Farewell Summer by Ray Bradbury

laughing.
    He lay wondering what in god–awful hell had
made
him happy. What was the dream, gone now, but so wondrous that it cracked his face and uncorked something resembling a chuckle beneath his ribs!? Holy Jesus.
What?
    In the dark he dialed Bleak.
    â€˜Do you know what time it is?’ Bleak cried. ‘There’s only one thing you ever wait half the night to churn my guts with – your stupid war. I thought you said the damned thing was over!’
    â€˜It is, it is.’
    â€˜It is
what
?’ shouted Bleak.
    â€˜Over,’ said Quartermain. ‘There are just a few more things I want to make sure of. It’s what you would call the joyful aftermath. Bleak, remember the collection of oddities and medical freaks we put together one summer for a town fair, all those years ago? Do you think we could find those jars? Are they up in an attic or down in a basement somewhere?’
    â€˜I suppose so. But why?’
    â€˜Find them. Unlock them. We’re bringing them out in the open again. Gather our army of gray. We have work to do. It’s time.’
    Click. Hummm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
    A huge question mark, painted on a plywood shingle, hung over the tent entryway. The tent had been erected on one side of the lakefront grounds, and the entrance gave way into the darkness of a haphazardly constructed plywood lean-to museum. Inside was a series of platforms on which were no freaks, no beasts, no magicians, no people. Somehow, overnight, this mystery tent had appeared, as if it had pitched itself.
    Across town, Quartermain smiled.
    That morning, in school, Doug had found an unsigned handwritten note in his desk. Its message was simple, written with black ink in large block letters: ‘ THE MYSTERY OF LIFE EXPLAINED .??? AT THE LAKEFRONT. LIMITED TIME ONLY .’ Doug passed the note among his friends, and as soon as school let out for the day, the boys had rushed down here, as fast as their feet could carry them. Now, entering the question mark tent with his friends, Doug was incredibly disappointed.Migawd
, no bones, no dinosaurs, no mad generals at war,
he thought. Nothing but night-dark canvas and flat platforms and … Douglas peered. Charlie squinted. Will, Bo, and Tom came last into the smell of old wood and tar-paper. There wasn’t even a curator with a tall hat and baton to guide them along. There was only—
    On top of a series of small tables were a number of large one-and two-gallon jars filled to the brim with a thick, clear liquid. Each jar was topped by a glass lid, and each lid had a red number on it – twelve in all – each number, painted in a shaky hand. And inside each of the jars … maybe that was it, at last, the things implied by the huge question mark outside.
    â€˜Heck,’ muttered Bo. ‘There’s nothing here. What a gyp. So long, you guys.’
    And Bo turned, pushed the tent flap aside, and left.
    â€˜Wait,’ said Douglas, but Bo was already gone. ‘Tom, Charlie, Will, you won’t leave, will you? You’ll miss out if you go.’
    â€˜But there’s nothing here, just some old jars.’
    â€˜Wait,’ said Doug. ‘It’s
more
than just jars. What’s
in
the jars? C’mon. Let’s look closer.’
    They edged up to the platform and crept along, staring into the jars, one after another. There were no labels to tell them what they were looking at, just glass and liquid and a soft light that seemed to pulsewithin the liquid and shone on their eager, sweaty faces.
    â€˜What
is
that stuff in there?’ asked Tom.
    â€˜Gosh knows. Look close.’
    Their eyes moved along, darted and stayed, stayed and darted, fastened and examined until their noses dilated and their mouths gaped.
    â€˜What’s that, Doug? And that? And that one there?’
    â€˜How do
I
know? Move!’ Doug went back to the beginning of the row and crouched down in front of the first jar so his eyes were