The Jar Read online

  The Jar

  Рэй Брэдбери

  Рассказ вошёл в сборники:

  Dark Carnival (Тёмный карнавал)

  The October Country (Октябрьская страна)

  The Stories of Ray Bradbury (И грянул гром: 100 рассказов)

  Ray Bradbury

  The Jar

  It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat.

  Charlie stared back at it for a long time.

  A long time, his big, raw hands, hairy on the roofs of them, clenching the rope that kept back curious people. He had paid his dime and now he stared.

  It was getting late. The merry-go-round drowsed down to a lazy mechanical tinkle. Tent-peggers back of a canvas smoked and cursed over a poker game. Lights switched out, putting a summer gloom over the carnival. People streamed homeward in cliques and queues. Somewhere, a radio flared up, then cut, leaving Louisiana sky wide and silent with stars.

  There was nothing in the world for Charlie but that pale thing sealed in its universe of serum. Charlie's loose mouth hung open in a pink weal, teeth showing; his eyes were puzzled, admiring, wondering.

  Someone walked in the shadows behind him, small beside Charlie's gaunt tallness. «Oh,» said the shadow, coming into the light-bulb glare. «You still here, bud?»

  «Yeah,» said Charlie, like a man in his sleep.

  The carny-boss appreciated Charlie's curiosity. He nodded at his old acquaintance in the jar. «Everybody likes it; in a peculiar kinda way, I mean.»

  Charlie rubbed his long jaw-bone. «You-uh-ever consider selling it?»

  The carny-boss's eyes dilated, then closed. He snorted. «Naw. It brings customers. They like seeing stuff like that. Sure.»

  Charlie made a disappointed, «Oh.»

  «Well,» considered the carny-boss, «if a guy had money, maybe―»

  «How much money?»

  «If a guy had―» the carny-boss estimated, counting fingers, watching Charlie as he tacked it out one finger after another. «If a guy had three, four, say, maybe seven or eight―»

  Charlie nodded with each motion, expectantly. Seeing this, the carny-boss raised his total, «-maybe ten dollars or maybe fifteen―»

  Charlie scowled, worried. The carny_boss retreated. «Say a guy has _twelve_ dollars―» Charlie grinned. «Why he could buy that thing in that jar,» concluded the carny-boss.

  «Funny thing,» said Charlie, «I got just twelve bucks in my denims. And I been reckoning how looked-up-to I'd be back down at Wilder's Hollow if I brung home something like this to set on my shelf over the table. The folks would sure look up to me then, I bet.»

  «_Well_, now, listen here―» said the carny-boss.

  The sale was completed with the jar put on the back seat of Charlie's wagon. The horse skittered his hoofs when he saw the jar, and whinnied.

  The carny-boss glanced up with an expression of, almost, relief. «I was tired of seeing that damn thing around, anyway. Don't thank me. Lately I been thinking things about it, funny things-but, hell, I'm a big-mouthed so-and-so. S'long, farmer!»

  Charlie drove off. The naked blue light bulbs withdrew like dying stars, the open, dark country night of Louisiana swept in around wagon and horse. There was just Charlie, the horse timing his gray hoofs, and the crickets.

  And the jar behind the high seat.

  It sloshed back and forth, back and forth. Sloshed wet. And the cold gray thing drowsily slumped against the glass, looking out, looking out, but seeing nothing, nothing.

  Charlie leaned back to pet the lid. Smelling of strange liquor his hand returned, changed and cold and trembling, excited. _Yes, sir!_ he thought to himself, _Yes, sir!_

  Slosh, slosh, slosh…

  In the Hollow, numerous grass-green and blood-red lanterns tossed dusty light over men huddled, murmuring, spitting, sitting on General Store property.

  They knew the creak-bumble of Charlie's wagon and did not shift their raw, drab-haired skulls as he rocked to a halt. Their cigars were glowworms, their voices were frog mutterings on summer nights.

  Charlie leaned down eagerly. «Hi, Clem! Hi, Milt!»

  «Lo, Charlie. Lo, Charlie,» they murmured. The political conflict continued. Charlie cut it down the seam:

  «I got somethin' here. I got somethin' you might wanna see!»

  Tom Carmody's eyes glinted, green in the lamplight, from the General Store porch. It seemed to Charlie that Tom Carmody was forever installed under porches in shadow, or under trees in shadow, or if in a room, then in the farthest niche shining his eyes out at you from the dark. You never knew what his face was doing, and his eyes were always funning you. And every time they looked at you they laughed a different way.

  «You ain't got nothin' we wants to see, baby-doll.»

  Charlie made a fist and looked at it. «Somethin' in a jar,» he went on. «Looks kine a like a brain, kine a like a pickled jellyfish, kine a like-well, come see yourself!»

  Someone snicked a cigar into a fall of pink ash and ambled over to look. Charlie grandly elevated the jar lid, and in the uncertain lantern light the man's face changed. «Hey, now, what in hell _is_ this-?»

  It was the first thaw of the evening. Others shifted lazily upright, leaned forward; gravity pulled them into walking. They made no effort, except to put one shoe before the other to keep from collapsing upon their unusual faces. They circled the jar and contents. And Charlie, for the first time in his life, seized on some hidden strategy and crashed the glass lid shut.

  «You want to see more, drop aroun' my house! It'll be there,» he declared, generously.

  Tom Carmody spat from out his porch eyrie. «Ha!»

  «Lemme see that again!» cried Gramps Medknowe. «Is it a octopus?»

  Charlie flapped the reins; the horse stumbled into action.

  «Come on aroun'! You're welcome!»

  «What'll your wife say?»

  «She'll kick the tar off'n our heels!»

  But Charlie and wagon were gone over the hill. The men stood, all of them, chewing their tongues, squinting up the road in the dark. Tom Carmody swore softly from the porch…

  Charlie climbed the steps of his shack and carried the jar to its throne in the living room, thinking that from now on this lean-to would be a palace, with an «emperor»-that was the word! «emperor»-all cold and white and quiet drifting in his private pool, raised, elevated upon a shelf over a ramshackle table.

  The jar, as he watched, burnt off the cold mist that hung over this place on the rim of the swamp.

  «What you got there?»

  Thedy's thin soprano turned him from his awe. She stood in the bedroom door glaring out, her thin body clothed in faded blue gingham, her hair drawn to a drab knot behind red ears. Her eyes were faded like the gingham. «Well,» she repeated. «What is it?»

  «What's it look like to you, Thedy?»

  She took a thin step forward, making a slow, indolent pendulum of hips, her eyes intent upon the jar, her lips drawn back to show feline milk teeth.

  The dead pale thing hung in its serum.

  Thedy snapped a dull-blue glance at Charlie, then back to the jar, once more at Charlie, once more to the jar, then she whirled quickly.

  «It-it looks-looks just like _you_, Charlie!» she cried.

  The bedroom door slammed.

  The reverberation did
not disturb the jar's contents. But Charlie stood there, longing after his wife, heart pounding frantically. Much later, when his heart slowed, he talked to the thing in the jar.

  «I work the bottom land to the butt-bone every year, and she grabs the money and runs off down home visitin' her folks nine weeks at a stretch. I can't keep hold of her. Her and the men from the store, they make fun of me. I can't help it if I don't know a way to hold onto her! Damn, but I _try!_»

  Philosophically, the contents of the jar gave no advice.

  «Charlie?»

  Someone stood in the front-yard door.

  Charlie turned, startled, then broke out a grin.

  It was some of the men from the General Store.

  «Uh―Charlie―we―we thought―well―we came up to have a look at that―stuff―you got in that there jar―»

  July passed warm and it was August.

  For the first time in years, Charlie was happy as tall corn growing after a drought. It was gratifying of an evening to hear boots shushing through the tall grass, the sound of men spitting into the ditch prior to setting foot on the porch, the sound of heavy bodies creaking the boards, and the groan of the house as yet another shoulder leaned against its frame door and another voice said, as a hairy wrist wiped a mouth clean:

  «Kin I come in?»

  With elaborate casualness, Charlie'd invite the arrivals in. There'd be chairs, soapboxes for all, or at least carpets to squat on. And by the time crickets were itching their legs into a summertime humming and frogs were throat-swollen like ladies with goiters shouting in the great night, the room would be full to bursting with people from all the bottom lands.

  At first nobody would say anything. The first half-hour of such an evening, while people came in and got settled, was spent in carefully rolling cigarettes. Putting tobacco neatly into the rut of brown paper, loading it, tamping it, as they loaded and tamped and rolled their thoughts and fears and amazement for the evening. It gave them time to think. You could see their brains working behind their eyes as they fingered the cigarettes into smoking order.

  It was kind of a rude church gathering. They sat, squatted, leaned on plaster walls, and one by one, with reverent awe, they stared at the jar upon its shelf.

  They wouldn't stare sudden-like. No, they kind of did it slow, casual, as if they were glancing around the room-letting their eyes fumble over just any old object that happened into their consciousness.

  And-just by accident, of course-the focus of their wandering eyes would occur always at the same place. After a while all eyes in the room would be fastened to it, like pins stuck in some incredible pincushion. And the only sound would be someone sucking a corncob. Or the children's barefooted scurry on the porch planks outside. Maybe some woman's voice would come, «You kids git away, now! Git!» And with a giggle like soft, quick water, the bare feet would rush off to scare the bullfrogs.

  Charlie would be up front, naturally, on his rocking chair, a plaid pillow under his lean rump, rocking slow, enjoying the fame and looked-up-to-ness that came with keeping the jar.

  Thedy, she'd be seen way back of the room with the womenfolk in a bunch, all gray and quiet, abiding their men.

  Thedy looked like she was ripe for jealous screaming. But she said nothing, just watched men tromp into her living room and sit at the feet of Charlie, staring at this here Holy Grail-like thing, and her lips were set cold and hard and she spoke not a civil word to anybody.

  After a period of proper silence, someone, maybe old Gramps Medknowe from Crick Road, would clear the phlegm from a deep cave somewhere inside himself, lean forward, blinking, wet his lips, maybe, and there'd be a curious tremble in his calloused fingers.

  This would cue everyone to get ready for the talking to come. Ears were primed. People settled like sows in the warm mud after a rain.

  Gramps looked a long while, measured his lips with a lizard tongue, then settled back and said, like always, in a high, thin oldman's tenor:

  «Wonder what it is? Wonder if it's a he or a she or just a plain old _it?_ Sometimes I wake up nights, twist on my corn-matting, think about that jar settin' here in the long dark. Think about it hangin' in liquid, peaceful and pale like an animal oyster. Sometimes I wake Maw and we both think on it…»

  While talking, Gramps moved his fingers in a quavering pantomime. Everybody watched his thick thumb weave, and the other heavy-nailed fingers undulate.

  «… we both lay there, thinkin'. And we shivers. Maybe a hot night, trees sweatin', mosquitoes too hot to fly, but we shivers jest the same, and turn over, trying to sleep…»

  Gramps lapsed back into silence, as if his speech was enough from him, let some other voice talk the wonder, awe, and strangeness.

  Juke Marmer, from Willow Sump, wiped sweat off his palms on the round of his knees and softly said:

  «I remember when I was a runnel-nosed kid. We had a cat who was all the time makin' kittens. Lordamighty, she'd a litter any time she jumped around and skipped a fence―» Juke spoke in a kind of holy softness, benevolent. «Well, we give the kittens away, but when this one particular litter busted out, everybody within walkin' distance had one-two our cats by gift, already.

  «So Ma busied on the back porch with a big two-gallon glass jar, fillin' it to the top with water. Ma said, „Juke, you drown them kittens!“ I 'member I stood there; the kittens mewed, runnin' 'round, blind, small, helpless, and funny―just beginnin' to get their eyes open. I looked at Ma, I said, „Not me, Ma! _You_ do it!“ But Ma turned pale and said it had to be done and I was the only one handy. And she went off to stir gravy and fix chicken. I―I picked up one―kitten. I held it. It was warm. It made a mewin' sound, I felt like runnin' away, not ever comin' back.»

  Juke nodded his head now, eyes bright, young, seeing into the past, making it new, shaping it with words, smoothing it with his tongue.

  «I dropped the kitten in the water. The kitten closed his eyes, opened his mouth, tryin' for air. I 'member how the little white fangs showed, the pink tongue came out, and bubbles with it, in a line to the top of the water!

  «I know to this day the way that kitten floated after it was all over, driftin' aroun', slow and not worryin', lookin' out at me, not condemnin' me for what I done. But not likin' me, neither. Ahhhh…»

  Hearts jumped quick. Eyes swiveled from Juke to the shelved jar, back down, up again apprehensively.

  A pause.

  Jahdoo, the black man from Heron Swamp, tossed his ivory eyeballs, like a dusky juggler, in his head. His dark knuckles knotted and flexed-grasshoppers alive.

  «You know what that is? You know, you _know?_ I tells you. That be the center of Life, sure 'nuff! Lord believe me, it so!»

  Swaying in a tree-like rhythm, Jahdoo was blown by a swamp wind no one could see, hear or feel, save himself. His eyeballs went around again, as if cut free to wander. His voice needled a dark thread pattern, picking up each person by the lobes of their ears and sewing them into one unbreathing design:

  «From that, lyin' back in the Middibamboo Sump, all sort o' thing crawl. It put out hand, it put out feet, it put out tongue an' horn an' it grow. Little bitty amoeba, perhap. Then a frog with a bulgethroat fit ta bust! Yah!» He cracked knuckles. «It slobber on up to its gummy joints and it-it AM HUMAN! That am the center of creation! That am Middibamboo Mama, from which we all come ten thousand year ago. Believe it!»

  «Ten thousand year ago!» whispered Granny Carnation.

  «It am old! Looky it! It donn worra no more. It know betta. It hang like pork chop in fryin' fat. It got eye to see with, but it donn blink 'em, they donn look fretted, does they? No, man! It know betta. It know that we done come from it, and we is goin' back to it.»

  «What color eyes it got?»

  «Gray.»

  «Naw, _green!_»

  «What color hair? Brown?»

  «Black!»

  «Red!»

  «No, _gray!_»

  Then Charlie would give his drawling opinion. Some nights he'd s
ay the same thing, some nights not. It didn't matter. When you said the same thing night after night in the deep summer, it always sounded different. The crickets changed it. The frogs changed it. The thing in the jar changed it. Charlie said:

  «What if an old man went back into the swamp, or maybe a young kid, and wandered aroun' for years and years lost in all that drippin', on the trails and gullies, in them old wet ravines in the nights, skin a turnin' pale, and makin' cold and shrivelin' up. Bein' away from the sun he'd keep witherin' away up and up and finally sink into a muck-hole and lay in a kind of-scum-like the maggot 'skeeters sleepin' in sump-water. Why, why―for all we can tell, this might be someone we _know!_ Someone we passed words with once on a time. For all we know―»

  A hissing from among the womenfolk back in the shadow. One woman standing, eyes shining black, fumbled for words. Her name was Mrs. Tridden, and she murmured:

  «Lots of little kids run stark naked to the swamp ever' year. They runs around and never comes back. I almost got lost maseif. I―I lost my little boy, Foley, that way. You―you DON'T SUPPOSE!!!»

  Breath was snatched through nostrils, constricted, tightened. Mouths turned down at corners, bent by hard, clinching muscle. Heads turned on celery-stalk necks, and eyes read her horror and hope. It was in Mrs. Tridden's body, wire-taut, holding to the wall back of her with straight fingers stiff.

  «My baby,» she whispered. She breathed it out. «My baby. My Foley. Foley! Foley, is that you? Foley! Foley, tell me, baby, is that YOU!»

  Everybody held their breath, turning to see the jar.

  The thing in the jar said nothing. It just stared blind-white out upon the multitude. And deep in rawboned bodies a secret fear juice ran like a spring thaw, and their resolute calmness and belief and easy humbleness was gnawed and eaten by that juice and melted away in a torrent! Someone screamed.

  «It moved!»

  «No, no, it didn' move. Just your eyes playin' tricks!»

  «Hones' ta God!» cried Juke. «I saw it shift slow like a dead kitten!»