Chapter 42
From behind the hovel, Gnochi watched as Roy and Harvey re-entered the menagerie and, after a minute, led Perogie out to the edge of the camp. Together the two saddled and secured the packs to the mare. Harvey looked back to them, then nodded. The action was so slight he could hardly discern it from the distance, but after seeing the motion, Gnochi put his fingers to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle that carried from the hovel over to the camp.
◆◆◆
Grumbling at the loud din circulating through the menagerie, Dorothea shuffled out of his tent ready to dole out punishments. He ducked his head under the flap and caught the escaping gait of the bard’s mare before she cantered, rider-less, behind a peasant farmer’s hut in the distance. Preparing his throat for a yell, he stopped himself when he saw that Harvey and Roy had returned. “Boys! Come over here!” His eyes scanned the grounds for the bard and the girl-apprentice. As the two boys approached, others in the menagerie seemed to slow their chores until they outright stopped within earshot of their ringleader as if to witness the events. He frowned. There were many among his troupe who had come to respect the bard and cherish his company. That respect was misplaced. “You all have jobs to be doing,” he yelled to the gawkers. “Get the honey out of your pants!”
“From Gnochi, Sire,” Harvey said, handing over a sealed letter.
Dorothea tore at the seal, flicking the dark blue wax into the flames of the adjacent cook fire. The first thing he saw was the included pence. His heart quickened. He dumped the three gold coins onto his hand, then pocketed the money, returning his attention to the letter. He squinted at it, turning it sideways, then thrust it at Harvey, who he knew would have to be able to read in order to follow tonic prescriptions and instructions.
“Read it, boy,” Dorothea said. “Aloud.” The elephanteer frowned, then brought his eyes to the bleached parchment.
“It says:
‘Dearest Ringleader Dorothea,’
‘I do apologize for the rashness of this note. I am not one to break up through text, but the circumstances require no other action but this one. I can assure you that the fault is mine, not yours, for this abrupt departure. As you may have noticed, Lady Cleo (such is her name) and I will not be joining you at the gates of Blue Haven. Some unexpected bells have been rung and I must make hasty tracks. The yellow brick road has ended—before the lion found his courage, before the straw man found his wits, and before the tin man found his heart. Yes, this story seems to have ended abruptly.
‘Dorothea, do not weep over your lost story-teller and his trusty scribe. In this moment of introspection, I find myself returning to some advice you gave me. You were right about this, though you didn’t word it as such: We aren’t in Kansas anymore. Maybe I need to stop living for the midnight oil and start taking in the sun’s light.
‘Well, rant aside, I do want to thank you for allowing myself and Cleo the opportunity to hitch protection and shelter within your homely menagerie. Perhaps one day, Gnochi Gleeman will tell a story of the grand: Providence’s Royal Menagerie. Well, the time is late, the deadline is nigh, and I must be on my way. Take care, old chap.
-Gnochi Gleeman
‘Post Script:
‘I hope you’ll overlook any misstep of character made by Harvey, and Roy too, in their assistance of our timely departure. I imagine that the pence that I’ve provided can cover the rent of our wagon and your fine steed, Fester. Plus, you are now one cabin light of its occupants. I bid you well.’” Harvey stopped reading.
Dorothea stood rooted in his boots for a few scarce moments. He noticed those around him waiting in silence. He could feel the pressure in the air, as if the menagerie as a whole was holding its breath in anticipation.
“What an uncultured swine,” Dorothea said, snatching the letter and tossing it to the fire below. “I want someone to clean out their wagon,” he ordered to no one in particular. “And you,” he said, pointing to one of the children, “get that horse Fester and brush him down, then bring him to my tent.” He stormed off into his tent, hand deep in the pocket where he had thrust the three gold pence.
◆◆◆
Harvey watched the letter burn. The menagerie seemed to resume its normal pace of work, but he couldn’t draw his eyes from the paper as it smoldered. As though pushed up by the force of billows, shavings of the letter shot up into the air. He snatched them, ignored their smarting heat, and read the words in the order that they fell.
‘Harvey-not-too-late-protection-of-Cleo-the-trusty-scribe-midnight-bells-light.’
After re-reading the words, he thrust them back into the greedy flames. Had anyone seen him contacted by the flames? He looked around, but no one else seemed to be paying him any mind. Even Roy appeared to have distracted himself with some minutia of his blade.
Finally, looking back to the hovel where Gnochi and Cleo had been hidden, he spotted the form of a white wolf wagging its tail. The mirage faded with the cycle of a blink, but the white shape branded itself onto his eyes.
◆◆◆
Cleo watched in dismay as Dorothea threw the letter into the fire.
“All things considered,” Gnochi said, “that wasn’t a bad situation.”
“Please, we both know that you were getting stir-crazy from not telling stories,” Cleo said. “Then again.” She paused, tapping her chin. “You were also becoming hysterical from the infection at that point, so who knows.”
Gnochi walked toward the cross-roads sign. Cleo cleared her throat, then gestured to Perogie. “You ride,” she said. “Walking with your limp would slow us down.”
“Fine,” Gnochi grumbled. “Wouldn’t want to slow the group down.”
The two turned down the north-western road toward Nimbus and walked in silence for over an hour. Cleo looked up to Gnochi, who seemed, since the hovel, to be permanently adorned with a grimace. Finally, she said, “I didn’t see him burn the coins.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his expression unchanging. “He’s getting rid of evidence that he let us go.” He seemed, at once, to wake up from his slump. He urged Perogie to canter widely around her. “Ahh, how I’ve missed your cushioned back, ‘Ogie,” A smile adorned his face. “Fester’s back was too bony,” he said, patting Perogie’s neck with his free hand. “Plus, he had that terrible limp. And yes, I do see the irony.” He stared down at his bum leg. “Although I never would’ve guessed that I’d feel like an inexperienced rider.”
As if testing the truth of his words, Perogie took off at an unsanctioned gallop to see if she could catch him off guard. He allowed the mare to stretch her legs, then reared her back and looped around, leveling out next to Cleo.
Silence returned. Eventually, he broke it, asking, “What did Harvey say to you?”
She felt her cheeks warming and found herself hoping that Gnochi would not notice. “Well, he told me to be safe.”
“And?”
“And, he said.” Cleo paused, allowing herself a moment to contemplate what Harvey had said to her. “He pledged allegiance to me. Almost like how a knight would.”
“That’s a little odd.”
“Well, I thought it was sweet.”
“A kiss too?”
“It wasn’t a romantic kiss,” she said, her voice betrayingly defensive. “This was a knightly kiss bestowed upon his queen.”
“Now that is something to be worried about: my apprentice thinking that she is a queen. And for the record, if you are going to be knighting anyone else in the future, I might have to take the kiss in your stead.”.
The two shared a quiet laugh “So, where to?” Cleo inquired.
“We are going to Nimbus.”
“Why? Isn’t your contract in the city?” she asked, realizing afterword that she could have phrased her question in a less blunt manner.
“We are stopping for supplies, and frankly, for the company. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in the presence of my peers.”
“So?” Cleo dragged
her inquiry out for a long moment. “How are you going to do it?”
Gnochi halted Perogie and eyed her. “Like I’ve said before, the less you know, the better. And,” he said clearing his throat and gesturing to a farmer half a field away. The man paused his toils, leaning on his spade. He looked to the two travelers and waved. “We shouldn’t be speaking of it out in the open.”
“Oh, sorry that I asked then,” Cleo said, grumbling.
“What was that? You want me to ride faster?” He laughed as he urged Perogie up to a slow canter, forcing Cleo to jog in order to keep up. After a moment, he slowed, allowing her to catch up.
After that burst of energy, the pair resumed their slow trek. Time slowed to a crawl, though only an hour passed before she spotted the first decrepit wagons of the entertainer capital, Nimbus.
Chapter 43
Gnochi and Cleo entered the stagnantly-nomadic camp as the first inch of sun tickled the western horizon. Dozens of entertainers of all creeds looked up as they passed. A group of men coated in colored powders and creams were tossing horseshoes. An acrobat appeared to be sleeping while standing on her hands. Her eyes rested closed. Many nodded to them as they ambled through, but only a few seemed to know Gnochi from before.
The pair were directed to a man who supervised a class of younger jesters juggling. When the man turned and saw Gnochi, his eyes widened, then squinted closed. He offered no comment, though a deep scowl defined his weathered face like bark on a gangly tree. Cleo felt his eyes flick across her face for an instant, but they lingered on Gnochi.
“I want to tell you a story,” Gnochi said, surprising Cleo because she assumed that he would be pressed for time. She pulled the journal and writing utensils out of her pack but Gnochi stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He shook his head.
The man led them away from the training entertainers. They walked at a honied pace
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to him?” Cleo stepped on her toes and whispered in his ear. “Or act at all like you’re on a timeline?” He cocked an eyebrow at her comments but said nothing.
The man found a bench and table half sunken in the mud and gestured for them to sit. Once seated, Cleo traced her fingers along the table’s rough surface.
Gnochi cleared his throat. He leaned over and whispered to her. “This is something of a test,” he said. “What I’m about to say is more of a unique door key than a story from the past. Each entertainer knows one of these story-keys relating to one overarching narrative, and this man knows them all.”
Cleo nodded, though as Gnochi began his tale, she felt her fingers itching to record what he said. She made a mental note to remember the story and record it later.
◆◆◆
Trenton
The collapsing of a cigarette’s worth of ashes pulled Madeline from her daze. She dusted the embers from her hand where they were turning her skin red with warmth. She had been nursing her pack of cigarettes all day. The combination of the hazy air, nauseating heat, and heavy eggnog working its way through her gut combined to lull her into a Christmas afternoon haze.
First, she surveyed her receiver. All the wires maintained secure connections. A flick of a feather duster across the workstation ensured that no dust gathered across her receiver’s many buttons and knobs. None of the lights were illuminated; the receiver gave no sign of life at all. She contemplated plugging in her headphones and sending a survey message out to ensure its proper function, but as she reached to plug them in, Janine, her coworker from across the desk and the only other person Madeline had seen working on Christmas, sucked on her teeth and offered as patronizing a sound as possible.
“You know, one day they’re going to say you can’t smoke in here. They’ll find out that it’s bad for us. What will you do then?”
“I wasn’t reaching for a butt,” Madeline said. “I wanted to—”
“It sure is a slow day in the health scene,” Janine interrupted. “Don’t know why Arnold had you come in on Christmas, for Chrissake. I mean, I guess since he was taking off, he needed two people in.” The other woman stood and stretched, chomping on stale gum. “I suppose it’s been a slow day for me too. The war machine doesn’t stop for Christmas, but it does slow down,” she admitted.
In the six hours the two women had been working thus far, Janine had received three messages: two from London, and one that relayed through Barcelona but originated from somewhere near Berlin. A confidential informant. Janine hadn’t shared the information, but she failed to plug her headphones in all the way, so the Morse-Code messages sounded from her receiver’s speakers. Madeline had no issue translating the messages in her head. Their content was nothing classified. The first two detailed a sickness which seemed to be spreading across Europe. The message from Berlin offered unconfirmed rumors that Hitler and his high command were away from the capital for the holidays.
“You know,” Janine said, tearing Madeline from her thoughts. “Washington staged a sneak attack on the British under the cover of Christmas.” Madeline recalled Janine spouting the same tidbit last Christmas and the year before. “I have to be vigilant. Wouldn’t want to let news of a Kraut attack go unanswered, especially since this is the only way for news to get to us from overseas.”
Unlike Janine, who relayed trans-Atlantic communication pertaining to the war, Madeline relayed all communications involving health and medicine. Last Christmas, even in a heavy period of the war with a smattering of localized smallpox outbreaks across Europe, the health and medicine line remained silent all day.
Madeline shook her head and wondered, not for the first time that day, why Janine could not have covered all the receivers. Aside from war, only one other line rang so far that day. It was a Christmas message from the White House for troops overseas.
“Maddie,” Janine said, standing. “Could you cover my station while I go grab a bite? If you’re too busy on your end,” she said, her voice dropping off. The oafish code-operator cackled to herself as she fell into a maroon overcoat that looked heavy enough to smother a small child. Thick gray gloves crept onto her hands and a fluffy green hat capped off her motley ensemble as well as it did to her frizzy hair. All told, Janine looked the picture of a bruised aubergine.
Alone, Madeline sat back in her chair, fumbling with the last cigarette from her pack. Within moments, a small trail of smoke rose up from her mouth. She held her breath, relishing the lull that settled over her body.
At times like these, with a cigarette between her lips and a silent air to her ears, Madeline was reminded of her mother, who managed to smoke a handful of her homemade joints everyday without Madeline’s father learning of the habit. Ever-resourceful, her mother would use a stove-match for her flame, then would retreat to the one place in the house where her father was unlikely to visit, Madeline’s room.
Picturing the smoke-stained walls of her old bedroom brought a smile to her face.
Janine’s machine roared to life, tearing Madeline from her nostalgic thoughts. The blaring alarm announced an incoming message. She set her cigarette to rest in the grove of her ashtray, then shuffled over to Janine’s workstation.
Madeline’s coworker decorated her half of the shared wall with military postcards featuring soldiers in various stages of undress. Faded lipstick decorated each postcard.
Madeline transcribed the coded message, plotting letters as they came in. The sender, US European Command, indicated that the American Nerve Operational Center (ANOpC) was the designated recipient, so Madeline would not need to transfer the message specifically to any individual or military base.
She ensured that her headphones were fully plugged in while decoding, considering it too intimate of a process to allow someone else to overhear. She translated the code, editorializing based on a list of common shorthands that Janine had taped to her receiver. After listening to the recording again, Madeline, sure of her translation, sat back and surveyed the message. She always noted the time that the message was received. Since th
e station is always manned, the time of receival always matches the time the message is translated, though she preferred taking measures to ensure transparency.
[1941.12.25;13:22]
Nazi forces recorded using biochemical weapons. 10,000 GIs impacted. Sequestered onto A16. State of health worsening. No medical intervention works. Doctors busy with P19.
Janine’s cheat-sheet had A16 listed as the AAF Wastings, (a fleet of transport airplanes). She had no translation for the code P19.
It arrived as a status message, not a request. Madeline ran her fingers through tangled blonde hair. She quickly drafted a reply, requesting the Wastings return to the United States. Two minutes later, the European Command replied.
[…13:26]
Repeat request, ANOpC. Bring 10,000 stateside? Even though virality and mortality of P19? Confirm.
Madeline read the message, then leaned up in the chair and glanced at her workstation. She wondered why no one in Europe’s vast medical community had thought to send a message to the Western Hemisphere about these bioweapons or P19?
Madeline confirmed her message. US Hospitals open and ready for quarantined treatment. Stagger flight path so load of patients is split across New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Trenton, D.C., Atlanta, Durham and Miami.
The response came a few minutes later.
[…13:35]
Acknowledged ANOpC. A16 is airborne as of 1830 GMT. Once in air, contact with fleet will be impossible. Ensure ground control and earlier-mentioned hospitals are ready to receive.
Madeline pulled her headphones from Janine’s receiver. She surveyed the transcript of the messages, her eyes widening at the destination cities. Trenton. Madeline swallowed a lump, then returned to her station. When she plugged in her headphones, the familiar static of an idle line did not greet her ears. She pulled them off and rolled over to the telephone. She was in the process of dialing up support when Janine barged in, her arms loaded with bags that smelt of Don Vincenzo’s Italian. Garlic and cheese replaced cigarette smoke as the most noxious scent in the small office. Madeline glanced down to see her most recent cigarette had long lost its battle against the flames and gravity. Ash trickled out of a notch in the tray, spilling over onto the desk.
Gleeman's Tales Page 34
