"It won't last forever," said Wednesday. "Nothing does."
More corridors, more musical machines. Shadow became aware that they were not following the path through the rooms intended for tourists, but seemed to be following a different route of Wednesday's own devising. They were going down a slope, and Shadow, confused, wondered if they had already been that way.
Czernobog grasped Shadow's arm. "Quickly, come here," he said, pulling him over to a large glass box by a wall. It contained a diorama of a tramp asleep in a churchyard in front of a church door. THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM, said the label, explaining that it was a nineteenth-century penny-in-the-slot machine, originally from an English railway station. The coin slot had been modified to take the brass House on the Rock coins.
"Put in the money," said Czernobog.
"Why?" asked Shadow.
"You must see. I show you."
Shadow inserted his coin. The drunk in the graveyard raised his bottle to his lips. One of the gravestones flipped over, revealing a grasping corpse; a headstone turned around, flowers replaced by a grinning skull. A wraith appeared on the right of the church, while on the left of the church something with a half-glimpsed, pointed, unsettlingly birdlike face, a pale, Boschian nightmare, glided smoothly from a headstone into the shadows and was gone. Then the church door opened, a priest came out, and the ghosts, haunts, and corpses vanished, and only the priest and the drunk were left alone in the graveyard. The priest looked down at the drunk disdainfully, and backed through the open door, which closed behind him, leaving the drunk on his own.
The clockwork story was deeply unsettling. Much more unsettling, thought Shadow, than clockwork has any right to be.
"You know why I show that to you?" asked Czernobog.
"No."
"That is the world as it is. That is the real world. It is there, in that box."
They wandered through a blood-colored room filled with old theatrical organs, huge organ pipes, and what appeared to be enormous copper brewing vats, liberated from a brewery.
"Where are we going?" asked Shadow.
"The carousel," said Czernobog.
"But we've passed signs to the carousel a dozen times already."
"He goes his way. We travel a spiral. The quickest way is sometimes the longest."
Shadow's feet were beginning to hurt, and he found this sentiment to be extremely unlikely.
A mechanical machine played "Octopus's Garden" in a room that went up for many stories, the center of which was filled entirely with a replica of a great black whalelike beast, with a life-sized replica of a boat in its vast fiberglass mouth. They passed on from there to a Travel Hall, where they saw the car covered with tiles and the functioning Rube Goldberg chicken device and the rusting Burma Shave ads on the wall.
Life is Hard
It's Toil and Trouble
Keep your Jawline
Free from Stubble
Burma Shave
read one, and
He undertook to overtake
The road was on a bend
From now on the Undertaker
Is his only friend
Burma Shave
and they were at the bottom of a ramp now, with an ice-cream shop in front of them. It was nominally open, but the girl washing down the surfaces had a closed look on her face, so they walked past it into the pizzeria-cafeteria, empty but for an elderly black man wearing a bright checked suit and canary-yellow gloves. He was a small man, the kind of little old man who looked as if the passing of the years had shrunk him, eating an enormous, many-scooped ice-cream sundae, drinking a supersized mug of coffee. A black cigarillo was burning in the ashtray in front of him.
"Three coffees," said Wednesday to Shadow. He went to the rest room.
Shadow bought the coffees and took them over to Czernobog, who was sitting with the old black man and was smoking a cigarette surreptitiously, as if he were scared of being caught. The other man, happily toying with his sundae, mostly ignored his cigarillo, but as Shadow approached he picked it up, inhaled deeply, and blew two smoke rings-first one large one, then another, smaller one, which passed neatly through the first-and he grinned, as if he were astonishingly pleased with himself.
"Shadow, this is Mister Nancy," said Czernobog.
The old man got to his feet and thrust out his yellow-gloved right hand. "Good to meet you," he said with a dazzling smile. "I know who you must be. You're workin' for the old one-eye bastard, aren't you?" There was a faint twang in his voice, a hint of a patois that might have been West Indian.
"I work for Mister Wednesday," said Shadow. "Yes. Please, sit down."
Czernobog inhaled on his cigarette.
"I think," he pronounced, gloomily, "that our kind, we like the cigarettes so much because they remind us of the offerings that once they burned for us, the smoke rising up as they sought our approval or our favor."
"They never gave me nothin' like that," said Nancy. "Best I could hope for was a pile of fruit to eat, maybe curried goat, something slow and cold and tall to drink, and a big old high-titty woman to keep me company." He grinned white teeth, and winked at Shadow.
"These days," said Czernobog, his expression unchanged, "we have nothing."
"Well, I don't get anywhere near as much fruit as I used to," said Mr. Nancy, his eyes shining. "But there still ain't nothin' out there in the world for my money that can beat a big old high-titty woman. Some folk you talk to, they say it's the booty you got to inspect at first, but I'm here to tell you that it's the titties that still crank my engine on a cold mornin'." Nancy began to laugh, a wheezing, rattling, good-natured laugh, and Shadow found himself liking the old man despite himself.
Wednesday returned from the rest room, and shook hands with Nancy. "Shadow, you want something to eat? A slice of pizza? Or a sandwich?"
"I'm not hungry," said Shadow.
"Let me tell you somethin'," said Mr. Nancy. "It can be a long time between meals. Someone offers you food, you say yes. I'm no longer young as I was, but I can tell you this, you never say no to the opportunity to piss, to eat, or to get half an hour's shut-eye. You follow me?"
"Yes. But I'm really not hungry."
"You're a big one," said Nancy, staring into Shadow's light gray eyes with old eyes the color of mahogany, "a tall drink of water, but I got to tell you, you don't look too bright. I got a son, stupid as a man who bought his stupid at a two-for-one sale, and you remind me of him."
"If you don't mind, I'll take that as a compliment," said Shadow.
"Being called dumb as a man who slept late the mornin' they handed out brains?"
"Being compared to a member of your family."
Mr. Nancy stubbed out his cigarillo, then he flicked an imaginary speck of ash off his yellow gloves. "You may not be the worst choice old One-Eye could have made, come to that." He looked up at Wednesday. "You got any idea how many of us there's goin' to be here tonight?"
"I sent the message out to everyone I could find," said Wednesday. "Obviously not everyone is going to be able to come. And some of them," with a pointed look at Czernobog, "might not want to. But I think we can confidently expect several dozen of us. And the word will travel."
They made their way past a display of suits of armor ("Victorian fake," pronounced Wednesday as they passed the glassed-in display, "modern fake, twelfth-century helm on a seventeenth-century reproduction, fifteenth-century left gauntlet…") and then Wednesday pushed through an exit door, circled them around the outside of the building ("I can't be doin' with all these ins and outs," said Nancy, "I'm not as young as I used to be, and I come from warmer climes") along a covered walkway, in through another exit door, and they were in the carousel room.
Calliope music played: a Strauss waltz, stirring and occasionally discordant. The wall as they entered was hung with antique carousel horses, hundreds of them, some in need of a lick of paint, others in need of a good dusting; above them hung dozens of winged angels constructed rather obviously from female store-window mannequins; some of them bared their sexless br**sts; some had lost their wigs and stared baldly and blindly down from the darkness.
And then there was the carousel.
A sign proclaimed it was the largest in the world, said how much it weighed, how many thousand lightbulbs were to be found in the chandeliers that hung from it in Gothic profusion, and forbade anyone from climbing on it or from riding on the animals.
And such animals! Shadow stared, impressed in spite of himself, at the hundreds of full-sized creatures who circled on the platform of the carousel. Real creatures, imaginary creatures, and transformations of the two: each creature was different. He saw mermaid and merman, centaur and unicorn, elephants (one huge, one tiny), bulldog, frog and phoenix, zebra, tiger, manticore and basilisk, swans pulling a carriage, a white ox, a fox, twin walruses, even a sea serpent, all of them brightly colored and more than real: each rode the platform as the waltz came to an end and a new waltz began. The carousel did not even slow down.
"What's it for?" asked Shadow. "I mean, okay, world's biggest, hundreds of animals, thousands of lightbulbs, and it goes around all the time, and no one ever rides it."
"It's not there to be ridden, not by people," said Wednesday. "It's there to be admired. It's there to be."
"Like a prayer wheel goin' around and round," said Mr. Nancy. "Accumulating power."
"So where are we meeting everyone?" asked Shadow. "I thought you said that we were meeting them here. But the place is empty."
Wednesday grinned his scary grin. "Shadow," he said. "You're asking too many questions. You are not paid to ask questions."
"Sorry."
"Now, stand over here and help us up," said Wednesday, and he walked over to the platform on one side, with a description of the carousel on it, and a warning that the carousel was not to be ridden.
Shadow thought of saying something, but instead he helped them, one by one, up onto the ledge. Wednesday seemed profoundly heavy, Czernobog climbed up himself, only using Shadow's shoulder to steady himself, Nancy seemed to weigh nothing at all. Each of the old men climbed out onto the ledge, and then, with a step and a hop, they walked out onto the circling carousel platform.
"Well?" barked Wednesday. "Aren't you coming?"
Shadow, not without a certain amount of hesitation, and a hasty look around for any House on the Rock personnel who might be watching, swung himself up onto the ledge beside the World's Largest Carousel. Shadow was amused, and a little puzzled, to realize that he was far more concerned about breaking the rules by climbing onto the carousel than he had been aiding and abetting this afternoon's bank robbery.
Each of the old men selected a mount. Wednesday climbed onto a golden wolf. Czernobog climbed onto an armored centaur, its face hidden by a metal helmet. Nancy, chuckling, slithered up onto the back of an enormous, leaping lion, captured by the sculptor mid-roar. He patted the side of the lion. The Strauss waltz carried them around, majestically.
Wednesday was smiling, and Nancy was laughing delightedly, an old man's cackle, and even the dour Czernobog seemed to be enjoying himself. Shadow felt as if a weight were suddenly lifted from his back: three old men were enjoying themselves, riding the World's Largest Carousel. So what if they all did get thrown out of the place? Wasn't it worth it, worth anything, to say that you had ridden on the World's Largest Carousel? Wasn't it worth it to have traveled on one of those glorious monsters?