Firetale

by Dante Graves

  Chapter 15: The Magician & the Star

  “The shadows purr, murmuring me away from you.”

  The Cure, “Burn”

  Lazarus, Greg, Martha, and the archivist gathered in the big top immediately after the show. Greg tried to remain cheerful, but he guessed that such a meeting clearly did not bode well. Lazarus was thoughtful and almost angry, something the magician had rarely seen.

  “Tonight a Judge was at the show,” Lazarus began, looking around the company. Only Pietro acknowledged the significance of these words.

  Greg tried to laugh it off. “A Judge? Are we in trouble with the law?”

  “In a certain sense. Pietro?” Lazarus looked at the archivist. The chubby man started, and the folds of his embroidered robe came to life.

  “The Judges are special people in the Church. Once they helped the Holy Inquisition in its fight against what it called evil spirits. Judges can feel the presence of people like you. They, uh, call you mongrels. Judges themselves are ordinary people and have no magical abilities. After the abolition of the Inquisition, they were gathered in a special division of the Church, whose task is to ensure that demionis do not violate the Pactum. The Judges have special authority …”

  Greg interrupted him. “Enough, we all know who these Judges are. You and Lazarus tell us about them as soon as we join the circus. I thought it was a myth to make us follow the rules.”

  “Myth, Greg?” Bernardius began to lose his temper.” Just because you’ve been lucky enough not to meet them does not mean they do not exist. You’re still as naive as our audience, who looks at us and sees only tricks and hoaxes!”

  “Is this Judge a threat to us?” asked Martha. Hearing the sound of her voice, all the men immediately calmed down.

  “I don’t know. Judges are free to decide what to do with mongrels whom they suspect of violating the Pactum. This Caius promised to follow us, and I think he will keep his word.”

  “And if, during the surveillance, he accidentally fell asleep in his car with a cigarette?” Greg said. “And a spark happened to find its way into the gas tank.”

  “Are you insane?” Lazarus said through clenched teeth. “Are you proposing to violate the Pactum and become a target for all those working with Caius? Judges communicate, reporting all their movements to each other. If one of them disappears, the rest will give up their hunt and go on a search. We would be pursued by every Judge on the continent.”

  “Doesn’t mean they would find who made their friend disappear,” Greg said.

  The air was strained to the limit, and Pietro tried to be the voice of reason.

  “He said he suspects one of ours?” asked the archivist.

  “No, but Martha and Greg caught his attention. Greg has the magic of demons, and Martha …” Lazarus shrugged. “It looks like Caius is an experienced Judge. He knows all kinds of demionis, but not her.”

  “If we can’t get rid of him, let’s just live our lives as before,” suggested Martha. “I’m sure it is a mistake. If we allow the Judge to observe us, he will realize that no one broke the law and he’ll leave us be.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Martha. Our circus is a gift for these”—Lazarus hesitated before choosing his word—“for these thugs. They call themselves Judges, but no one knows on what they base their verdicts.”

  “I still say there’s an obvious way to get rid of his annoying attention,” Greg said. There was fervor in his eyes, and crackling sparks, barely audible, flew between his fingers.

  “Greg, before you tell us the details of the ‘obvious way,’ I would like to talk to you alone.” The tentmaster’s voice expressed no emotion, but his eyes were cold and tense. Pietro quickly realized what it meant. Preventing even the possibility of protest, the archivist gently took Martha’s arm and walked to the door, trying to draw her attention with an awkward conversation. Martha turned to look back at the magician and the ringmaster. Greg nodded to her reassuringly and smiled.

  “Wow, looks like I’m in trouble,” Greg said as soon Pietro and the girl left the tent. There were notes of alarm in his light-hearted tone, no matter how the magician tried to disguise them.

  “Greg, I beg you to be serious,” Mr. Bernardius said. He looked disappointed and tired, as if all the years of his long life had hit him in an instant, demanding that he repay debts.

  “Okay,” Greg said.

  “I need to tell you something,” Lazarus said, nervously tapping his cane on the floor of the arena. “When you disappeared the last time, I sent Zinno to keep an eye on you.”

  “You what?”

  “Calm down. When Zaches returned, he told me that you were hanging around in bars and had got into a drunken brawl. But now this Judge appears on the threshold of our circus, and, among all our demionis, he’s only interested in you. From this I can draw two conclusions. First, Zinno lied to me. My fault, it was stupid to trust him. Second, you have broken the Pactum. I can see no other reason why the Judge would show up today.”

  “Mr. Bernardius …”

  “Greg, let me finish. I do not want to know what you’ve done. There is no need to have a bright imagination to understand how to break the Pactum.”

  “If I broke it.”

  “Did you? Is the Judge so interested in you for no reason? Tell me, Greg.”

  The magician frowned. There was darkness behind his eyes.

  “Imagine that Martha is asking you these questions. Would you lie to her, Greg? Now you’re going to your room, and there she will probably ask you about the Judge and about our conversation. She’s a smart girl, she will understand what was happening. Will you lie to her?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Bernardius nodded. “Good. I don’t want to know what you did or with whom you did it. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Bernardius.”

  “Any demionis that has consciousness, well, maybe except Zaches, would agree to live here under my protection, without knowing specific details. Even the ogres are satisfied. But not you. And I can’t understand why.” Lazarus looked straight into Greg’s eyes. Hope, despair, and confusion mingled on the face of the ringmaster.

  Greg seemed like a volcano before an eruption. “Well, Mr. Bernardius, I did what I did, because it could change the world for the better.”

  “What world, Greg?”

  “The world outside the circus, the one from which we are all running without looking back!”

  “Greg, my boy, that world is not ours,” Bernardius said, his voice full of sympathy. “We do not belong to the world of people.”

  “Actually, we sell them tickets, and they come to our shows!”

  “And that’s all. For the people there”—Lazarus pointed to the tent’s canvas walls with his cane—“we are just monsters, entertainment for a song, a snake without poison, a boar without fangs. We exist for them for only one and a half hours, as long as our show lasts.” Bernardius again pointed his cane to the walls of the tent. “Our roots are not here, but there.” Lazarus tapped on the arena floor with his cane. “There is something human in us, Greg. But what sets us apart from the people is not skin color or habits. It’s our blood, which in this world has always been considered a curse. We do not belong to this world, my boy.”

  “Funny, Mr. Bernardius. But unlike the others in this circus, I can use the power that I have been given to …”

  “To what? Help people by violating the Pactum?”

  “Yes, even if it were so!” Greg roared. “You have no idea what scum I’ve had to deal with!”

  “Greg, I have lived a lot longer than you. I do not think any abominations of people can surprise me.”

  “The fewer of these abominations there are …”

  “Greg, listen to me. You’re not a hero from some comic book, Superman from another planet who saves humanity. Let the people themselves cope with their sins.”

  “But why? Why do I have to stand aside?”

  “You’re breaking
the Pactum. This is not a good deed.”

  Greg wanted to protest, but he restrained himself. His fists were in flames. Lazarus looked at them and sighed. Noticing that his hands were on fire, the magician was embarrassed and forced himself to extinguish the flames.

  “What now?” Greg said hoarsely.

  “You know what now. You must have already guessed. You’ll leave the circus. You may not admit it, Greg, but I think your actions have led to something that has never happened before. For the first time ever, the path of the circus and the path of one of the Judges have crossed.”

  Greg gave Bernardius a look of despair and anger. His fists were again in flames. But pulling himself together, the magician found the strength to nod.

  “Well then, I’ll take Martha and we’ll leave.”

  “Martha stays here.”

  “It’s not for you to decide!”

  “You’re right, it’s not. But since you’re Caius’s main object, you have to admit that she will be safer here, not with you.”

  The magician stood with his head down. His body shook as if he was ready to explode and burn everything in sight. When Lazarus thought an explosion was inevitable, the fire mage fell to his knees and put his head in his hands. Bernardius approached him and put his hand on Greg’s shoulder.

  “I’m still responsible for you. And I can’t send you back to the normal world without offering help. Pietro came up with an idea.”

  Martha was waiting for Greg in the camper. She was tense, but smiled encouragingly at him when he entered. She never blamed, never accused, never interrogated. At such moments, she thought only of him, and for a moment the magician was ashamed. When he killed people, had he thought about how it might affect Martha or had he just selfishly given in to his dark desires?

  “What did Lazarus say?” she asked.

  “In short,” Greg said, sitting down on the couch next to Martha,” he wants me to leave the circus.” The magician could not find the strength to utter these words while looking into Martha’s eyes.

  “You won’t go alone,” she said. Greg was surprised. He had never heard so much determination in Martha’s soft voice.

  “Listen to me, dear. Mister B. is right. I deserve it for what I have done.”

  “Good Lord, Greg.” Martha’s voice had become even harder. There was something in it that made Greg feel weaker than this fragile girl. “I’m not an idiot. I know why there are Judges. I don’t condemn Lazarus’s decision. I’m just telling you that when you go, I’ll go with you.” She took Greg’s head in her hands and looked into his eyes.

  Greg felt gratified that she would say so, but he could not let her go with him. No matter how determined Martha was, he could not let her.

  “You know about the Judges, honey. And you know that they pass only one sentence for demionis considered guilty. And you know that I will run until I find myself as far away from the circus as possible. And then … then everything will be easy. One of us will find the other. And when that happens, when I meet Caius, I don’t want you to be near. It would be easier …” Greg paused, choosing his words. “It will be easier to deal with him, if I know that you’re not around. If I know that you are protected by Lazarus. In the end, Mr. B is immortal, he can protect you forever.” Greg tried to smile. “The Judge needs only me. Not you and not the others. When it’s over, I’ll be back. Until then, you’ll be here. I love you, Martha. But if I have to force you to stay in the circus, I’ll do it.”

  Greg stopped. She still looked him in the eye. In her eyes, Greg saw rage, humility, and despair fighting. Finally she turned away. The magician thought the silence lasted an eternity.

  “I know I should’ve told you everything a long time ago, but I was afraid.”

  “Afraid I wouldn’t understand?” Martha again looked at Greg. Under her gaze, he felt confused.

  “Yes. And afraid you’d leave me.”

  “Greg, I’m not immortal, and I can’t control fire. But I see people. I see what’s inside. I know that you have not harmed the innocent.”

  It felt to Greg as if an electric charge had gone down his spine. He was thrown into a fever, feeling as if he had been creeping through a dark alley and was suddenly struck blind by the light of a powerful lantern.

  “You … you know?”

  “Of course I know. Well, I figured it out. And when the Judge showed up, I realized that the darkness I saw in you and your night disappearances are somehow connected.”

  “Why didn’t you do anything?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Share this? With whom? The police? Lazarus, to let him exile you even faster? You?”

  “Me,” Greg whispered, his voice weak and uncertain.

  “And what would it change? Could you abandon it?”

  “For you, yes.”

  “Greg, don’t lie to yourself,” Marta said, speaking to him like a trainer trying to reason with a puppy. “This darkness is too deep inside you. You can’t get rid of it by snapping your fingers. It can dissipate only with time. And with my help. I thought I could save you from it. I thought you would start to appreciate us more than it. And I almost made it, but …”

  “But now Caius comes for me,” Greg finished for Martha.

  “Yes, now he comes for you.”

  Greg was ashamed that he had failed Martha, that he had canceled all her efforts, and he regretted it deeply. Until he had returned to the trailer, he was ready to blame his upcoming exile on anyone—Lazarus, Zaches, bad luck—but now he was resigned to the fact that he himself had ruined everything.

  “Forgive me, Martha. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, Greg, I know.”

  Martha hugged and kissed the magician. And that kiss immediately ousted from his head the killer’s face, which the ball had showed at that night’s performance—Judge Caius’s face.

  The Roach & the Giants

  Record made on 12/29/1919

  Archivist: Luca

  It has been more than a month since our second departure from New Orleans, but I’m still peeved when I remember what we experienced in that city. Lazarus did not want to come back here because, I suspect, too many ambiguous memories were associated with the place. But Astaroth insisted, hinting that in New Orleans we would find a couple of new, and rather unusual, demionis for our circus.

  We arrived in the city on November 3, 1919, just a week after the infamous Axe Man’s last murder. Mike Pepitone was the twelfth victim over a year and a half, and the city rustled anxiously, discussing suspects and listening to jazz. On March 13, 1919, three days after the attack on an entire family, a mysterious killer had sent a letter to the newspaper, in which he threatened to kill after midnight everyone who would not listen to jazz. That night, the dance clubs and bars of The Big Easy were crammed with people, and the Axe Man did not kill or cripple anybody. Since then the city listened to jazz, discussed jazz, breathed jazz. Moneylenders and newsboys, stevedores and idle playboys, poachers and street performers all believed that music would save them from the killer, whose victims did not have an obvious connection. The Axe Man could come for anyone. For a time, social distinctions blurred. Death and Music were seated at the same table of the rich and the poor.

  Mr. Bernardius decided not to perform. We arrived to pick up demionis and move on to some smaller and simpler city. But before that, we had to meet Domenico Scarafaggio, who would lead us to demionis. I was not sure that this gentleman could be trusted. His name was like a nickname, and I could hardly imagine why a man could be nicknamed “the cockroach.” A couple of decades ago, New Orleans was a transit point for thousands of Italians who had fled from Sicily to South America. Many of the refugees hadn’t had the strength or money to continue their journey, and they settled on the banks of the Mississippi. And now New Orleans was as Italian as it had once been French.

  I suspected that Domenico Scarafaggio was somehow connected with the Black Hand, a criminal organization of Italian immigrants that held the entire city in thrall. Mem
bers of the “Hand” extorted money from wealthy citizens, mostly Sicilian descendants of refugees. Those who refused to pay were killed, kidnapped, or tortured. Of course, there were some in the city who rebuffed the bandits, and on the streets and in the bars there was fighting that battered not only members of the Black Hand but also Italians who had nothing to do with criminals. When the Axe Man began his attacks, people began to whisper that a “good citizen” was seeking revenge against the “wops,” because most of the killer’s victims were Sicilians.

  The meeting with Scarafaggio was scheduled in one of the best restaurants in the city. Mr. Bernardius was clearly disturbed by the upcoming little journey to the human world. He was worried that he had forgotten what it was like to be among ordinary people doing ordinary things: walking the streets, talking to waiters, choosing dishes, listening to music, and making conversation. I was glad to be able to eat normal food instead of our camp cooking. At the appointed time, Scarafaggio had not arrived. We had been waiting more than an hour before the waiter handed us a note saying that we needed to go out and walk a couple of blocks, where we would meet someone who would drive us to Domenico. We did as we were told and met four men who brusquely put black headscarves over our eyes and literally pushed us into a HAL Touring car and drove off like mad. The car was clearly not designed for six adult men, and it shook and rolled from side to side, thanks largely to our driver’s wild style of driving. A couple of times I was very close to parting with the dinner I had dreamt about for so long.

  When the car stopped, we were taken out of it and made to walk along the street. Several times I heard a door open before us, and our guards spoke to someone in English and Italian in hushed voices. Then we started to descend. When the black scarves were taken off, we stood in an illuminated low brick corridor with a forged door at the far end. On the door was a picture of a black hand, casually daubed. I had no doubt that the scarves could have been removed sooner, but our companions obviously wanted to inspire fear in us, to demonstrate their power. In another situation I might be frightened, but after a good meal, such showing off just amused me. As for Mr. Bernardius, his look was unreadable.

  Behind the door was a room that was twelve feet by twelve feet. Mr. Domenico Scarafaggio sat behind a large table covered with expensive leather. Frankly, I had imagined it would be like this. He was short, frail, with greasy hair and the eyes of a person prone to hysteria. At his desk, Scarafaggio seemed even smaller and more ridiculous. In the corner of the room stood a table with a small gramophone that was playing “Clarinet Marmalade.” Domenico tried to impress us as a connoisseur of jazz, and instead of greeting us, he told us that, in his opinion, this tune would soon be a real hit.

  He stood and walked around the table. The short man sat on the edge of it and began to introduce himself, but not without ostentation. Radiating self-importance, Scarafaggio told us that he was a caporegime of the Matranga family, to which everyone in New Orleans paid, from sailors and whores to businessmen and politicians. Even the Provenzano family had been forced out of town, unable to cope with the pressure of Matranga. His speech was accompanied by vigorous gestures, most of which depicted a pistol shot or a knife stab, as well as some amazing expressions on his weasel face.

  Mr. Bernardius listened patiently to the criminal underground history of New Orleans to the accompaniment of the jazz tunes. When the capo realized that his stories did not impress his guests, his expression became so sour that even the guards behind us grunted anxiously. He gave up on us and pressed some pedal under the table, which slowly began to move toward the back wall. Under the floor was a passage illuminated by electric lights. Scarafaggio invited us down with him. After descending a couple of dozen feet, we heard horrifying screams of rage and pain, half human and half animal. I had heard about the brutality and ruthlessness of the Black Hand. The Sicilians cut off snitches’ tongues, hacked off the hands of those who left to join another gang, and did not hesitate to slay entire families. It seemed to me that the press was exaggerating these stories, trying to raise circulation, but those screams gave me the creeps, although I, like any archivist, had heard and seen the most gruesome things.

  The tortuous underground corridor ended in a huge hemispherical room. In its center, on huge X-shaped crucifixes, two giant naked bodies were tied. One’s skin was gray, and the other’s green. Ogres. The captives were as tall as Mr. Bernardius, but much broader in the shoulders. Their skin, by the standards of ogres, was still fresh, not covered with hard growths and warts. An ogre’s skin is like tree rings or the wrinkles on a woman’s neck, a way to determine the age of the creatures. These, apparently, were still quite young. Creatures of that kind like swamps and privacy, and I could not remember the last time anyone in Louisiana had met an ogre. Both creatures were covered with wounds and dark red blood, almost black, and thick. A few men with bats and chains were circling the ogres, laughing. The men egged each other on, discussing which of them would be lucky enough to be the first to kill one of the creatures. The thugs taunted the ogres, who, immobilized, could only growl in response.

  Mr. Bernardius told Scarafaggio that with every blow, the price he would pay for the ogres would drop a thousand dollars. Clearly not used to people talking to him that way, the shorty’s eyes flashed hatred. Domenico glared at Lazarus, pouring out threats. The ringmaster just reminded “the roach” about Mr. Star. I do not know what Scarafaggio knew about Astaroth, but on hearing the earthly name of the demon, the capo of the Matranga family stepped back and ordered his men to leave. I asked him to bring food for the ogres and to add some sleeping pills, which I had brought with me, to it. The feeding process was unusual. We had to fasten pieces of meat stuffed with sleeping pills to the end of a long pole. The guards who had escorted us from the restaurant put the poles close to the ogres’ muzzles, and the monsters eagerly tore off chunks of flesh and devoured them. The sight of the monsters eating apparently frightened Scarafaggio’s people. When the ogres fell asleep, the Sicilians warily unfastened them from the crucifixes.

  The capo had to call several henchmen to remove the ogres from the wooden crosses and transfer them to large wooden boxes, iron-bound, in which we would move the monsters from the city. While his people worked, Domenico Scarafaggio told us how the ogres came to him. A few years earlier, the Matranga people had found the ogres in the marshes near the town while trying to get rid of the body of some unlucky debtor. The Black Hand thugs did not kill the sleeping monsters but brought them to the boss as a gift. The head of the family, Charles Matranga, was delighted. The ogres became something like favorite dogs. He created a new diversion, which he called “hunting with hounds.” Debtors, competitors, or simply people who dared to talk back to the boss of the family were taken to the swamp, where Charles unleashed his “doggies.” Sometimes the boss used the ogres to impress and intimidate people with whom he was negotiating. For a more striking effect, he dressed up the ogres in expensive black suits and bowler hats.

  The details of how Matranga had been treating these poor creatures horrified me. All those qualities that are attributed to ogres in fairy tales—bloodlust, aggressiveness, ruthlessness—are true. But these creatures are conscious. Maybe they aren’t as smart as humans, but with proper care and upbringing, they can be true and strong companions. Charles Matranga kept them like dogs, cultivating in them only the most disgusting features. Not surprisingly, over time, the ogres were out of control. And so the Axe Man appeared in New Orleans.

  The big city frightened and excited the ogres. They grew up, became stronger, and their behavior became increasingly irrational. In fits of aggression, they began to attack people. That explained the Axe Man’s lack of a system. The Axe Man, it seemed, never chose his victims in advance and sometimes did not follow through, leaving the unconscious victim lying in his own blood. Most of the survivors were so shocked by the attacks that they refused to believe they had been assaulted by something unhuman, blaming each other or the dead. But there were those who conf
essed they had seen an incredibly huge man, and sometimes two, dressed in black suits and bowler hats. The ogres’ behavior created a lot of problems for Matranga, but they had once served Charles well. When his consigliere was due to come to the city, the boss heard rumors that the lawmen and the Provenzano family were going to intercept him. That’s when Matranga’s people wrote the cops a letter written on behalf of the Axe Man. Instantly, the streets became deserted, the police appointed guards at pubs and reduced the number of patrols to a minimum, and even Joseph Provenzano did not dare come out of his lair. And Matranga’s consigliere quietly and comfortably reached his destination.

  But there were too many problems with the ogres, and when they attacked Mike Pepitone, the boss decided to get rid of the brothers. Pepitone was an associate of the Matrangas, not a family member but a man who works for it. And one of the rules of the Sicilians is that there can be no fights in the family.

  Charles requested that Scarafaggio take care of the ogres. But Mr. Star came to Domenico and convinced him that there were many ways to get rid of unnecessary things. For example, to sell. Thirty thousand dollars impressed the caporegime, and he agreed.

  We came to his lair that night to buy his ogres.

  To my surprise, Mr. Bernardius told Scarafaggio he would pay only twenty thousand. The other ten thousand was a fine for the bad condition of the “product.” I understood that it was an attempt to punish Domenico for abusing the ogres, but I was afraid Lazarus’s confidence would lead us into trouble. However, before Scarafaggio could object, Mr. Bernardius asked if it was true that the boss always got a share of any transaction, even if it was made outside the family. And if that were true, then what would happen to those who didn’t share? Mr. Bernardius said that he heard that in Chicago one of the members of the Black Hand had withheld money from the boss. The boss’s men found him and shoved twenty bucks up in his ass. But the poor man did not resist. Dead people do not resist. Scarafaggio was humiliated and angry, but he found the strength to smile, to praise Mr. Bernardius’s awareness, and guide us to the exit.

  The next morning we left town. The young ogres slept so soundly on two piles of straw in the van that even road bumps could not wake them.