Chapter VII: The Music Must Play

Every carnival has a sound.

Long before you see the lights or smell the sweets drifting across the midway, you hear it.

A melody carried on the autumn wind.

Sometimes cheerful. Sometimes strange. Sometimes familiar enough that you could swear you've heard it before, even though you know you haven't.

That's my contribution to our little traveling family.

I am The Organ Grinder.

And as long as the carnival is open...

the music must play.

I've carried my organ across more roads than I can remember. The machine is older than most of the wagons traveling beside it, built from dark walnut and decorated with brass pipes, ivory keys, and intricate carvings worn smooth by generations of hands.

No maker's name appears anywhere on it.

No date.

No mark.

Nothing to tell you where it came from.

I've stopped wondering.

Some things are better appreciated than understood.

When the carnival arrives in a new town, I'm usually one of the first to begin. While tents rise and lanterns are strung overhead, I turn the old iron crank and let the first melody drift across the grounds.

That's when the carnival begins to feel alive.

Boron especially loves the music.

The townsfolk come through the gates smiling, bundled against the crisp autumn air while golden leaves tumble across the midway. Children follow the melodies from one attraction to another. Couples dance when they think no one is watching. Even the oldest residents occasionally stop and listen with expressions that tell me the song has taken them somewhere else entirely.

Perhaps somewhere better.

The smells aren't bad either.

Near my usual corner of the midway, enormous pots of moonlit blueberry jam simmer beside the confectioner's wagon. Fresh pastries overflow with rich cheesecake filling, while roasted almond praline cools on copper trays beneath strings of glowing bulbs.

Blueberry.

Cream.

Warm roasted almonds.

Mix those with cool autumn air and an old carnival melody...

That's Boron in the fall.

I've grown rather fond of it.

But my organ doesn't share my sentimentality.

You see, the people of Boron believe I make the music.

They're wrong.

I merely keep the machine satisfied.

There is a small compartment beneath the keyboard that no audience member has ever seen opened. It has no decorative carvings like the rest of the organ. Just a heavy iron door and an old brass latch.

Every evening, before darkness completely settles over the midway, I unlock it.

And I feed the organ.

Organ meat.

Fresh when possible.

Heart.

Liver.

Kidney.

It isn't particularly selective.

I learned long ago not to ask why.

The first time I refused, the music changed.

The cheerful melodies slowed. The pipes groaned. Notes emerged that I had never played, low and distorted, reverberating through the wagon long after I'd stopped turning the crank.

Then something knocked from inside the cabinet.

Three times.

I fed it shortly afterward.

The happy music returned.

We've had an understanding ever since.

As long as the organ is fed before nightfall, it performs beautifully. The pipes sing. The gears turn. Children dance.

And nobody asks questions.

Tonight, Boron is especially beautiful.

The midway glows beneath thousands of warm lights. Fallen maple leaves tumble between the tents while laughter rolls through the carnival. Somewhere nearby, The Beard Master's audience erupts into applause beneath the Big Top.

I begin the final song of the evening.

The familiar melody dances from the brass pipes.

People smile as they pass.

Some hum along.

A little girl even spins in circles until her mother catches her hand and leads her toward the next attraction.

Nobody notices the faint sound beneath the music.

A scrape.

Then another.

Coming from inside the cabinet.

I glance toward the little iron door.

The brass latch trembles.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

I continue turning the crank.

Perhaps I didn't feed it enough tonight.

I'll have to correct that before tomorrow.

After all, people come to the carnival for memories.

For laughter.

For wonder.

And I intend to give Boron all three.

But the music must continue.

And the music...

must be fed.