After traveling another several miles without so much as a hint of life, Clay banged his hand on the dash and decided to circle back the way he’d come. Looked like a dirt road ahead. He pulled in to turn around.
As he swung down the path, an orange light glimmered. He pulled forward, hoping there would be somebody who could point him in the right direction. The road was little more than a dirt trail. Clay suspected a shack of some sort at the end. Trees, tall grass, and brush lined the trail, cutting off his sight in both directions. Luckily, the truck handled the dirt path easily. He rounded a bend, and the light grew brighter.
A bonfire sat at the center of a clearing. A group of men, robed in white from head to toe, stood jeering and jostling a Negro man. The man was naked as the day he was born. He took wide swings at his tormentors and, for each attempt to connect, was rewarded with a slash of a knife, a kick, a punch.
Belly turning, Clay counted five robed men, armed to the hilt. He warred with himself for what seemed like forever and finally put the truck in reverse, but he cursed and put it back in park. His stomach was in pieces. The man was on the ground, with the foot of one of the robed cowards on his neck. The others had his hands and ankles pinned to the ground.
The sound of Clay slamming the door to the truck caught their attention. He squared his shoulders and trudged toward the group on leaden legs.
“Lost, friend?” One of the Klansmen came forward. From his bearing and more elaborate robe, Clay judged him the leader.
“Yep.” Clay trembled with anger and only hoped they couldn’t see it. “For the life of me, can’t find my way to Cleveland.”
“That’s where we live,” the man said. “’Scuse my manners—I’d shake your hand but got this coon’s blood all over me. You on the right road, even if it don’t look that way. Keep on down the way you come, maybe five or six miles.”
Clay thanked them and let his eyes drop to where the poor soul lay bloodied and beaten on the ground.
“You want a little piece of this action?” another Klansman said with a chuckle. “Still enough left of ’im to get in a good lick or two.”
“Just as soon be on my way,” Clay said.
“What’s your business in Cleveland?”
Clay’s declination to participate in the festivities had earned him a few suspicious glares.
“Clay Kennel.” Clay turned on his sales pitch and felt his stomach settle. He had a plan for them. “Owner and proprietor of the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival.”
Their eyes lit up. Suddenly they’d turned from racist killers to a bunch of eager ten-year-old boys.
“We’ll be settin’ up in Waco next. Might be a bit too far off for you . . .”
“Nothin’ but a day trip,” the leader piped in. “Earn me some points with the wife and my boy.”
“You have kids, families?” Clay was in his element now.
“Sure enough.”
“Well, if you up to the trip, check us out in about a week’s time.” He reached into his pocket and procured a free pass from his wallet. “You’ll be my guests. We got all sorts of rides and attractions. Bet you’ll love the wax museum. And that boy of yours will get a special tour.”
Clay felt bad about that last bit he’d added. A boy didn’t necessarily turn out like his father. Too late, he’d talked up another meal for Geneva.
“I’ll be on my way, gentlemen.” He retreated back to the car. He had no chance of saving that man’s life, but he’d done what he could to avenge him—if the Klansmen came to the carnival, that was.
He climbed into the cab and clutched the steering wheel until his nails dug painfully into his palms. There was a time when he would have joined in. And he promised himself he’d never forget it. He wished he’d come to the conclusion that their cause was chickenhearted nonsense on his own, but that honor had fallen to the man he’d saved from a lynching years prior. When it came time to kill, he couldn’t do it to the fellow, who’d wished him a good day every time he’d passed him on the street.
He started up the truck and then turned to back out of the trail. From his rearview mirror, he saw the Klansmen raise the dying man to a tree to finish the job.
Clay was numb. Sure, he could’ve dived in, maybe even wrestled a shotgun away and taken out one of them bastards. But there were too many, and what was the sense in him dying too? He closed up the whole affair into a tightly bound box as far away from his conscious mind as he could send it. He was getting pretty good at that.
The sun crested the next morning, a bright ball of pink-orange heat, as he rolled into the town of Cleveland. The place had sprung up as a junction for the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railway. Posters announcing P. T. BARNUM’S CIRCUS, THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH were plastered everywhere. Clay hated it when people confused a circus with a carnival; he’d had to explain it more times than he cared to remember. He parked in front of a restaurant and sat down to have a much-needed breakfast.
“Got anyplace a man could get a bed for a couple hours?” he asked the proprietor as he paid his bill.
The owner added the cash to the register, counted out some coins, and plopped them in Clay’s outstretched hand. “Does the man in question want some company?”
Clay shook his head. “Need a few hours of sleep is all.”
The man looked disappointed. “Old Bob’s place will do ya,” he said. “Go on down the street to the schoolhouse and hang a right, few doors down. Can’t miss it.”
Clay thanked the man.
“Tell him I sent ya!” the owner called out behind him.
After a welcome rest, Clay emerged. The circus wouldn’t open until later in the day, so his plan was to work his way around the joint like he was inquiring about work, then find the “Human Pincushion,” give him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and be back on the road before the sun was halfway across the sky.
The big top was assembled, the rounded red-striped tent raised as soundly as if it’d been done under his watchful eye. Performers streamed inside: clowns, trapeze artists, even a fella who, based on the flashy getup, had to be the ringmaster. Unlike the carnival, their show was one big spectacle, a steady stream of performances all under the same roof. Workers hefted shinier tools, hauled unblemished wood, tended canvases that didn’t need patching. And everyone moved with a practiced efficiency. Despite his best attempts, Clay could find no fault in the outfit. A well-tooled machine if he ever saw one.
The man proved easy to find. He sat on the ground outside a trailer, stretching and contorting his body into forms no human body had a right to make. Clay watched as he removed a few pins from a small box, folded his legs up like pretzels, and plunged them needles right into his face: three of them right between the eyes.
When Clay strolled up, the man untwisted himself and stood. He wore only a pair of cutoff shorts. He was tall and lanky, with not one ounce of muscle seeming to stick anywhere to his body. Clay stuck out his hand.
“Clay Kennel,” he said. The man’s grip was firm. “Owner and proprietor of the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The man’s dark bushy eyebrows, knit together in one ragged line, rose high on his sizable forehead. “Malachi Dumas,” he said, removing the needles. “The Human Pincushion is my performing name, but I suppose you already know that.”
Clay looked around, to make sure nobody was paying them any particular attention. “Getting right to the point,” he said. “I like that. Well, then you know why I’m here. Bacchanal is prepared to make you an offer to join our great show. The best food, accommodations—”
“All things I have here with Mr. Barnum’s circus.” Malachi clasped his arms behind his back. “Why should I leave?”
“Here, you’re a cog in the wheel,” Clay countered. “How many acts in this outfit? One, two hundred to compete with? Our show is small, a family atmosphere. There you could be the star. You keep everything you take in, minus expenses—you know, electric cut-in and the like. All your other necessi
ties will be provided.”
“I’m not just a performer,” Malachi said. “I’m a man of letters. Does that bother you, coming from a Negro?”
“That’s what makes our show unique.” Clay permitted himself a half a smile. “Shall I say, we are a bit more . . . colorful than most shows. Think you’ll find yourself right at home.”
“And I’m a vegetarian,” Malachi added. “I have specific dietary requirements.”
“You’ll love Mabel,” Clay said. “Best cook there is, and she’ll throw together whatever you want.”
“I get to keep everything I bring in?”
“Minus expenses. You heard me right the first time.”
“I’m a man of few possessions, most of them books,” Malachi said. “It will only take a moment.”
Clay rubbed his hands together, another job done. “Let’s slip outta here unnoticed.” He didn’t tell his new recruit that if Geneva found him somehow lacking, he’d have to come begging his way back into the circus manager’s good graces on his own dime.
Malachi had not been recruited by P. T. Barnum himself—Barnum was long dead when he joined. He had been performing in fairs and festivals in Washington, DC, funding his education, one course at a time, and earning a fairly good wage. He was living a mostly chaste life, but he had no wife yet. Past your normal college age but still a young man, and he wanted to have his life and income set before taking on a wife and child. Though his mother had bugged him about when he would produce her grandchildren daily.
Life had been good. He had a small room that he paid for himself. Sufficient food. All obtained using the talent for pain endurance that had made him a laughingstock as a child. His former classmates now earned their livings breaking their backs. He worked outdoors beneath the tiring sun, but at least he was his own man.
The lure of working in the big city was a great one. The idea that he was attending classes filled him and his parents with pride. But conditions on the farm and the plight of his younger brothers weighed heavily on him. He had agreed to go with the circus men at once. He would be able to send a sizable amount of money home to his parents, fulfilling his duty as a son. He’d return to his schooling once his brothers were old enough to work. His mother assured him she would search for a suitable wife, and he would return home to marry when he was done, in what he estimated to be about five years.
That had been seven years ago. The woman his parents had chosen for him had moved on, creating a bit of a scandal. But Malachi had not yet had his fill of performing. His education, long forgotten. And truth be told, he didn’t have much interest in women either.
He could do feats no other could. He had the ability to stick pins into his skin, to lay on a bed of nails and experience not one bit of pain. It was a practice he’d simply read about in a book. What people didn’t understand was that if you inserted the needles properly, there was little sensation associated with it. The Egyptians talked about the twelve vessels of the body; the Chinese called this ancient art zhenjiu. Combined with the Kemetic meditation practice he’d picked up in another book, it all brought about an overall sense of well-being that permeated Malachi and those who came near him.
The manager at the Barnum circus had called him the human relaxation drug.
On the way back to the carnival, Clay ascertained much of his new act’s history and even learned a few tricks about Barnum’s circus. He filled Malachi in on how things worked at the carnival. Once those pleasantries were done with, the two fell into an amiable silence.
The silence lasted until the smaller but equally impressive outline of the carnival came into view. Malachi, who looked to have been daydreaming, perked up. Once out of the truck, he fell into an odd series of stretches. Clay looked on, first skeptical, but then he yawned and gave his own neck a good cracking. Jamey walked up to greet the pair.
“What cha got here?” Jamey said. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was freshly cut, and it looked like he’d even shaved.
“This here’s Malachi,” Clay said.
Malachi grabbed his bag from the truck and bowed slightly. “Malachi Dumas. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jamey gave Malachi a look that said he had no idea what an “acquaintance” was but figured it must have been something special. “Jamey.” He seemed confused as to whether to offer his hand or imitate the bow. “Right hand to our man here, Mr. Kennel, used to be a pretty fine baseball player, and follower of the Lord.”
That earned an easy chuckle from Malachi.
“And before you start talking about your hobbies, favorite foods, and next of kin,” Clay said, “got some business to attend to.”
Clay led Malachi through the series of trailers and wagons toward the most important one. They had reached Geneva’s trailer, and Clay pulled up. Zinsa and Efe stood as still as statues. “Wait here,” he said.
“But I . . . ,” Malachi began, spreading his hands. “I don’t understand.”
“Wait right here,” Clay said. “This will only take a minute.”
“The gopher has returned,” Zinsa said, the smile evident in her voice if not on her face. She didn’t turn her eyes away from Malachi either.
“And the soldiers without a cause stand at the ready,” Clay said, brushing past the pair.
He emerged minutes later. “You’re in,” the carnival manager said. “Let’s find you some accommodations.”
Malachi inclined his head toward Zinsa and Efe, which they met with blank stares.
G. B. Bacchanal would always be a small outfit, and this suited Clay fine. In fact, he preferred it that way. The Barnum outfit was too big. Taking on too many people, you couldn’t get to know them, and that led to problems, especially with Geneva’s particular tastes.
Still, the carnival was growing, adding acts that would put them on the map. Clay was immensely proud of this, and he knew it showed as he guided Malachi through the grounds. He stomped and silenced the voice that reminded him that there was something actually evil about the proprietor. All bigwigs were evil; it was all a matter of degree. If you had to work for one of them, you might as well choose a place where you could be somebody.
There was no such thing as downtime in a carnival. Even when they were traveling or between shows, they had endless repairs, show practice, and a million other things to do. Clay remembered one more thing that needed his attention and called to a chubby teen who was already running purposefully on some mission, his knobby knees ashy in his short pants and his shirt plastered to his chest, thanks to a full sweat he’d worked up.
“Go tell Jamey to meet me over at the Ferris wheel. Gotta take a look at that blasted thing again.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Kennel, sir,” the youngster said. He saluted and ran off.
“Manners in a young man is an honorable thing,” Malachi offered.
“That it is,” Clay said. “Here we are.”
They had come to a nondescript trailer, similar to all the others, save their first stop, the one with the women standing outside. A group of carnies knelt arguing and tinkering over the front-right wheel. The clapboards were worn by the sun and elements. The back door was closed. Clay knocked.
“Eloko, open up. Got a new roommate for ya.” The carnival manager had explained that Eloko was the last act to have a trailer to himself and that he’d brightened at the prospect of having a new companion to share his space with.
They’d been waiting at the door long enough for Clay to begin pacing and mumbling to himself about malcontents, but Malachi didn’t share his impatience. He guessed instead that this Eloko was taking extra care to ready the place for his new trailer mate’s arrival.
Soon enough, Eloko opened the door, and when he did, he eyed Clay, then Malachi. Malachi took in his grass-covered frame, golden eyes, and claws and was certain that when most people laid eyes on Eloko for the first time, they either gasped with fright or looked down upon him with pity. Malachi did neither.
“The nam
e’s Malachi. Onstage, it’s the Human Pincushion. I would forever be in your debt if you would allow me to share a space with you.”
Eloko blinked, his snout quivering. He looked at Clay and motioned for Malachi to follow him into the trailer.
Malachi tested the bunk, settled his things in the corner. “Better than what I had back at the rooming house,” he said with a smile. The place had the smell of the outdoors. A dark-green color covered the walls, making it extremely difficult to see his new trailer mate. He suspected this was by design. There was much to this fellow, who needed to blend in, to hide, even in his own dwelling.
“You are a performer?” Eloko asked the question he’d already answered.
Malachi grinned. “I am. But first, if you would do me the honor, I would like to hear your story.”
They talked into the night.
Ahiku had stood by the window, watching Clay walk off with the new act. Again, the duality struck her. She took pride in the carnival, considered them all her responsibility, her legacy, if there was such a thing. Yet she could not lose sight of her real quest. She had to find the remaining powerful ones who could take it all away from her.
The spirits had been no help in narrowing down the field for her. They had said only that they would be special persons, what the Americans called “freaks.” She’d concocted the plan for the carnival based on that notion. And it had worked well in the beginning. But either she’d done too good a job, and there was only one left, the most powerful. Or they’d figured out her game.
Another chance to end this tiring search had come and gone. Hopefully he would at least be a good performer. She also wondered if she would continue the carnival after she found her foe. She reaped some amusement from the mischief she and the other spirits caused with the occasional carnival patron. But if she could feed without worry, then maybe they would be of no further use. And what would happen to her precious carnies, to her—could she even think of him this way?—friend, Clay? Some of her workers would return to their homelands—that much was certain. But others would be lost without her.
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