"Step this way, ladies and gents." Tattoos flickered from under the man’s rolled shirt sleeves as he gestured to the passing crowd. "Take a chance. Win a prize."

The boy watched briefly as fuzz-faced adolescents put small guns to their shoulders and took aim. Girls at their sides hid metal-laced smiles behind hot pink fingertips.

He walked with purpose past the dizzying rides and games of chance. He side-stepped the man wanting to guess his weight and scurried by booths selling cotton candy and hot dogs on a stick. Just beyond the last of the food booths, he turned into a yellow-lit alley where a dozen tents sat tethered and hunched in an uneven row.  In front of them, badly dressed men in cheap toupees hawked tickets to the peep-shows and freaks on display.

"Girls from around the world," one man barked. "Dancing girls from the Seven Seas."

"See the Rubber Man," shouted another. "He twists.  He turns.  He will tie his legs into knots right before your eyes."

"The Iron Man.  The Bearded Lady. Come one, come all. The strange and bizarre. Just one dollar."

"I only wanna go in there," the boy held a quarter in his palm and pointed with the other hand to the end of the row.

"It’s a dollar, kid." The man pushed his cane into the boy’s shoulder and moved him to the side.

"But I only want to see It. I don’t want to see the other stuff." He shuffled back in front of the man. The laces of his scruffy sneakers dragged the ground. A green corduroy jacket hugged his thin frame.

"I don’t care if all you want is to smell the canvas. It’s still a buck." The man smiled over the boy’s head to a couple walking by.

"Bring the lady in, sir. Show her the Wonders of the World. Just one thin dollar," he said.

"They were a quarter each last year," said the boy defiantly.

"Inflation, kid. Hey, wait a minute. I remember you," said the man.

"You’re that weird, little duck who was here every day last summer." He leered down at the boy.

"Okay, give me your two-bits and get in there. But don’t make me hafta come get ya when we close."

The boy produced a gap-toothed grin and swaggered down the row of moth-eaten tents until he came to the last one. It wasn’t as large as the others, and no colorful sign graced its doorway. A weathered board boasted a single, crudely painted word. It was all it said

He entered the dim, moldy room. The sawdust under his feet looked spotty, as though it had run out before they covered all the dirt. Cigarette butts littered the ground. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling.  Under its dim glow was what he had come to see.

He walked up to It with the same caution he'd use to approach a cat in an alley or a deer in the woods. It rested on a wooden table that looked hastily built. The jar looked the same, with it's tin lid wired shut.  Maybe a little dustier than last year, the glass a little more grimy with another season of carnival dirt trying to conceal the mysteries it held. 

Last year he had to stand on his toes to watch It. He’d grown and this year It was eye level.  It hadn’t changed. It floated in its murkiness for all to see, but he would be the only one there, he knew that. The year before a couple of teenagers had come in one day. They laughed at It. They laughed at him for standing there watching It.  He'd ignored their taunts even though he thought It seemed more active after they left.  Almost like it disapproved of their presence.

The boy tilted his head and put one brown eye close to the jar. It began to stir. A flower moved delicately in a midnight sea, then a woman’s face, pale and soft. It twirled and twisted and became a mythical beast. Several times an eye looked back. He could see the recognition in the deep blue as It sadly swirled past.

Sometimes the boy didn’t know what It was inside the jar. Sometimes It was a mystery even to him.

He put his face against the cool glass and static tugged at his blonde hair. He walked around the jar looking at It from every angle. It followed as he moved, first to the right, then to left.

He brushed his fingertips against It. It grew warm.

It floated with the grace of a shark in the ocean or a hawk stretched against the sky. He put his face as close as he dared, and felt himself drift away with his thoughts.

"Okay, kid. I told ya not to make me come and get ya." The sweating barker stepped into the gloaming of the setting sun as it entered the tent and tapped him on the shoulder with his gold-handled cane.

"What the hell do you do in here, anyway?" he asked. "Are you in here smokin’?"

The man sniffed the air as he pushed the boy to the door. "You better not be smokin’ in here ya little twit. 'Specially none of that funny tobacco. Go on home, I'm wantin' to close up for the night.  This town's a bust when it comes to freak shows.  Ain't made what it'll take me to pay for the electric.  Good thing you hoosiers don't mind losin' your money on the games."

The boy took one last, longing look at It as the barker shoved him roughly out the door.

***

With the moon full and inquisitive over his head, the boy stood in the tall shadows surrounding the tent. He felt It stirring inside the canvas. When the crowd had grow thin and the barkers weary, it hadn't taken long for the carnival of freaks to fade like a ghost town. Nothing stirred.

He waited to make sure everyone had gone, then wiggled under the loose canvas. A glow from the jar lit his way. It stirred as he approached. A mouth smiled slightly. A finger beckoned him close. Then a soft voice said, "You’re back."

"I am," he said.

He put both hands against the jar. It grew almost too warm to touch, but he wouldn’t pull away. At first It swirled like a dancer at a Ball. One way then the other. Then It turned in just one direction and circled faster and faster until he felt dizzy watching It. It slowed then, and soon It was still.

"Let me out," It said.

"No," the boy answered. "I can’t."

"Let me out," It repeated.

He pulled the jar from the table, surprised that It wasn’t too heavy. Holding It close, he carried It home. His mother was asleep on the couch and the television flashed eerie webs across her face. Each step groaned as he slowly went up the stairs to his room. Carefully, he lifted the jar and slid It onto the desk under his window. That way It could see the drawings he’d made of It during the year. He’d colored a single blue eye in the center of a white sheet of paper, and a gold cross on another. There were drawings of curling fingers, of entire hands, of hearts so real they looked to be beating. He’d also drawn a mouth opened as if screaming, and a blood-rimmed gash on smooth, pink skin.

His teacher had talked to his mother about what she called his strange behavior, but his mom didn’t care. She simply said he’d always been odd.

"Come here," It said. "Get close."

He put his forehead to the glass and watched It. Hours passed, the moon crossed the sky and the sun came up. Birds outside his window cheered the day.

"What the hell is that?" his mother screamed when she came in.

"Nothing," he said.

"Well get it out of here.  It looks gross." She pulled a faded bathrobe over her lumpy body. "Then get ready. You’re gonna visit your grandma today."

"I don’t wanna go to Grandma’s," he whined. "I wanna stay home this summer."

"I didn’t ask if you wanted to go. Now get that ugly thing out of here."

"Come here," It said when his mom left the room.

"I guess I have to take you back," the boy said.

"No, you don’t," It said. "Come closer."

***

"I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t know where the kid went. Last I saw of him he was right here in this room. Standin’ in front of that God awful thing." She pointed to the jar.

"Where’d he get this stuff?" asked the cop as he bent his head and peered through the glass. He moved just before the brown eye opened and the blonde hair floated by.

"Who knows. He’s an odd one all right. Look at those pictures on the wall. I had to do some fancy talkin’ to keep them from kickin’ his butt outta school. The county shrink said those drawings show he has deep psychological problems."  She tapped her finger against the wall of construction paper.

"I wonder what all this stuff is?" the cop asked again, squinting at the jar. Once more, he stepped away before he saw the eye float into view, or the shoe lace and piece of green corduroy. He stepped away before the finger hooked itself over and motioned to him.

It swirled and danced in its jar on the desk, but they left the room and closed the door. No one heard the tiny voice as they stood in the hall and talked about what could have happened to the little boy.

Sun streamed through the window and dust sparks danced around the jar. Inside, It whirled and floated and turned with the grace of a thousand birds or a school of fish or a smooth and deliberate breeze. Hair and fingers and eyes passed by, blue eyes wide with wisdom, green eyes old with age, and in the whirling mass, one brown eye followed by a single tear. A voice, the voice of the boy, afraid and unsure, spoke into the empty room.

"I’m here," It said. "Help me," It pleaded. "Let me out," It called.

By Luella Turner at LouTurn@aol.com