Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

thought.
John Hargreaves considered himself a realist, illusion having
been burnt out in the desert. The laughter of the old man returned.
The desert was still an attraction. It wasn’t time yet, however. He
had to wait with the depression of the town and the unexpected
circus. He didn’t look inside for the feeling that was the desert. The
fear that it might have gone was strong. Memories, unclear and
unclean with the old man.
He went to the window and thought of a water-hole. Dusk.
Birds. A stone falling. Waves moving across the surface. He no
longer knew if it was a collage, an actual happening, or pure fantasy. It no longer mattered. The peace of it arrived before the face
A step in any direction
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returned. The shock drove him out of the room. The face moved
like an after-image of the sun on the walls of the corridor. He strode
outside and let the new sun burn his eyes. Some calm returned.
At his feet were lines drawn by a child. It was the rough face of a
clown. With the sun still in his eyes he drew a crude house, chimney
smoking. Then a lake. A child’s scene. Then people. Then laughter. The men from the bar were looking at him bending over the dirt, scratching. John Hargreaves quickly straightened, brushed
over his drawings, and left with accusing eyes on his back.
The circus was the only place to go. Perhaps now, in the day, it
would be changed.
Alongside the trucks he found animals. A lion gazed from its
cage. Next to it monkeys lay, dissipated by the heat. Sometimes
their eyes blinked. They seemed complacent being boxed. H a rgreaves wondered how much they understood of him standing before them, free. He smiled his knowledge of them to their cages,
telling them that he would remember them. The monkeys remained still. He went to the tents.
He found the old man keeping the house of mirrors. They recognised each other. In a tense moment of fear Hargreaves saw the old man smile with a gentle humour. Hargreaves moved forward holding out money. It was declined. He felt a sudden bond with the old man, this act both an apology and an acceptance for the night.
Inside he was repeated many times. At one place he saw his
image expanded down a tunnel of mirrors. Only one face, but a
multitude of edges extending beyond the light of the tent’s interior.
A thousand arms rose with his, the centipede of his legs rose with
precision. The old man’s face receded from his mind. Instead came
the memory of his entry to the town.
A line of him had come into town, each figure a separate instant
in time. He knew each step. They were like the steps in the desert.
He heard the wind and the sand grating on the bare boards of
houses. His line of images joined with memory of the town. The
combination of memories formed a complete whole that was the
experience of the town. With it, he could ignore the circus and the
trucks’ colours and the child’s scratchings in the dirt.
John Hargreaves went further. He thought of a child at his back
growing towards this instant, then on into age. He pushed harder,
trying again to make the experience real. He wanted to see the
child and the aged man at the ends.
A face, lined and scarred with age, regarded him from the
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Tim othy D ell
mirror. The shock of its smile broke the images he had made. The
old man led him out. In the light John Hargreaves put money into
the old m an’s hands. The refusal made him leave without words.
On the veranda of the hotel he could feel the wind rising. It made
the dust of the street smooth. The sight repelled him. The desert
would destroy him like this. He could not yet return to it. He felt
the hard chair on his back, saw the smooth street, heard the grating
rise with the wind. The pattern in it was stale.
At the end of the street was the desert. The track went out into it,
completely straight. The dust obscured portions of it. Several
trucks came down the street. They stopped in front of the hotel.
People came out and went in for a last drink.