She would have stayed had he asked, but he couldn't bear to be seen as an excuse for her life. She only returned once, with a man she called her husband, a man who looked around the cottage with a critical eye before inquiring about the old man's health.
Old now, only known as the old man, he sat alone at the fireside in his cottage. He and the people of the small town in which he lived were strangers to each other, not of the same generation. He was even a little afraid of them, especially the younger ones who hung out on the streets after dark, harassing passers-by. It wasn't a friendly town.
He sat alone staring into the coal fire. He used to stare at the T.V., but when his eyesight began to fail the blur of the cold blue screen lost his interest. He now preferred to spend his evenings gazing into the warmer tones of the fire. The flickering of the burning coal was almost hypnotizing. His imagination would take him back through the years to happier times.
In the flames he could see images of himself as a young man, of his wife, long dead now, and especially his daughter, whom he had loved dearly; she had cared for him until she was drawn away.
The only company he had now was his dog, a Border Collie called Jeanie, named for his distant daughter. The dog was his only companion, his only friend.
The ticking of the clock was lulling him to sleep, but he sat up with a start as it struck the hour. He looked around for Jeannie, usually asleep at his feet, then he remembered; she hadn't returned from her wanderings out back at suppertime as she normally did. He was worried; it wasn't like her. Although he didn't enjoy going out so late in the evening, he had to find her, she was almost as old and frail as he was.
It was growing dark as followed the narrow lane, calling softly in his croaky voice, whistling low, not wishing to attract attention. At the edge of town where the road led up to the common, he turned for home, disheartened, fearing the worst for Jeanie. Then he paused for a moment, hearing music on the air. As the mist lifted a little, he noticed lights in the distance. He was puzzled at first, but then he recalled. It was the feast of the saints when the travelling funfair came to town.
Perhaps Jeannie had been drawn there. He set out towards it, approaching cautiously, always wary of crowds. He squinted at the lights, prisms of colour confusing his eyes. The music was deafening. He carefully drew closer, then felt himself jostled and carried forward by the boisterous crowd: children, eyes shining with wonder, drawn by the magnetism of novelty, and adults seeking a spark of excitement in their drab lives.
The old man felt uncomfortable. Through the merriment and thrills he could sense a malevolent seam. It showed in the worn canvas and rotten wood laid bare by peeling paint. It was in the stench of bad food trodden into the mud. It lay behind the counterfeit smiles of the fairground barkers and surfaced in the glee of those taunting the desperate souls of the freak show. It was darkly hidden behind the bravado of young men who had failed to impress in feats of strength, and it was thick in the air between the town boys and the roustabouts, eyeing each other for the first sign of fear.
Meanwhile the old man searched everywhere for Jeanie. He peered between the stalls, hoping to glimpse her, his calls drowned out by the music that escalated in competition with generators starved of oil. The swirling rides were making him dizzy. The whole fairground seemed to shake and pulse like a living thing, feeding on the emotions of the crowd. The old man wanted to leave, but then he thought he spotted a familiar shape, Jeanie. It had to be Jeanie. He called and whistled as he followed, trying to keep up. First into the darkness, then into the light.
Back and forth she ran, between legs, and under trailers. He reached out almost touching her, but again and again she slipped away, making a game of it as she had as a puppy.
He soon became exhausted and found a quiet corner beneath the creaking Ferris wheel, where he could rest. The mesmerizing lights on the wheel flashed across his face as it turned slowly above him. His senses dulled as the racket of the fairground seemed to wane as time slowed.
Then something brushed against his leg, startling him. He looked down. Jeanie, he sighed with relief, then before she could run off again, he reached out slowly then quickly grabbed her, she cowered, and then whined a little as he dragged her away, away from the fairground, towards darkness and home.
Just as he reached the boundary of light a scream pierced the air. The scream of a mother. The scream that is in all mothers, "My child, where is my child?" The old man turned, confused, and puzzled by angry shouts and the sound of running feet. Too quickly to understand the commotion, he was engulfed by a wave of self-righteous hatred pouring out of the light towards him. The little girl was snatched away, while the old man fell to curses, kicks, and blows. The angry crowd receded, leaving the old man motionless on the muddy ground. Then out of the darkness a shadow crept forward, it went to the old man and licked his face, once, then lay down beside him — on the niteside.
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