Chapter One

A pipe organ's song floated through the autumn air, its bright music intermingling with the jarring calls of bells, whistles, and dings that sounded almost constantly from the prize booths of the carnival. Across the way from these brightly lit stalls, barkers called out to passersby to stop, and take in the sights of their sideshows that paved the way to the main tent, more brightly lit than all the rest, and standing proud at the end of the wide dirt lane. Surrounding all of these, fast moving rides roared along their tracks and pumped up in down in their predetermined circles, causing children to scream and squeal as they were thrown into fits of adrenaline-packed mania.

It was the kind of place where even an adult could experience such unfettered joy that they might reconnect with their own childhoods, and leave changed forevermore. Alternatively, and more frequently, one might explode from the constant sensory overload caused by the flurry of sights, sounds and smells that assaulted them from every angle. In either case, it was a place where most indulged to the point of excess, and the carnies running the place thrived off their weaknesses, catering to both the happy and overwhelmed with equal fervor. This dark underbelly of all carnivals was a known quantity and was often ignored due to its being relatively harmless; a mere entry fee for the chance to turn back time. This was especially true in small dusty towns where, lately, the only other heart-stopping experience took the form of a military draft, which promised the experience of a lifetime, but only if one could survive the ride.

This combination of harmless predatory behavior coupled with the intentional obliviousness of its patrons created a breeding ground for other nefarious dealings. Parents frequently ushered their children home at sunset for fear of this very phenomena, and young adults attending the fair would begin to bunch up into groups, hoping to negate the effects of such possibilities. For the last thing anyone wanted was to get mugged while waiting in line for a hot dog. Fear of such darkness was generally enough of a governor that most behaved well after sunset, but still, the darkness lurked, just waiting for someone to slip.

On that particular night, in the fall of 1969, the crisp autumn air had a cold bite to it, and when the wind blew, it reminded one of the coming winter. This would be no ordinary winter, for everyone knew that the new lottery would begin in December. None were excited though, because the winning prize would be a first-class ticket to Vietnam for any young man between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight. As a result, the fair didn't just represent the magic of childhood anymore, but a last stop on the way to death. Desperation hung in the air like a dark cloud, and many looked the other way when a young man had one too many beers as a result.

One such group swayed and sung as they walked at a crawl from one booth to the next, cutting up and leering at young women as they went. Most of the young men in the group were farmer's sons, and still had the smell of hay and sweat on them when they entered the fair in the late afternoon. It didn't take long then, for the beer to swim through their brains, especially the smallest of them, and he stumbled a little more than the rest and became a shade of green when fair rides were considered amongst them. As they neared a fast-spinning specimen, the young man stumbled over to a nearby bench sitting in the shadow of a tent, and he groaned as he dropped onto its planks. The slight young man was visibly flushed from a combination of sun and alcohol, and the redness in his cheeks was a stark contrast to the brightness of his hair. His pale golden locks were like wheat ready for harvest and stuck out from his head just as oddly as those same blades of grain, probably from the constant ruffling his older companions gave it, almost as if he was some kind of good luck charm. This seemed to heighten the young man's wooziness, and he pushed their hands away with a grunt.

"Ya'll go without me, I'm just gonna sit a while and wait for my head to stop spinning," the young man stammered in his inebriation. His eyes were having trouble focusing on the forms of his four friends as they seemed to meld with the bright lights behind them, and he slammed them shut when this in combination with the overwhelming smell of grilled meat sent his stomach churning again.

When he groaned again and doubled over, his friends chortled in an almost unfriendly manner, and one of the tallest of bunch scoffed, "Sure Bobby, we'll get your mommy too, if you want."

Bobby's eyes narrowed on the massive form of Horace, looming largely over him. Ordinarily, he'd be somewhat intimidated by the older boy's hulking arms and tall stature, but right now he was too busy trying not to vomit. "Aw, suck an egg Horace," Bobby grumbled, leaning back on the bench now and wincing from the sights and sounds around him.

The other boys laughed, and one chided Horace, asking him to give the kid a break. "He's just barely eighteen, leave'm be."

Horace shrugged and grinned at Bobby, "Alright buddy, we'll come back for ya' in a while," he finally relented, and he swatted his friend on the knee before the group waved and turned away, heading for the ride down the lane.

Bobby tried to let his eyes follow after his friends, but the constant movement of other fairgoers coming in and out of his frame of vision dissuaded him, and he looked instead to the sight before him. Being at the edge of the fairgrounds, he could see the outline of the cornfields bordering the grounds, turning steadily darker as the sun continued to retreat. This steady retreat created a canvas of brilliant color behind the darkened field and formed a breathtaking backdrop for the hot air balloon drifting overhead. This had been one of the main attractions of the fair, and Bobby had initially come for the sole purpose of riding in it, but now he could not imagine leaving the bench for the constant waves of nausea that swept through him. Now it was enough for him to passively watch as the round orb of cream and orange silk with its friendly wicker basket floated slowly back down to earth, ready to return its passengers to the worldly plain.

He might have continued to watch that sight, for the gentle movement acted as a balm for his upset system. As it was, the air turned suddenly biting, and the sounds of the fair became somehow muffled while a shadow passed over the boy's face. Bobby shivered as his body doubled over protectively, and as he stared down at the dirt-covered ground, a pair of massive, black boots stomped into his sight and made him jump with a start. Bobby's head swung upward a little too quickly for his state, and he groaned when the movement made his skull pound. His vision was blurry when he opened his eyes again, and although he could make out the form of a person looming over him, he could not distinguish any features about him. What he could feel was an overwhelming cold that seemed to pass through him, and he sensed that the being before him was not kind, for when he spoke, his voice was deep and threatening like thunder but whispered as if he was uttering a fateful secret.

"You shouldn't be alone. Not in the state you're in," the man rumbled quietly, his breath icy on Bobby's face.

This told the boy that the man was too close, but for some reason beyond his inebriation, he could not move, and the fear that this instilled in him caused him to whimper. "Who are you, what do you want?" He managed to sob, while his body continued to grow weaker and weaker.

Bobby tried to wriggle free of the unknown bindings that kept him still, and when he did, he suddenly felt a pair of strong hands grasp his shoulders firmly. The contact was oddly comforting, and the boy's body relaxed into the seductive sensation brought on by being so securely held. "That's it, just relax. I'll be done with you in just a moment," The voice rumbled luxuriously, causing the boy to sigh in disquieting ecstasy.

A voice in the back of the boy's mind seemed to cry out, warning the boy of his imminent danger, but for all his internal protests, he was doomed by the unnatural hold the man had on him. He had all but given in to his fate, when a booming voice cried out from somewhere in the distance and the hold suddenly disintegrated along with the man himself. He was nearly unconscious when a carnival barker found him and was still frantically searching him for traces of harm when his friends reappeared scant moments later.

Even Horace turned pale at the sight of Bobby when he pushed through the crowd quickly forming around the scene. The once flush boy of eighteen looked almost gray, as if his life force had been somehow drained from him. Although he had been out of sorts when they left him sitting on that bench, he was now nearly comatose, and whimpered like a scared child when he tried to touch him.

"Bobby," Horace called his friend urgently, "what happened? Who did this to you?"

Bobby shivered almost uncontrollably, and his entire body seemed to clench at the question, and he shook his head in steadfast refusal to speak in response to Horace's question.

The barker had still been standing at the edge of scene, and when the boy refused to speak, he pointed towards the balloon in the distance while he barked out, "It was a big black man, Mister. He ran that way."

Horace rose to full height and nodded in thanks to the barker. "Thanks Mister, and hey, look out for my friend, here. We've gotta go see about a negro." Horace had made his declaration in almost a growl, and in his eyes was written dark intent.

The barker seemed to echo the young man's sentiment and kindly obliged, freeing the young men of their obligation of Bobby at least as long as it might take for them to hunt down the dark man who'd attacked him. Horace was menacing all by himself, but when his friends, along with a small mob of angry fairgoers joined him in his search, the scene was downright bone chilling for anyone even remotely dark-skinned. There was a kind of groupthink that passed among them, unspoken but universally understood; the man responsible for harming that boy would pay for what he'd done with much more than a simple beating. Hate unlike anything seen in that small hamlet seemed distilled to such a degree that it was palpable. Although there hadn't been race riots in that remote corner of Nebraska, anyone even remotely familiar with the state of things in the world had at least some imagining of what a black man might face at the hands of such an angry mob of white men bent on retribution. It should have been a relief, then, that there weren't many people of color present at the fair that night, and those that had come kept to their own part. The direction the barker had pointed to was not, however, towards the colored section of the grounds, but rather directly in the line of the balloon ride, which had just touched down moments before the commotion started.

Although one might have seen the ruckus on the ground from the basket of the balloon, the balloon operator had other things on his mind as he brought the ride down. The little girl who'd ridden with him this time had taken to clutching to her mother's skirts shortly after they'd ascended, mere minutes ago, and he'd spent the entire ride calming her down. The young man had been kind to the girl and had managed to get her to peek out long enough for her to get a glimpse of the bright lights of the fair down below, and the expansiveness of the sunset over the prairie before she'd continued her cowering.

"Don't worry, we'll go back down now," he assured the girl calmly, adding with ease, "just like a feather, floating to the ground." The young man had said this as he eased the craft into a soft touchdown, barely felt by the occupants of his basket until a light thud announced their landing. When they'd stopped completely, he flashed the girl a brilliant smile, and exclaimed brightly, "See, nothing to worry about."

The little girl peaked out from her mother's skirts and spied the expression of the young pilot. He had a kind, wholesome face, with eyes that seemed to mirror the sky behind him, and they had a warmth in them that set her mind at ease. Then he reached a hand down to help her out of the carriage, and his smile widened, challenging the last rays of the sun with its brilliance. It didn't hurt either that he had short, blonde hair like her daddy's, and she could not help but smile back as relief coursed through her.

When she grabbed his hand and began clambering out of the basket, her mother sighed and thanked him with a laugh, "Well, that was quite a ride, Ahamo. Thank you for putting up with Millie. I guess she's a bit scared of heights. Afraid we'll get caught in a twister or something."

The young man named Ahamo passed the little girl to his dark-skinned cohort on the other side of the ride, and he winked at him briefly before he returned his attention to the mother. "Well, thankfully, there's not a cloud in sight. You're welcome, all the same though." He laughed with a glance at the horizon.

The woman smiled gratefully and climbed out behind her daughter, and the pair waved to the young men before they turned to walk away. Ahamo held a smile and returned their wave as long as it took them to get out of earshot, at which point the smile in his eyes flickered out, and a heavy sigh left him.

"They have no idea," he muttered to himself, and he shook his head to the ground with a kind of sad knowledge that should not have belonged to one as young as twenty years.

A hand, dark-skinned and muscular, appeared in his periphery, and Ahamo glanced up to see the rest of the young man reaching out to him. His warm brown eyes were glittering, and he was smiling sympathetically at Ahamo when they locked hands. Ahamo returned his friend's smile with a silent nod in gratitude, reminding himself all the while that despite Thomas' muscular build, which made him one of the most sought-after carnies, he was really just a soft-hearted kid who wouldn't hurt a fly if he could avoid it. Not that he showed this side to just anyone, but since Ahamo and Thomas had been friends since they were young boys, he had no issue showing him his true nature. It was with this kind of respectful and careful attention that the boy helped his friend out of the balloon, and he spoke as he barely strained to pull him out, "No idea about what?" He asked, his voice deep like velvet despite his being no older than seventeen.

Ahamo jumped onto the packed dirt, and he sighed again. He'd only been back in the states for a few days, and no matter how many times he coached himself, he always seemed to forget that his experience was a bit of an anomaly to the other boys near his age. For someone like Thomas, who'd only traveled within the protective shield of the carnival troop, the world was a predictable, homogeneous place, filled with people who had more money than sense and kids that were too full of cotton candy. Fortunately, he hadn't seen what Ahamo had in the past two years, and the young man took great pains to keep it from him.

"Oh, nothing, don't worry about it. Just thinking about 'nam again." Ahamo waved him off.

Thomas could see the troubled look in Ahamo's eyes – it was like a light was going out every time something troubled him. It used to be that they talked about everything, but ever since he'd come back, those lights had been out more often than not, and he'd stopped talking about just about anything that mattered. Ahamo had always been a bit of a dreamer, and so the faraway looks weren't so uncommon with him, but now, they were tinged with sadness, and any time he sensed Thomas trying to puzzle him out, he'd avert his eyes elsewhere. He was doing now, Thomas grimaced to himself as he assisted his friend in tying down the balloon for the night, and he huffed in resignation. There was no use trying to budge the man when he didn't want to talk; it was like locking horns with the most stubborn goat in the petting zoo, and he'd probably get head-butted for his trouble.

Instead, Thomas wrangled the massive ropes in his arms and shrugged, changing the subject to more diverting topics. "So, whatcha gonna do now that you're back?"

Ahamo grinned to the sky; this was a topic he genuinely enjoyed, and it was one the young men had touched on many times over the years while they worked. Despite the glitz thrown at the fairgoers, carnival life was mundane and full repetition. Move to a town, set up, run the show for a few weeks, and move on to the next town, over and over again until the towns looked the same. The only real entertainment lay in the idle fantasies in their own minds, and Ahamo's had been centered around visions of adventure and romance for years. These daydreams were even more prevalent in his mind now, after all the gore he'd seen sloshed up on the deck of his helicopter for the past two years. Any time those memories tried to take hold, all Ahamo had to do was imagine a set of lavender eyes, and a smile would appear on his face.

It hadn't taken long for that dreamy expression to appear then, and Ahamo chuckled lightly when he replied with gusto, "Oh I don't know, maybe I'll just hop in my balloon and skip the border. I'll go anywhere where there's no one shooting at me, as long as Liz Taylor goes with me."

Thomas and Ahamo strolled to a nearby log, laying on its side and acting as a bench, where they both sat and opened the cokes they'd left for this moment. "Well, that might work for you, white boy," he scoffed, "but if I do that, I'll definitely get shot for trying to draft dodge." He paused and signed heavily, adding thoughtfully, "I don't know. Maybe the army wouldn't be so bad. After all, it's only a skip off being a cop, maybe that's how I'll get my foot in the door. Whadaya think, Ahamo?"

Ahamo winced at the bright lights of the carnival ahead of them while he pondered his answer. Although Thomas was right that he'd probably fare worse than him if he got caught skipping the draft, just by nature of their differences in skin color, he couldn't see that the alternative was any better.

"I don't know Thomas," he finally answered, "you're just as likely to get shot in the army. I mean, I think I've only lived so far because I don't have boots on the ground most of the time, but I'm almost sure they'd throw you onto the front lines."

Both young men huffed in otherwise silent agreement. The silence itself spoke volumes while the two continued to sip their drinks, neither one of them wanting to say more on that topic. It felt heavy just thinking about it, and useless to try and problem-solve a way past it out loud. Instead, Ahamo pondered what he might say to alleviate the tension, and finally settled on the most innocuous topic he could dream up.

"You know, there's one thing that's been bugging me for years," he finally burst out, causing Thomas to eye him in silent question, "why do you go by your last name all the time?"

Thomas's expression finally cleared, and a booming laugh erupted out of him. He let that laugh continue on until he needed a breath, after which he drew one deep sigh. A smirk was still on his face when he glanced sideways at his friend and finally replied in humored sarcasm, "Do you have any idea the kind of shit I'd get, having a fortune teller for a sister with a name like Elijah? I don't want people thinkin' I'm some kind of prophet or somethin.'"

Ahamo took another swig of his coke and shrugged. "It's a good name, is all." There was an impish twinkle in his eye when he thought of something else, and he laughed when he continued jokingly, "I mean, it's not like your folks named you after the town you happened to get born in. I mean, really. Dad thought it was real clever switching the letters around. Still talks about it like he made some big contribution. Frankly, I might have liked Omaha better."

"Well at least you weren't born in Charlotte!" Thomas burst out with a laugh, causing Ahamo to join in when the notion struck him as particularly ridiculous.

For a moment, the heaviness that had settled between them lightened, and the young men were able to forget about the greater troubles in the world that infringed upon them. Although they never spoke of it, as much as they dreamed about faraway places and joked about their existence, carnival life was really a blessing. For without it, they might not even be friends at all. It was for this reason that the young men held fast to moments like these and were reluctant to move away from them. They might have sat there on that log a while longer and traded jokes, letting the time pass until the carnival wound down for the night, but the sounds of angry men yelling in the distance struck their ears, and brought a pall over their otherwise light frame of mind. They could see a torch or two being hoisted in the air from a distance, and the crowd seemed to be growing as it slid in their direction.

Thomas was the first to stand, and his eyes were wide in terror at the sight, while his breath came in shallow and choppy. Ahamo was just behind him, and while he appeared equally concerned, he did not fear for his life the way Thomas did when he saw anything resembling a lynch mob. All the same, the boys moved wordlessly to the balloon as if by instinct and scrambled to untie the ropes.

As they worked at a breakneck pace to free the basket, a dark figure emerged from the barrier of tents and booths, and he chuckled darkly as he swept past them into the cornfields beyond. Neither Ahamo nor Thomas had the opportunity to gauge the man's appearance, for he was hooded, and moved at lightning speed. What they could see was a towering, muscular figure, cloaked in fabric as dark and consuming as his skin, and as he moved past them, a cold breeze cut through their bones as if someone was walking over their graves. Thomas could feel a pull on his very soul, like he ought to follow this man, and determine why he was so eager to wreak the havoc he'd apparently caused. There was no time, however, for the crowd was quickly approaching, and no longer had eyes for the man who'd disappeared through the tall blades.

"I don't think they're looking for you, Thomas," Ahamo tried to reassure his friend as they climbed into the basket. Despite his reassurances, Ahamo still helped his friend aboard, and quickly pulled the switch to engage the burners, heating the air within the silken canopy above them with a loud whoosh.

"I don't think they care who they string up, Ahamo, and I don't think I want to find out, do you?" Thomas gasped back, his eyes still nervously scanning the crowd that was now twelve feet and rising below them.

It didn't take long for the pair to determine how the course of events might have gone had they not managed to take off, while down below, the crowd of angry men continued to swarm where they'd just been standing. There were many angry, reddened faces upturned to the balloon as it continued to climb and drift away, and from their height, they could still hear a slur or two being hurled in their direction. While Thomas continued to watch the crowd, getting smaller and further away, Ahamo scanned the horizon ahead. The sun was almost completely down now, and soon, the golden ocean of corn below them would be dark. Being that they were in a rural part of Nebraska, there weren't many places they could go before the light of the sun was completely gone, but landing any time soon offered no real possibility either.

Ahamo's eyes were somewhat worried when he adjusted the rigging, and his glanced back at the fair while he continued to judge their situation. "There aren't too many good places to land down there for all that corn."

Thomas had spent enough time up in that balloon with Ahamo to know what to look for in a landing spot, and he now scanned the ground in all directions meticulously, not taking his eyes off the ground when he replied with a relieved sigh. "I don't care if we land in the middle of the road, man. Just don't take us back there. Not yet."

Ahamo nodded in agreement, but had no time to reply, for as he began to look for headlights, a gust of wind pulled them out of their current track, so violently and quick that Ahamo barely had time to react. He hardly even needed to look to know what was barreling down on them, for the roar of wind was like an angry freight train, and its sound was so percussive that he had to fight not to throw his hands to the sides of his head in pain. Despite this, he wiped around to see the massive funnel staring them down, and he wrapped his arms around the ropes of the balloon instinctively, hoping Thomas would do the same.

"Hold on Thomas!" He hollered over the wind, now pulling them quickly into the massive vortex. "Brace!"

Before the dirt and dust spinning with the cloud completely obscured Ahamo's sight and hearing, he noted Thomas mimicking what he'd done seconds before, and he could hear him bellow back, "Screw that man, I'm gonna pray for miracle!"

They were now fully engulfed in the twister, and the violent dance it took them on battered and twisted the balloon so frightfully that even Ahamo could do no more than slam his eyes shut and pray. From his own experiences in Vietnam, dodging anti-aircraft and bullets alike, Ahamo prepared himself for the torturous feeling of perpetuity. Adrenaline was already coursing through him, and this would do much to make the time pass, and in the end, he knew that wouldn't be long before they were flung out. As much as he hated being tossed like a rag doll, he hated to think what would happen when the twister was done with them. The balloon was almost certainly shredded, and there would be nothing from their height that would slow the terminal velocity they were sure to experience when the rush died down. Thomas was right; what they really needed was a miracle. Ahamo wasn't a praying kind of man though, despite everything he'd been through, so he had difficulty swallowing the concept until that inevitable moment came. Suddenly, the storm completely dissipated, taking with it all its thundering roars and dark clouds, and when that happened, Ahamo's stomach dropped.

"Oh, shit!" He heard himself cry out as the balloon started a fateful spiral.

Thomas wasn't even crying out, and he'd kept his eyes slammed shut during the whole encounter, so he hadn't seen what Ahamo had. Ahamo's eyes widened, and he nearly fell out of the basket for what he'd seen. For it was as if he'd been given a miracle in the form of a person, small for their distance, and standing at the edge of what had to have been a shoreline below them. Putting aside the impossibility of that landscape below them, he realized that they were no longer plummeting. Somehow, they'd managed to get into some kind of controlled descent towards the indigo waters below, and the only explanation seemed to be what he could now see was a young woman, with her arms reached out as if to catch him.

For all of her magic, the girl still could not help losing control at some point. She winced at the odd craft as it came closer to the ground, and just at the end of her apparent maneuver, her arms gave out, and the balloon dropped the rest of the way. Ahamo had been so captivated by the girl's face, so pale and concentrated and framed in dark waves as she appeared to play god, that he hadn't noticed their quick descent resume. It was mere milliseconds later that he had realized what had happened, and by that time his face was in the sand. His head seemed to be swimming just as much as the canopy, floating lazily in the lake behind him, and he glanced over in relief, finding Thomas unconscious, but breathing.

Ahamo groaned when the pain of their landing became a stark reality and he turned onto his back to try and judge the quality of the sky. His head was still heavy though, and his vision came in and out like the tide as he tried to make his senses cooperate. Instinct told him to get up, but just as soon as he'd tried, a slender hand landed on his chest, and that pale face came into focus just above him. His breath suddenly caught in his throat, and he fought even harder to keep his eyes open. For standing over him was Liz Taylor – or a girl looking strikingly liker her - and in a voice as soothing as silk, she stayed his movement, comforting him into rest.

"You shouldn't move yet," she spoke soothingly, her lavender eyes scanning his worriedly. "You've just had a rather unpleasant journey by the look of things."

Ahamo could barely breathe, and part of him suspected he was dreaming, but all the same, he replied weakly, "Who are you, and where are we?"

The young woman smiled kindly. The hand pressing into his chest felt suddenly warm, and this sensation spread through his body in a healing wave. "I am called Lavender," she replied softly, "and I suppose I should welcome you to the Outer Zone, for that is where you are now."

Ahamo couldn't understand what she was saying. It sounded like words he should be able to decipher, but their meaning eluded him beyond the utterance of her name. This was enough, it seemed, and he could no longer hold his eyes open any longer.