turn you all into cheap antiques that not even tourists will buy!'
'No you're not,' said Joe, 'because you ate the magic cookie. You ate the magic farting cookie.'
The wicked witch foamed and frothed. She tried to cast her spell. But it was too late: the Farting Cookie had done its work. She felt a big fart coming on. She squeezed her butt to keep it in until she could cast her spell, but it was too late.
WHONK! went the fart. It blew all the fur off her cat, Basta. It blew in the windows. And Witch Hazel went up in the air like a rocket.
'Get me down!'' Witch Hazel screamed. Witch Hazel came down all right. She came down on her fanny. And when she came down, she let another fart.
DRRRRRRAPPP! went the fart. It was so windy it knocked down the witch's home and the Bridgton Trading Post. You could see Dom Cardozl sitting on the toilet where he had been pooping. It was all that was left of the Trading Post except for one bureau that had been made in Grand Rapids
The witch went flying up into the sky. She flew up and up until she was as small as a speck of coal dust.
'Get me down,' Witch Hazel called, sounding very small and far away.
'You'll come down all right,' Naomi said.
Down came Witch Hazel.
'Yeeeaaahhhh!' she screamed falling out of the sky.
Just before the could hit the ground and be crushed (as maybe she deserved), she cut another fart, the biggest one of all. The smell was 109
like two million egg salad sandwiches. And the sound was KA-HIONK!!!
Up she went again.
'Goodbye, Witch Hazel,' yelled Mommy waving. 'Enjoy the moon.'
'Hope you stay a long time,' called Joe.
Up and up went Witch Hazel until she was out of sight. During the news that night the Kings and the Prince of New Hampshire heard Barbara Walters report that a UFW had been seen by a 747 airplane over Bridgton. Maine – an unidentified flying witch.
And that was the end of wicked Witch Hazel. She is on the moon now, and probably still farting.
And the Kings are the happiest family in Bridgton again. They often exchange visits with the Prince of New Hampshire, who is now King.
Daddy writes books and never uses the word banana. Mommy uses her hands more than ever. And Joe and Naomi King hardly ever cry.
As for Witch Hazel, she was never seen again, and considering those terrible farts she was letting when she left, that is probably a good thing!
110
THE NIGHT OF THE TIGER
From
I first saw Mr. Legere when the circus swung through Steubenville, but I'd only been with the show for two weeks; he might have been making his irregular visits indefinitely. No one much wanted to talk about Mr.
Legere, not even that last night when it seemed that the world was coming to an end – the night that Mr. Indrasil disappeared.
But if I'm going to tell it to you from the beginning, I should start by saying that I'm Eddie Johnston, and I was born and raised in Sauk City.
Went to school there, had my first girl there, and worked in Mr. Lillie's five-and-dime there for a while after I graduated from high school. That was a few years back...more than I like to count, sometimes. Not that Sauk City's such a bad place; hot, lazy summer nights sitting on the front porch is all right for some folks, but it just seemed to itch me, like sitting in the same chair too long. So I quit the five-and-dime and joined Farnum & Williams' All- American 3-Ring Circus and Side Show. I did it in a moment of giddiness when the calliope music kind of fogged my judgment, I guess.
So I became a roustabout, helping put up tents and take them down, spreading sawdust, cleaning cages, and sometimes selling cotton candy when the regular salesman had to go away and bark for Chips Bailey, who had malaria and sometimes had to go someplace far away, and holler. Mostly things that kids do for free passes – things I used to do when I was a kid.
But times change. They don't seem to come around like they used to.
We swung through Illinois and Indiana that hot summer, and the crowds were good and everyone was happy. Everyone except Mr. Indrasil. Mr.
Indrasil was never happy. He was the lion tamer, and he looked like old pictures I've seen of Rudolph Valentino. He was tall, with handsome, arrogant features and a shock of wild black hair. And strange, mad eyes
– the maddest eyes I've ever seen. He was silent most of the time; two syllables from Mr. Indrasil was a sermon. All the circus people kept a mental as well as a physical distance, because his rages were legend.
There was a whispered story about coffee spilled on his hands after a particularly difficult performance and a murder that was almost done to a young roustabout before Mr. Indrasil could be hauled off him. I don't know about that. I do know that I grew to fear him worse than I had cold-eyed Mr. Edmont, my high school principal, Mr. Lillie, or even my 111
father, who was capable of cold dressing-downs that would leave the recipient quivering with shame and dismay.
When I cleaned the big cats' cages, they were always spotless. The memory of the few times I had the vituperative wrath of Mr. Indrasil called down on me still have the power to turn my knees watery in retrospect.
Mostly it was his eyes – large and dark and totally blank. The eyes, and the feeling that a man capable of
