An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

And life passed simply, idyllically: winter gave way to the warmth of summer, green leaves on trees gave way to the looming chill of autumn, to turning leaves as the seasons of life pressed on. He began to talk with his friend, for that was what she had become, and learning each other's language only brought them closer together. They worked together, cooked and planted crops with the villagers, and all the while he grew closer to her -- until one day he realized he loved her, that he well and truly cared for her.

They hiked for days once, in the middle of summer, until he came to the walls of ice he had seen in the distance from the sea, and what struck him most was that the towering structure could be heard from miles away -- shrieking as slabs of blue ice calved and crashed to the scrubbed earth below. They climbed a small, rocky mountain once, and when he looked out at the massive wall he guessed the ice was several hundred feet high, perhaps even a thousand, and as they walked home they stood over great rivers that sprang from beneath the ice, digging canyons to the sea.

He learned to hunt with the men from the village, and to sing their songs to the heavens, then one morning he woke and saw the woman had a fever, a blistering, hot fever, and by that afternoon he saw the small pustules forming under her arms that could only mean one thing.

The Pox! But how could it be?

By evening she was covered in erupting pustules, and he found them inside her mouth and eyelids. He soaked tanned deer hides in cool water and covered her until the fever broke, only to see the fire return more virulently within an hour. He tried to feed her, but she could not hold down anything she ate, and on the third day she slipped from his life and was gone.

He carried her from the lodge they'd rebuilt to the shade of a tree they had loved to sit under and he buried her, then walked back to the village as the sun slipped beneath the trees. What he found there left him feeling bereft of all emotion, save one.

Every villager lay on the ground outside their lodge, all now consumed by the pox. A few still lived, but Langston knew that wouldn't last. He began digging graves, carrying the dead to their rest, waiting for the next soul to pass from this life to the next.

And when Langston Clemens knew what it was to feel total despair, the old man appeared again. He consoled the boy, helped him carry the last few bodies to their rest, and when they were finished they stood and surveyed the helplessness ruin all around them.

The old man watched Clemens brush tears from cheek and eyes, mindful of the boy's distress, then he spoke gently, indeed, kindly. "We must leave soon. Tell me when you are ready."

Clemens nodded his head and walked up to the tree above the village and looked at the first grave he had dug, and he knelt there for a while -- until he noticed the old man standing there behind him.

"Alright, I'm ready. What are you going to do to me now?" He turned and looked up at the old man, this wizard, and saw great empathy in those startling, clear blue eyes, and then he understood his sarcasm was not simply unwarranted. He stood, looked away for a moment then back into the old man's eyes. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

The old man shrugged, though there were the beginnings of a smile in his eyes now. "Your heart is true, boy, and that's all that matters." He turned and looked across this valley, so pure in it's untouched, primeval heart, then he turned and looked up to the sun and held out his hands.

A moment later Clemens was in a small gray room -- looking out over the sea, then he saw he was inside a ship -- a huge, gray ship. A warship.

Three impossibly huge cannon let go on the deck just ahead, and the concussive blast knocked him off his feet. He scrambled up, regained his balance as another set of cannon roared, these just ahead of the first.

"Captain! Lookouts port report a periscope off the port quarter, two thousand yards..."

Clemens looked for the captain, but saw the man was speaking to -- him! "Come to two-seven-zero, Mister Taylor, and signal the escort to commence their sonar search," Clemens said without thinking.

"Enemy aircraft approaching, Captain. From the south..."

"Very well. Relay our situation to Spruance, see if we can get some air cover."

"Aye-aye, Captain..."

Cannons aft roared now, and he brought binoculars to his eyes, looked at the Japanese battlewagons now in a line, closing broadsides to port, now two miles away and closing rapidly. Water erupted in vast columns short of his ship, while he saw explosions on the lead Japanese battleship...

"That's a hit! We have their range, Captain."

"All batteries, fire at will," he said, and his ship's big guns fired continuously now.

"Torpedoes in the water, Captain. Sonar reports two, no, three screws."

"Rudder amidships, Mister Taylor. And where are those aircraft?"

+++++

Timothy stood where his house had been, or might have been, and he looked at the magician with cold fury in his eyes. "I thought you said you'd take me back to my family."

"No, that is not what you asked. You said you wanted to go back, right now. So we are home, as it was 1600 years before you arrived. Is this not what you wished?"

"You are the deceiver, that much is now plain to see."

"You flatter me, boy, for I have no such power."

"Flatter -- you?"

"Ah, sorry, but I speak lightly. Well, regardless, you might consider one more item before we leave."

"And that is?"

"You have met your God. Would you not like to see the consequences of this meeting?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Perhaps something to do with your coming here tonight?"

"Here? Where's here?"

"The carnival, of course."

"You speak of the carnival, yet here we stand, first in the Palestine -- and now here. And Jesus was walking the land not a few hours ago."

"Palestine?"

"Were we not just in the Palestine, under the noonday sun? During the height of the Roman Empire, if I'm not mistaken? Yet you say I'm now standing inside your carnival, not far from where John Harvard's college is to -- but no, I'm on the hillside where my family will live -- centuries from now? So here I am standing in the light of day, while in the dead of night we wander through time? Do I understand you well enough?"

"The well of the past is deep, Wrath, so deep you might think it bottomless."

"Oh, I've fallen -- into some sort of well?"

The old magician simply looked at Timothy, then gently, slowly, shrugged his shoulders. "There are no easy answers down the way you seek, but there is another path waiting for you, and we must hurry. There is someone waiting for you."

"Someone? Who, exactly, are we talking about now?"

"A writer of broadsheets," the magician replied, a voracious smile spreading through in his eyes.

"Broadsheets? You mean Mr Christian?"

"Mr Christian...? -- oh no, not at all," the wizard sighed, his eyes laughing gently now.

"Will I get to meet him, this Mr Christian, tonight?"

"Perhaps," the companion sighed, "but he is, I assure you, of no lasting consequence."

"Lasting consequence...? The broadsheet I saw...that we saw, all of us, before this day arrived? Every person to whom I've spoken says they saw things that...well...everyone saw something different, but of they describe things of immeasurable consequence."

"People see what they want to see."

"Want to see? What do you mean...?"

"Perhaps 'need' is the better word, Wrath. Now, we must take leave of this place, or you risk much. Take my hand...please...while you may..."

Timothy hesitated, but then saw the cold impatience in the companion's eyes. There was danger in those eyes, imminent danger, and yet he saw fear too, so with trepidation in his soul he reached for the cool, smooth, alabaster skin once again...

...and found himself standing on a vast wooden platform...

...surrounded by crowds of people...strangely dressed people...

Brown skinned people in white gowns, their heads wrapped in white cloth, herding black-skinned men and women like cattle, whipping them, forcing them into a primitive square of some sort, and he saw a line of wharves not far away. Ships at anchor in a roadstead, flags fluttering in heavy sea sea-breeze atop towering masts. These were slaves, he feared, and he wanted to turn away from the sight...

In an instant he heard an auctioneer's voice working the crowd, now in English, and turned around to face a sea of excited buyers -- but something had changed again -- he was here, in the colony now. One of the men was being sold, a black-skinned man, his back and arms scarred from being whipped time and again, and behind this man many more slaves waited to go before the crowd and be sold. Then looked around at the people gathered on the wooden platform beside him -- for they were ignoring the sale, ignoring all this human misery. Indeed, all the people -- save his companion -- were looking at a bright light far off in the distance, and as Timothy's eyes followed the crowds' he saw great clouds of black smoke belching out of some vast beast crawling their way. Soon he heard rumbling down the valley, and it was apparent the beast was hissing and clacking towards them at a great pace. He stood close to the edge of the platform and saw two great rails of iron falling away into the distance -- in both directions -- and saw the beast riding these rails...

The contraption slowly made it's way to the platform and people stood back a bit as it slowed, then crowded near a doorway as the vast assembly stopped beside them. People disgorged from carriages behind the smoking beast, and more people from the platform stepped aboard to take their place.

"Follow them, quickly," the old man said, and when they were aboard he pointed to a vacant seat away from the entrance. "Sit by that man, there, and introduce yourself."

Timothy pushed through the crowd and sat, looked at the man seated by the window, then noticed that his companion had disappeared. The crowd pressed around him in that panicked moment, then the beast was belching choking black smoke, and the conveyance jerked harshly, began huffing away from the platform.

"This must be your first rail journey?" the man by the window said after a while. "There, there, you'll enjoy the journey more if you just sit back and watch as time drifts by!"

Timothy leaned forward, saw the word "Providence" painted in black on a white sign as the beast passed the end of the platform, and he looked out in open-mouthed wonder as the city beyond the station rolled into view. Huge, the city was enormous -- bigger than any he had ever seen before, then he saw the reflection of the man by his side in the glass, and the man was looking at him.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said at last. "My name is Tim. Timothy Clemens, from the Massachusetts Bay Colony, sir."

"Ah! Boston! I might have guessed! You have that look about you, that firm streak of willful independence in your eyes! Well, young Timothy, my name is John. John Louis O'Sullivan, and I'm on my way to your fair city this fine day, going to give a speech at Mr Harvard's college, as a matter of fact."

"Indeed, sir. Might I ask, what will you speak about?"

"Divine Providence, master Timothy, and the opportunity set before us to establish democracy across this great land of ours. Indeed, it is the manifest destiny of our citizenry, the very purpose of our people's coming to this land, to bring the blessings of political liberty to all the peoples of this land, and indeed, to all the peoples of the earth! But today, I speak of that most vexing problem, the problem of slavery! That vile institution must be wiped from the face of the earth, only then must we convert the heathen on our vast oceans of prairie. Only then can we get on with God's business!"

'God's business?' Timothy thought, then he said to the man, "Oh, you see -- I'm studying for the clergy."

"Are you indeed, young Timothy! Well, good for you! You of all people must appreciate my position, then!"

"Well sir, I've never heard it expressed so succinctly, nor so eloquently, but yes, I can see the beauty of His design come to life in your words. Truly, sir, an inspiring way of looking at our place in His order!"

The man leaned conspiratorially close, and with one finger pointed to the heavens he said: "The very heart of the matter, Timothy, lies in the Word. The Word of God you clergy spread to the people. You of the cloth must stand firm on this idea, you must condemn slavery with all your might. You must champion his Word in the lives of the people, always. You must resist compromise when others look to debase the power of His Word; only then will our country prove worthy of His plan. Ah! But look, there's Boston now! Well, it's been a delight to talk with you today, Timothy. Keep to your studies, and faire thee well!

"You too, Kind Sir." He followed O'Sullivan out of the car and stepped onto a vast plain of dry grass; the old man was there again, his arms outstretched -- facing yet another fierce, undiluted sun. When Timothy appeared, he turned as if coming out of a trance.

"Ah, Wrath. I see you found your way."

"And I see you, Wizard."

The old man smiled. "Why do you flatter me, boy?"

"I meant no respect."

With this, the old man's smile deepened again, then began laughing -- and great gales of laughter swept over the empty plain. In time, the echoes of his laughter fell away, leaving Timothy confused and unsure of himself, unsure who -- or what -- this companion of his was. He looked at the barren, windswept landscape and wanted to turn inward again -- but there was nothing here to hide from. Not a soul stirred, only a herd of large animals -- filthy brown hump-backed creatures grazed nearby, he he swatted absently at a passing fly, then wiped sweat from his brow.

"Where are we, Wizard?"

"Over there," the old man pointed to a distant ridge-line and began walking, "in those trees, there is a wickiup, and a man is preparing dinner. We must listen to what he has to say."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Wovoka, and among the Paiute he is considered a prophet."

"The Paiute?"

"The people native to this land," the old man sighed. "But Timothy, it is now the year 1889, and his people have been beaten into submission, forced to live on a small parcel of land. They are a dying people, for they know death is coming for them -- soon."

"Dying? What do you mean? What's killing them?"

The old man stopped, then looked at him. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, of course..."

"Then we shall find the truth of the matter. Perhaps you'll have eyes open enough to see."

It took hours, but they gained the wickiup as evening's shadows crossed the prairie, as the winds lay down for their rest. They wound their way through short, scrubby looking pine, and he saw more than a few deer stopping to look at them as they approached a small, hide-covered tent.

"It is time now, Timothy. Go in, see what you can see, and take care..."

"But, we're strangers, he doesn't know we're coming...?"

"Ah, Timothy, this man has been waiting for you -- all his life."

"What? How could...that's absurd!"

A flap parted, and an ancient looking man stood aside and beckoned Tim and the old man to enter.

"We must not waste time now, Timothy. Please enter, and listen with your heart."

They went inside, sat on deep hides Wovoka provided, then the wizened old man began placing bits of plant in a gourd. "You must have this," the old prophet seemed to say, holding out the container to Timothy and pointing to it's contents.

"What is it?" Timothy asked, looking into the hollowed gourd.

"The way ahead," the companion said. "Eat just a few or a great illness will find you."

Timothy looked to his companion, who only nodded his head slowly.

"Alright, then..." Tim said, then he took a few mottled lumps from the gourd and placed them in his mouth. Within moments he felt as though he was falling asleep -- and his eyes seemed to close of their own accord. He felt light-headed as the universe rushed by in pulsing waves of light, and when he opened his eyes next he found himself in the middle of another vast plain, now in deepest night, and under the light of an unnaturally bright moon. Wokova now stood as the old man had earlier; his arms spread wide -- but facing the moon -- singing in a language Timothy had never heard before.

There was a great shaking within the earth, then howling winds and lightning filled the air and Timothy fell to the earth, held on as the shaking grew worse, and then --

Nothing. All was quiet again, yet not a whisper of a breeze crossed the land. Wokova was on his knees now, his back bowed backwards, his face still directed at the moon...

And then before their eyes a cruciform tree appeared, slowly springing forth, as if from an awakening.

The boy, the boy he'd seen earlier, the boy tending the leper while the lion looked on, was with them now, standing at the base of the tree, regarding the glowing wood with his hands. The boy seemed to be admiring the tree, right down to the grain within the wood as Wokova stood and wearily walked to the boy's side. He stood there, waiting, until the boy turned to face him.

"You have come to lead my people?" Timothy heard the prophet ask.

"Yes," the boy said. "The time has come."

"Come. We must see to them while we may."

Wokova walked ahead of the boy, while Timothy and the companion followed through stunted cedars and low, wind-swept pine, only now there was snow underfoot. They walked through the stunted forest until they came to a narrow, steep-walled creek bed, the way ahead full of deep, wind-packed snow.

"Are we in the same place?" Timothy whispered. "It looks the same, but..."

"We are near the same place, but it is now a year later. This place will be known as Wounded Knee, and the last of Wokova's people are camped just ahead. Take care and say no more, boy. Be silent, and watch as your God's Will unfolds."

They slipped up the steep walls of the creek-bed and Timothy could see a small native village through the scrub just ahead. Two, maybe three hundred natives, a ragged, tired looking lot, stood in the snow -- surrounded by almost twice that number of men -- soldiers, apparently, dressed in blue and gold. A scuffle broke out between an old man and a trooper, and then gunfire broke out.

Timothy looked on, aghast, as the slaughter unfolded -- men, women, children...it did not matter. By the time the smoke and dust cleared most of the native folk lay dead or dying, and Timothy could hear cries in the blue smoke, a single shot here and there as troops walked among the bodies, but it was all over soon enough. Only the silence of a light snowfall remained.

The young boy looked on impassively as the scene played out, though for a moment the burdens of this world seemed heavy on his shoulders. "Why is it that such vast death is always committed in my father's name..." Timothy heard the boy whisper, and he heard echoes of O'Sullivan as the writer talked about the destiny of the colonists to evangelize this New World.

Then Timothy saw spectral forms rising in snow-filled mists, as if ghosts of all the natives just killed were rising from the earth, then a most peculiar roar filled the air. The roaring grew more shrill, the noise accentuated with whistles and pops, until strange music, distant and metallic, filled the air...

"Father, father, come quick," Timothy heard the boy saying, anticipation clear in his excited voice. "It's Father Coughlin's show -- coming on now!"

Timothy and the old man were standing in a huge house, standing in the corner of a large room. The boy was turning a round knob on a wooden box, and soon Timothy heard a man's booming voice coming from the box...