Chapter 5: The Balloon Man
The WizardEvery carnival has its laughter.
Every midway has its music.
And every child...
Eventually finds their way to me.
The Balloon Man.
That's what they call me.
As if I simply twist rubber into little animals and hand them to smiling children.
If only my job were that ordinary.
People never stop to wonder why my balloons never lose their shine.
Why they float a little higher.
Why they seem almost eager to leave my hands.
They simply choose their favorite color...
Smile...
And carry them home.
I've always found that amusing.
Most people believe evil announces itself.
With sharp teeth.
Dark cloaks.
Blood upon its hands.
No.
Real darkness is patient.
It smiles.
It waves.
It asks if you'd like a balloon.
You see...
Every balloon I create holds something far older than air.
Long before the carnival ever rolled across the Lost Isles, there were things that wandered between worlds.
Nameless things.
Restless things.
Whispers that searched endlessly for a place to belong.
Most could never remain in our world for long.
They needed vessels.
Something delicate enough to carry them.
Something innocent enough that no one would question it.
A balloon.
Fragile.
Beautiful.
Weightless.
The perfect disguise.
Each one contains only the faintest fragment.
Not enough to possess.
Not enough to control.
Only enough to whisper.
To linger.
To wait.
A tiny seed of darkness carried willingly into warm homes and quiet bedrooms.
Most people never notice.
At first.
The dreams become stranger.
The shadows seem just a little longer.
A laugh echoes where no one is standing.
A door opens by itself.
A child begins speaking to someone no one else can see.
Little things.
Perfectly forgettable.
Until they aren't.
No one ever traces it back to the balloon.
Why would they?
It was a gift.
A prize.
A memory from a wonderful afternoon at the carnival.
I don't choose who takes them.
That would spoil the fun.
Every child reaches for a different color.
Every family makes its own choice.
I merely smile...
...and hand them the string.
By sunset, my stand is almost empty.
Red.
Blue.
Yellow.
Purple.
One by one, they drift away into the streets of Boron.
Each bouncing gently behind a delighted child.
The sound of laughter fills the midway.
Parents smile.
Children point excitedly toward the Big Top.
The music grows louder as the evening carries on.
It's a beautiful sight.
One of my favorites.
Because they never realize...
They're carrying more than a balloon.
I straightened the last ribbon around the only balloon left tied to my cart.
Unlike the others...
This one never found an owner.
It pulled impatiently against its string, as though it wanted to leave on its own.
I rested a gloved hand upon it and smiled.
"Not yet," I whispered.
"We have the whole season ahead of us."
Above the carnival, dozens of colorful balloons drifted lazily against the crimson autumn sky.
To everyone in Boron...
They were symbols of joy.
Only I knew...
Some celebrations have a way of following you home.
