Bacchanal

by Veronica Henry

  Liza could only grin. She didn’t look back at Freddie but loaded up her plate with eggs, grits, and fatty bacon that a butcher probably couldn’t sell to anybody else.

  As the sun began to settle over the tops of the trees, Mrs. Shippen huddled at Bacchanal’s entrance with a sizable crowd of townsfolk, staring in awe. What had been a spattering of trailers and tents when a few of the locals came out to nose around the previous night now looked like a full-fledged carnival, albeit a small one. The closer she looked, the more it all seemed half-baked.

  Still, that buzz of activity had become a controlled hum, the fine working of an oiled machine that had been taken apart and reassembled time and time again. She couldn’t downplay the smell of rare delicacies that filled the air: fried dough, french fries . . . and was that cotton candy?

  The tiny woman was dressed like a vamp. Long beads draped down the front of a cotton drop-waist dress—a holdover from her self-perceived heyday in the twenties. Gloves covered her hands, and her hat had a black ribbon curled on the side.

  The barker called out his ballyhoo: “Step right up, ladies and gents, cats and vamps. Bear witness to freaks and oddities from the far reaches of the globe. Be thrilled by dangerous beasts from deep in the African jungle. Wanna win something nice for the little lady there, buddy? Try your hand at one of our games of skill or chance! And if you’re feeling brave, see if you can last a minute with the strongest Senegalese grappler of all time. And I hope you came on an empty belly, ’cause we got mouthwaterin’ southern treats that’ll make your granny green with envy. Come see the most exotic, the most spectacular show in all the universe . . . Bacchanal!”

  The crowd was riled up, pushing and shoving to get through the fenced-off entrance framed by a latticework structure, a good eight feet high and equally wide. Mrs. Shippen muttered her indignation at being jostled about so but elbowed her way to a spot right in front.

  Thick vines the color of tree bark throbbed and writhed, wove and knit around the frame. Green pods erupted from yellowish flowers and burst to reveal nuts of varying shades, yellow to red to brown. She drew in a sharp breath, then narrowed her eyes. “What kind of flimflam—”

  “Come on now. Nab a kola nut off the vine. Nobody gets in without one. That’s it, peel and chew, folks.” Pause. Indecision. The landlady and likely most of her Baton Rouge neighbors had no idea what a kola nut was. A small child pulled away from his mother and darted forward. A vine curled out to meet him. He plucked a ripe nut and popped it into his mouth.

  The effect was immediate. The boy spun back toward the crowd wearing the muddled grin of a much older man who’d had at least a couple of good shots of corn whiskey. As near a guarantee of a good time as was possible. They surged forward.

  Customers were ushered in and clustered around an inner courtyard. Torch lights sprang to life, illuminating a rectangular space as they flickered from the strong wind that blew through. White scarves whipped on the breeze. White was for welcome, someone whispered. The crowd pitched and murmured, oddly subdued.

  The scarves spun and spun, a whirlwind of white and earth, until the wind died down and the blur dissolved into five forms: three women, each with a scarf in her right hand, and two drummers.

  The drummers raised their drumsticks in unison, and when they came down against the drums, a dance began. Fast, measured stomps. The white scarves keeping time with the hypnotic sway of arms and hips. Graceful, acrobatic kicks and leaps so high they defied reason.

  With a final beat of the drums, the dance ended as mysteriously as it had begun. Torch lights extinguished, the dancers gone as if they had never been there.

  The crowd of people seemed to come back to themselves and were immediately greeted by a sensory overload of big band music piped through a phonograph. Blinking lights called them to the various joints and attractions.

  Mrs. Shippen stood transfixed. She trod the area where, moments before, those shameful half-naked dancers and drummers had been. Nothing remained, not a trace. “Foolishness,” she spat before she ambled through the carnival midway, her unwavering mission to find fault.

  Liza’s assignment was to be a roamer. Pitch in and help whoever needed it. For her troubles, she would be paid a whole half dollar of her own. Once she got her act up and running, she might be able to keep everything she brought in—minus carnival expenses, of course.

  “Hey, Liza,” Hope called out. “Would you mind running back to the trailer and snagging my pitch cards outta my trunk?”

  “Sure thing,” Liza said and then darted off. Already, patrons were streaming through the carnival grounds. Rides swirled, lights flashed, bells rang, games were hawked. The sounds of Baton Rouge at play. The carnival, near as she could tell, was set up in a half circle. Rides filled the center, games and shows the back and sides. The trailers were parked out in what they called the backyard.

  A group of performers cut a path through Liza’s like an earthbound rainbow of merriment. Dancing women, stilt walkers, men wearing painted masks. The women wore scandalous costumes of beads and slivers of bright silks. Their heads were covered in sky-high crowns of gold. The way they jiggled their nearly naked bodies . . . brazen.

  She guessed the figures jitterbugging behind the creepy masks were men. But the stilt dancers sent shivers up her spine. They pranced about with ease, one covered in silver from head to toe. His arms moved like an angel’s wings. The other wore red garb, but his face was painted in the black-and-white image of a skull. The massive orange-and-red wig he wore shot out in all directions. The walkers wove around Liza and passed on to harry another pack of carnival patrons.

  Liza collected herself and hustled off to Hope’s trailer. On the way, she passed those women soldiers. They, too, had a show. They wore the strangest clothes: loincloths, leather covering their breasts. Bandannas wrapped their heads; beads draped at their waists and ankles. They were demonstrating their prowess with spears, throwing at a target set up more than twenty yards away. They hit the bull’s-eye time and again and identified marks to come up and give it a try.

  Mico chose that moment to leap out of her pocket.

  “Mico!” She took off after him. Hope would have to wait. Liza darted through the shadows, dodging customers, and then pulled up short. Mico sat perched in front of the red trailer. It was still set off from the rest of the group, Clay’s dark trailer off to the side.

  “What is wrong with you?” Liza scooped up her pet and hastened to back away: slow, quiet steps the way her father had taught her. Movement caught her eye.

  A lone light flickered in the red trailer’s windows. Multiple shadows filled the space. Animated voices and the rhythmic beat of African drums drifted from the open windows.

  The drums stopped. She froze, but Mico screeched . . . loudly. As badly as Liza wanted to turn and run, she couldn’t. Something held her in place. Not even the terror-stricken scream trapped in her chest could escape. A thick, swirling white smoke lilted out of the window and snaked toward her. The screeching rose.

  Scared out of her mind, she couldn’t obey the images her pet was sending her—danger and run—so in desperation she called on a flock of birds flying overhead, sending an image of them flying down toward her and protecting her.

  The flock diverted from its celestial path into a fierce dive. They tore around the smoke but failed to penetrate it, bouncing off like Ping-Pong balls. But it was enough. Whatever held her faltered.

  Liza ran back the way she’d come but not before her peripheral vision caught sight of a fluttering of colorful skirts. Gone in a backward glance. As she reached the carnival again, she bent over, breath coming in ragged gasps. Her breath stopped altogether when the Ferris wheel, in midspin, went dark.

  Everyone seemed to look toward the Ferris wheel at the same time. They moved like a river of bodies, as if toward the edge of a waterfall. As Liza approached, the lights came back on and the wheel started turning again.

  Hope was there. “And where are my—”

>   She didn’t get to finish her sentence.

  “I tell you, Mrs. Shippen went up on that thing! Flowered dress, about yea high.” The farmer held his hand up to his shoulder. It was Albert, the man with the sick calf, talking to Clay. Liza ducked behind Hope. She hadn’t forgotten about how she’d fled town days before. With the sheriff’s lazy constitution and the extra coins in his pocket from whatever deal he’d struck with Clay, she didn’t think he’d bother looking for her any further, but if trouble was brewing, there was no telling what would happen if he got wind of her presence.

  “Even took off her hat before she climbed in. What did you do with her?” Albert’s eyes had gone wild, and a crowd of angry onlookers gathered behind him.

  Mrs. Shippen, lost?

  “Sir,” Clay said, “I haven’t seen anybody matching that description go up on my wheel. Now I tell you, your lady friend is probably over on another ride.” The redhead hid his nervousness well, but to Liza’s trained eye, it was plain as day.

  “You callin’ me a liar, mister?” Albert stomped up to Clay’s face, spittle flying. “I know she was on there. Waved to her as she went to the top myself!”

  “Why don’t we talk about this over here.”

  Clay took the man’s arm and tried to lead him away, but all hell broke loose. Albert swung a fist, connecting with the carnival manager’s jaw. Clay tackled the man and sent him sprawling. A gang of other locals jumped into the fray, landing blows on Clay’s back before Bombardier lifted two by the scruff of their collars, jostled and tossed them around like empty potato sacks, and sent them flying. The women soldiers appeared, too, and elbowed their way into the fray, not to be outdone. They cracked many a head with those short sticks or spears—Liza wasn’t sure what they were.

  The female—of that much Ahiku was sure—had run off before she could tell who it was. The demon stood outside her trailer, vaguely aware of the commotion happening in another part of the carnival. She flicked her wrist in the direction of the Ferris wheel. One of her spirit friends had shown up, as the spirits were known to do from time to time, and caused a bit of mischief with a certain spiteful landlady.

  This Ahiku allowed in exchange for the alliances she’d relied on over the centuries. And for the thus far useless hints on where to find her adversary.

  She stalked around, kicking at the dead birds littering the ground. Zinsa ran up, eyes screaming murder. Efe must have been back in the thick of it still. She would never miss an opportunity to hurt or kill if it was necessary. Zinsa scanned the area, determined that her mistress was unharmed, and dropped to one knee.

  “Oh, get up.” Ahiku waved at her dismissively. She turned back into her trailer.

  Had what happened been chance, or design? What, or who, could control a flock of birds this way? A thought nudged at the back of her mind. The new girl had some command of animals, but the bones had spoken—she was harmless. Ahiku didn’t know who or what it was, but she would find out.

  The fight raged on. A spool of sound unfurled and lengthened into the raspy groan of something ancient and powerful. Slowly, the Ferris wheel started to spin . . . in reverse. The crowd became confused. Eventually, the row, Mrs. Shippen, all was lost, and nobody recalled the reason for the upset in the first place. By the time the Ferris wheel had completed its reverse circuit, everything was forgotten.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A BEGINNING

  The sun had reached its midday peak, a lazy orange ball dripping its formidable heat across the plains. Liza and Autumn sat rocking back and forth in the trailer, feeling every bump and hiccup in the road. Jamey was driving. He’d barely spared Liza a glance when he’d told them to settle in. The carnival’s week in Baton Rouge had flown by, and before Liza knew it, the carnies were tearing down the rides and tents, packing everything up in trailers, and she was saying goodbye to the place that she’d stayed the longest but would never think of as home.

  “You have any notion of what happened to Mrs. Shippen?” Liza finally worked up the courage to ask Autumn. Since the night of her ex-landlady’s disappearance, she hadn’t had a minute to spare. There was so much that needed doing. In helping out, she’d gotten to know a few more of the carnies, but not a single one of them had mentioned anything about a missing woman. She’d been reluctant to ask about it, not knowing whether this was another one of Clay’s mysteries that wasn’t to be discussed. But Autumn seemed more inclined to buck the trend.

  “Who?” Autumn sat sewing beads and other embellishments onto her costume.

  Liza shifted on her bunk, trying to find a comfortable spot. “She ran the boardinghouse where I lived. Was as mean as they come. Could have sworn something happened to her on opening night, but nobody remembers a thing about it.”

  “Accidents happen. People go vanishing.” Autumn scrounged around in a box for the right piece of ribbon.

  People go vanishing. Unbidden, the sounds of African drums and the red trailer came to mind. Every peculiar notion of an explanation of what might have happened that night only left her more unsure. Maybe her mind had been playing tricks on her. “There a lot of accidents in this carnival?”

  The needle paused in Autumn’s dainty fingers. “You can either go back to scrubbing toilets and toiling away for another mean old witch, or you can see the world and get three squares. Up to you.” She gave Liza a glare before she and the needle went on about their work.

  A nasty bump in the road sent Autumn’s box tumbling to the floor. She banged on the front of the trailer as she stood. “Dammit, Jamey. Watch your driving.” She sank to the floor to collect her things. Mico leaped down to help, gathering pearls and stones in his little hands. Liza joined them.

  “How long you been . . .”

  “A working girl?” Autumn glanced at her sideways.

  Liza huffed. “Before you assumed I’d have a problem with you, I was going to ask how long you been with Bacchanal.”

  “Why, thank you.” Autumn smiled down at Mico as he handed her a glittery sequin. She turned to Liza, gave her a touché look, and said, “On about a year now. Beats the streets, let me tell you. I got a trailer, food, respect. And those men I perform for need me. I make their day a little easier. What’s so wrong about that?”

  Though Liza could think of more than a few things that were wrong with that, maybe they were only wrong as far as she would consider something like that for herself. People had looked down on her for scrubbing toilets for Mrs. Shippen. Despite herself, her heart constricted.

  Maybe, sensing Liza’s own escape, the old woman had taken a good long look at her own life and found it wholly unsatisfactory. She guessed that Mrs. Shippen must have decided to leave it all behind. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she met Autumn’s accusing eyes.

  “Not a thing,” she said. “Not a thing.”

  As the carnival set up on a grassy knoll outside the city of Lake Charles the next morning, Clay knocked on the trailer door. Liza watched curiously as Autumn took a moment to straighten her hair before she opened the door, letting in a stream of hazy white light. Even the dust bunnies that were illuminated seemed to drag, weighed down by the humidity.

  “Why, Mr. Kennel, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit on this cool, breezy Louisiana morn?”

  Clay gave Liza a curt nod that she returned. “You got a spot of tea to go along with all them flowery words of yours?”

  Autumn flounced down on her bunk opposite Liza. “You and Mabel have conspired to not let a girl get a good cup of tea around here. Always coffee, black coffee. How American.”

  “Hell,” Clay said. “You weren’t over there in London but for a hot minute. You’re as American as I am.”

  “And you’re uncultivated,” Autumn said.

  “You ready to get started?” Clay turned all business when he spoke to Liza. “I can walk you over to the animal tent, maybe hash over a few ideas I got.”

  “Lead the way.” Liza scooped up Mico and waved goodbye to Autumn, closing the door behind
her as she trotted down the steps. Startlingly clear daylight stretched over the carnival grounds like a delicate second skin, shutting out any sensation of the outside world. The place had something akin to a heartbeat, a rhythmic cadence all its own. An undercurrent of voices, tools clanging, and fleet footsteps.

  They strolled deeper into the heart of the carnival tents. “Now you know that pole is too far from center,” Clay called to a worker. “Don’t have the sense I taught them.”

  “I was thinking about my act,” Liza broke in. “I’ve got a good sense of the animals, but this stage in our relationship is critical. An ample bonding period is what’s essential, and I don’t dare rush it.”

  Clay looked at her as if she had spoken French. “What kind of time you talking about? Listen, I’m paying you.”

  “I was under the impression that I’d be paying myself. You know, what I earn from my show.” Liza couldn’t help herself and wished she could bring back the words. Still, for some reason she trusted Clay and felt that he was the type you could speak your mind to plainly.

  “Don’t get smart, or I’ll bounce your butt right back to that swamp sinkhole where I found you.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. “Just you wait and see what I come up with—after the bonding, of course. The customers will love it.”

  “Don’t get too fancy,” Clay said, electing not to press her on what constituted an ample bonding time. “And not too short, but not too long either. We run in several groups a night. Charge a nickel a head. You keep your take, minus expenses, you know: management’s cut, electricity, a little something to your pitchman, and other incidentals. If you got a good show, though, you’ll make a good buck.”

  As they reached the animal tent, out stepped the man she’d caught a glimpse of during her earlier visit with Hope. Up close, he had burnished skin, a smile missing a front tooth, and cudgels for hands. “This here’s Uly. Picked his ugly butt up all the way down in Panama. He takes care of the animals. Uly, show the little lady here around.” With that, Clay stepped aside.