by Tom Lin
Ming ignored the bills. He was counting miles, days, tracing routes through half-remembered maps. There was Sheriff Dixon in Unionville, Judge Kelly in Reno. Abel and Gideon Porter in Sacramento, and Ada there waiting for him. He reckoned he would be faster on his own, just himself and the old man. He could get a pair of horses, tie one to the other, make good time. Hell, he could be in Unionville in ten days, he reckoned, if they were good horses and there was plenty of water for them. But horses weren’t cheap, saddles neither.
“Please,” Hazel said at last, interrupting his thoughts.
Her voice was quiet and urgent and despite himself Ming felt his resistance easing. “Fine,” he relented. “But I ain’t bound for Reno straight through.”
“Very well,” the ringmaster said.
“So I decide where we’re goin and how we get there.”
“Certainly,” the ringmaster said. He offered the money to Ming again.
Ming holstered his gun and scrubbed his face with his hands. “All right,” he said, and reached for the bills.
With a deft curl of a finger the ringmaster divided the bills in his hand in two. “Half now, half on delivery,” he said. A thought seemed to occur to him and he counted out a few more bills and gave these to Ming. “Here,” he said. “For supplies and horses.” Now his face broke into a wide grin. “Fantastic, Mr. Tsu. You have done exceptionally for tonight. We will see to the body. Gather your things. We leave tomorrow at noon.”
13
He woke after only a few hours’ restless sleep to find the prophet standing motionless in the center of the room.
“Make your preparations,” the old man said.
There were still specks of the ex-priest’s blood dried on Ming’s hands. He went down to the river and bent by the banks and dipped his hands into the cold water. The dots of the ex-priest’s blood bloomed into little red florets before the water carried them away. There was the sound of wings beating against air and presently a huge black raven swept down and landed in the brush by where Ming was stooped washing his hands. They watched each other a little while.
“Morning,” Ming said warily.
The raven tilted its head. Ming looked down at his hands numb with cold and clean now and wiped them dry on his shirt. The raven did not move.
“Killed a man yesterday,” Ming said lightly. “Ex-priest.” He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “Hope it don’t trouble you too much.”
The raven opened its beak as if to speak but hesitated, seemingly unsure of what it might say. After a moment it closed its beak again, gave a slight nod, and then flew off.
By the time Ming had finished buying ammunition and two horses and saddles, it was just about high noon. He’d picked out a young blood bay for himself and a littler pinto for the old man. He tied the pinto to his own horse and rode back to the inn, where he fetched the prophet, and the two of them rode one after the other to the magic show and dismounted. The tent had been taken down and Gomez and Notah were tying Proteus’s cage, with him inside it, to the top of a stagecoach. The ringmaster was signing to Hunter, his hands moving intermittently through ornate gestures. Speech without sound. The enormous tattooed form of Proteus crouched in his cage, his dark eyes regarding the stagehands as they finished threading ropes through its bars.
“Mr. Tsu,” the ringmaster called. He finished his conversation with the boy and came to shake Ming’s hand. “You’re just in time. We’re shoving off soon as Gomez and Notah are prepared.”
Ming gestured to the horses standing behind him. “Myself and the prophet are ready.”
“Very well.” The ringmaster turned to the old man. “Who will die today, then?”
The prophet smiled politely. “None of us.”
“Excellent.”
“A man arrives,” the prophet said.
Ming looked toward the main road but saw no one. His hand moved to his holster.
“Easy, my child,” the old man cautioned, as if he had seen.
“Who is it?” Ming asked in a low voice.
“A lawman.”
As if on cue the sound of hoofbeats ambled down the hardpack road and the silhouette of a rider emerged from the dust. When the man drew close he dismounted and tied his horse off. A brass star glinted on the man’s lapel. Ming let his hand fall from his gun.
“Gentlemen,” the sheriff said.
“Afternoon,” the ringmaster said. “How can we be of assistance, sir?”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes, inspecting him. “Miss Abigail says her husband never came home last night. Asked around and it seems the magic show was the last place he was seen. Would have been blind drunk. Tall, lanky fellow. Name of Jim Thornton. Used to be a priest. You recall anyone like that?”
“Can’t say I do, sheriff,” the ringmaster said. “We have men of all sorts in the audience, each and every night.”
“What of these men in your employ?” the sheriff asked. “Can you trust them?”
“I do so absolutely,” the ringmaster said.
The sheriff seemed to notice Ming for the first time and his eyes darted up and down his figure. “Your Chinaman’s got blood on them boots, sir.”
Ming said nothing. He did not move.
“John,” the sheriff said, peering at Ming. “You lookee yesterday a church man?”
“He don’t speak English much at all,” the ringmaster cut in.
The sheriff ignored him, clasping his hands together in pantomime prayer and hooking an index finger in his collar to mime a frock. “Lookee you church man? Yesterday? You sabee me?”
“Sheriff,” the ringmaster said, firmly this time. “It’s no use talking to him.”
“I aim to talk to this Chinaman,” the sheriff said, “and I recommend you stay quiet.” He raised an eyebrow at the ringmaster and then turned back to Ming. “John—” he started again.
“I ain’t no John,” Ming growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The sheriff’s eyes lit up, triumphant. “The Chinaman speaks!” he crowed.
“Notah,” the ringmaster called out.
The stagehand appeared at the ringmaster’s elbow like a summoned wraith, his long black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“This man is one of my stagehands,” the ringmaster said. “If this ex-priest you speak of was in our audience last night, he would’ve seen him.”
The sheriff seemed irritated at Notah’s arrival. He reached to his belt and rested his hand on his holster, still watching Ming with suspicion. “I’m takin in your Chinaman,” he said at last, and reached out to take Ming by the arm. “Cmon, boy.”
“Mr. Sheriff,” Notah said. “Who is this man you seek?”
“Jim Thornton,” the sheriff said, almost absentmindedly, and now his thoughts seemed elsewhere. He frowned and regarded Ming more intently and then withdrew his outstretched hand and looked at it a long while as though remembering it was his own hand and not someone else’s. His concentration was waning.
“Jim Thornton,” Notah repeated.
“Aye,” the sheriff drawled, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. Beads of sweat had begun to shine on his forehead. “His wife said he didn’t come home.” He paused a moment and then shook his head.
“Sheriff,” Notah said, “I don’t think Jim Thornton was ever here.” His voice was soft and insistent and his eyes glinted strangely in the high sunlight. “No one ever saw him.”
“No one ever saw him,” the sheriff said, trancelike.
“Last night or any night,” Notah said.
“Last night or any night,” said the sheriff, as though he were continually waking from a dream.
“I reckon there’s other matters you should attend to, sheriff,” Notah said.
“Right,” said the sheriff. And slowly now, as though moving through water, the sheriff turned to leave. “I—I do apologize, sir.” He blinked and squinted into the afternoon light. “I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your traveling company, sir.”
“Of course not,” the ringmaster said with a slight smile.
The sheriff mounted his horse and spurred the creature to a trot. Man and horse alike moved in a daze. Ming turned to ask Notah what he had done to the lawman but the stagehand had already left to finish roping Proteus’s cage to the stagecoach.
“Glad you came.” It was Hazel, standing behind him.
“Of course,” he said. “Did you think I would take the money and run?”
“He has seen you before,” the prophet said.
“Everyone’s seen everyone before,” Hazel said. She looked at Ming, then at the prophet. “There are no strangers on this earth.”
The stagehands whistled loudly.
“Come,” the ringmaster said. “To Carlin.”
14
In the redness of late afternoon they rode westward along the Humboldt, its water clouded with silt and foam. The tracks of the railroad ran straight and true beside that endlessly anastomosing river and gleamed in the slanting light. Six miles out of Elko the ringmaster halted the draft horses pulling the stagecoach and called for the party to pause awhile along the riverbanks. Shortly the stagehands set to work untying the knots that secured the door of Proteus’s cage.
Surprised, Ming asked if they were letting him out.
“Aye,” the ringmaster replied. “He might be a pagan, but he ain’t no killer. And even if he was one,” he said, winking at Ming, “it seems we got no quarrels with killers walking free.”
“Spose not,” Ming said.
The stagehands undid the last of the knots and slid open the heavy iron latches and with a clang the great door fell open. Proteus rose from where he’d been sitting in the corner and he swung his feet out over the edge of the cage and dropped down. Gomez handed him a pair of trousers and a thin cotton shirt and Proteus dressed himself. The ringmaster walked over, his hand extended, and the pagan took the ringmaster’s hand and the two men stared at each other for a moment. Then, as instantly as it had happened the night of the magic show, Proteus changed. There stood by the stagecoach now two ringmasters, the original distinguished only by his clothes and his cane.
“Folks,” the duplicate said in the ringmaster’s voice. He gave a deferential nod to Hazel. “My lady.”
“Welcome back,” Gomez said.
“Mr. Tsu,” said the ringmaster’s double. “I ain’t had the chance to thank you for what you done for us.” He strode over to where Ming sat on his horse and held a hand up for Ming to shake. “Pleasure makin your acquaintance.”
“Pleasure,” Ming said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “What do I call you?”
“Proteus,” the transformed pagan answered, and sauntered away, whistling tunelessly to himself.
“It’s safer for us when he looks more civilized,” the ringmaster said. “Don’t attract as much attention as we might otherwise. And he knows how to talk, too, when he’s doubling someone who talks. Makes it easier for all of us.” He shaded his eyes as Proteus helped Notah and Gomez with closing the door of the empty cage and lashing it shut. “In the early days we tried doubling everyone to see whose form he most preferred.” He motioned toward the interior of the stagecoach, where Hunter slept with his head on Hazel’s lap. “You know, when he doubled Hunter, he couldn’t speak at all, not even in the strange way the boy does.” The ringmaster grinned at Ming. “Seen enough miracles yet, Mr. Tsu?” he asked.
“I ain’t been countin,” Ming said. He adjusted the brim of his hat and set his horse walking again, stealing a final glance at the ringmaster’s newly minted double. “Cmon then.”
The group carried on, with Ming and the prophet striking out ahead, one horse tied behind the other, and the rest of them walking alongside the stagecoach as it clattered over the uneven ground. When night at last overtook them they made camp by the river and built a low fire with green branches that threw such thick and acrid smoke that their eyes watered even when they sat upwind. It was all right, the prophet said, his blind eyes shining with smoke tears, because the smoke would keep the insects away. Every now and again Hazel would reach into the flames barehanded to move a fallen branch back into the fire and it would crack and pop with moisture, spouting wandering tongues of fire along its length.
For a while they sat in silence ringing the fire, occasionally crabbing to one side or another to avoid the shifting smoke whenever the wind changed direction.
“Notah,” Ming said. “What’d you do to that sheriff back in Elko?”
The stagehand looked up from where he’d been scrawling aimlessly in the dirt with a twig, and chuckled. “Ain’t sure what you mean, Mr. Tsu,” he said, feigning innocence.
“Come on now,” Ming said.
“We’re all miracles here,” Hazel cut in, smiling. “And Notah’s a miracle too.”
“Hardly,” Notah said. “I only hasten what was always going to happen. I simply made the good sheriff forget.” He leaned forward and the firelight threw his features into sharp and menacing relief. “I can make a boy forget his mother. A father forget his son. Hell,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl, “I can make you forget your own name.”
Ming bristled, seized by a strange panic as intense as it was irrational. “I’ll kill you,” he said in a low voice. Had the Navajo already taken something from him? He went searching haltingly through the past, trying to reassure himself: secret routes through flooded Sacramento sloughs, Silas’s scowl, Ada’s smile. How would he even know?
“Cut it out,” Hazel snapped.
Notah laughed and leaned back from the fire. “I’m not serious, Mr. Tsu. About making you forget, I mean. I never touch the memories of my friends.”
“And I’m your friend?” Ming scoffed. The terror had passed, leaving in its place only irritation.
“Of course.” Notah regarded Ming with mild curiosity, his eyes dark and probing. “Listen, Mr. Tsu, I didn’t mean to rile you,” he said. “Memory’s not perfect. But forgetting isn’t perfect, either. You have nothing to fear from me, man.”
They were quiet awhile.
“All right,” Ming said at last. He tilted his head toward Gomez. “You, then,” he said. “If you folks are all miracles. What’s yours?”
The Mexican gave no reply. He was tying flies, his shirt pocket brimming with all manner of colorful feathers. A scarlet and green one protruded from between his lips and with two fingers he plucked the feather from his mouth and worked the iridescent tufts into a small crown of color spun round a hidden barb. When he was at last finished tying the trout fly he tucked it into a small tin of tackle. Then he reached into a pocket of his overcoat and lifted something out and handed it to Ming, his hand rattling as he did so. A pair of bone dice.
Ming took them and examined them. The dice were carved from dense cream-colored bone and the pips flashed and sparkled in the firelight.
“Them’s rubies,” Gomez said with a touch of pride. “I won em dicing years ago.”
Ming peered at the faces of the dice. Rubies indeed.
“Snake eyes,” Gomez said, and motioned for Ming to roll.
Ming shook the dice in a loose fist and cast them onto the ground. One and one.
“Again,” the Mexican said. He watched Ming pick up the dice and shake them in his hand. “Four and three,” he told him.
Ming tossed the dice again. Sure enough, four and three.
“One and six,” Gomez said.
Again Ming rolled. One and six. “Christ almighty,” he said, impressed, and passed the dice back to their owner.
“We used to set him loose to play craps for a few hours when money was tight,” the ringmaster said. “But he got run out of one too many gambling halls. Ain’t that right, Gomez?”
The Mexican tugged at his shirt, revealing a long silvery scar running from his navel to his ribs. “Some was madder than others,” he said, grinning. He let his shirt fall and resumed tying flies.
“Before you ask, Mr. Tsu,” the ringmaster said, “I’ve no miracles of my own.” He p
inched the skin of his arm. “Flesh and bone, just like you.” He rose to his feet and emptied his canteen over the dying fire. The embers hissed and spat steam. “Time to rest.”
That night Ming dreamed of the old house he had lived in with Ada, the way the floorboards ran cockeyed to the walls, the doorframes listing like so many drunks stumbling home. Light came through the windows but when he drew near to them he could see nothing through the glass: a flat blue field of color without shape or scale. He turned from the windows and wandered through the house, which was not as he remembered it, the hallways too long, the ceilings too low.
Then he was in their bedroom and there was the sandalwood bed he had carried piece by piece up the stairs when they had first run away together. It smelled ever the same, sweet and dusty, but the room was all wrong, the windows had been transposed, and still they would not reveal what lay beyond them. He dreamed of going down and down the stairs startlingly endless and then he was in the den and Ada was sitting by the window, gazing out into oblivion. He called her name and she turned and he was relieved by her beauty but as he drew nearer he couldn’t make out her features, only a dull sense of her expression and even that slippery and fleeting, a false smile, her eyes canted toward the high windows, her mind elsewhere, her face at once familiar and new. And now horror and fear and betrayal passed over her featureless countenance and he was there again, transported once more into that wretched memory, burnished and sharpened by his dreaming. She had at last discovered his final secret, the violences he had wrought, the innumerable lives he had reaped. She turned away and he called her name again and this time she seemed not even to hear him. It was becoming darker and darker in the house, an escalating urgency, the fire in the hearth was spewing black smoke into the den, the air growing thick and choking.
