The Fool

Rural Georgia, 1933

Before the beginning there was a flicker. A brief flash of flame that sparked and grew brighter as it spiraled upward into the blackness that would become the heavens. Universes bloomed and expanded, circling each other like spokes on a wheel. Whole worlds were born, layer upon layer, running parallel, mirroring each other. People and places, romances and battles all pressed together like a stack of cards or the petals of a rose. 'There was magic then, nobility, and unimaginable cruelty.' It was violent and terrible. It was bright and beautiful.

It is the the green that truly calls to him. The world has long since faded; the rich colors of past memories have dimmed. Cities, towns, people, have all become diluted, pale, and thinned out. Even the once electric leaves of the trees are wilted and covered in the fine layer of grit that blankets everything. The ground is hard and cracked beneath the soles of his boots. The green draws him in and each of his steps throw up a little puff of dust. He spirals around the bright flash of color as if he were a hawk circling in on it's prey.

A towering Ferris wheel is rising up from the horizon, flanked by rows of striped tents. The Ferris wheel is hard and gray underneath it's chipped paint. It's empty buckets sway in the soft breeze. The tents are all shades of white, yellow, and sallow orange, canvas edges ripped and fraying. Everything about the place looks rundown, used and used hard. But the wagon, the green wagon, is bright, clean and in good repair. It is painted so a bright a green that it is almost garish except that it is not; it is a relief, a place to rest the eyes. It is a lush oasis of color in a rippling sea of dirt.

Daryl Dixon pauses and takes stock, keen eyes studying the small carnival that confronts him. He has been watching it for awhile now, watching as the tents rise and workers scurry to set up gates and run coiled wires from loud trucks that serve as generators for the strings of lights that are now flickering to life. His hand comes to rest on the strap of his crossbow slung across his chest. The weight of the bow and the small knapsack hanging off his back are comforting, familiar. He chews absently at his thumbnail and watches as people start to drift in from the nearby town, parking their dusty cars in long rows. The Ferris wheel kicks into gear in front of him spinning in time to a tinny burst of music. He can hear people milling around, calling to each other, laughing and yelling. Kids are pulling their parents and siblings towards the gated entrance, tugging them underneath the towering sign that proclaims CARNIVALE. He notes absently that a few of the light bulbs on the sign have burnt out.

He hasn't ever been to one of these things before, but he remembers seeing the tents raised one summer outside of the town he had spent most of his childhood in. He remembers begging his momma to take him, pleading with his older brother to let him tag along. Merle had scoffed, ruffled his hair, called him a kid, and then pushed him back when he tried to follow after him and his older friends. His momma never even made it out of bed.

He is curious now though and that is strange in and of itself. It has been a long time since he has felt anything more than weary resignation. He's been on the move for awhile, longer than a while if he's completely honest with himself. He hasn't been truly settled since before the War, since his momma burned down their shack that passed as a house, since before his asshole of a daddy disappeared to avoid the draft and nurse a bottle.

The music from inside the gates is getting louder as the sun sinks lower. The air is thick with the smell of popcorn, burnt sugar, and the tangier smell of too many bodies pressed together. He takes a few steps forward and then hesitates. He thinks about the wagon and how he would like a closer look and he thinks about what his brother would do. Truth be told he's not used to making his own decisions. For better or for worse he has been the long grass bending and twisting in the force of Merle Dixon's storm for nearly all of his life. But Merle isn't here. Merle got hauled off by the police months ago for running booze and is now serving time breaking rocks on one chain gang or another. No these days it's just Daryl, jumping from place to place, trading work or game for a hot meal and place to sleep. He's a drifter, adrift.

Daryl sniffs and spits into the dust beneath his boots. If Merle were here he'd probably smack him upside the head and tell him to stop being such a goddamn pussy about it, make up his mind, stop wasting both of their damn time. Go in or not, it hardly fucking matters. His feet move him forward, joining the growing surge of people flowing underneath the lighted gate.

He guesses that the carnival is on the small side, no more than a smattering of concession stands, a few games, less than a dozen larger striped tents, the Ferris wheel and a creaking carousel. It's not busy, but he suspects that once night falls more people will drift in for shows that are slightly more tailored to adults. He pauses to watch a young girl scoop a floating rubber duck out of a stagnant pool of water. She flips it over and squeals with delight as the game operator hands her a small purple bear that looks like it costs much less than the nickel it costs to play the game. The kid seems happy though as she waves the bear up at her mother, a pale woman with close cropped silver hair wearing a worn cotton dress. The woman smiles and the girl smiles back and something in Daryl's heart twists just a little as the mother smooths a piece of hair off of her daughter's forward with gentle fingers. And then suddenly, in the blink of an eye the moment is broken and the girl rushes past him, knocking hard against his arm as she hurries to look at whatever has caught her eye.

"Sophia! Come back and apologize!" the mother shouts at the quickly shrinking figure of her daughter who is darting down the midway. "I'm so sorry," the woman sputters at Daryl and then scurries after her daughter.

"Ain't nothin," Daryl manages to mutter, even though he knows he won't be heard. He moves on. There are signs and hawkers everywhere. One tent promises a sword swallower, another an Asian magician named Gun Rhee Sun. Not far from him two girls with matching blonde braids are sitting on a rotating platform. Their clear voices chime together like bells, singing a song in French while they gently clap their hands against each other's. There pretty flowered dresses have been altered so that it is clear that a long stretch of skin binds their mid sections together. The banner spread above them reads 'Lizzie and Mika Authentic Siamese Twins.' He stops to watch for a moment but sees a flash of green past the next tent and moves towards it.

The wagon appears before him. 'GREENESEER is painted in flowery gold letters on it's side. White lace curtains flutter in it's open windows, but a heavier curtain obscures the entrance. An equally green sandwich board propped up outside proclaims that the 'MEDIUM' is in and that she offers tarot, palm readings, and mystic predictions for a dime. There is a small line of customers waiting outside. As he watches a younger woman steps out and whispers something into her waiting friends ear. They both collapse into giggles and traipse past him chatting happily to one another. The wagon belongs to a fortune teller then. Curiosity satisfied Daryl turns away without getting in line. He has no desire to know his future and even less of a desire to dredge up his past. He expects neither hold anything worth ruminating on for very long. He moves on heading back towards the main thoroughfare.

It is a little ironic that it is the Strong Man's tent that collapses. He hears the commotion and quickly turns, watching as the canvas folds in on itself. People scurry out of the way. He can see who he assumes to be the strong man, a large dark skinned man in a deep purple leotard, standing on the edge of the crowd. Another large man with a red moustache, an even redder pompadour, and a pronounced limp rushes from the crowd barking orders towards the slack jawed carnival workers who are watching in disbelief as the tent settles into the dust.

"Where's my daughter!?" The shrill cry echoes across the gathering onlookers. Everyone turns in unison as a woman pushes her way though the small crowd. Daryl recognizes the silver haired woman from earlier and his stomach sinks.

"Where's Sophia!? She was here! She was just here!" The woman's panic is palpable and the crowd titters nervously, all of their eyes darting to the collapsed tent.

Daryl doesn't hesitate. He drops his knapsack and bow and dives underneath the lip of the tent. The air under the canvas is already sweltering and the rough fabric is heavy on his back. He can hear shouts from outside. The big red haired man probably, organizing his workers to try to heft the tent back up. It is pitch black and all he can do is army crawl forward, groping blindly in the dark. His hand crunches down on something that shatters beneath the weight of his palm and he hisses in pain as sharp glass slices into his flesh. He keeps going. His movements are kicking up a lot of dust which clogs his nose and throat, making it hard to breath. It could be worse he thinks grimly with a shudder. It could be mud, there could be barb wire. There could be gunfire and yellow gas.

He reaches out once more and his hand closes around a small foot. The owner of the appendage whimpers and kicks out at him, but he persists and drags her towards him. "Come on girl, gonna get you out of here." There is a sob in the darkness and he somehow swings the girl onto his back and starts crawling back towards the edge of the tent. Her little arms are two tiny vices around his neck, making it even harder for him to breathe. His head swims and he's sure that if he could see anything his vision would be blurry but he manages. A few eons or seconds later they emerge from the darkness coughing and spluttering.

"Sophia!" The girl's mother rushes forward to claim her, tugging her off of Daryl's back with a joyful cry. She begins to wipe the dust, tears, and snot of the her daughter's face, her own tears tracking down her cheeks.

Daryl looks down at his hand, at the blood dripping steadily down into the dirt, and at the bright flecks of glass embedded in his palm. It doesn't really hurt but his ears are ringing and his chest feels a little too tight. Someone thumps him heartily on the back, saying job well done but he can't respond because the world is spinning, the sound of mortars echo in his ears and he can feel the squelch of mud underneath his boots. The pale blue sky revolves over him and somehow through him, slicing in him in two again and again. Onlookers are beginning to drift back towards the other tents, pale faces floating away. He swallows thickly, searching desperately for something to focus on. The world slows, grinds to a screeching halt and his eyes snag hers.

A small woman with hair the color of gold and eyes as large and luminous as the summer sky is standing in front of him. She has clearly pushed herself to the front of the dissipating crowd. She's wearing a pink silk robe embroidered with flowers and trimmed in soft white fringe over a simple cotton dress. Her arms are covered in bangles of every sort and there is a Cherokee rose tucked behind her ear. She's staring at him, eyes wide. He stares back. A fine tremor runs its way across her entire body as if she's just been zapped with a flutter of electricity. For one indescribable moment he thinks that he knows her, that he's seen her before, that he in fact knows her very well. She likes to sing. Her favorite color is yellow. She owns a knife with a handle carved of bone. For an instant the shadow of a scar blooms across the pink apple of her cheek but then he blinks and it is gone. The world starts to spin again, though thankfully not as quickly as before. Someone is still trying to talk to him. The big man with the red mustache is asking him questions, asking him if he's looking for work. He can't answer, all he can do is stare, blood dripping into the dust at his feet.

AN:

+ This story is for pancake_potch, who is awesome and helped bounce around ideas. I also gently borrowed a few ideas about parallel worlds from The Demon Moon by dynamicsymmetry, which is an amazing amazing read.

+ This story will have seven parts and unfold like a tarot reading. I'm sorry if I am slow to update. I am a slow writer :/ I will try to keep this going at a fast pace.

+ I am not abandoning All Is Violent, All Is Bright. I've just hit a bit of a wall.

+ Thanks for reading! Comments are nice!