim.

Somewhere in the carousel machinery there were taps and brass knockings, a faint squeal and whistle of calliope steam.

“What was on his arm, Jim?”

“A picture.”

“Yeah, but what kind?”

“It was—Jim shut his eyes. “It was—a picture of a… snake… that’s it… snake.” But when he opened his eyes, he would not look at Will.

“Okay, if you don’t want to tell me.”

“I told you, Will, a snake. I’ll get him to show it to you, later, you want that?”

No, thought Will, I don’t want that.

He looked down at the billion footprints left in the sawdust on the empty midway and suddenly it was a lot closer to midnight than to noon.

“I’m going home…”

“Sure, Will, go on. Mirror mazes, old teacher-ladies, lost lightning-rod bags, lightning-rod salesmen disappear, snake pictures dancing, unbroken merry-go-rounds, and you want to go home!? Sure, old friend, Will, so long.”

“I…” Will started down the tree, and froze.

“All clear?” cried a voice below.

“Clear!” someone shouted at the far end of the midway.

Mr. Dark moved, not fifty feet away to a red control box near the merry-go-round ticket booth. He glared in all directions. He glared into the tree.

Will hugged, Jim hugged the limb, tightened into smallness.

“Start up!”

With a pop, a bang, a jangle of reins, a lift and downfall, a rise and descent of brass, the carousel moved.

But, thought Will, it’s broke, out of order!

He flicked a glance at Jim, who pointed wildly down.

The merry-go-round was running, yes, but…

It was running backward.

The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.

The music, Will thought, it’s backwards, too!

Mr. Dark jerked about, glanced up, as if he had heard Will’s thoughts. A wind shook the trees in black tumults. Mr. Dark shrugged and looked away.

The carousel wheeled faster, shrieking, plunging, going roundabout-back!

Now Mr. Cooger, with his flaming red hair and fire-blue eyes, was pacing the midway, making a last check. He stood under their tree. Will could have let spit down on him. Then the calliope gave a particularly violent cry of foul murder which made dogs howl in far counties, and Mr. Cooger, spinning, ran and leaped on the backwhirling universe of animals who, tail first, head last, pursued an endless circling night toward unfound and never to be discovered destinations. Hand-slapping brass poles, he flung himself into a seat where with his bristly red hair, pink face, and incredible sharp blue eyes he sat silent, going back around, back around, the music squealing swift back with him like insucked breath.

The music, thought Will, what is it? And how do I know it’s backside first? He hugged the limb, tried to catch the tune, then hum it forward in his head. But the brass bells, the drums hammered his chest, revved his heart so he felt his pulse reverse, his blood turn back in perverse thrusts through all his flesh, so he was nearly shaken free to fall, so all he did was clutch, hang pale, and drink the sight of the backward-turning machine and Mr. Dark, alert at the controls, on the sidelines.

It was Jim who first noticed the new thing happening, for he kicked Will, once, Will looked over, and Jim nodded frantically at the man in the machine as he came around the next time.

Mr. Cooger’s face was melting like pink wax.

His hands were becoming doll’s hands.

His bones sank away beneath his clothes; his clothes then shrank down to fit his dwindling frame.

His face flickered going, and each time around he melted more.

Will saw Jim’s head shift, circling.

The carousel wheeled, a great back-drifting lunar dream the horses thrusting, the music in-gasped after, while Mr. Cooger, as simple as shadows, as simple as light, as simple as time, got younger. And younger. And younger.

Each time he wheeled to view he sat alone with his bones, which shaped like warm candles burning away to tender years.

He gazed serenely at the fiery constellations, the children-inhabited trees, which went away from him as he removed himself from them and his nose finished and his sweet wax ears reshaped themselves to small pink roses.