Carnival Souls

The Keeper of Horses

Most of the time passed with Genzel asking questions about Owen's carving experience. Though the old man didn't show it, Owen got the feeling he was slightly impressed by how much Owen seemed to know.

As the hours slid by, the horse's legs rearing up from the base block of wood seemed to take on an almost animate quality, growing in complexity and depth as Genzel filed away at them. Even un-painted, there was something unnervingly real about them. Owen blinked quickly, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Who taught you?" asked Genzel, finally looking up.

"My father," admitted Owen, grudgingly.

Genzel's brow furrowed and he grunted as he turned back to his work. He blew a pile of wood shavings onto the floor. "Don't need to say no more. My old man split when I was about your age. They ain't good enough to stick around, you don't need 'em."

Owen shrugged. Many people had told him the same thing. He didn't want anyone's sympathy; he just wanted to not have to think about it. Especially in the presence of this unknown, grumpy, old man. Luckily, the subject wasn't pressed.

Owen continued to watch Genzel at his work until his head began to nod and his eyelids felt weighted. The third time he caught Owen slumped over, Genzel summoned Jacks to take him back.

"You ever work with horses before, boy? Real ones I mean."

"My name is Owen," he said annoyed.

"I know yer name. Just answer the question."

"No," said Owen with a roll of his eyes. All he wanted to do was go to sleep.

"Then you'll spend tomorrow with Jacks. He's the horse keeper 'round here. I want you familiar with 'em, their temperament, the way they move, the way they feel, before you come back, understand?"

"Yes," said Owen, suppressing a yawn.

"Yes, sir," finished Genzel, firmly. He pointed a crooked finger at Owen's chest. "This ain't no chummy farting around. I'm your teacher, you're here to learn."

"Yes, sir" repeated Owen, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Good. Now get out. I need shut-eye."

Owen followed Jacks back out into the soupy air, blinking several times to clear his head and vision. His mouth felt dry, coated as it was in the fine filaments of wood he had inhaled, and his eyes felt gritty. The lighting outside had remained more or less the same, giving no indication of the passage of time, though Owen was sure he had spent several hours with the carver.

"How do you tell day from night?" asked Owen, feeling stupid.

"There is no day and night here," replied Jacks. Owen noticed the boy kept an inordinate amount of space between them as they walked. "We call it Ebb and Flow. It keeps in time with the crowd. Ebb is the closest to daytime, when the carnival isn't busy and sometimes the sky is a bit brighter. Flow if closest to nighttime, when the carnival is crowded and the horizon is a deeper red. It's not exact, but you'll get used to it.

Judging by how busy the carnival still was, Owen guessed it was somewhere in the middle of the night. It would make sense if he had left his house at nine. Had that really just been a few hours ago?

There was a tightening sensation around his abdomen when he realized how angry his mom must be that he had broken curfew. What would she think when he didn't come back? He had left the house in such a rage—would she think he ran away?

The grip on his stomach clenched more firmly as he thought about what she would do if she thought he had abandoned her too. And what about Ethan? What would he think?

Ethan. That's it, thought Owen. If he just looked at all of this as an Ethan problem, maybe he could figure it out—and find a way home. When they had first gotten Ethan's diagnosis, Owen hadn't understood and turned to the Internet, looking up everything he could about the condition. That was where he needed to start.

"Jacks, what can you tell me about this place?"

"That you're stuck here and nothing I say will help."

"Okay, then what can you tell me about yourself," said Owen. "How did you get here?"

"Same way you did," said Jacks, still staring straight ahead. The whip beat a soft rhythm against his thigh as they walked.

"Where are you from?" tried Owen, determined not be deterred.

Jacks sighed. "Originally, Haiti. My mom moved us to the states when I was seven, after an earthquake destroyed our house and killed my dad. Florida—since I know you're going to ask."

The boy described his past so bluntly Owen couldn't help but wonder if he had spoken about it so many times it no longer made an impression on him—or if, like everyone else around here, all emotion had been sucked out of him in the wake of an endless existence of servitude.

"Can you tell me what happened when you were taken?" asked Owen hesitantly. He knew how much he hated it when people tried to delve into his past so he reminded himself to tread lightly. "I'm just trying to figure things out," he added, when Jacks' eyes slid over to him and the whip picked up a more rapid tapping.

Jacks led them around the backside of the carnival again so, even though he spoke quietly, Owen could still hear him with the noise of the spirits blocked by the tents.

"I was ten when the carnival stopped in town. Everyone was making this big fuss about it. I couldn't afford the rides—I only went 'cuz I thought I could swipe food. My mom lost her job and we'd been eating rice and broth for four days.

"When I got there, I grabbed a corndog and hid behind a tent to eat it. Some kids from my school found me—came over to make fun of me. They were always making fun of me—my accent, my clothes, my hair. We got into a fight and one of them hit me in the temple—knocked me out. When I woke up, it was dark and quiet, but then I heard the music..." Jacks gestured in the air with his whip. "You can fill in the gaps from there."

Owen nodded and relapsed into thought. Jacks' story didn't reveal anything particularly useful, but Owen repeated the story back to himself until he was sure it was stored somewhere in his memory. The more he knew about this god forsaken place—and the people who worked here—the better. Nothing more was said as Jacks led Owen through the funhouse and revealed a door hidden in the hall of mirrors.

They climbed a flight of stairs and emerged into a long hallway lit at regular intervals with flickering lamps.

"Bebinn said yours was Room 6."

"Does Lira live her too?" asked Owen, looking up and down the hall at the numbered doors.

"Why?"

"I want to apologize for something I said."

"She's Room 3," he replied. "But don't bother her now—she's resting. She'll be at breakfast in the morning. You can talk to her then."

Owen nodded and was about to turn the door handle when a thought struck him.

"Hey, Jacks," he called after the retreating boy. "Are we allowed to talk to the spirits?"

Jacks looked over his shoulder, confusion etched clearly on his face. It was the first real emotion he had shown all night. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

Owen shrugged, trying to keep his own face impassive. "Just wondering."

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Ugh, sorry for the long wait, guys. I haven't had any time to write recently--or be on Wattpad much. I'm hoping to pick up regular updates again.

Anywho, what did ya think? Predictions? Let me know in the comments :)

Thanks as always for reading and making my day!