DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.
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I'm dyin'. Oh my God, I'm actually about to die!
Ben Hawkins wasn't clear as to how it had happened - whether it had begun with an illness or an accident, whether he'd been in agony for a week, a month, or a year. In his confused state, he remembered mostly things he didn't want to remember. Like the stricken look on Ruthie's face when he'd asked her, "How old am I?"
She'd assured him he was still only eighteen.
I don't know if that's good or bad. Ruthie says it's good, 'cause young people are strong, an' that means I can fight this. But I sorta hoped I'd had a full life, even if I can't remember it.
I shoulda known better than to ask her that. If I was an old man, Ruthie would look diff'rent, somehow.
Wouldn't she?
He was so worn down by pain, stress, and the demands of a rigid self-discipline that he wasn't clear about much of anything.
He knew something was terribly wrong in his chest. He believed it had been crushed. The pain was excruciating, every breath so hard-won that it seemed it must be his last. Time and again bouts of coughing had sent him spiraling toward oblivion. But each time he'd come back, gasping, weaker, yet still clinging to his ruined life.
Often - like now - he had pains in his left arm and shoulder, shooting up into his neck and jaw. Why just the left side? I think that's supposed to mean somethin' bad. Can't remember what.
And his back ached constantly. Been layin' on it too long. But I can't let anyone move me! I'll die if they move me.
At least for the moment the worst thing wasn't there, the Big Shaggy Thing that came and sat on his chest with all its incredible weight, pressed down on his injured chest and hurt it more. Ruthie couldn't see the Big Shaggy Thing, and he'd stopped trying to convince her it was real. Maybe it ain't. It only comes when I'm hot, when I'm burnin' up...
He was starting to feel warmer now.
Do I deserve this? God, are You demandin' I die 'cause I sinned by killin' Lodz?
If You want me to die, God, I can't stop You from takin' me. But maybe You just want me to suffer a while. So it ain't wrong of me to hang on. For all I know, that may be what You want me to do.
At least I won't commit another sin by lettin' my body try to heal itself, an' hurt other people while it's doin' it. I won't, I won't!
He knew his strength was being sapped by the strain of fighting to live, yet at the same time, suppressing the reflex that would have triggered miraculous self-healing. The process evidently couldn't start when he was asleep or unconscious. But in every waking moment, he had to expend precious energy to rein it in.
Ruthie knew he possessed healing powers. He'd told her, "I can't heal myself," and let it go at that - let her assume it was impossible for a healer to heal himself, ever.
Even if I could explain to Ruthie, get her an' Gabe a safe distance away, others would be in danger. Not much plant life around here - there's life-force to be drawn from Ruthie's snakes, but I can't be sure my powers wouldn't reach out an' hurt other carnies.
I may be so far gone that the healin' couldn't save me. But I can't just rest an' forget about it, I still have to tire myself out keepin' it from hurtin' others! What it's doin' is killin' me.
I can die knowin' that as my last act, I did the right thing.
But I don't want to die! I'm only eighteen. An' my pa told me I was "meant for greater things"...did I really blow it all by killin' Lodz?
Or...what was my sin? Was it killin' Lodz, or bringin' Ruthie back when she was meant to be dead?
Had to be one or the other. I'm sure I made the right choice after that, when I walked out on Management an' refused to go near him again.
He was very hot now, hot and breathless and in pain, and he longed for some kind of relief - a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, maybe. But he couldn't ask for what he wanted, could only moan and hope someone heard.
Horror of horrors, the one who heard was the Big Shaggy Thing. The Thing plopped itself down on his chest, hard.
Noooo!
At that moment he almost gave up. Why endure this any longer? He didn't want to die, but if the only alternative was hell on earth, why resist? It would be so easy to let go, just slip into death. Death is cold. Cold is good. Death is good...
Then he felt that cool, damp cloth on his forehead, and Ruthie's voice whispered fiercely, "Don't you dare leave me, Ben Hawkins! Don't you dare!"
No. No, 'course I won't. Not by choice.
I'm so hot, an' I've been so confused, I was forgettin'...Ruthie an' Gabriel are my family! When I was growin' up, I vowed that when I had a family, I'd never...abandon them...like my pa did me...
The Big Shaggy Thing was still there, but it seemed to have eased up on him a little. He looked at Ruthie, tried to smile, and managed to squeeze her hand before he drifted off to sleep.
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"I lied to the mayor."
"Wh-what? What mayor?" Ruthie was so fatigued she could barely recognize the man in her doorway, let alone comprehend what he was saying.
Samson sighed. "The mayor of the town that's had a carnival camped on its outskirts for two weeks. That's a mite unusual, don't you think?"
"Oh. Yeah." She had to put a hand up to shield her eyes from the light admitted by the open door. How long have I been cooped up in here? "I've been meanin' to thank you for stayin' put, Samson. Why did you have to lie to the mayor? An' what did you say?"
"Ruthie, they want us to move on. They keep pesterin' me, sayin' that if we've got someone this ill, we should get him into a hospital. If they knew we ain't even had a doctor look at him, the cops'd be after us for sure."
She frowned. "I can understand that. But Ben's been insistin' all along, no doctor, no hospital! I won't let anyone treat him against his will.
"It don't seem to make sense, though. I know he's a fugitive, I remember them leg irons, but that was way back in Oklahoma. Can't be that big a deal, their losin' an eighteen-year-old kid."
"Uh, I wouldn't be so sure about that." Samson shifted uneasily. "He ever tell you what his crime was?"
"No. But it probably wasn't anythin' much. I know he was in a chain gang, an' chain gangs are hell, but people get sentenced to 'em for trivial stuff."
"That's true," Samson acknowledged. "But in this case I've seen the Wanted poster. He's wanted for murder, Ruthie! An' they're offerin' a reward of three hundred bucks."
Ruthie felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. But she pulled herself together and said, "Then he was wrongly accused. Ben wouldn't kill no one."
Samson seemed unwilling to meet her eyes. "Maybe not without cause. But I could see him killin', Ruthie. I could see him bein' capable of it..."
Not for the first time in the weeks since Loving, Ruthie had an eerie feeling that Samson knew something she didn't. Ben too, and Apollonia.
"Anyway," the dwarf continued, "guilty or not, he's wanted for such a serious crime that it's understandable he'd rather die in your bed than risk bein' caught an' sent back there. At this point they'd either execute him or lock him up an' throw away the key. His life would be over, one way or another."
She gave a reluctant nod. "So what did you tell the mayor?"
Samson grimaced. "That the person we've got dyin' is real old, someone's grandpa. He's so old an' frail that it wouldn't be right to do nothin' more than we're doin' - keep him still, an' give him a comfortable death."
Now Ruthie felt as if a knife was being twisted in her gut. But she said steadily, "Good. That should keep folks satisfied for a while."
"But you know what they made me promise, Ruthie?" Samson gave her a hard look. "That we'd shut down our games o' chance."
"Oh, God." She knew that after two weeks in one place, those games of chance were the only carnival attractions that were still bringing in money. "Why?"
"They said we've been lurin' problem gamblers into losin' more than they can afford - they're the only ones come back night after night." Samson shrugged. "It's true, o' course. But it's also true that we gotta eat."
"Samson, I'm sorry. Like I've told you before, you can leave us behind an' move on. Just leave us a little supply of food -" She was upset about that, and nervous about being away from Ben's bedside this long, and to her utter disgust, she began to cry.
"No way!" Samson banged his cane on the door frame in frustration. "If you could go into town, put Ben in a hospital an' find rooms for yourself an' Gabe, then I'd leave you behind. Temporarily. But I know you can't do that. An' I sure as hell ain't gonna leave you in a trailer out here in the boonies!"
After a few seconds' silence - which allowed her to get her sniffles under control - he put a hand on her arm and asked gently, "Ruthie, are you sure Ben couldn't tolerate the trailer's movin'? I ain't seen him in a week. We're talkin' about an eighteen-year-old here. I know you're tryin' to do right by him, but he may be tougher than you think."
"I only wish." She wiped her eyes. "C'mon in an' take a look. Judge for yourself."
She knew that was what he'd been angling to do all along.
Grimly, she led the carny boss through the cramped, stuffy trailer to where a red-eyed Gabriel hovered over the sleeping Ben.
She saw Samson glance at Gabriel's tear-stained face, open his mouth to say something, and close it again.
I know what he's thinkin'. Gabriel ain't pretendin' to favor that arm no more. If he had the mind of a grown man an' not that of a six-year-old who's helpless without his mama, he could be doin' his wrestlin' act with Samson as his talker. That's an act don't wear thin. Gabe could be bringin' in money for the carnival, while I was with Ben.
In fact, my act don't wear thin neither. At different times, I could make myself get out there an' perform, too, while Gabe looked after Ben...
What's wrong with me? I never let myself have regrets about Gabriel! He is who he is, an' he's the sweetest child a mother could ask for!
She was just being forced to cope with so much...too much. Less than a month after nearly dying herself, how could she bear this stunning reversal? How could she watch the man she loved, the man who'd saved her, die an agonizing death?
It had begun two weeks ago, as what both she and Ben thought was an ordinary cold. She remembered his saying, "I've had colds before." He'd said it in an odd way, as if that commonplace fact was a surprising thought that had just occurred to him.
But overnight the cold had turned into what was almost certainly double pneumonia. Ruthie was sure multiple infections had set in. And probably, worse than that has happened. A lot worse.
Everyone agreed she and Samson were the most responsible of the carnival folk. Between the two of them, they did all the informal doctoring. But now, as Samson laid his hand on Ben's forehead, she said sharply, "Don't hurt him!"
"You know I won't."
"D-don't try to move him!" Fearing Ben might be able to hear them, she leaned close and whispered into Samson's ear. "I know we haven't been keepin' him as clean as we should. He won't let us turn him on his side - seems to think it would kill him. An' I'm afraid he may be right."
Anticipating what the reply would be, she forestalled it. "Yes," she said, still in a whisper, "I know about bedsores an' blood clots. But this...this c-can't go on much longer. It's gonna end soon, one way or another. So there's no point in torturin' him."
"Agreed." When Samson turned to look at her, his face was almost as gray as Ben's.
After he finished his cursory examination, they moved a little distance away from the bed. A shaken Samson said, "The poor kid can hardly breathe. What do you think is wrong with him?"
Ruthie hadn't put it into words until now. But she said quietly, "From what he's told me about how bad his chest feels, I think both his lungs are at least partly collapsed. One of 'em may be totally collapsed. An' from other pain he's described, I'm pretty sure he's had a heart attack. Maybe more than one."
Samson said, "Jesus."
Gabriel had trudged after them; he gave a soft whimper, then was silent.
After a few seconds Samson asked, "Has he been conscious today?"
"Yes, he was awake for four hours this mornin'. But he suffers the whole time. I'm kinda torn, half wantin' him to be awake an' half not, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I understand. Is he eatin' anythin'?"
"I feed him a little soft food. He never says he's hungry, but when I feed him, he tries real hard to get some down. I think that shows how much he wants to get well, don't you?"
"Right, it sure does."
Samson couldn't look her in the eye, and she suspected he was humoring her.
As the two of them walked back toward the door, he said, "Jonesy's been wrackin' his brain, tryin' to remember if he ever overworked the kid or pushed him too hard. But he can't think of anythin' he did wrong. He says Hawkins never complained about the work, an' there was no sign he wasn't strong enough for it."
"Tell Jonesy no one blames him," Ruthie said automatically. "I'm sure the work had nothin' to do with it."
But what did cause it?
Was Ben always in poorer health than we knew, because of the hard life he'd led?
Or was there some truth in that made-up story we used back in Tipton, about miracle healings takin' a toll on the healer?
I'm only alive today because Ben saved me. An' he's so young! If I could give my life to save his, I'd do it in a heartbeat.
Hell. I'd feel the same if he hadn't saved me, if he was three times the age he is. I'd lay down my life for him, if I could, because I love him.
As she wiped tears from her eyes she realized Samson had quietly taken his leave, without her even noticing.