Dr. Rhodius, part Two

  Hoell pulled the blackened tin from his coat. He looked at it a moment, trying to decide what he should be feeling. Then he passed it to Rhodius. The ringmaster didn't even open it, passed it behind him to the girl.
  Whitechapel's mouth opened and shut. "But. . . . But my faithfulness! My service!"
  Rhodius raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. . . ."
  "I watched over that box! I brought the boy here! I've toiled in this cesspool years for you! Surely I am owed my due?!"
  Rhodius remained unmoved by the tirade. He flicked an eyebrow, and then bent back over the cigar that had gone out. "You're quite right. Kelly, my dear, please give Mr. Whitechapel what he is owed."
  In a unified moment the Queen of Knives stepped forward and plunged a little penknife into Whitechapel's left breast. The only sound was grunted exhalation of breath as she stuck the knife in again and again, a pantomime of feral sex. She stopped, wiped the blade on his jacket with an expression of satisfaction dissonant to his look of confusion, and let what was left of Whitechapel drop to the dust.

In Which We Finally Meet the Ringmaster

   He stumbled out of the reptile tent and almost into the arms of Whitechapel Fred. Whitechapel grabbed him before he could break free. "You came! And here I thought you would double-cross me."
   Hoell shrugged out of his grasp. "My loyalties did start to drop when you sent your ghouls after me."
  "Yes, well, times are tough everywhere. Can't trust anyone. Especially you, my friend. Give me the box."
  "Maybe I lost it."
  "Now is not a good time to get tough with me, jazz man. You know what I am capable of."
  "I know." Hoell pulled out a grubby drawstring bag, unwrapped what looked to be a small shaving brush, bristles stiff and ancient. The handle was simple twine wound around the top. "I was prepared for that."
  Whitechapel blanched for a second, then his face split into an evil smile. He pulled a dirty .38 from his pocket, rested it beneath Hoell's chin. "I admire your lack of imagination. Fortunately we make our own hoodoo here. Give me the box."
  Hoell didn't move. "What good will it do you? You've let it rest this long. You're owed nothing."
  "Nonetheless. He will look with favor on his servants."
  "Be a stretch where you're concerned."
  Whitechapel jerked him closer, gouging the barrel into his throat. "You have no idea what he can do. You don't know what he's capable of! They say if you meet him at the crossroads, when the moon is high, he can give you the world!"
  "The world will always come with a price, Mr. Whitechapel. You should know that." From out the night strode a tall figure in a swallowtail coat. Beside him was the Asian girl from the diner, sans the glasses but still in the hat and peacoat. The tall man bent his face to light a cigar, match light flashing across his face like a flicker of the devil's lightning. Whitechapel let the gun drop to his side.
  "Dr. Rhodius!" he hailed. "I knew that you had come. I have brought what you desire."
  "Pray tell," the tall man said, focused on the cigar.
  "I have kept it safe in your absence, guarding it for your return! My servant has brought it tonight."
  "Your loyalty has been noted. Hand me the item, Mr. Whitechapel, and you may go."

Concerning What Happened Next

  The moon was a magnolia, petals reaching ever so slightly to the broken heart of the earth. The air was still heavy and ponderous, but Hoell could see neon lights hazing a skyline in the distance, swirling inward from the darkness toward 42nd. Points of light moved and blinked like xylophone notes, sounds never reaching the field. Somewhere out there blood rushed through the veins of the night.
  Hoell rubbed his face thoughtfully, fished a rugged cigarette from a pocket and lit it from the shadows of the Stetson. Threw the match carelessly, and exhaled to the sky.
  He heard the click and threw himself to the left before he even saw the switchblade fly. He came up in time to grab an arm as the knife dipped again, thrust it back toward the trailer. Pale African face, hair like a drowned pirate, the smell of the riverfront. It pushed Hoell away, whipped the knife in a slash waist high. "Give us, jazz man," it said tonelessly. The blade winked in the moonlight as the creature lunged. Hoell sidestepped, swung clasped hands in an uppercut that sent his assailant staggering back.
  Hoell backed up to a booth and pulled the ancient revolver from his coat, leveled it in time for the other to jump forward with a slash that grazed his hand, dropping the gun. The switchblade came up, plunged down. Hoell grabbed the knife arm with one hand, swung his right underneath into the ribs, two quick punches. He grabbed the thing by its decaying jacked and tossed it head first into the side of the booth. Wood cracked, a tangle of spindly legs and arms tried to right itself. Hoell didn't see his pistol, ran deeper into the Midway.
  Dodging a labyrinth of carousels, galleries, metal fences and attractions. He could hear his pursuer still, emotionless as a predator, but he had bought a few seconds time. He stopped short before the corrugated steps of another attraction, dramatically heralded the Deadly Jungle Python, Guaranteed The Largest Snake Ever Seen. Behind him was the Strong Man Tester. Hoell grabbed the hammer and ran up the steps.
  The tent was pitch dark, stank of bedding, sour water and reptile. Lexan walls waist high formed a walkway, separating unseen things making only whispered suggestion of movement, cold and alien presence. Hoell crept along to the main attraction, a pit sunken into the floor. He could barely see shape, just a dark draconian mass encompassing a small pool. It moved slightly, guttural scratch on gravel. It could smell him. He crouched in the darkness opposite, and waited.
  Footfalls, soft and steady, slithering along the walkway. Worn boots moved in front of his hiding place. Hoell tried not to betray a breath, could smell the decay of the waterfront even with the overbearing smell of reptile. He waited, let it move a few steps more. Suddenly Hoell leapt up, swung the wooden mallet with all his strength and a bestial war cry.
  The mallet struck square in the back, lateral force sending the creature over the lexan wall into the pool with a grotesque splash. In a second the snake had struck, coiling itself around in three quick circles. The zombie began the most unworldly keening, thrashing with the constrictor in the stagnant water of the pool. Hoell threw the mallet after him and fled.

We Interrupt This Broadcast

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Beyond the Hall of Mirrors

    The exit left the Mirror Hall, but not to the outside. Hoell found himself in a chamber of library quiet buoyed by faint opera, too large to be a trailer, but certainly behind-the-scenes. Weak light crowded with furniture, benches, things he couldn’t make out, blossoming dancing shadows over the tent walls, scarcely illuminating, mystifying. He moved cautiously, quietly. He thought he heard deep breathing, someone sleeping, softly on the edge of bel canto. Accoutrements of show-business loomed from the darkness, ornate canes, silk toppers, chains and feathers, trunks draped in mythology. The private quarters of magic.
   The soprano scratched, needle stuck, then freed itself with a lurch. Hoell heard a voice, speaking from the darkness. Soft and scratchy as the needle, surreal. “How will it end?”
   Hoell froze. Was it imagination? He couldn’t see anyone. But it spoke again, repeating itself. “How will it end?”
   Still no one he could see, but had to be aware of him. “Excuse me?”
   “Everything has a beginning. And everything has a end. How will it end?”
   Hoell slowly moved toward the music, not sure what to expect. Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t what he saw. On a table, just across from a wobbly phonograph, was a glass dome containing a human head, hair and beard white with an expression of doubt and apprehension. The head swiveled, eyes looked directly at him. “I sought to enjoy the folly of man’s short pleasures of earth. What is it you seek?”
   Hoell held the gaze evenly, somehow unsurprised the macabre thing spoke. “I’ve come to return something. But I don’t know who it belongs to.” He wasn’t sure why, but he told the head the truth. “Whitechapel wants me to take it to him, but he just wants to save himself. It belongs to someone else.”
   “You seek Him.” Eyes tossed lightly to the ceiling. “He who constructed this Babylon. He who holds the keys.”
   “I don’t know what I’m after,” Hoell admitted.
   “You want more than your life is now,” the head said sorrowfully. “You want to touch the promise before the world moved in around you. You want what can be found at the Crossroads. What only He can give you.”
   Hoell let the words assemble in his mind.“Then it is true. This . . . . carnival is run by The Jew?”
   The bushy eyebrows closed sadly. “It is true he has power. It is not of his own making, but he possess it nonetheless. And I am too old to envy him any longer. I had my time, and squandered it.”
   “Who are you?”
   The head sighed. “I have known many names, worn the mantle of many civilizations since he first cursed me. Cartaphilus. Matathias. Isaac Laquedem. Newton. Van Houten. Ahasver. I have none, now. It has been my curse to pay for my pride, my inhumanity, for eternity. Do not squander yours. The winds are blowing again. Where will you let them take you?”
   Hoell took in the room again. His fingers reflexively twisted the bullet in his pocket. “I don’t know. To an ending, I suppose. I’ll find out.”
   The head closed its eyes, slipping into a blissful expression, like tasting the most perfect dream one could dream. “Only your life can speak your fate. All man‘s dreams and ambitions are meaningless. All that matters is, how will it end? How’s it going to end? Be a friend, and wind the phonograph.”

The Hall

     Endless mirrors glisten and menace in the spears of moonlight finding their way in. Hoell felt his way like a blind man in a world of cold blue light, following the trail, clinging to shards of self-awareness. Static self-image dissolves, the soul split into a multitude of facets and palindromes. Consciousness leads from one self-image to the next, never settling -- distance perceived at close proximity, nearness a mirage stretching itself to the next self-image. The danger lies in trying to pinpoint identity. You lose your grip in the face of absorption, until you believe you never had one at all, grasping association of the nearest reflection, struggling to retain your idea of yourself, your idea of the awareness of reality. Your own image becomes your worst enemy, fading, melding one with another. A million unshaven Hoells, hollow eyes tugging for a piece of warmth, each one mutely insisting they are the real Hoell, each one promising life, and future, and sanctuary just beyond the curve of light. Dirty fingers reaching, clutching desperately, surrounded by the voices of others trapped here, carried eternally by the skittering mice. Believe me, accept me, I'll show you the way . . . .
   Hoell felt himself slipping, fading, sensations dripping like sand into an abyss. All point of reference had vanished completely. And then he paused, and held his right hand out palm down. In a moment it dipped gently, fluidly, a sparrow riding the wind, a wave slowly rolling toward breaking. Fingers began to flicker like spring rain, and his head filled with a progression of notes. The music was there, had always been there, just beyond hearing but guiding. The abyss pulled back, the desperate yearning Hoells faded into the backdrop. He almost laughed, and shortly left by a star-covered door.
   Mirrors can be created, broken or ignored. And when your mind is in the thrall of the music, nothing else matters.

A Lull in the Proceedings

Due to the so-called "holiday weekend" and the demands it places on those of us who row fervently across the river Styx, we regret to inform you that Port Evenus will be taking a break this Sunday from their regular scheduled broadcast. We hope you spend this time in the warm company of your loved ones, grilling tasty portions of bovine. In the meanwhile, let us encourage you to fill your PE needs on the rest of our parent site, and be sure to tune in next week!