Something Wicked This Way Comes (Green Town 2)

"Down," he said again.

And they were carried through the brass forest of wild but uncomplaining brutes and set in the dust.

"We were--" said Will.

"Curious?" This second man was tall as a lamp post. His pale face, lunar pockmarks denting it, cast light on those who stood below. His vest was the color of fresh blood. His eyebrows, his hair, his suit were licorice black, and the sun-yellow gem which stared from the tie pin thrust in his cravat was the same unblinking shade and bright crystal as his eyes. But in this instant, swiftly, and with utter clearness, it was the suit which fascinated Will. For it seemed woven of boar-bramble, clock-spring hair, bristle, and a sort of ever-trembling, ever-glistening dark hemp. The suit caught light and stirred like a bed of black tweed-thorns, interminably itching, covering the man's long body with motion so it seemed he should excruciate, cry out, and tear the clothes free. Yet here he stood, moon-calm, inhabiting his itch-weed suit and watching Jim's mouth with his yellow eyes. He never looked once at Will.

"The name is Dark."

He flourished a white calling card. It turned blue.

Whisper. Red.

Whisk. A green man dangled from a tree stamped on the card.

Flit. Shh.

"Dark. And my friend with the red hair there is Mr. Cooger. Of Cooger and Dark's ..."

Flip-flick-shhh.

Names appeared, disappeared on the white square:

"... Combined Shadow Shows ..."

Tick-wash.

A mushroom-witch stirred moidering herb pots.

"... and cross-continental Pandemonium Theater Company ..."

He handed the card to Jim. It now read:

Our specialty: to examine, oil, polish, and repair Death-Watch Beetles.

Calmly, Jim read it. Calmly, Jim put a fist into his copious and richly treasured pockets, rummaged, and held out his hand.

On his palm lay a dead brown insect.

"Here," Jim said. "Fix /Aw."

Mr. Dark exploded his laugh. "Superb! I will!" He extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.

Bright purple, black, green and lightning-blue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.

"Boy!" cried Will. "You must be the Tattooed Man!"

"No." Jim studied the stranger. "The Illustrated Man. There's a difference."

Mr. Dark nodded, pleased. "What's your name, boy?"

Don't tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?

Jim's lips hardly twitched.

"Simon," he said.

He smiled to show it was a lie.