Diane Duane - A Wizard Alone

“Oh, my god,” Kit’s mama said, “what are they doing”

Anything that could so seriously gross out Kit’s mama, the nurse, was worth a look. Kit grabbed a plate and ducked back into the living room, looked at the writhing, thrashing, stridently colored image for a moment, then took the remote away from his mama and punched it for subtitles. “Oh, that’s what I thought,” he said, after spending about ten seconds reading them. “It’s a soap.”

“Not of any brand I recognize,” his mother said. She looked scandalized.

“It’s real basic, Mama,” Kit said. “Boy meets girl meets thing meets other thing. Boy loses girl loses other thing finds thing. Boy loses thing gets girl loses thing. Happily ever after…” He tossed the remote back to his mother.

She fielded it badly as she studied the screen for any signs of boys or girls, and looked like she was having trouble finding any, though there were plenty of “things.” “‘Basic,’ you said?”

“Old, old story, Mama. You should see some of these guys’ literature. Shakespeare would have loved it.” Kit considered that briefly: His lit class had been doing the late Shakespeare comedies, and suddenly a whole set of opportunities opened out before him. “Just imagine A Midsummer Night’s Dream with ten or twelve extra genders…”

His mother raised her eyebrows, gave up on the soap, and started changing channels again.

“Doesn’t this thing have an online channel guide?” she said.

“I’ll have a look at it later and let you know,” Kit said.

He saw the look she threw at his pop. “Are there cooking channels?”

“Oh, yeah.” Then Kit paused, having a horrible thought. “On second thought, it might be smarter to avoid those. Some of them feature humans… and not as the cooks.”

The look on his mother’s face made Kit wish he’d kept quiet. She began changing channels with unusual speed. Kit raised his eyebrows and went back into the kitchen with the plate.

He was spooning out rice when his dad came back in and began rooting around in the silverware drawer in an aimless way that didn’t fool Kit for a moment. “Son,” he said, very quietly, “is there really a cooking channel, uh, ‘about’ us?”

“Pop, there’s lots of them.”

His father looked shocked. “But how is something like that permitted* .”

Kit shrugged. “You go where you shouldn’t go,” Kit said, and couldn’t help grinning, “you find out stuff you shouldn’t find out. Like how you taste in a sweet-and-sour sauce with galingale. The universe is full of little surprises.”

“I always have the feeling that there’s a lot about this wizardry you’re not telling me,” his father said. “Sometimes it worries me. Then come times like this when I’m horribly glad about my ignorance. Just don’t go places where you shouldn’t go, okay?”

“I try to avoid it,” Kit said. “Is it okay with you if I go to Baldwin in the next couple of days, though?”

His pop looked surprised. “Baldwin? No problem with that.”

“Thanks.”

Kit brought his plate into the living room, where he sat down on the floor and watched his mother change channels one more time. “Well, that’s pretty,” she said, sounding relieved.

Kit glanced up at the screen, chewing. “Uh, Mama,” he said, “I’m probably too young to be watching anything that explicit.”

Her eyes widened. “But, honey, it’s just a big cloud of gas, or smoke, or…” She stopped, her eyes widening even more, then changed the channel six times in a row without stopping.

Kit grinned and turned his attention back to the chicken.

Circuses — even just the thought of them — had always scared Nita when she was little. Later on, she had felt that the fear was ridiculous. Circuses were supposed to be so much fun for small children — all the sparkle, glitter, and noise, the processions of elephants parading along trunk-bytail, the blare of brass music, the daring acrobats and tumblers, the goofy clowns.

Yet it hadn’t worked that way for Nita the first time she actually went to one. Where the other kids in the audience had laughed and clapped, she sat amid all the raucous noise feeling terribly unnerved. It wasn’t so much being afraid that an acrobat would fall, that a lion would eat the lion tamer… nothing so concrete or obvious. But the darkness, the gradually strengthening smells of sawdust, animal sweat, greasepaint, and canvas, the spotlighting that left too many other things purposely obscure while half-seen forms moved in those shadows, themselves concealed by the light — all these slowly combined to suggest that something unexpected, something unavoidable, was going to happen. And that looming unknown frightened Nita badly. At intermission she’d begged her parents to take her home. Dairine had cried at the thought of leaving, and so their mom had stayed with Dari while her father drove Nita back to the house.

That her dad had never pressed her for details about this was still one of the things Nita thought about when counting up the reasons she loved him. But even his silent support couldn’t do anything about the nightmares that followed, nightmares full of leering clown faces and the musky smell of big cats. Finally the nightmares faded away and left Nita wondering what in the world had been the matter with her. Yet she never went to another circus. And even now, sometimes the mere sight of a spotlight aimed at an empty floor, with darkness lying silent beyond it, was enough to induce in her a feeling of tremendous foreboding that would darken her soul for hours.

Sometimes she tried to work out in more detail why she’d been so scared. She kept coming back to the clowns. To Nita, there was a fake quality about them, nothing genuinely humorous. It was strange to think that someone seriously thought that makeup could make you funny. But there was no question in Nita’s mind that makeup could make you scary. The stylized clown face, too generic, too cartoony: That really bothered her. The baggy, motley costume, disguising the real body shape so that it could have been a bare steel skeleton underneath instead of flesh and bone. The slapstick jokes, endlessly repeated, which were supposed to be amusing because of the repetition — all these left Nita cold. There was something mechanical about clowns, something automatic, a kind of robot humor; and it gave her the creeps.

It was doing so again, right now, because here in the darkness, followed around by one of those sinister spotlights, was a typical clown act — the clown riding around and around in circles on a ridiculously small bicycle, in ever decreasing circles. There was nothing funny about it to Nita. It was pitiful. Around and around and around, in jerky, wobbling movements, around and around went the clown. It had a painted black tear running down its face. The red-painted mouth was turned down. But the face under the white greasepaint mask was as immobile as a marble statue’s, expressionless, plastered in place. Only the eyes were alive. They shouted, I can’t get off! I can’t get off ! And, just this once, the clown didn’t think it was funny, either.

The drumroll went on and on, as if for a hanging rather than a circus stunt. The chain of the bicycle rattled relentlessly in the silence inside the light. Beyond the light, in the darkness, the heartless crowd laughed and clapped and cheered. And through the sound of their applause, low, but building, came the growl of the tiger, pacing behind the bars, waiting its turn.

The drumroll never stopped. The clown rode in tighter and tighter circles, faster and faster. The wheels of the bike began to scream. The crowd shouted for more. “Stop it,” Nita yelled. “Stop it!