The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (3 page)

T
HAT DECIDED IT.
Page practically dove out the window. John had to hold tight to her sleeve, otherwise she would have been over the balcony.

“Do we jump?” she asked once they were upright and peering over the balustrade. Underneath them, the back gardens seemed to stretch for miles into the twilight.

John peered around in panic. They couldn't jump. They'd break their legs. “We can tie all our clothes together,” he said, setting his knapsack down on the tiles and pulling out one of his shirts. It looked awfully small.

“Or we could try climbing down that,” Page said.

“What?”

“That.”

She pointed over the balustrade. Wonder upon wonders, a trellis had been affixed to the side of the building,
between their balcony and the one next door. The wisteria that was supposed to climb up it was nothing more than an asthmatic bunch of leaves, but John could have kissed each and every one.

“Do you think you can reach it?” he said, climbing over the balustrade and seizing hold of the trellis.

Page smiled and stretched out her hand toward him.

“Don't you know, Johnny? I'm going to be an acrobat.”

Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!
went a knock on the door.

“Excuse me, Miss Coggin, are you all right in there? One of our patrons thought they heard glass breaking. Miss Coggin?”
WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!
“Miss Coggin?”

“Quick, Page, quick!” John said, seizing hold of her hands and hauling her over the railing. She was heavy, and for a brief moment he thought she might slip through his sweaty fingers. He could feel her going and then—

She caught the slats below him and began scampering down to the ground. John followed, adding a brand-new set of splinters to his palms.

“Now what?” Page asked when they had stumbled onto the gravel walkway.

John glanced to his right. Half the hotel and anyone on the terrace had a view of the entrance, which was full of arriving and departing carriages. And they couldn't go around to the left, or they'd run into the ocean.

“We'll go through the garden,” John said confidently,
though his pulse was beating fast enough to burst his cuffs open. “And then we can sneak out the back.”

He took Page's hand again and darted through a maze of irises.

“But,” Page panted, “what will we do when we get on the other side?”

John didn't answer. He didn't know.

Around the manicured magnolias they went, treading over daisies and frightening frogs. Skirting the water-lily pond, they scaled the outcrops on the rock garden and skipped over a patch of ferns.

They soon came to a wrought iron fence with fearsome pikes stretching into the clouds. A rat could barely squeeze through the gap in the posts, let alone a boy.

“We can't get through there,” Page said helpfully.

John began to run down the inside of the fence. Maybe there was a gardener's gate or a spot they could tunnel under. . . .

It didn't take them long to smack into a forgotten thicket of unripe raspberry bushes. John wanted to cry.

“Johnny, look, it's a ladybug.”

Page pointed to a fat ladybug that was crawling over John's trousers. In the distance, John heard a shout. Then another.

“Page, we don't have time for this!” He tried to brush off the ladybug.

“No, Johnny, don't hurt it!” She pushed his hand away.
“You have to count the spots.”

John tried to double back along the fence. If Great-Aunt Beauregard had discovered their footprints, then they had only minutes before they were found. But Page was not to be budged.

“It's important! You get a wish for each spot.”

John yelled, “Fine! My first wish is that we get over that stupid fence!”

“Can I be of assistance?”

A bushel of frizzy red hair appeared in a clump of pink azaleas. Then the rest of Boz's face popped into view, the ugliest example of an exotic in full bloom.

“Salutations. You appear to be damselflies in distress.”

“We're stuck,” Page said.

“We're running away to the circus,” John said.

“Naturally. Otherwise you would have attempted a more public point of departure.”

“But there's no way through this fence.” John tried to kick a post and bruised his shin instead.

“Not to worry,” Boz said cheerfully, straightening up and tucking an azalea behind his ear. “If you follow me, I believe I can point you to a convenient exit.”

Skipping, he led John and Page around the raspberry bushes and into a dark patch of firs.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” John asked. The faint murmur of human voices had become an angry buzz.

“Fritillaries!” Boz cried out.

“Fritillaries? What are those?”

“Various members of the family Nymphalidae, especially of the genera
Speyeria
and
Boloria
,” Boz said.

John was about to ask him what that meant when Boz stopped short.

“The fruition of our good fortune.”

John looked up. A teetering tower of flowerpots, wooden fruit crates, and rocks rose before them. As the tiniest breath of wind meandered through the firs, the whole edifice creaked and swayed in an agony of pain.

“What is that?” asked John, taking an involuntary step back.

“It's a princess castle!” Page cried.

“That,” Boz said proudly, “is our method of egress.”

“You built that?” asked John.

“With my humble hands. I considered a rope, of course, but I deemed that the young lady might find this solution more accessible.”

A piece of crate fell off the side and barely missed striking John's head.

“It's incredible,” John said despairingly.

Boz rubbed his nose with mock humility. “I am, as they say, a jack-of-all-shades.”

“And what are we supposed to do with it?”

“We'll use it to get over the fence.”

“Oh, no,” John said, watching the tower wobble in the
breeze. “We're not going up that.”

“My dear unfortunates,” said Boz as the bellows of men could be heard in the distance, “I'm afraid you have no choice.” He smiled and put a hand on John's shoulder.

“Now, if you could genuflect in the general direction of the grass.” Boz pushed John down into a kneeling position. “And then plant your phalanges firmly in the plants.” He continued to push until John was on all fours. “Then I will be able to ascend unto the celestial heavens.”

And with that, Boz sprang onto John's back and launched himself onto a crate.

“Coming?”

Up the tower they scrambled, flowerpots slipping beneath their feet. The stones grew skinnier and the wood got rottener as they neared the top. Then, suddenly, they were there! Standing on a crate and sliding dangerously toward the tips of the spikes.

“
Sequimini me
!”
Boz leaped into the air.

John and Page looked over the fence. Their new companion was lounging on the top of a fireman's ladder. A fireman's ladder that was attached to a brilliant red fire engine. An engine that was drawn by a pair of black stallions.

“What is that?” yelled John, grabbing onto Page as the tower lurched sideways.

Boz tilted his head in sympathy. He seemed to think John had lost his mind.

“It's a
fire engine
,” he said very slowly and carefully. “They use it to help put fires out.”

“I know that!” John almost shrieked. “But where did you get it?”

“Amusing anecdote, that,” Boz began. “Involving a constipated Labrador and some elderflower cordial—”

“We don't have time!” Page squeaked as the tower began to keel over backward.

“Oh, well, then perhaps you'd better disembark from the bark,” Boz said, hopping off the ladder and into the engine.

John and Page needed no prompting. They were on the ladder quicker than you can say KABOOM! Which is precisely the sound the tower made as it hit the ground, almost braining the approaching crowd and sending up a tornado of dust.

“Might I urge a little acceleration?” Boz called up. “We may have outstayed our welcome.”

Down the ladder John and Page slid, toward the beautiful hunk of gleaming brass beneath them. The dust was still three feet thick between themselves and the fence, but clearing rapidly.

“So you stole—” John began.

“Borrowed, my dear boy, borrowed.” Boz helped Page take a seat.

“You borrowed a fire engine?” John followed Page, landing with a thump.

“Well, they didn't appear to be using it at the time.”

Boz flicked the reins. The stallions reared on their hind legs and came down charging. The engine bell clanged uncontrollably. The ladder fell off into the road. Only Page's hand stopped John from tumbling headfirst under the wheels.

“Isn't this magnificent?” Boz yelled. “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder, soaring high, out on the sly!”

Off they went, careening down the road, sending cats and roosters and barrels scattering before them. When John found enough balance to peek back at the fence, he could just spy the top of the canary in Great-Aunt Beauregard's hat. It appeared to be screaming.

“JOHN PEREGRINE COGGIN! I WILL ROAST YOUR GIBLETS FOR THIS!”

“Y
OU KNOW,
I'
VE
never driven one of these before,” Boz confessed. “I had assumed the sheer weight of the internal elements would affect its aerodynamic qualities, but it seems to handle quite well.”

Boz yanked the engine around a corner, jolting Page's elbow into John's liver.

“If you've never driven one, then why did you steal—”

“Borrow.”

“—borrow it?” asked John.

“Logic!” Boz exclaimed, urging the horses over a stone bridge and sending a flock of ducks squawking in protest. “The last refuge of the enlightened man. What method of conveyance can go as fast as it likes without fear of being stopped?”

“A fire engine—look out!” John yelled, and Boz turned
his attention to the large pile of manure lying in their path. He hauled on the reins and the horses skittered sideways, barely missing the steaming pile.

“Correct!” Boz smiled. “An inspired, if elementary, chain of deduction. And now we are off to find adventure in the evening air. Girls in white in a perfumed night where the lights are bright as the stars.”

“How long will it take us to get to the circus?” John closed his eyes against the sight of the rutted road in front of them.

“A couple of hours,” Boz answered jovially, bouncing in his seat as they took the first pothole at a gallop. “If fortune favors the brave, we might be in time for the late show. They have two on Fridays,” he added, clonking his hand against John's skull, “when the barometric pressure is behaving itself.”

“Johnny?”

“What is it, Page?”

“I think I'm going to throw up.”

There is nothing like watching your younger sister vomit great quantities of peas and carrots over the side of a fire engine to make you doubt your sanity.

Yet once she was righted, Page insisted on enjoying the ride. She whooped and hollered and waved at the gulls as the engine barreled along the seashore.

John was less excited. He had gained enough breath to question whether being on a runaway vehicle driven by a
long-winded maniac was such a good idea. Information was needed. Quickly.

“How long have you been with the Wandering Wayfarers?”

“The who?” Boz shouted back.

“The Wandering Wayfarers! The circus we might join!”

“Ah, yes. The name had somehow slipped the cogs of my mind.”

Since they were making rapid progress toward their destination, John had difficulty believing this.

“I go back and forth and back again,” Boz said, swaying in time with the engine. “Though I haven't set a pair of retinas upon Colonel Joe and his merry band for some months.”

“But you're an acrobat with them,” John protested.

“Am I?”

“That's what you said!” John smacked his hand on the seat.

“No need to ping the paintwork, my dear boy. If that's what I said, then that's what I said. Whether it has any firm tether to reality is, as they say, a whole 'nother cauldron of cod.”

John chewed on his lip and studied Page's face.

“Are we going to be okay, Johnny?”

“We'll be fine,” he tried to say quietly, but the noise from the road and the horses and Boz clanging the bell drowned him out.

“What?” she said.

“We'll be fine!”

Boz grinned and flung his arm around John's shoulder.

“Why, of course you will, my bonny wee bairns! By now, that formidable fortress of formaldehyde—your great-aunt—will have retreated to her discounted digs. There she will assemble the constabulary to pursue you. She will think it a mere doddle to reclaim the genetic remnants of her family.

“But she will be wrong!” Boz shouted, almost strangling John in his enthusiasm. “For she has not reckoned with the life force that springs eternal for the young at heart! Am I not right, comrades?”

“Boz,” Page said slowly.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I think you're choking John.”

“Oh, I do apologize,” Boz said, releasing John's neck. John hacked and sputtered a little while Page patted him on the back. “Are you all right?”

“I'll be fine,” croaked John. “In about three hours,” he added wryly.

“I'm afraid we can't wait that long. We're here.”

Under the slim curve of a crescent moon, a flea-bitten tent rose up from a fly-ridden field. Apart from an odd assortment of caravans and grazing horses, there was little to see except a faded canvas gate marked

Wande ing W yfar rs

along with an ancient cannon and a rusty barbed-wire fence around the entire enclosure. Laughter from within the tent indicated a show was in progress.

“Isn't she a pretty peach?” Boz sighed, reining in the horses. “Though I believe we've missed most of the second sitting.”

Since John was finding it incredibly difficult to say anything nice, he responded by helping Page down from the seat.

“This place looks awful,” Page said.

Boz feigned hurt.

“Well, I admit that the bloom of her youth has somewhat oxidized, but she is home for many a meandering mountebank.”

He gestured to the fence.

“Shall we go under?”

“Why can't we go through the gate?” John demanded.

“On any other evening, I would agree with you,” Boz said. “Only it happens that tonight, Alligator Dan is at the box office. And he may still be mad about the incident with the fire ants.”

John was going to ask about the fire ants when Page cut him off.

“Alligator Dan is a funny name.”

“And he, my fine friends, is only the first member of these self-proclaimed dirty tramps.” Boz gallantly lifted the barbed wire for Page to crawl under. “Although I
doubt that even the powers of bleach would help,” he continued. “They're strung together with twine and a prayer by the good Colonel Joe.”

Down came the barbed wire, pinning John to the ground.

“Now, we'll just pop our cerebelli under the big top to see if I can spot the man in charge.”

John lifted a feeble hand.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Boz lifted the fence once more. “Was that me?”

John was too busy removing a hunk of mud from his mouth to answer. When he finally had the means to reply, Boz and Page were already halfway across the field, making their way toward the big top.

John followed as fast as he could, but the pale light of the June evening made it difficult to see. He might have tripped over their decapitated forms if he hadn't spotted the light seeping under the tent. Dropping to his stomach next to his sister, he thrust his head under the flap.

A heady scent of popcorn smacked him full in the face. As a stream of soda percolated down his back, John realized they were under a bench set up for spectators. Between a pair of bowed legs, he caught a glimpse of a dirt ring backed by a red curtain.

Btwang.
A discordant burst from a ukulele silenced the crowd. The curtain was dragged open to reveal a set of pretty teenage girls, dressed in band uniforms, marching
in military fashion and twirling batons.

This wouldn't have been unusual except for the math.

For by John's count, they had two heads, four legs, and only
two
arms. From shoulder to hip, they were fused together.

“The Mimsy Twins,” Boz noted.

“John, they're glued,” Page whispered. John squeezed her arm to show her that he'd heard.

In spite of their adhesion, the Mimsy Twins were incredibly talented. John watched in awe as they performed an intricate tap dance, their batons crisscrossing high above their heads. A surge of joy rushed through him. So this was what the circus was like!

Up, up went the pinwheels of light . . .

Out went John, yanked backward by his feet.

“Colonel not in attendance,” Boz explained. “We'll proceed to the potentate's fire.”

There was no time for John to argue. Off they went again, trotting toward the dim flare of a bonfire. Stumbling and bumbling, John felt his left foot sink into a squishy mound and tried not to imagine what it was.

“Remember to let my powers of oratory persuade him,” Boz instructed as they drew nearer to the fire. “Oh, and keep your fingers away from the dogs.”

“Dogs?” John asked, but the baying of hounds interrupted him. A pair of slavering German shepherds rose up from nowhere and charged. Boz scrambled onto John's
back as John tried to thrust Page behind him.

Ruff! Snarfff! Raaarrk!
went the dogs. Then they stretched their mouths wide, giving John a glimpse of rows of lethal teeth. He closed his eyes in terror.

“Hello, puppies. It's nice to meet you.”

John opened his eyes. Page had stepped out from behind him and was extending her small, delicate fingers toward jaws that could easily devour her arm.

But the dogs didn't swallow her arm. Instead they wagged their tongues, dropped their ears, and rolled over in delight. Page knelt down in the dust to scratch their bellies.

“Heckuva animal trainer you got there, Boz.”