Free The Rebirth of Wonder by Lawrence Watt-Evans

Art told her. “I don't have any idea at
all.”
    “ If they aren't doing a show,” she persisted,
“what are they doing?”
    “ Marilyn, I don't know ,” he insisted.
    “ Are they dealing
drugs, maybe?”
    Art shook his head. “Nobody else ever comes
to the theater,” he said. “Where are their customers?”
    “ If you're in the basement all day, how do
you know nobody comes?”
    Annoyed, Art found himself unable to answer
that. A week ago he'd have said he could hear people come in, but
after a couple of days with the Bringers, who almost seemed to
appear out of thin air and then vanish just as mysteriously, he was
no longer going to make any such claim.
    Marilyn didn't press the point. Instead, she
suggested, “Or maybe it's prostitution; didn't you say they were
mostly women?”
    “ Not mostly,” Art
protested. “About half of them, same as any bunch of actors. It's
just the ones who talk to me are the women.”
    Marilyn nodded.
    Art added, “And that's normal enough, too, I
guess.”
    “ So maybe the men
are pimps...”
    Art sighed. “You're being silly,” he said.
“One of the women looks about ninety and talks like Don Rickles,
and one of the others looks like, I dunno, Pearl Bailey or
somebody. The others all look good enough, I guess, but what's
that, four hookers to support a dozen people?”
    “ So maybe the men
peddle their asses, too.”
    “ In Bampton? Oh,
come on!”
    “ Sure, in
Bampton!”
    “ A bunch of
strangers, coming to Bampton for that?”
    It was Marilyn's turn to have no good answer;
after a pause, she said, “Okay, so they're dealing drugs...”
    Art turned away in disgust and slid down off
the wall.
    “ Hey, wait, Art, I'm
sorry!” Marilyn called.
    Art stopped, and waited, standing by her
knees. He didn't look at her; instead he studied the stones that
had been fitted together to make the wall on which she sat – or
perhaps had just been stuck on the surface, it was hard to be sure.
In any case, the wall was hardly traditional New England dry stone;
it was obviously held together with mortar or cement.
    When she was certain that he wasn't about to
depart, Marilyn asked, “Okay, so do you really think they're
putting on this play?”
    Art shrugged. “What
else could they
be doing?”
    “ Umm... kiddie porn,
maybe? Or some kind of cult thing?”
    At that Art looked up. There was that
mysterious knife to explain – with its bone grip and strange
carvings, might it be some sort of ritual dagger?
    He didn't want to get Marilyn off on another
tangent, though.
    “ Maybe,” he
said.
    “ If you figure it
out, tell me,” Marilyn said. “Or just give me a call sometime
anyway.”
    “ All right,” he
said.
    For a moment the two of them remained as they
were, looking at each other without making direct eye contact; then
Art turned away.
    “ Guess I'll go sort
some more old props,” he said.
    “ Have fun,” she
said.
    She sat on the wall, watching him go.
    The dimness of the theater seemed somehow
different today, Art thought; it wasn't as familiar and comforting.
Maybe that was because, this late in the day, the theater was
hotter than outdoors – it held the heat. He ambled up the aisle to
the lobby and got the air conditioning running.
    The Bringers weren't due
for almost an hour. He wasn't entirely sure why he had come early;
sorting props wasn't exactly his idea of a grand and glorious good
time. Sitting in the shade talking to Marilyn was a good way to pass the time, but
somehow he hadn't wanted to stay there.
    There was something a little uncomfortable in
his friendship with Marilyn just now; he figured it was because she
was going to be leaving in a month. What was the point in getting
closer to her when she would be leaving, and he would be
staying?
    Better to just keep his mind on his work,
such as it was.
    He took his time coming down the aisle again,
and used that time to study the proscenium, the curtain, the
stage.
    It all looked just as it had three and a