Alice Hoffman - The Museum of Extraordinary Things

Dreamland was illuminated by thousands of lightbulbs; the scene was so bright Eddie needed to blink to see within the gates as they passed by. He could spy the outlines of the grand entertainment Hell Gate, with its leering forty-foot-tall demons holding court at the entranceway to the ride’s covered tunnel. Every light in the park had been turned on for the workers, but the strain was too much. All at once, as their carriage approached, there was a short circuit, with many of the bulbs shattering from the burst of energy that surged before everything went black. Mr. Morris’s driver whistled for his horse to increase his pace, for he feared the creature would be spooked by the rising sound of the roars of lions and tigers pacing their cages, all startled and invigorated by the sudden dark.

Inside Hell Gate a team of workers who were mending fissures in the tunnel with hot, sticky tar that would shore up any leaks were suddenly engulfed in utter blackness. In the confusion that followed, with men panicking and rushing to escape the falling glass shards of the bulbs, a pail of burning hot tar was kicked over. It flowed much like lava, the black goo sparking with crimson flashes of heat.

“It seems we have good fortune on our side,” Mr. Morris murmured as they passed the chaos in the park. “The dark is good for deeds such as ours.”

Whereas Surf Avenue had only moments ago seemed as vivid as a theater’s stage, there abruptly fell a cover of pitch. If a kidnapping of sorts was what they would attempt, then fate was indeed favoring their actions. The carriage halted on the corner, where the driver was paid another exorbitant fee and told to wait with Mitts, until their return.

The two men drew near the museum, one cloaked, the other still shaking off the haze of his heavy drinking. The wolf followed at their heels. Eddie half-imagined he was still inside a dream. Men did things such as this in dreams: approached a dark house filled with treasure, sank into a sea of true love, traveled with wolves and wonders on a warm night. The air smelled acrid from the tar across the road, and there was a tinge of sulfur to it as well, for inside the tunnel at the Hell Gate a flame had broken out. The workmen quickly scattered away, due to the rising smoke. A rush of air followed them through the tunnel, flinging sparks in every direction, as if the stars themselves had been replaced by embers.

Once in the garden, Eddie and Raymond Morris took shelter beneath the pear tree. There Mr. Morris revealed he had a key to the kitchen door in his possession. “A friend was kind enough to give this to me. She was to meet us here, but perhaps she’s been held up by the ruckus on the street.” He looked over his shoulder, worried, scanning the empty garden. At last he turned back to Eddie. “We have little choice but to go forward without her.”

“Did your friend say where we might find Coralie?” Eddie assumed Morris referred to the red-haired woman he had photographed in the garden, for there was a softening in Mr. Morris’s tone when he spoke of her.

“The cellar. A room you surely remember.”

Eddie nodded. “I remember more than I’d like to.” He still had nightmares of that room and of the box that contained the cold form of Hannah Weiss.

Eddie brought forth the two small keys he kept as a talisman. He hadn’t known why he’d hung on to them, but perhaps it was due to a remnant of the abilities Hochman insisted he possessed. His thoughts were tangled in the puzzle of where fate had led him, to this house on this night. Through the din inside his head, a very real siren sounded. It was two minutes before two in the morning. The usual stillness of the hour had been broken by fire alarms at Dreamland. Sparks from the spilled tar had traveled with astounding speed. Canvas and fabric caught first, then the papier-mâché statues and rides went up, and finally there was a terrible leap of flame to wooden structures and rooftops. Already the firehouse at West Eighth Street, a hundred yards away, and the station at Fifteenth, near Surf Avenue, had sent out horse-drawn carriages, as well as their new hook and ladder trucks. The police had been called in, and scores of men in uniform advanced toward the New Iron Pier, some still pulling on their boots and buttoning their coats as they ran toward the disaster.

On the porch where they stood, Eddie and Mr. Morris could feel Surf Avenue vibrating as the first buildings at Dreamland began to fall. A scream barreled down the avenue, for fire has a voice. Eddie closed his eyes against the flashes of light in the sky. For a moment he was on the outskirts of his village, running through the forest while fire took everything that had been left behind; he was on the sidewalk of Greene Street watching beautiful young girls fall through the air, their hair and clothes aflame, in the woods watching the hermit’s shack burn, embers floating upward like fireflies. He knew the language of fire, and recognized its destroying call. There was little time to waste, for time itself would soon be devoured by the flames that were increasing at a ferocious pace, racing faster than a man could think.

Mr. Morris hurriedly unlocked the back door. It was their good fortune to enter a quiet house. Sardie was nowhere in sight. All the same, North was left behind to guard the entryway as the men hastened to the cellar. The stairs creaked under their tread, and the darkness doubled until Eddie found and lit a lantern. He thought of the moment when he’d stood in the garden of this house and gazed up to see Coralie staring back at him. He wondered if the river had carried him here, and if perhaps he was again the person he’d been before he walked away from his name and his fate.

The workers and the paid performers who lived at Dreamland were already being evacuated, rushing down Neptune Avenue, which was hardly far enough. The Lilliputians had their own fire department, with small fire trucks and hoses. Once the women and children of their community had been evacuated, the men set to work pumping streams of water on the flames that were ready to engulf the baby incubator house. Nurses in the infant house had taken six premature babies from their incubators, making sure to wrap them in damp blankets to protect them from falling sparks. Under cover of the spray of water, they raced away from the park, with each child saved.

All through the neighborhood the cries of the animals could be heard as more than eighty beasts, all of which had been located in cages only yards away from Hell Gate, were rushed into the arena. Ferrari and Bonavita and eight other trainers did their best to keep order, which was all but impossible. Mortal enemies were let in together, bears with antelopes, leopards and hyenas alongside the high-strung Shetland ponies, which had to be blindfolded so they would not panic. Only the beloved elephant, Little Hip, who nightly slept beside his trainer, Captain Andre, now at a party in Manhattan, refused to be moved to the arena, despite a chain and whip.

Flames had spread along Surf Avenue, and the enormity of the disaster was just beginning to be understood by residents and bystanders. The heat was nearly unbearable, the black sky turning bright in fits and starts, with garish shadows falling everywhere. Mr. Morris’s hired driver had taken off the moment he spied the inferno. He dared not tarry, for the rush of firemen and policemen would soon enough cordon off the area and the officials might decide to appropriate his horse and carriage to cart away survivors. The driver, who felt the need to save his own skin, apologized to the pit bull as he let Mitts out to fend for himself, certain that the stalwart nature of the breed would help the dog to survive.