Firetale (30 page)

We were not going to perform in
this town. The destination was changed when we heard rumors
that
a spirit
raged in the Arapahoe mine, at least according to the mine workers.
Almost everyone had heard howls and growls, some even swore they
saw red eyes and yellow fangs glowing in the dark. Some believed
that the spirit looked like a beast. Others thought it looked like
an Indian chief who once owned the land on which the city stands.
Others argued that the spirit did not have flesh but looked like
fog.

We camped on the border of the
city. I could not shake the feeling that
the local people had shielded their
town from the influence of time. A dim sun stood in the gray sky so
long that I constantly checked my watch to make sure that sooner or
later evening would come, we would perform, and then get the hell
out of town. I talked Bernardius out of going to the mine—all my
amulets were silent about the presence of any spirits nearby. I
suspected that the mysterious spook was a local yarn that folks
could retell each other, now and then embellishing or changing
parts of the story, over a beer in the only bar in town.

Yet I had a constant sense of foreboding.
I did not share my worry with anyone in the circus, because I saw
that the others behaved as usual. I went into my tent to make my
regular records about how the day had gone, and did not leave until
the beginning of the show later that evening.

As far as I
could tell from looking at the
audience, the circus had attracted the entire town, a couple of
hundred people. Mr. Bernardius decided to distribute free tickets,
just to please the miners’ families. It was hard times, and I
couldn’t blame him for wanting to brighten the lives of the local
folks. In the light of artificial lamps under the tent, amidst the
colorful fabrics of the canvas, their faces looked alive. I saw how
interest and curiosity had replaced distrust, especially among the
children.

The show went well, although it
was not outstanding.
The spectators, to my surprise, clapped enthusiastically,
even whistled appreciatively. I did not think that these locals
would be capable of such a strong expression of feeling. In short,
everything went as usual, so well that I slightly reproached myself
for my silly misgivings earlier. With a light heart, I made a
couple of records on the show and went to sleep.

Sleeping in our circus is a real
treasure, which anyone can lose at any time. Some demionis are
active only at night. Sometimes our peace is violated by
locals
who
want to sneak in to have another look at the monsters and freaks.
From time to time on the busiest roads, we travel only when the
moon rises, so as not to attract undue attention. So I was not
surprised when that night in my tent Mr. Bernardius showed up. His
look, however, was strange. Instead of the usual concentration on
his face, I read puzzlement and something like joy. The ringmaster
asked me to take pen and paper and follow him to the big
top.

In the big top, I
discovered
an
amazing sight. Blanche and Black, grunting beamishly, were bent
over a boy who was doing some hand gestures that enraptured the
ogres. When Mr. Bernardius and I came closer, I realized the reason
for the unusual behavior of the eternally gloomy brothers. The boy
was showing them tricks. Blanche and Black could not see how the
child managed to guess the cards they chose from the deck after
shuffling it themselves. The little magician was amused by his
unusual audience’s bewilderment, but with the diligence that only a
child has, he tried to pose as a real illusionist.

As we approached, the boy
interrupted his own trick, and Lazarus asked him
to explain again,
this time for my benefit, how and why he was in the circus at this
late hour. The boy introduced himself as Zack and announced that he
wanted to offer his services as a magician to our circus. He loved
our show, but Zack and his buddies all regretted the lack of magic
tricks. There must be a magician in any circus, the boy asserted
confidently. He was special, it was immediately evident. He was
dressed modestly, almost poorly, like all the children I had seen
at the show that evening. His clothes were the same gray and black
colors as everything else in this city, with traces of dirt and
grass on the elbows and knees. His straw-colored hair was cut short
in the manner of most of the local men. But his face and eyes—those
blue eyes reflected a lively mind and much confidence. Zack said he
was nine, but for his age, he clearly lacked several
kilograms.

I was glad Mr. Bernardius had
called me. Zac
k was not the first boy who had sneaked in after closing to
look at our miracles. Blanche and Black packed off such types
neatly and without regret. But Zack was the first who wanted to
join our company. Of course, he was still a child and could not
even imagine what our circus really was, and he had no chance. I
planned to make Zack’s appearance comical in my archives, but,
alas, it would be quite different. I understood why Mr. Bernardius
had not immediately kicked the boy out. Our circus had always
lacked a spectacular magician. I’ve read in the archivist
Faulkner’s records that there was a time when Lazarus himself tried
to conjure. He diligently studied the illusionist craft, observed
the performances of some other circuses’ magicians, but never
achieved great success and soon abandoned the idea. Mr. Bernardius
can do a trick or two. For example, he could pilfer my pocket
watch, picking my pockets easily, but such skills were not enough
for a stage.

But Zack definitely had
skills.
The
boy tried hard to convince us that he was worthy of being a
magician in the circus. He showed a trick with a coin, which he
threw from hand to hand until it was lost from sight, and then took
it out of his nose. He showed us tricks with cards, mixing the deck
so that it was divided by suits, then tore one of the cards into
pieces and then put it back together. His tricks, of course, were
not impressive. But a boy of his age, especially one who was small,
was usually not able to cope with cards of the standard size—their
fingers are too short and inflexible. Zack’s hands were unusually
agile, and it was forgivable that his tricks lacked originality.
After all, how many card tricks had a child in a remote mining town
ever seen?

Mr. Bernardius was adamant,
but
he was so
touched by the boy’s naiveté and so impressed with his skills that
he decided to give Zack a gift: a tour of the part of the circus
that is hidden from the eyes of the audience. There, in the back of
the big top, the artists prepare to enter the arena. It’s also
where the demionis devoid of human appearance live. We all went
together. Lazarus told our little magician about the demionis,
among whom the boy was most impressed by the winged monkey, as if
it was descended from the pages of the novels by Frank Baum. There
were places in the back of the tent where Zack was not allowed, but
we didn’t know that what is not allowed attracts children all the
more.

Next to the cage with the cactus
cat
, Zack
asked us to tell him more about the creature, which was no
surprise. A green-skinned cat the size of a large dog and covered
with spikes is always popular with viewers. But as Mr. Bernardius
and I were talking, the boy jumped up and ran into the darkest part
of the backstage area, the entrance that we had warned him away
from. We ran after him, but his size helped him glide like a shadow
between boxes with props and cages with demionis.

And when we heard a loud
predatory hissing,
I broke out into a cold sweat. At the end of the rows of
cages, in the darkest corner, which we had specially fenced with
boxes so that very little light penetrated there, was a cage with a
medusa. As every archivist knows, it is not like the creature from
Greek mythology; it has no snakes on its head and its legs are not
joined at the tail. This creature remotely resembles a woman. But
its body is hairless, its gray matte skin is like pearly scales,
and its eyes have no pupils and are black as night. Oh, those eyes.
Medusa is not like that in the myths, but it has a similar feature:
its eyes are lethiferous. There is a gland in her eyes that
secretes a poison that the medusa, sensing danger, squirts at the
enemy. For demionis, medusa venom is not dangerous because it has
no effect on the devil’s blood that runs in their veins. But the
poison turns a man into stone; this legend does not lie.

In the circus, the medusa’s head was
covered with a thick leather bag with a hole for breathing just
below the nose, and her hands were tied so that it could not rip
the bag from its head. The medusa never enters the arena, and her
bag is removed only during transfers and sometimes at night, when
there are no people around. Zack did not see the medusa at the
performance. Perhaps the unusual creature intrigued him. Probably
the bag and shackles struck a deep chord in his heart, and he
desired to help the creature in the cage.

When we saw Zack, he was a stone
statue, frozen in motion. In the
statue’s hands was a crumpled leather bag,
and his face expressed surprise and compassion. Poor boy, he had
not even a moment to understand what had happened. I don’t think
you will need detailed descriptions to understand the emotions that
Mr. Bernardius and I felt at the sight of the petrified Zack. But
we could not let grief cloud our minds. Sooner or later, they would
begin to look for the boy, so it was necessary to get rid of any
traces of his presence in the circus. With a sore heart, Mr.
Bernardius ordered Blanche and Blake to take huge hammers and
destroy the statue of Zack. The ogres crushed the stone with heavy
blows, and when the pieces had become so small that they could be
mistaken for small natural stones, the brothers shoveled them into
bags and carried the bags to the local mine, where they poured them
into the pit.

The next morning, Zack’s father showed up
at the circus, along with several local stalwarts. Someone had seen
the boy running toward the circus the night before. Mr. Bernardius
allowed these men to inspect the circus, and not finding any traces
of the kid, the miners left. We left town a few hours later, having
heard that the locals blamed the boy’s disappearance on the
machinations of the spirit of the mine. Supposedly, on the night
Zack disappeared, the mine was unusually noisy. Someone even heard
loud but unintelligible grunts and growls, followed by the sound of
falling stones.

“
Deed is done, again we won.
Ain’t talking no tall tales, friend.”

Pantera
, “Cowboys from Hell”

Judges always
act
ed alone.
That made it easier to avoid attention. One strange fruit is just a
weirdo, but two strange fruits together signal trouble. Besides,
there were few Judges, so pairing them would waste scant resources.
But a Judge was supposed to inform his colleagues of his movements
and verdicts, so that the others, wherever they were, could always
find him. But Judges rarely met in person, and did so only for the
most serious matters. They did not invite each other to a barbecue
or get together in a bar to remember the good old days, bragging
about who had sent the most mongrels home to Hell. No, Judges
rarely called on each other.

So when Lazarus Bernardius left
the tent and saw eight vans lined up on the circus
encampment,
a
man standing in front of each of them, he was surprised. Eight
Judges in one place—he doubted that anyone had ever seen such a
thing. The Judges were like their cars—old, worn, dusty,
scarred—they had endured. All were men and all were armed, and in
the eyes of each were hatred, contempt, and the desire to kill.
Lazarus took note of the one standing in the middle. The right side
of his face was hidden, but his left eye reflected not only the
moonlight and the headlights but also pure insanity. He took a step
forward, but the shadow on his face did not change. He took another
step, and it became clear that the right side of his face was not
hidden by a shadow or an optical illusion.

The right side of Judge Caius’s face and
neck resembled steak that had been burned to char. Underneath the
cracked black skin were red streaks, bits of muscle not consumed by
fire, and there were white spots where the fire had penetrated to
the bones of his skull. In place of his right eye was a gaping red
and black hole. During his long life, Lazarus Bernardius had seen
people die from such wounds, and he wondered what mysterious force
was supporting the Judge’s life, as if he were not an ordinary man,
but a comic book character.

Caius pointed at Greg with his
harpoon.“Him,” the Judge cried in a hoarse voice. “Bernardius, give
him to me! Give me this asshole, and I’ll think about telling my
boys here not to kill every last one of yours.”

As if showing their disagreement
with Caius,
the seven other Judges loudly and purposefully adjusted
their weapons in their hands. In the silence of the night, the
rattling of their those weapons sounded grotesque and
ominous.

“
We both know what would happen
if any of my fosterlings are hurt …” Lazarus began, but the Judge
did not let him finish.

“
Fuck you, mongrel! Screw you and
your ‘you know what would happen.’ If the Devil himself rolled up
here, me and my guys would shoot off his balls to take this
bastard. And no matter how you like to talk, we both know what
would happen if just one of your circus freaks touched one of my
people.” The Judge’s eye glittered with triumph, and he spread his
hands in a theatrical gesture. “I don’t know why we haven’t already
shot off the heads of your rotten little freaks.”