Freaks: Alive, on the Inside!

by Annette Curtis Klause

  I have gone to seek my fortune, since it is not to be found here. Do not try to find me, or worry about me. I will return rich. Never doubt my esteem and love for you.

  Your son,

  Abel

  At midnight I left my room, suitcase in hand, and crept down the corridor. When would I see these walls again? I wondered. This filled me with a sweet mélange of nostalgia and excitement. I walked carefully so as not to creak a floorboard. If someone stopped me now that I had committed myself to leaving, my heart would surely break and these walls become a prison. When I reached the back stairs, I thought I heard a floorboard groan behind me. I swiftly took the turn and hurried downstairs, throwing caution to the wind, my heart thumping. At the bottom I paused and listened, my breath ragged, but I heard no more sounds. No one followed.

  The kitchen door was ajar. The large, brick-walled room was lit dimly by the remains of a fire in the old cooking hearth. Perhaps I should raid the larder for some bread and cheese for my breakfast. As I made my way carefully past the big oak table, a hand gripped my arm, and my innards leaped into my throat.

  “Since you are going, I shall tell you your fortune,” peeped Gladys Dibble, the Pixie Queen.

  I gaped at her. “How did you know?”

  “You’re carrying a suitcase, my darling.” She stood nimbly on her stool and stepped onto the table in front of me, beside her cup and saucer. She held out her minuscule hands, and automatically I gave her my left hand to study. “You will go on a long journey,” Miss Dibble began in her gossamer voice.

  “As you said, I am carrying a suitcase,” I answered; now I was able to be angry at my scare.

  Miss Dibble silenced me with a withering glance. I have never known a woman who could command that much authority despite her size.

  “You will face great danger,” she said. I hadn’t expected that.

  “I see …” Miss Dibble paused and frowned. “A skeleton,” she finally said.

  A skeleton? I scoffed silently. Was this some child’s Halloween skit?

  “You will fail where you set your sights and succeed where you least expect,” continued Miss Dibble. Her fingers skimmed my ring. “And when all seems lost, you will fall in love with an older foreign lady.” She shook her head, as if this last seemed unlikely even to her.

  It was nonsense from a midget lady with insomnia, I thought. But my lips gently curled at the thought of this older foreign lady—there was an adventure I would like to have.

  Miss Dibble removed a chain from her neck. “I suggest you wear that ring on this,” she said. “You don’t want to call the attention of thieves.” She pooled the chain into my still-outstretched palm and then took both my hands in hers. Her grip tightened on me like little mouse paws.

  “When you set off to find your fortune,” she said intently, unnerving me with a fierce and disturbing fire in her eyes, “be sure to be kind to ugly strangers, for there may be a princess among them.”

  I thanked her politely, stuffed the chain in my pocket, and left as fast as I could, without the bread and cheese.

  I walked all night, down dusty country roads, under a fat, abetting moon. Near morning, or so I judged, when the moon sank low over the horizon, I saw the shadows of large tents in a field. This must be the circus.

  I would have to wait until a decent hour before I found the manager and asked for a job. So I climbed over a pale wooden fence and—before I stumbled too far and broke my leg in a rabbit hole—I found myself a comfortable seat next to a bush. It wasn’t long before my head began to nod.

  “My love! At last!” whispered a sweet, trembling voice.

  I froze in mid nod. I had never stayed up all night before. I had never walked so far. I took a deep breath. My mind was playing tricks on me.

  “You are at the threshold of dream, and my spirit can reach you through the ring, I think,” said the eager voice. “Open your eyes, but slowly, and perhaps you may see me.”

  I did as the voice asked, expecting the dream to dissolve, but beside me sat a shadowy woman veiled in gauzy cloth. I shuddered.

  “Did you like my dance?” she asked.

  “Dance?” I frowned.

  “I danced for you to the music of harps and pipes.” The shadow leaped to her feet and rolled her hips, then flung herself down beside me again, breathless laughter on her lips.

  “That was another dream,” I said.

  She laughed again. “You were always stubborn, Ankhtifi.” She leaned forward and seemed to peer at my face. “How strange, my heart knows you but my eyes do not. You have changed in looks.” I couldn’t place her accent.

  “Madam,” I said, sure I was speaking to a ghost and thankful I was only dreaming, “I do not believe we have met.”

  “Do you not remember me?” she asked, oh so sadly.

  “I can barely see you,” I answered. The moon was low in the sky, and the oval that must be her face was a blur.

  Her outline appeared to waver as she sighed. “I shouldn’t expect you to remember,” she said. “You went to your spirit and left your worldly body behind. But your heart spoke for you at the great judgment when it was weighed on the scales of justice, and the lord of the underworld sent you back to search for me, at the request of his lady wife, she who is life, she who pities me. I felt it the moment you walked beyond the gates of death and reentered the world. I am but a shade,” she whispered, “but I have traveled years and miles to find you.”

  “Why?” I asked. I couldn’t fathom any of her words, let alone what a ghost would want with me.

  She laughed as if surprised by my ignorance. “So our love might live again.” Then her tone grew desperate. “I am in danger. A man of bones has kidnapped me. Each day takes me farther toward the setting sun. I am among brigands who would think nothing of disposing of my body if it suited them. If they destroy what is left of me, we may never be together again.”

  “Can’t you tell anyone?” I asked, wondering what on earth I could do.

  “I am a prisoner,” she explained. “No one who can help can hear me speak—no one but you. We are connected because of the ring. It is my heart—your heart. Find me, help me, and I will explain our bond.”

  I glanced nervously at the ring I wore.

  “Where is it you go this night?” she asked.

  She was a very inquisitive dream ghost. “I thought to join that traveling show, if they have a job for me,” I answered, gesturing toward the tent, “and find my fortune.”

  “Which way does this caravan travel?” she asked.

  I tried to visualize the poster I had seen. “West, I think.”

  She sat up straight and threw her arms open with joy. “You are coming.”

  “Um, no,” I said, leaning back a touch.

  “Yes, your heart knows it even if you do not,” she insisted. “And what employment do you seek? What is your skill?”

  “I’m a knife thrower,” I admitted.

  She chuckled huskily. “Ah, that makes much sense, my love.

  Still a warrior after all.”

  A bird warbled close by, and I looked up, surprised. The sky in the distance had lightened to a smoky pearl.

  “I must go,” said my strange companion. “There’s not much time left to meddle with dreams.”

  I turned back to ask her what she meant, only to see a wisp of fog disappear to nothing.

  “Find me before the serpent of the night devours me,” her voice echoed.

  I closed my eyes against the unsettling mystery, and when I opened them, the sun was up.

  5

  I STRETCHED, AND SUNLIGHT GLINTED off my ring, reminding me of my dream. How curious, I thought. What strange fancies fatigue brings. Exhaustion had tumbled Miss Dibble’s odd words of a skeleton and a foreign lady into a delirium that seemed very real.

  I felt a little peculiar about the ring now, and maybe it was a mite garish, with the gold snake setting and the turquoise stone carved to look like a beetle. I wanted people to think me an up
standing fellow suitable for employment, not a bohemian. Perhaps I should follow Miss Dibble’s advice. I fished the chain she had given me from my jacket pocket and hung the scarab ring safe but out of sight around my neck.

  I stood up and brushed myself down. It was time for me to find a job.

  Across the field was a huge red-and-yellow-striped tent—the big top. A multitude of smaller canvas tents scattered the meadow to the left of it, like a village at the foot of a castle. That must be the circus backyard. Beyond those tents the circus train rested along tracks that ran parallel to the road I had left. Perhaps one of the train cars contained the manager’s office. As I wound through the village of tents, shabby, plump women hung wash on improvised lines, and barefoot children chased dogs over tent pegs and under ropes. A delicious aroma of bacon wafted through the air. My stomach yearned for breakfast. I hoped I could join the circus in time to get some.

  I walked along the train, a string of multicolored passenger carriages, flatbeds, and livestock cars, and searched for any sort of sign amid the decorations and emblems on the carriages. A door opened ahead of me, and six young men with white tights evident beneath flowing blue capes tumbled out and hurried by, laughing and jostling. They disappeared into a tent before I thought to ask them directions. Music came from a passenger car I passed—a tuba, I guessed—and from somewhere an elephant trumpeted as if in answer. Excitement buzzed in my throat.

  I had stopped to look at an amazing desert scene that meandered the length of an entire sleeper car, when two clean-shaven gentlemen approached. They were dressed in robes and Arabian headdresses, as if they had dismounted from the camels in the picture.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and they stopped to eye me with amused curiosity. “Could you please direct me to the manager’s office?” I inquired.

  “Are you selling something?” one of them asked. He sounded English rather than Arabian, I fancied.

  “I’m looking for a job,” I answered.

  His companion, who appeared to be his younger brother, nudged him with an elbow. “Standards are rising, Eddie. The dung shovelers wear suits to interview these days.”

  “I’m … I’m a knife thrower,” I stammered.

  Eddie laughed, and his younger brother winced. “I’m afraid we’ve got one of those,” the younger brother said.

  “It’s a knife thrower’s assistant we’re missing,” said Eddie, raising his eyebrows.

  “So we are,” agreed the younger brother. “They just had a bang-out fight in the cookhouse. Mr. Rose had a dream last night that he stuck her full of blades. He was telling everyone in detail. He thought it very funny, but she didn’t, because she’d had the same dream, so she quit.”

  I remembered that the ghostly woman had spoken of meddling in dreams, and I came over funny for a moment. I shrugged the feeling off. This was coincidence, that’s all.

  “So if you want to work for a man not known for his sensitive nature, the way is clear,” said Eddie.

  “It’s a start,” I said.

  Eddie nodded approvingly. “You’ll find the manager five cars down.”

  “Hide Mr. Rose’s bottle before the show,” said the younger brother.

  “And don’t get him mad,” said Eddie.

  They entered their desert-painted carriage laughing.

  They’re teasing me, I decided as I found the manager’s car. This man couldn’t be all that bad, else the circus wouldn’t hire him. What a stroke of luck there was a place with a knife thrower open. Perhaps he could tutor me and even give me my first chance in the ring.

  A smart young man with a middle part in his hair and a small mustache looked up as I entered the business office. The plaque on his desk identified him as A. Marvel. My lips twitched, but one look at his face convinced me he wouldn’t enjoy the joke. I presented myself as an apprentice knife thrower, happy to serve as an assistant to the incumbent.

  “Well, aren’t you a godsend?” Mr. A. Marvel said. “But this is only until we find him a pretty girl to help, you understand.”

  I nodded; I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

  Mr. A. Marvel had me sign papers for my wages and gave me a book of vouchers for my meals. I would be issued a new one each week. “You’ve missed breakfast,” he said, to my dismay. “Lunch is at noon. You can present your voucher book to get into the show later. That way they’ll know you’re not a rube. Watch how professionals do it.”

  I am a professional, I thought, but decided I would likely cut my employment short if I argued. “Where should I sleep, sir?” I asked.

  The young man shook his head and flipped through a logbook.

  “There’s room in one of the men’s dormitory cars,” he told me. “It’s bright green and gold, next to the elephants. Leave your bag there and then go report to Mr. Rose.”

  I found the sleeper car, and a motley assortment of young men who didn’t seem annoyed to see me.

  “Oh, we get all sorts through here,” said one fellow. “What’s one more?” He pointed me to a place I could stow my luggage and to an upper berth where I could sleep, halfway down the bunk-lined carriage.

  “It’s not bad diggings if you don’t mind the occasional stench of elephant,” said another fellow. He waved a hand under his nose.

  Down the far end was a washroom with a tank of water. The other facility consisted of a seat over a hole in the floor—a drafty perch above a honey bucket hung below. I suspected it wouldn’t be just elephants I’d be smelling.

  “Parade’s starting!” called an acrobat from the door, and the young men scrambled to leave.

  “Where do I find Mr. Rose?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s in Happy Times,” said one of the boys.

  “Constantly,” said another, causing gales of laughter.

  “Three cars that way,” said a fellow, pointing, before he left.

  Down the train I mounted a crate to knock on a dark green door. The words HAPPY TIMES embellished the center panel in silver paint.

  “Who’s that?” came a gruff voice.

  “Abel Dandy, sir,” I replied. “Your new assistant.”

  “Is that so? Well, come in, then, damn you.”

  I opened the door and climbed into a tiny salon with heavy curtains pulled back from the windows by gilt ties. The near wall, free of seats, allowed passage to wood-paneled sleeping compartments beyond. On the far wall a pair of embroidered settees, affixed to the floor like regular train seats, faced each other to either side of a dark wood table. A middle-aged gentleman sat there in dressing gown and slippers, his waxed mustache askew, a stack of playing cards on the table beside a bottle of whiskey.

  “My new assistant, are you, now?” Mr. Rose sneered.

  “Mr. A. Marvel hired me this morning,” I said.

  Mr. Rose narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look like a girl.”

  I gritted my teeth. “No, sir, but Mr. Marvel said I would have to do until he found one for you.”

  My anger seemed to amuse Mr. Rose. He relaxed into his seat and paid full attention to his cards. “Clean shoes, can you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Know how to press a gentleman’s jacket?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Can you stand still with a knife coming at you?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  “Then, until I can find a pretty girl with a short skirt, you’ll stand target.”

  I should have been happy to be in the act; instead I eyed the bottle of whiskey on the table and felt a cold slug of apprehension.

  “Will you also give me an opportunity to throw?” I asked, surprising myself with my forwardness. “I have my own knives.”

  “Throw?” he asked. “In the act? I don’t need a young upstart tripping over his own feet and skewering the audience.”

  “I don’t trip, and I hit the target,” I snapped. “I would ask you to see me throw before you make judgments.”

  Mr. Rose shrugged. “All right, maybe we’ll talk about me
watching you throw sometime, boy,” he said. “Right now I’m busy.”

  “Isn’t there a show this afternoon?” I asked.

  “I’ve given myself a holiday,” he answered. “I’ll be in the evening show, however. You may as well watch then, so you’ll be prepared when we rehearse tomorrow. Now, go gawk or something.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said to his dubious offer, but he didn’t reply; he just sat at the table and shuffled his cards.

  I found my way to the cookhouse and was first in line when lunch was announced. I could barely keep my eyes open to watch the performers returning from the parade. Since I didn’t have an obligation until the evening show, I decided to try out my new bunk. Seconds after removing my jacket and shoes I was fast asleep.

  I was in a huge stone room, the ceiling held up by bulbous painted columns. One side was open to water, palms, and sky. I was amid a crowd of dark-skinned people wrapped in slight linens who surrounded a circle of girls in the middle of the room. The girls displayed more jewelry than clothes. Some played harps and double-horned pipes, others sang a melodious and repetitive refrain and beat wands in time. My gaze would have lingered upon them if it had not been stolen away by the dancer I recognized in their center, a voluptuous, undulating, dark-haired beauty.

  She swayed her hips, her face ecstatic. She turned, she writhed, she twirled; she stomped out the rhythm with her feet; she cried a victory to the skies. Faster and faster she whirled. The music rose to a crescendo, then ended with a crash.

  Silence.

  The dancer stood, arms raised above her head, her chest heaving, her eyes on me. The crowd disappeared. The distance between us telescoped impossibly, and she was right in front of me.

  “You are coming,” she said joyously.

  I woke up, and a trace of responding joy still clung to me.

  I shook my head. I fell asleep thinking of attending a show, and I got a show, I thought with amusement. I climbed from my bunk and set off to watch the circus.

  I took my seat, facing the center ring. The air was close and warm under the big top and thick with the smell of sawdust. I removed my jacket and laid it across my lap. While I ate the frankfurter I had purchased outside for an exorbitant price, I examined the scaffolding, the wires made ready for the aerialists, and the electric lights strung between quarter poles high underneath the canvas. The excited audience hummed like the generator that no doubt powered the lights. There had to be thousands more here than could have fit in our theater at home, but the three rings, and the oval track of the hippodrome that ran around them, guaranteed everyone a good view.