Elegy for a Lost Star (14 page)

Quayle reached over and shook the creature, recoiling at the slimy feel of its skin.

“Hey! You! Wake up, beast. You're going to the grand ball! At least for your kind.”

The creature did not move.

Quayle's brows drew together. “Wake up,” he urged the creature again. When it still did not respond, he looked over his shoulder at Brookins. “Not good—they won't want to pay as much if all he does is lie there.”

“Mayhap he's sick,” Brookins suggested.

“Mayhap. Fish out of water—can't be feelin' too well.” Quayle steeled himself, then gingerly took hold of the creature's thin wrist and raised its soft arm, folds of skin hanging loosely, only to have it fall limply at its side again. The fisherman exhaled in annoyance, then blinked, moving closer for a better look.

In between the long, arthritic fingers something was wedged.

Quayle reached out and took hold of one end of it. It was thin and hard, with a ragged edge, green. At first it had blended into the seaweed so that he had not seen it. He gave a tug.

The creature's eyes flickered open.

Quayle tugged again.

The fishlike creature hissed, louder this time, its head lolling back and forth, struggling to awaken.

“What the—?” murmured Quayle. He tugged once more, with as much torque as he could muster. The object broke free of the creature's grip, leaving a thin trail of black blood dripping between its spindly fingers.

The creature's eyes snapped open, and its fused lips shook with agitation. It hissed wildly, and flailed its weak arms, reaching for its treasure.

Ignoring its protestations, Quayle held the object up to the light of the afternoon sun. It was hard, like an insect's carapace, with tattered edges, at the same time flexible, with tiny etchings that scored its surface. At first he would have said that it was green in color, but when the light hit its surface, it refracted into a million tiny rainbows, dancing over the object.

“Bugger me,” Quayle whispered, entranced.

The creature hissed louder and spat, its eyes focused on Quayle, brimming with anger. It made another weak grab for its object, but Quayle moved easily out of reach.

He stared at the thin disk for a moment more, then looked back at the creature, who was glaring at him with all of its remaining strength.

“You want it back?” he asked softly. The creature nodded angrily. “Good—you do understand me. Well then, my friend, if you want it back, you'd best look lively in front of the Ringmaster; if he likes you enough to buy you, then you can have your treasure back. And only then.” He slid the ragged disk into his shirt and climbed back onto the wagon board, turning a deaf ear to the piteous wails and whimpers coming from the back.

T
he Monstrosity was set up to the north of the city, just beyond the edge of the outer villages, in a ring of torches and lanternlight that cast twisting shadows on the Krevensfield Plain beyond.

In the light of the fading sun and the flickering brands, Quayle and Brookins could see ten circus wagons, each painted gaily in dark, rich colors with images that defied the imagination. In addition, there were several carts and a number of dray horses, with a multitude of tents set up all around.

A steady stream of people were en route to the sideshow, a host of wide-eyed spectators mixed with unsavory characters undoubtedly seeking other pleasures than the mere spectacle of viewing the monstrous. Quayle knew that sideshows were often fronts for peddling flesh, particularly flesh of the more perverse nature.

A ring of burly guards, dressed in the same fashion as the keeper he had seen in Beggars' Alley, stood at intervals around the perimeter of the sideshow. The ticket taker, a hunchback with a harelip, waited at the entrance, carefully collecting the pieces of fishskin parchment that the Ringmaster had sold to the curious in the alley; sideshows often operated only with presold tickets, to avoid keeping their lucre on the premises in case of bandits or authorities who wished to harass them or shut them down. The hunchback waved two young boys away, followed a moment later by one of the guards, who growled at them.

“Ya can come back tamarra!” the hunchback shouted as they ran. “We here fer two more days!”

Brookins shielded his eyes from the torchlight and looked around. “I don't see anyone waitin',” he said nervously. He clucked to the horse, who was dancing anxiously in the torchlight.

Quayle glowered in agreement. There was no one outside the ring of tents and wagons waiting to meet them.

“I can go in and find him,” Brookins offered.

The other fisherman laughed. “I'd forgot you had a taste for this sort of thing, Brookins,” he said, scanning the scene again and still seeing no sign of the Ringmaster. “But we don't want to meet him on his own twisted ground. Such places are havens of monsters, after all.”

“So how are we gonna talk to him?”

“We'll get him to come out to us.”

Brookins scratched his head, perplexed and agitated. “But what if he don't come out?” he said, watching the crowd begin to enter the gate.

“Oh, mark my words, he'll come out,” Quayle said confidently.

He jumped down from the wagon, then pulled the oilcloth covering back. The creature in the seaweed hissed at him, its eyes full of hate.

“There ya go, bucko, hold that thought,” he said to it, ignoring its withering glare as it struggled to reach him with its bent limbs.

He pulled the oilcloth covering over the creature once more, then stood up in the wagon, cleared his throat, and began calling in the barker's voice he had used in his days as a monger on the wharf.

“Step rightly, lads and lasses, come one, come all—see the Amazing Fish-boy! A better freak you'll not find within the show you've already paid for—and what's more, it won't cost you a thing!”

The crowd of onlookers heading into the Monstrosity continued streaming past him, though a few turned and looked in his direction.

Quayle tried again. “Come now, if you dare, look into the face of
true
monstrosity! Come and take a gander at a being who is half man, half woman, and half fish!”

A few men slowed their gait, but otherwise the crowd ignored him, hurrying to the tents.

Not to be deterred, Quayle addressed a heavyset woman strolling with her husband, a redheaded man with a barrel chest.

“You, madam! You appear to be a right brave soul. You want to be the first to see the
real
freak? Somethin' so frightening that the Ringmaster of the Monstrosity himself is afraid to come out and see it?”

The woman paused, intrigued, and plucked at her husband's arm. The man shook his head disapprovingly, but she dug in her heels.

“Come along, Percy, he picked me! I want to be the first!” she bleated. “Come on, now, love. Let's have a look.”

“Yes, manny, listen to the little lady,” said Quayle in a manner he believed to be smooth. “You can look, too. And it won't cost you nothing. Be the first! Or move on.”

The barrel-chested man cast a longing glance in the direction of the Monstrosity, then looked back at his wife's expectant face and sighed.

“All right, Grita, but then we are late for the gate,” he said grudgingly.

Quayle clapped his hands together in delight. As he had expected, a small crowd had started to form, willing to delay for a moment their entry into the carnival of freaks in anticipation of what might be hiding in the wagon. The light from the torches cast long fireshadows that scurried across the oilcloth, making it seem like a menacing bog or a cave from which something hideous was about to appear.

“Come 'round this side, missus,” he said to the woman, who eagerly made her way around the wagon to the place where the fisherman had indicated; her husband followed her, exhaling loudly. Quayle glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the sideshow; as he expected, enough of the crowd had been diverted to have caught the attention of the hunchback at the gate. The ticket taker muttered something to one of the bare-chested guards, and the muscle-bound man slipped through the gate and disappeared into the Monstrosity.

Quayle returned his attention to the woman, who was dancing impatiently next to the wagon. He adopted as polite a tone as he could muster.

“Are you ready, missus?”

The woman nodded eagerly.

“Now, make sure you stay within grasp of your fine husband here. This is a savage beast.”

“Get on with it,” her husband growled.

Quayle glanced up at the small crowd once more, and, determining the size to be right, he nodded.

“Very well, then. Behold the Amazing Fish-boy.”

He grasped the oilcloth and tugged it up so that the woman and her husband could see inside, while the rest of the crowd around the wagon watched their faces.

The man and the woman peered into the depths of the wagon.

At first all they could see was darkness. The woman stood on her tiptoes and leaned in for a better look, while her husband crossed his arms, looking annoyed.

“I don't see nothin',” he said in a surly voice.

“Neither do—”

Just as the words left the woman's lips, the creature in the wagon lunged at her with all its might, hissing and screeching ferociously. Black water poured from its gaping mouth, its lips fused in the center over its soft yellow teeth, its eyes, cloudy with cataracts, filled with unmistakable murderous rage.

Both of them reeled back in shock, then screamed in unison. The woman's face went completely gray, and she darted behind her husband, sobbing; he could do little to help, as he seemed rooted to the spot, gibbering like a monkey.

The unveiling had its desired effect. The response was so genuine, the husband and wife so aghast, that it caused ripples of residual horror to wash over the small crowd, which gasped in fear, even without seeing the freak in the wagon.

Quayle chuckled at the shock on Brookins's face; the ripple of terror had caught his dockmate unaware. He pulled the oilcloth back over the wagon.

“All right,” he called to the crowd around his wagon, which had tripled in the wake of the scream, “who's next?”

Brookins, recovering, had been watching the gate. “Quayle,” he murmured, “he's comin'.”

Without looking, Quayle nodded. “You, sir?” he asked quickly, pulling a tall, brawny man in from the wagon's edge. A group of other people around him stepped quickly back.

The man was coaxed into place just as the Ringmaster and two of his keepers came into the circle around the wagon. Quayle timed his revelation to coincide with the Ringmaster's arrival; when he was just a few steps
away, the fisherman pulled the oilcloth off again, once again eliciting a strangled gasp and a cry of genuine horror rising from the brawny man's viscera.

The crowd of peasants began to talk among themselves in an enthusiastic blend of excitement and fear. The Ringmaster shoved his way through the convocation, followed by his keepers, trying to talk above the din of chatter, endeavoring to convince the group to move on to the gates of the sideshow, but the promise of free viewing of what must be a heinous monster served to make them insistent upon seeing it for themselves.

“What do you think you are doing?” the Ringmaster demanded angrily of Quayle, who was watching the proceedings with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

“Why, just giving your sideshow customers a little—a little—”

“Side show?” Brookins piped up.

Quayle chuckled. “That's it! A side show to the sideshow.” He glanced from the boisterous crowd, which was now jockeying to see who would peer into the wagon next, to the livid Ringmaster and his bristling henchmen, and leveled an insolent stare at the man. “Now, don't get uppity, Ringmaster,” he said patronizingly. “Remember, it's
you
what stood
me
up. I offered you first crack at this freak, and you didn't bother to come to our arranged appointment.”

The Ringmaster pushed his way through the crowd and came around to the side of the wagon where Quayle stood.

“Let me see it,” he demanded. He seized the edge of the oilcloth.

“Ah, ah,” Quayle chided, slapping his hand away. “It's not free for
you
, Ringmaster. You charged me to come into
your
show. Seems only fittin' that you should pony up a crown to see mine.”

The crowd, caught up in the excitement, began to babble in agreement.

Inhuman sounds began to issue forth from under the oilcloth.

The Ringmaster's face slackened. “I don't carry money,” he said sullenly.

Quayle nodded. “Mayhap that's true. So I will show you what a gentleman I can be. Despite how rude you've treated me, I will spot you the crown. But if you want to buy my fish-boy, you will have to pay me my price, plus the crown, plus the first half-crown you charged me.” He looked to the growing throng for support. “Does that seem fair?” he asked the assembly.