Concerning the Meeting and the Arrival

     In the last days, Nicholas spent his time in wait, as though he knew the sands were almost gone. He would read leather books softly in the candlelight, and occasionally stroll through the shafts of moonlight from the conservatory and breezeway. He rarely went outside. He remained fastidious about his appearance, maybe more so, and spent most of his time in the study wrapped in a crimson smoking coat. When the knock tolled at his door, he greeted it with complete un-surprise. "It's you," he said, and his guest nodded slowly and solemnly. And then pulled out the blade.



   The circus rolled out of the fog like river driftwood, a rattletrap of Ford trucks and Nash sedans having seen better days before the Dust Bowl blew in, engines and suspensions gasping labor pains and vesper prayers to St. Christopher. They set up on the edge of Drywood Creek as night melted over the dry grass, the dust covered side of the caravan proudly announcing the arrival of Dr. E.G. Rhodius And His Sixteen Penny Circus. Fergus the Strong Man, and Tiny Kelly, Queen of Knives, trailing a slender stream of cigarette smoke and Cab Calloway from the door, a road worn and eldritch assortment of tumblers, fire eaters, freaks, carnies and hucksters. The scents and sounds of exotic animals drifted into the town, a pull toward the field as palpable as the arrival of the motor gypsies themselves.
   Beneath the sick glow of a hurricane lamp strung on a pole stood the man himself, in a tuxedo from the last century and a top hat that looked to be dusted with magic and mysteries from the darkest Congo to the haunted hovels of New Orleans. He pulled on a black cigar lit on the oil lamp, and set a pocket watch. Then he glanced up, twirled a moustache around a cruel smile, and strode into the black tent.