In the dark he dialed Bleak.
“Do you know what time it is?” Bleak cried. “There’s only one thing you ever wait half the night to churn my guts with—your stupid war. I thought you said the damned thing was over!”
“It is, it is. ”
“It is what?” shouted Braling.
“Over,” said Quartermain. “There are just a few more things I want to make sure of. It’s what you would call the joyful aftermath. Bleak, remember the collection of oddities and medical freaks we put together one summer for a town fair, all those years ago? Do you think we could find those jars? Are they up in an attic or down in a basement somewhere?”
“I suppose so. But why?”
“Find them. Unlock them. We’re bringing them out in the open again. Gather our army of gray. We have work to do. It’s time.”
Click. Hummm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A huge question mark, painted on a ply wood shingle, hung over the tent entryway. The tent had been erected on one side of the lakefront grounds, and the entrance gave way into the darkness of a haphazardly constructed plywood lean-to museum. Inside was a series of platforms on which were no freaks, no beasts, no magicians, no people. Somehow, overnight, this mystery tent had appeared, as if it had pitched itself.
Across town, Quartermain smiled.
That morning, in school, Doug had found an un signed handwritten note in his desk. Its message was simple, written with black ink in large block letters:
“the mystery of life explained.??? at the lake-front.
limited time only.” Doug passed the note among his friends, and as soon as school let out for the day, the boys had rushed down here, as fast as their feet could carry them. Now, entering the question mark tent with his friends, Doug was incredibly disappointed. Migawd, no bones, no dinosaurs, no mad generals at war, he thought. Nothing but night-dark canvas and flat platforms and… Douglas peered. Charlie squinted. Will, Bo, and Tom came last into the smell of old wood and tar-paper. There wasn’t even a curator with a tall hat and baton to guide them along.
There was only—
On top of a series of small tables were a number of large one- and two-gallon jars filled to the brim with a thick, clear liquid. Each jar was topped by a glass lid, and each lid had a red number on it—twelve in all— each number, painted in a shaky hand. And inside each of the jars… maybe that was it, at last, the things implied by the huge question mark outside.
“Heck,” muttered Bo. “There’s nothing here.
What a gyp. So long, you guys. ”
And Bo turned, pushed the tent flap aside, and left.
“Wait,” said Douglas, but Bo was already gone. “Tom, Charlie, Will, you won’t leave, will you? You’ll miss out if you go.”
“But there’s nothing here, just some old jars.”
“Wait,” said Doug. “It’s more than just jars. What’s in the jars? C’mon. Let’s look closer.”
They edged up to the platform and crept along, staring into the jars, one after another. There were no labels to tell them what they were looking at, just glass and liquid and a soft light that seemed to pulse within the liquid and shone on their eager, sweaty faces.
“What is that stuff in there?” asked Tom.
“Gosh knows. Look close.”
Their eyes moved along, darted and stayed, stayed and darted, fastened and examined until their noses dilated and their mouths gaped.
“What’s that, Doug? And that? And that one there?”
“How do I know? Move!” Doug went back to the beginning of the row and crouched down in front of the first jar so his eyes were level with whatever was inside it.
The big bright glass jar held what looked like a giant cold gray oyster. Doug peered at it, mumbled something to himself, then stood up and moved on. The boys followed.
Suspended within the liquid in the next jar was something that looked like a bit of translucent seaweed or, no, more like a seahorse, a miniature sea-horse, sure!
And the glass jar after that held something that resembled a skinned rabbit or a raw cat with its fur shucked, getting bigger…
The boys’ eyes moved, darted, stayed, fl icked back to examine the first, second, third, fourth jars again.
“What’s in this one, Doug?”
Five, six, seven.
“Look!”
They all looked and it might have been another animal, a squirrel or a monkey—sure, a monkey—but with transparent skin and a strange sorrowful expression.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven—the jars were numbered but had no names. There was nothing to hint at what the boys were looking at, what it was that froze their veins and iced their blood. Until at last, at the far end of the row, near the exit sign, they reached the last jar and all leaned toward it and blinked.
“That can’t be!”
“Naw.”
“It is,” gasped Douglas. “A baby!”
“What’s it doing in there?”
“Being dead, dummy.”
“Yeah, but… how…?”
All their eyes swiveled to rush back—eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five and four and three and two and one—to the first jar, the one holding the pale little oyster curlicue.
“If that’s a baby…”
“Then,” said Will, all numbness, “what in blazes are all those creepy things in the other jars?”
Douglas counted backward, then forward again, but stayed silent, his icy flesh all goose bumps.
“I got nothing to say.”
“Upchuck, Doug, upchuck.”
“Those things in the jars…” Doug began, face pale, voice paler. “They’re—they’re babies, too!”
It was as if half a dozen sledgehammers had slammed into half a dozen stomachs.
“Don’t look like babies!”
“Things from another world, maybe. ” Another world, thought Douglas. In those jars, drowned.
Another world.
“Jellyfish,” Charlie said. “Squids. You know.”
I know, thought Douglas. Undersea.
“It’s got blue eyes,” Will whispered. “It’s looking at us.”
“No, it’s not,” said Doug. “It’s drowned.”
“C’mon, Doug,” Tom whispered. “I got the willies.”
“Willies, heck,” Charlie said. “I got the heebiejeebies. Where’d all this stuff come from?”
“I don’t know,” Douglas said, chafing his elbows.
“The wax museum last year. That was sort of like this.”
“These aren’t wax,” said Tom. “Oh, gosh, Doug, that’s a real baby there, used to be alive. I never seen a dead baby before. I’m gonna be sick.”
“Run outside. Go on!”
Tom turned and ran. In a moment, Charlie backed off and followed, his eyes darting from the baby to the jellyfish or whatever it was and then to the seahorse or what might be someone’s earlobes, tympanum and all.
“How come there’s no one here to tell us what all this stuff is?” Will wondered.
“Maybe,” said Doug slowly, “maybe they’re afraid to tell, or can’t tell, or won’t.”
“Lord,” said Will. “I’m froze.”
From outside the tent’s canvas walls came the sounds of Tom being sick.
“Hey!” Will cried suddenly. “It moved!”
Doug reached his hand out to the glass. “No, it didn’t.”
“It moved, darn it. It doesn’t like us staring at it! Moved, I’m telling you! That’s enough for me. So long, Doug.”
And Doug was left alone in the dark tent with the cold glass jars holding the blind things that stared out with eyes that seemed to say how awful it was to be dead.
There’s nobody to ask, thought Douglas, no one here. No one to ask and no one to tell. How do we find out? Will we ever know?
From the far end of the tent museum came the sound of high-pitched laughter. Six girls ran into the tent, giggling, letting in a bright wedge of sunlight.
Once the tent flap closed they stopped laughing, enveloped suddenly in darkness.
Doug turned blindly and walked out into the light.
He took a deep breath of the hot summer-like air, and squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the platforms and the tables and the glass jars filled with thick fluid, and in the fluid, suspended, strange bits of tissue, alien forms from far unknown territories. What could be a swamp water creature with half an eye and half a limb, he knew, was not. What could be a fragment of ghost, of a spiritual upchuck come out of a fogbound book in a night library, was not.
What could be the stillborn discharge of a favorite dog was not. In his mind’s eye the things in the jars seemed to melt, from fluid to fluid, light to light. If you fl icked your eyes from jar to jar, you could almost snap them to life, as if you were running bits of film over your eyeballs so that the tiny things became large and then larger, shaping themselves into fi ngers, hands, palms, wrists, elbows, until finally, asleep, the last shape opened wide its dull, blue, lashless eyes and fixed you with its gaze that cried, Look!
See! I am trapped here forever! What am I? What is the question, what, what? Could it be, you there, below, outside looking in, could it be that I am… you?
Beside him, rooted to the grass, stood Charlie and Will and Tom.
“What was that all about?” Will whispered.
“I almost—” Doug started but Tom interrupted, tears running down his cheeks.
“How come I’m crying?”
“Why would anyone be crying?” said Will, but his eyes were wet, too. “Darn,” he whispered.
They heard a creaking sound. From the corner of his eye, Douglas saw a woman go by pushing a carriage in which something struggled and cried.
Beyond in the afternoon crowd, a pretty woman walked arm in arm with a sailor. Down by the lake a mob of girls played tag, hair fl ying, leaping, bounding, measuring the sand with swift feet. The girls ran away down the shore and Douglas, hearing their laughter, turned his gaze back
