Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (4 page)

“What’s the plan?”

“I had a plan, when I thought we had until Sunday. It was a good plan, I’m sure you would have appreciated it. Now I have something more akin to a half-assed idea.”

Salem fought a smile and lost. “So what’s the half-assed idea?”

“Memory distracts him at the train station. We ambush him, tie him up, and set the trapped ghosts free.”

“Except for the part where my charms won’t hold him for more than a few minutes, that’s a great idea.”

“We won’t mention that part. Come on.”

A train sprawled beside the station platform, quiet as a sleeping snake. Its cars were black and tarnished silver, streaked with bloody rust, and the cowcatcher gleamed fang-sharp in the red light.

The platform was empty and Jacob and Salem waited in the shadows. She could barely make out the words White Bear on the cracked and mildewed sign.

“They built this town for the train,” she whispered, her face close enough to Jacob’s to feel his breath. “But the Texas and Pacific never came, and the town dried up and blew away.”

“This is a hard country. Even gods go begging here.”

Footsteps echoed through the silent station; a moment later Salem heard a child’s sniffling tears. Then the Conductor came into view.

A tall man, dressed like his name, black hat pulled low over his face. Even across the platform Salem felt the angry heat of him, smelled ash and coal. A sack was slung over one broad shoulder, and his other hand prisoned Memory’s tiny wrist.

Salem swallowed, her throat gone dry, and undid the clasp around her neck. The chain slithered cold into her hand. Jacob’s hand tightened on her shoulder once, then he stepped into the moonlight.

“Trading in dead children now?” His growl carried through the still air. “You called yourself a warrior once.”

The Conductor whirled, swinging Memory around like a doll. His face was dark in the shadow of his hat, but his eyes gleamed red.

Jacob took a step closer, bootheels thumping on warped boards. “You fought gods once, and heroes. Now you steal the unworthy dead.” He cocked his head. “And didn’t you used to be taller?”

“You!” The Conductor’s voice was a dry-bone rasp; Salem shuddered at the sound. “You died! I saw you fall. The wolf ripped you open.”

Jacob laughed. “It’s harder than that to kill me.”

“We’ll see about that.” He released Memory and dropped the bag as he lunged for Jacob.

Memory crawled away, cradling her wrist to her chest. The chain rattled in Salem’s hand as she moved; Jacob and the Conductor grappled near the edge of the platform and she had no clear shot.

Then Jacob fell, sprawling hard on the floor. The Conductor laughed as he stood over him. “I’ll take you and the witch as well as the dead. The things below will be more than pleased.”

Salem darted in, the chain lashing like a whip. It coiled around his throat and he gasped. His heat engulfed her, but she hung on.

“You can’t trap me in a bottle, little witch.” His eyes burned red as embers. Char-black skin cracked as he moved, flashing molten gold beneath. A glass bead shattered against his skin; another melted and ran like a tear.

She pulled the chain tighter—it wouldn’t hold much longer. The Conductor caught her arm in one huge black hand and she screamed as her flesh seared.

“Didn’t the old man tell you, woman? His companions always die. Crows will eat your eyes—if I don’t boil them first.”

A fury of white feathers struck him, knocking off his hat as talons raked his face. The Conductor cursed, batting the bird aside, and Salem drove a boot into his knee.

He staggered on the edge for one dizzying instant, then fell, taking Salem with him. Breath rushed out of her as they landed, his molten heat burning through her clothes. Her vision blurred and White Bear Valley spun around in a chiaroscuro swirl.

“Jerusalem!” She glanced up, still clinging to the chain. Jacob leapt off the platform, landing lightly in a puff of dust. “Hold your breath!”

She realized what was coming as he stuck his fingers into the ground and pulled the world open.

White Bear Lake crashed in to fill the void.

“Wake up, witch. You’re no use to me drowned.”

She came to with a shudder, Jacob’s mouth pressed over hers, his breath inside her. She gasped, choked, rolled over in time to vomit up a bellyful of bitter lake water. Her vision swam red and black, and she collapsed onto weed-choked mud. Cold saturated her, icy needles tingling through her fingers.

“Did he drown?” she asked, voice cracking.

“His kind don’t like to swim.” He turned her over, propping her head on his soaking knees. “I could say it destroyed him, if that’s how you’d like this to end.” Above them the shadow eased, the moon washing clean and white again.

“What could you say if I wanted the truth?”

Jacob’s glass eye gleamed as he smiled. “That it weakened him, shattered that shape. He lost the train and its cargo. That’s enough for me tonight.”

“Not too bad, for a half-assed idea.” She tried to sit up and thought better of it. The cold retreated, letting her feel the burns on her arm and hands. “Are you going to thank me?”

He laughed and scooped her into his arms. “I might.” And he carried her up the hill, toward the circus lights.

Halloween dawned cool and grey. Glass chimed in the breeze as Salem untied the bottles one by one, wrapping them in silk and laying them in boxes. The tree looked naked without them.

The wind gusted over the empty hills, whistled past the eaves of the house. The tree shook, and the only sound was the scrape and rustle of dry leaves.

“Sorry, Grandma,” she whispered as she wrapped the last bottle. Light and hollow, glass cold in her hands. “I’ll come back to visit.”

When she was done, Jerusalem Morrow packed a bag and packed her cat, and ran away to join the circus.

Calliope: A Steam Romance

Andrew J. McKiernan

Her voice is of a host angelic, but fallen. Her every breath breeds melodious paeans that pull and tear at my soul—in ways both tender and cruel—and I weep with pain and joy to hear them. For, as surely as Eros struck Apollo and Daphne, am I so sorely wounded by her song. But be that barb of gold or lead? Ah, now therein lies the tale.

I saw her first down at the Quay or, more rightly should I say, I heard her. I was returning from my place of work at the Patents Office, on George Street, and was anxious to make the five o’clock ferry. My wife had invited guests for tea and, as was my usual form, I was running late.

As I rounded onto Alfred Street, I saw a big four-master had pulled in to dock between two steamers. Men were in her rigging, clambering up masts and tying sails to yardarms with much agility and speed. Her cargo was being unloaded and a stack of crates, trunks and tarpaulin-covered boxes were gathering on the dock.

A number of carts were already lined up along the street, anxious to get the best of whatever cargo the barque carried.

The steam-horses that drew the carts were enormous machines, almost twice the size of a natural horse. They stamped at the ground, iron hooves striking sparks from the cobbles in what seemed bored frustration. I knew, having seen the blueprints, that this was but a mechanical twitching of internal gears and push-rods, a spasm of built up torque, and not any sort of emotional reaction at all. Through the haze of steam venting from their nostrils I could see they stood four deep across the road, barring the way. Slowly and carefully I made my way through, ducking under one magnificently polished beast and almost scalding the nape of my neck on the hot boiler-tank of its belly as I went.

When I reached the wharf for the North Shore ferry there was barely a line at the ticket booth. The ferry had not even docked. Frankly, I could not believe my luck. Luck is a most unusual occurrence for me, and rarely do I find myself in a situation where the worst is
not
the inevitable.

So, in order to ensure my luck was real, I fumbled in my pocket for a penny. I pulled the first coin my fingers encountered and looked down at it; a penny. I stared out at the approaching ferry and at the green shore awaiting me just across the harbour. I would be home for tea, just as I’d promised—and I knew how happy that would make my wife.

I stepped up to the line with a new spring in my step, three from the booth and plenty of time. I clutched the penny in my hand and thought of hot tea and scones, and probably some cake. Oh, yes, most definitely, some cake.

Two from the booth. I thought of the smile I would bring to my wife’s face when I walked in the door. Maybe I would buy some flowers to brighten up the table. The ferry was docking, its passengers stepping out across a plank and onto the wharf.

From somewhere behind me came a gentle melody, carried upon a breeze unto my ear. It came softly at first and the tune, though unfamiliar, caught my attention. It was gay and uplifting, with a lively step that gave mind of parades and summer days. There was something of the seaside and of circuses in that tune, and of the joy of being young and full of life.

One from the booth. I turned for a moment to discover the music’s origin and saw, further down the quay, a gathering had formed like a tight knot around something I could not quite see. In the centre of the crowd, rising just above their heads, I could discern a splash of red, a hint of sunlight glinting off polished brass, and a great wreath of steam rising into the air like a cloud. With that great, billowing cloud the music suddenly rose up in volume, stunning everybody on the quay. It was a bone shaking sound and the crowd-knot loosened. It was so loud I was sure it could be heard all the way up Macquarie Street.

The music drowned out everything around me, like a hundred tuned train-whistles played by a god. And, though there were no cathedral walls to echo that mellifluous song, the surrounding harbour was quite adequate in its acoustics. Every note was felt in the flesh, rising up through the wooden boards of the quay, entering through the feet, filling the soul. A low bass drone sent shivers through my spine, taking control of my legs, moving me inexorably closer to that euphonious epicentre.

I thought not of the ferry nor of my wife in our home across the harbour. I thought nothing of my promise to her, or of the guests who would soon be arriving. I thought nothing at all as I walked across the quay, entranced by a song.

I pushed my way through what remained of the crowd, heeding not their indignant vituperation as I passed. There were not so many there now and I could not understand how some, so unaffected by the music, could have felt the desire to leave. Such a thought was incomprehensible to me as I stepped into the front row and beheld the originator of that heavenly choir.

Before me was a carriage, garish and red, ornamented along its wide panels with gold-leaf scrolls and fleur-de-lys. Across the side in large white letters was written
McKenzie’s Universal Circus & Museum of the Bizarre
.

One side of the carriage was open to the crowd and I could see within an arrangement of polished brass pipes stretching up and out through the ceiling. In front of the pipes but within the carriage were set two tiers of polished ivory and ebony keys, like those of an organ. A calliope, I remembered. The instrument was called a calliope.

At the keyboard, playing the music that affected me so greatly, sat the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered in my life.

She wore a skirt of mandarin that flared gracefully across her hips, falling in neat pleats to the floor of the carriage. Her blouse was of white merino, cinched tight at the waist and trimmed with purple braid on epaulettes and leg-o-mutton sleeves. Her hair was dark, drawn up and back into a twist of curls that fell like a waterfall down the nape of her long neck, revealing ears as fine as porcelain. Her profile was as perfect a collection of curves and lines as Nature could produce. Face smooth and white as if it had been powdered; lips and cheeks aglow with the touch of petals of geranium or poppy; eyes hidden behind long, dark lashes.

She did not turn her beautiful head or swerve in any way from the playing of her instrument. Only her fingers and hands moved, running deft and sure from key to key. It was the most pleasing scene my mind had ever the fortune to behold.

Then, as I stared, watching her play, she parted her angelic lips and started to sing.

Never would I have imagined a voice that could rise above the gay and thunderous melody of the steam organ. But rise it did; louder and louder, smoother than silk. It soared and swooped, over and around the counterpoint her fingers coaxed from the keyboards. For a moment her voice would disappear amongst the notes of the organ, flittering here and there, only to appear again, ascending glissando, to flutter ever higher. Then, from a tremolo sustained until its buzz settled in the marrow, it would dive like a bird a’hunt for a note to pierce the heart. Time and time again she found that note until, with every quaver and semiquaver, my love did flow for her.

There was, at some stage, a man who came to stand before me. I barely noticed his presence bar the fact that he partly obscured my view. I would have stood there oblivious had he not rattled a red wooden box at me in a most annoying manner. Each time the box rattled, metal upon metal, the sound would intrude upon my pleasure. Every shake produced a clangorous cacophony of coins that perturbed my mind from the beauty of the steam organ and its wondrous vocal accompaniment. With little thought but for removing this distraction I reached into my pocket and withdrew a coin, barely looking as I placed it into the box.

Then the man was gone, moving on to the next person in the crowd. I’m sure that, just for a moment, I saw the calliope player tilt her head towards me in acknowledgement, and smile. My heart seemed to stop, and time stood still beneath that beatific face and the light that shone in her eyes. Looking back now, I feel that I am starting to understand a little of Einstein’s Relativity.

I don’t know how long I stood watching and listening, or for how long she played and sang, but when she stopped a curtain dropped across the side of the carriage, hiding her from view. A final gust of steam exhausted itself from the pipes with a high, piercing wheeze and the crowd dispersed.