The carousel at the edge of the fairground had run on the same tinny calliope recording for more than forty years. Paint peeled from the horses, mirrors had clouded around their edges, and the brass poles wore dark where generations of children had gripped them. One horse stood apart from the others only because a small plaque at its base read TORI.
Nobody knew who had named her.
Children chose her whenever possible. Something in the tilt of her carved head made the expression seem different from every angle. Seen from the entrance, she appeared cheerful. From the operator’s booth, the same painted face looked frightened. Parents often remarked on how lifelike she seemed before laughing at themselves.
The longtime operator told me that Tori had always moved slightly out of time with the carousel. Each rotation she lagged perhaps half a second behind the other horses. The mechanism should have made that impossible, yet maintenance crews never found a fault. Riders sometimes stepped off disoriented, insisting the ride had lasted much longer than the three minutes shown on the clock.
Eventually the operator showed me a hidden panel beneath the saddle.
Inside the hollow body lay a folded scrap of paper. Most of the writing had faded beyond recognition, though one line appeared to contain a woman’s name different from Tori and a date nearly twenty years before the fairground opened. The ink changed subtly whenever anyone tried to copy it. Letters shifted places. Numbers reversed. Once, the operator photographed the note and discovered that the image showed a completely different date.
She stopped opening the panel after that.
The carousel began slowing near the end of her final season. Motors tested normally. Bearings were replaced. The other horses kept perfect time while Tori drifted farther behind each night.
Children riding her started telling similar stories. They described seeing another fairground during the turns, older and dimmer, where adults rode the carousel instead of children. Some said a woman stood beside the operator’s booth counting rotations. One child claimed the woman kept asking whether anyone remembered her real name.
After closing, the calliope now continues faintly for several minutes after the power is cut. Only one set of hoof mechanisms moves during those extra rotations.
The operator retired last week and left instructions for her replacement. Keep the panel closed. Never repaint the horse’s face. If Tori completes one full turn after the rest of the carousel has stopped, do not restart the ride until morning.
She did not explain the final rule.
Yesterday, the new operator called to tell her Tori had stopped lagging.
For the first time in decades, the horse is moving slightly ahead of the others. The operator said it feels less like the mechanism has been repaired and more like whatever has been circling inside finally knows where it wants to arrive.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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