Something Wicked This Way Comes

First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys,

full of cold winds, long nights, dark promises.

Days get short. The shadows lengthen.

The wind warms in such a way,

you want to run forever through the fields,

because up ahead,

ten thousand pumpkins lie waiting to be cut.

It was the October of my 12th year

when the seller of lightning rods

came along the road toward Green Town, Illinois,

sneaking glances over his shoulder.

Somewhere not far back was a terrible storm.

Even now, on those special Autumn days,

when the air smells like smoke,

and the twilights are orange and ash gray,

my mind goes back to Green Town,

the place where I grew up.

In my memory, I'm back on main street again,

among the neighbors who gave me my first glimpses

into the fearful needs of the human heart.

The cigar store was owned by Mr. Tetley,

a man obsessed with money.

Morning, Mr. Crosetti.

Mr. Crosetti, our barber, cut my hair a thousand times,

always talking about faraway ladies he would never know.

I remember Ed the barman,

yesterday's football hero.

Still haunted by 40-yard runs down the dark fields of his dreams.

Our teacher was Miss Foley.

We couldn't believe it, but folks said that once, before we were even born,

she had been the most beautiful woman in town.

And of course, I can still see Jim Nightshade,

my best friend, my blood brother, my shadow.

- Finished? - Yes, Miss Foley.

- Then you may leave. - Thank you, Miss Foley.

Quietly.

And let this be a lesson to both of you,

I will not have whispering.

- Never. - Of course I can. I'm older.

You're not older. We were born on the same night.

Yeah, I was born one minute to midnight and you were born one minute after.

- You see? - I won't always be younger than you.

- Hey, Mr. Crosetti. - Hello, boys.

Hello, Mr. Tetley.

Oh, now, don't be messin' up my work. All right, come on, I'll race ya.

Hellfire storm's a-comin'.

An electric storm to clean your streets and wash away your troubles.

- So buy one of these lightning rods... - Tie!

Some folks need special protection.

I can sniff out which of your old homes is in danger.

Some folks draw lightning to 'em as a cat sucks in a baby's breath.

But I suppose that this is really the story of my father,

and that strange, leaf-whispery Autumn,

when his heart was suddenly too old and too tired,

and too full of yearning and regrets,

and he didn't know what to do about it.

- Hello, son. - You saw me.

What can I find you that'll keep you awake all night?

Let's see, Travelers to the North Pole? Wild West? Zane Grey?

- I don't think so, dad. - Well, I thought all boys liked adventure.

- I don't know. Do all fathers? - Mine sure does.

He's in Africa right now. The Gold Coast of Africa.

But he's coming back real soon, and he's bringing me a present.

He's bringing me a parrot. The letter said a green-and-yellow one.

And a native spear, and a war drum, and a necklace made of human teeth.

Oh, yes, and a shrunken head.

- Have you ever seen a shrunken head? - Only yours.

Shh, boys. Now, young Jim Nightshade, what can I find you?

Something from the Arabian Nights, now, full of magicians and monsters? No?

Let's see. Drums of Doom? The Saga of the Thunder Lizards?

No thanks, Mr. Halloway. Something about headhunters.

They're my father's friends right now.

Look, who are you fooling? Your father doesn't ever write.

That's better than a father who's afraid...

My father's not afraid of anything.

He's just a bit old, that's all.

- That doesn't mean he's afraid. - Doesn't it?

Anyway, my father's here.

Yours isn't coming back, is he? Not ever.

One day. You'll see.

Shh, listen. Can you hear?

- What is it? - Listen. Why don't you ever listen?

- I am. - Like music.

I don't hear no music. It must be that old wind again.

- Oh, do you live hereabouts, boys? - These are our houses.

One of which, as I listen to it,

has murmuring timbers.

Can't you hear it? Who tells ya?

Tom fury tells ya.

- Your house is in need of protection. - Which house?

- This one. - It's his house.

- Now, your names, gentlemen? - Will Halloway.

- Jim Nightshade. - Well, Mr. Nightshade, sir.

You just go right in and tell your father

that Mr. Tom fury of the lightning rods

presents his compliments,

and your house is in very urgent need of protection.

- All right, I'll tell my father that. - Jim!

You want to say something, Will Halloway?

Will, what kept you so late? Your supper's ready.

Coming, mom.

- Later. - Yeah.

Jim? Is that you, Jim?

Yes, mom.

Darling, can you get yourself something to eat out of the icebox?

There's a ham in there, and some peanut butter.

Mother's just all tired out, darling.

Jim, what are you doing? Cat got your tongue?

- Oh, we're buying a lightning rod, mom. - Don't make jokes, please.

- Well, my father said yes. - Well done.

Now, which one will you have? This one's got old Chinese hen tracks on her.

- A rod invented to catch... - I'll have this one,

with the beetles on there, like an Egyptian scarab.

Good boy. Once the lightning rod on the pyramids of Egypt.

Trained for 3,000 years to pitch the lightning back to the high heavens.

And it's yours for...

How much you got there, boy?

- It's yours. - Thank you.

You're welcome, Mr. Nightshade, sir.

"Eight, seven, zero,"

which surely has to be lucky.

Do you ever play the numbers, Mr. Halloway?

Me? No. Never take risks.

Well, you should, sir. One day I'm gonna win that $100,000 number.

And it won't be ten-cent cigars for us then, Mr. Halloway.

It'll be the big, imported Havana specials,

rolled on the plump, smooth thighs of Cuban ladies.

Mr. Halloway.

- You can't smell it, can you? - Smell what?

Powder. Lady's powder and perfume.

The sweet smell of rustling petticoats.

Smells to me like we're going to have visitors.

Elegant visitors. Beautiful ladies.

You'll have to make do with the ladies you've got here, Mr. Crosetti.

We don't get any visitors in this town. Not in October.

Or any other time of the year, come to that.

Do you know what you need, Mr. Halloway?

A touch of Crosetti's color restorer.

Make you feel years younger.

I wish it were that easy.

Oh, doc, did you see what Northwestern did last week?

Northwestern, 20 seconds to go,

they got the ball, he fades back for a pass.

Touchdown. Wins by two!

- Ed, doc. - Charlie.

Do you have any idea what Northwestern's gonna do this week?

Now, you remember your heart. Just one drink and one cigar.

Oh, come on now. You know what they're gonna do?

They're gonna kill 'em. That's what they're gonna do.

Boy, I tell ya, I wish I was out there to run, to throw, tackle...

Touchdowns. There's nothing like it, to smell that grass, to run...

Ed.

- Boy, ain't you somethin'. - Always was, always was.

- To your health, doc. - Wait a minute. To Northwestern.

Northwestern.

Jim!

Jim.

Jim, why don't you ever answer?

I've got half a mind to throw this darn thing away.

- And get yourself burned? - Yeah.

Hey, look. A carnival.

Saturday 24th. Why, that's tomorrow.

Pretty big wind blowin' today, huh, Will, boy?

One of the stone lions blew off the library steps.

Prowlin' around town now.

Lookin' for some juicy, tender young Christian to eat, I don't wonder.

You got something there, dad?

Huh?

No.

You seem sad tonight, huh?

Oh, it's Will.

He makes me feel so darn old.

A man should be able to play baseball with his son.

Baseball is not necessary.

Not with a heart like yours.

He'll forgive you that, hm?

Hm.

Maybe so.

You know...

I feel restless.

Must be a storm comin'.

Dad?

Will!

Will, the carnival's come. The carnival's come!

- In the middle of the night? - Hell, yes. Come on!

- But how could... - Come on!

Jim, don't.

Well, what is it, son?

Can't sleep?

Oh, well.

Me neither.

I thought I heard a train.

Couldn't be, though. Not this time of night.

No, it couldn't have been.

Couldn't be a carnival, could it?

Not in October.

I mean, you never saw no scraps of paper, did you? Not about any carnival comin'.

Three o'clock.

They call it "the soul's midnight".

- Do they? Why? - I don't know.