Mending Horses (27 page)

His week's grace seemed too long and too short all at the same time.

“You. Come here.” Mr. Chamberlain stood in the entrance to his pavilion, his long arms crossed over his chest, one bony finger beckoning to Daniel. The conjurer slipped back into his tent, and Daniel followed, wondering what sort of trouble he was in now.

“You're not ready for tomorrow afternoon, boy,” Mr. Chamberlain said.

“I am, sir, I swear it,” Daniel replied. “Ivy and I practiced just this morning. Ask Mr. Stocking—” He realized that there was a whole crowd of people in the tent watching him.

Francesca, Mr. Varley, and Mr. Stocking stood near Mrs. Varley, the wardrobe mistress. Spread across a nearby table were a pile of clothing and what appeared to be small dead animals.

“Yes, yes, I've seen you practice, so I know you can perform, but who are you supposed to be?” Mr. Chamberlain gave Daniel a glower that would have made him squirm had it not been for the bone-deep relief of hearing that the man believed him ready to perform.

“I—er—nobody,” Daniel said. “Nobody but meself, I mean.”

“That won't do at all,” the wardrobe mistress tut-tutted. She sorted through the items on the table. Daniel realized that what appeared to be animals was actually an assortment of wigs.

“Fred wants to make you a red Indian,” Mr. Stocking said.

“Whoever heard of a red-haired Indian?” Mrs. Varley said with a sniff. She swept a set of fringed leather leggings from the table in a swirl of powdery reddish dust.

“He could be a gypsy,” suggested Mr. Varley.

“Lord, no, he's pale as a fish-belly,” his wife protested.

“What about a Cossack?” Francesca said. “A Cossack might have red hair and freckles.”

“Who says he's got to have red hair?” Mr. Chamberlain picked up a dark, curly wig and shook the dust from it. Something crawled out and ran up his shirt cuff. He dropped the wig as if it had scalded him. “Hell, Jerusha, don't you ever clean them things?”

“I'll not be wearing someone else's bugs.” Daniel poked a cautious toe at the wig, which looked ready to crawl out of the tent on its own. “Why can't I just wear me own things?”

All of them went silent and gave him withering glares.

“A Cossack, definitely.” Francesca started up the discussion again as if Daniel hadn't spoken. “He could pass for Russian, don't you think?”

“I don't speak any Russian,” Daniel pointed out.

“Varley's going to do the talking,” Mr. Stocking reminded him. “If you got to say something, just do it in Irish. Most folks won't know whether you're talking Gaelic or Russian or Hottentot, just so long as it sounds foreign.”

“Sit, boy,” Mr. Chamberlain commanded, pulling out a stool and shoving Daniel down onto it. “And let's see what we can make of you.” He planted a hand firmly on Daniel's head to hold him still, then reached for one of his makeup pots.

A little boy on the side of the road clapped his hands over his ears, and a brace of babies wailed at the boom and clatter of the drums. The trumpet and the French horn blared in a fanfare of noise as glorious and brassy as the golden autumn morning. Stately elm trees shaded the road like a triumphal arch. Daniel urged Ivy to the head of the procession, then halted her at the side of the road so he could take in the spectacle before assuming his own place in the cavalcade.

Waves of people lined the road from Sheffield into Great Barrington. The most aggressive boys shoved their way to the front, while smaller ones sat on their fathers' or brothers' or friends' shoulders. Other children, and a good many adults, stood atop fences and stone walls.

The bandwagon led the caravan, followed by Mr. Chamberlain's red-and-gold wagon. The conjurer sat on top, dressed in his mirrored robes and turban. He let fly a flash of sparks and a puff of colored smoke with a bang that startled the boys who'd gotten too close and sent them fleeing with squeals of laughter. Next came the acrobats' wagon, with Mr. Sharp and Mr. Dale sitting sideways on the two gray horses that pulled it. They juggled half a dozen apples between them, every now and again taking a bite from an apple without losing either balance or rhythm. When one apple was done, the jugglers would let the core fall to the ground, and Mr. or Mrs. Varley would toss in a new apple from a basket sitting between them on the wagon seat. Every now and again, Mr. Sharp or Mr. Dale or Mr. Varley would cry, “Catch!” and fling an apple into a knot of boys, who would wrestle for it as if the jugglers had thrown a silver dollar.

In the road on either side of the wagon, the Ruggles Brothers performed their leaps and somersaults and catches. Francesca, meanwhile, stood on the wagon behind the Varleys, wrapped in a bejeweled, red, ermine-trimmed cape. The cape was merely an old blanket onto which Mrs. Varley had glued bits of glass and edged with moth-eaten white fur that the wardrobe mistress claimed was rabbit, though Daniel had his doubts. Still, Francesca looked regal as a princess. She waved and curtsied to the crowd, somehow keeping her balance in spite of the potholes and ruts that shook the wagon.

Behind Francesca's wagon came Mr. Lamb's menagerie, the bear and the panthers staring nonchalantly at the waving and cheering crowd. Next was the enclosed wagon carrying the snakes and the props. The crowd oohed over the pictures on the wagon's sides, which depicted a viper swallowing a sow and eight piglets.
After the snakes came the antelopes and then the emus. Napping in their cage, the great birds looked like a pile of feathers waiting to be made into pillows. But two men swore they'd seen fangs and claws under those feathers.

Three camels, tethered end to end behind the emus' wagon, brought up the rear of the menagerie. Their jaws moved rhythmically side to side as they chewed their cud, looking not altogether different from the tobacco-chewing men watching from the roadside. One man spat a thick brown stream toward the camels. Lorenzo, the largest camel, belched and directed a splatter of regurgitated hay and grain onto the man's shoes. The human spitter cursed and stepped back while his companions roared with laughter.

Billy came next, driving the six ponies and their wagon. Mrs. Varley had decked the lass out in a green velvet suit and a wool cape that fanned out around Billy's shoulders to hide the back of her tailcoat, which was miles too big. Having no time to alter the jacket, Mrs. Varley had used clothes-pegs and straight pins to gather the slack in back, then concealed the lot beneath the cape. Billy grinned broadly, and Daniel let Ivy fall into step alongside her.

“'Tis grand, isn't it?” she said. “I wish we could parade about all the day.”

“Aye,” Daniel said with a chuckle. “If you could parade about all day, you could avoid all the work that's waiting for you at the pavilion.”

“And you'd not have to think about dancing Ivy before all them folk,” Billy said.

“I'd mind what I was saying if I was you,” Daniel teased back, poking her shoulder. “It'd take no more'n a tap to send all them pins into you.”

“I'd like to see you try.” Billy stuck her tongue out.

Daniel drummed his fingers on Billy's top hat, pushing it down on her brow. “It being such a lovely day, I'd hate to be spoiling it by rowing,” he said.

Billy shoved her hat back up and gave Daniel her sourest
glare. “That, and you don't want to be sleeping with your eyes open all week, wondering how I'd be taking me vengeance.”

Daniel let her have the last word. Some time ago, their bickering had progressed from combat to sport, with him not quite knowing when or how it had happened, the way a touch of frost could mellow an apple from tart to sweet, with no sign on the outside to show the change.

“Well, son, what do you think?” Mr. Stocking asked as Phizzy pulled up alongside Ivy.

Daniel looked back at the wagons that held the tents and ring fence and other gear, the green wagon that held the camelopard's remains. Behind them came a train of curiosity showers, peddlers, tinkers, knife grinders, patent medicine salesmen, and itinerant craftsmen riding the show's coattails into town.

Daniel caught his breath. “'Tis a bit like a dream.”

“Enjoy it now, son,” Mr. Stocking said with a grin. “Next town, they're as likely to be greeting us with stones and rotten cabbages. And who knows but they might warn us out of this one, if they don't get the show they expect.”

“But for now it feels . . . well, I don't fancy I've felt so grand in me life.”

“I know.” Mr. Stocking winked. “Kind'a like being an Irish prince, ain't it, son?”

“You look splendid, Daniel,” Billy said, fingering the spangles on his multicolored vest.

Between the two of them, Mr. Stocking and Mr. Chamberlain had invented a tribe of red-haired gypsy nomads from the steppes of Pomerania, the location chosen with a hatpin and a map from Billy's geography book. Never mind that Daniel hadn't a clue whether Pomerania had any steppes, or that the only steppes he knew of had to do with dancing and staircases. Mrs. Varley had cobbled together a costume that was part Gypsy, part Cossack, and part Turk, but thankfully included neither wig nor tights. The outfit reeked of tansy, old sweat, and stale tobacco, and had
put Ivy off nearly as much as Daniel. She'd snorted and pulled her upper lip back when he'd first approached, and even now cast a dubious eye at him as they waited with Mr. Stocking and Phizzy just outside the show pavilion.

Daniel ran a finger under his collar, wondering how many creatures besides himself resided in the costume. He resolved to boil it the first chance he could get. “I stink,” he said.

“That's all right, son,” Mr. Stocking assured him. “Just as long as your performance doesn't.” He tugged his lapels. “I'm a little rank myself. Maybe I should give Mrs. Varley some Parisian toilet water for her wardrobe trunks.” He cocked an ear to the applause that told them that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Dale had just completed their juggling act. “Our turn next, boys,” he said, leading Phizzy into the pavilion.

Daniel and Billy followed with Ivy, stopping just behind the tiered benches to watch.

All it took to make the audience giggle was seeing Mr. Stocking and Phizzy walk into the ring. Mrs. Varley had fitted the peddler out with a mustard yellow tailcoat patched at the elbows and splitting along the back seam, which was mended in huge, sloppy stitches. His coattails sported two enormous pockets. From one pocket dangled an oversized watch chain; from the other, a bit of red calico. He tipped his shabby straw hat, then strode toward the middle of the ring as if he were marching in the militia day parade.

Just behind him came Phizzy, a similarly battered hat tied to his head, contrasting with the huge pink bow adorning his tail. The old horse held his head high, mimicking his master's posture and gait. When the peddler took his place in the center of the ring, Phizzy stood a little behind him. Pretending not to notice the horse, Mr. Stocking bowed. Phizzy did the same, extending one foreleg in imitation of his master. The audience snickered and giggled.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Stocking said. Phizzy pulled his lips back from his teeth as if he, too, were making an announcement. The crowd chortled its appreciation.

“Look behind you, old man!” shouted one of the show's teamsters, who'd been planted in the audience to give Mr. Stocking his cues.

Mr. Stocking looked over his right shoulder. Phizzy sidestepped to the left. Mr. Stocking pretended not to see him. The peddler looked over his left shoulder, and the gelding stepped to the right. They repeated the charade twice more, the crowd's laughter growing as Mr. Stocking mimed confusion. Finally, Mr. Stocking turned to the right and Phizzy stepped in the same direction. The two collided and Mr. Stocking fell on his backside.

Even though he'd seen them rehearsing, Daniel couldn't help laughing. The little man and his horse drew an energy from the crowd that made everything seem funnier than it had in practice. Daniel stroked Ivy's neck, wondering if she, too, would shine more brightly with all them folk watching her. He plucked at the front of his shirt, already soggy with sweat.

The audience tittered as Phizzy snatched Mr. Stocking's straw hat and commenced to eat it. The peddler wrestled it away, crammed the mangled hat back on his head, and turned his back on the horse. Phizzy grabbed the corner of red cloth hanging from the little man's coat pocket. Mr. Stocking stalked off in a huff toward one end of the ring while Phizzy headed to the other, the cloth clutched firmly in his teeth. A series of knotted handkerchiefs streamed from Mr. Stocking's pocket: red, blue, green, yellow, purple . . . until the last one brought him up short like a dog coming to the end of his chain. He turned, then hand over hand used the handkerchiefs to draw Phizzy in as if he were reeling in a fish. Mr. Stocking crossed his arms and faced down the horse. “I s'pose you think you're clever, do you?” he challenged.