A Circus of Brass and Bone

by Abra SW

  “William …”

  The whispery voice of his mam fetched him across the room so fast he didn’t remember anything between here and there.

  “Praise be, one still lives,” Valentine said in a subdued voice. Louder: “Come along, lads!”

  Even the new rescuee, Conrad, charged forward and helped to lift the heavy worktable away. He winced a couple of times, but he didn’t slack and he didn’t complain.

  William danced impatiently from foot to foot. As soon as the men heaved the worktable to the side, he darted in and clutched his mam’s hand.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Better. I can breathe. But—ah!—it still hurts.”

  “William,” Valentine said, “I know a doc who’ll fix your mam up. The doc lives not too far from here, near the edge of the rich district.” He didn’t add, If he’s still alive, but he didn’t have to. “We can go and bring the doctor back to your mam.”

  Fear of being left alone with the dead and dying gripped William. What if they didn’t come back? Something of the same feeling must have touched his mam, for she said, “I can walk, I think. With help.”

  Valentine said, “Could be I saw something that might help.”

  He left and returned with a wooden pole cut down to the right size for a walking staff. A minute’s quick work with his knife rounded the top into a knob that wouldn’t hurt to rest weight on.

  “And why would a man like you happen to have noticed a fine shillelagh like that?” William’s mam asked, a touch of humor in her voice despite everything.

  A blush tinged Valentine’s ears. For a moment, he looked much less like a hard man.

  They levered William’s mam to her feet and braced her when she swayed. With the staff under her hand, Valentine holding her elbow, and William hovering nearby, she hobbled unsteadily to the door. Patrick went ahead of them, clearing obstructions away so she wouldn’t trip and fall. Some obstructions he moved more gently than others.

  Out on the street, William looked around with newly clear eyes. The few folk who had been struggling to push themselves up now swayed on their feet. One man clutched his arm to his side; it hung at an unnatural angle.

  William tugged at Valentine’s sleeve. “Can he come, too?”

  “Very well,” Valentine said magnanimously. He paused near the injured man. “We’re going along to the doctor. You may have a walk with us, if you like.”

  Desperate gratitude filled the man’s face. “Aye, I will! Blessings on you.” He fell into line behind them.

  The others swayed in place, their eyes still shocked and dazed. William remembered the horrible clutch of fear he’d felt at the idea of being left alone. He shouted, “You lot can keep company with us.”

  Valentine looked down on him, a peculiar expression on his face. “Can they, then? Well.” He raised his voice and added, “If you help along those with trouble.”

  Most roused and stumbled along, helping each other when it was needed.

  One man remained. “I—I have to find my wife,” he said.

  William looked down at his feet to avoid seeing the man’s desperate, hoping expression.

  A dead fly curled on the ground. Two feet away, there was another one. A cluster of sparrows sprawled on their backs near a wall, feathers ruffled in death, twiglike legs bent and twisted.

  They walked on.

  Corpses salted the streets: men, women, children, horses, dogs, cats, rats, birds, and even insects. No living thing that moved upon the earth had been spared.

  Survivors sat on stoops or clung to the doorways of shops and factories. William wondered what awaited inside. He didn’t go look. None of Valentine’s mob did; they clung close together and stuck to the center of the street. They called out to the other survivors, though, offering help and inviting them along.

  The survivors would look up, staring at them with haunted eyes.

  Did you see—? those eyes would ask.

  Yes, yes, I did, their eyes answered.

  Some of them would follow. The mob doubled and then tripled in size. A carthorse that had outlived its master trotted alongside them, and skittish dogs trailed in their shadow.

  Valentine looked down at William with a wry twist to his mouth, as if to say, “See what you started?”

  William lifted his chin. His mam watched. What else could he have done?

  When they reached the doctor’s house, on the outskirts of Beacon Hill, Valentine waved the crowd to silence and knocked on the door. After a wait long enough to be worrying, William heard the snick of a lock being turned.

  A disheveled lady opened the door, got one look at the small mob following in Valentine’s wake, and slammed it shut again. Patrick started forward with an angry look on his face, but Valentine waved him back.

  Making his case to the door, he wheedled, “Ach, Elizabeth, it’s your old friend Valentine. You wouldna turn away a friend on such a grim day? And the boy beside me with his injured mother?”

  The door creaked open. The lady had taken the opportunity to twist her black hair up into a bun, perch spectacles on her nose, and cover her dress with an apron starched stiff enough to repel a sea of blood. She glared at Valentine over her spectacles, her dark brows set in an unyielding line. “I only have room for the wounded inside. The rest of your ducklings can wait. And to you, my name is Dr. Fallon.”

  Dead silence greeted her. “What—?” Patrick began, with an expression like a stunned ox. A sharp elbow to the ribs from Valentine silenced him.

  Relenting somewhat, Dr. Fallon added, “Your lads can put the kettle on the hob and make tea for the rest of the lot. With sugar, whether they like it or not. Might have to wait their turn for a teacup.”

  She strode back into the house, not looking back to see if any followed.

  In an undertone, Valentine hissed to Patrick, “Keep yer gob shut! Did you think a high-and-mighty doctor with his choice of patients would tend to Irish rabble? Lizzie’s worked harder to prove herself than any man among us. She’s a mighty fine doctor, too. Don’t call her Lizzie, though, or she’ll tear a strip out of your hide. Now go on and make tea!”

  Valentine assisted William’s mam into the house. She made little noises that might, William worried, be a sign of pain—but sounded more like a suppressed case of the giggles.

  Dr. Fallon’s parlor had been converted into a patient examination room. Valentine and William got her into the room and settled according to the doctor’s instructions.

  “Valentine—” Dr. Fallon began.

  “Ah, it fair gladdened my heart to see you standing there when we opened the door!” he interrupted. “So many dead, I feared you’d be among them.”

  Dr. Fallon seemed immune to Valentine’s heart-gladdening. “I was down in the cellar, preparing solutions, when the storm hit. My lights went out. I heard the most terrible sound, like hundreds of voices screaming. Then a convulsive fit struck me. I had just recovered when you arrived. Now, Valentine, go on out—I have a patient to see to, and I think she’d like her privacy for the exam.”

  The tips of Valentine’s ears turned red, and he bowed himself out. William stayed.

  William helped Dr. Fallon move his mother. The doctor listened to her breathing, had her spit in a cup, asked questions, and gently probed to find where the pain was.

  “Your chances are good,” Dr. Fallon said, finally. “That worktable broke some ribs, but there’s no blood in your spit, and I don’t hear any fluid gurgling when you breathe. That means the ribs didn’t puncture your lungs. Your abdomen isn’t stiff, so you may be lucky enough to not have internal bleeding. I’d give you a shot of bone aether to speed healing, but all my vials shattered when that—that ungodly whatever-it-was struck. Keep breathing normally, stay abed for a week and then go very slow for the next five. Wrap your ribs before you go about your day. Your boy here can help you with that. And don’t lift anything!”

  William’s mam smiled weakly. “I’m not even a bit tempted.”
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br />   Dr. Fallon barked a laugh. “You’re more sensible than most of my male patients!”

  William helped his mother to sit in an overstuffed chair in the entranceway and then came back in to watch. His sense of propriety no longer threatened, Valentine did as well. Dr. Fallon was less gentle with her next patient.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you that a good scrubbing won’t take care of,” Dr. Fallon told Conrad. “Bathe with soap, until you’re clean all over, or those cuts and scrapes will get infected. With all this commotion,” she said disapprovingly, “the bath houses are probably closed. Bathe in a barrel of water if you have to, but get the coal dust and filth off. Then apply this liniment and bandages.”

  “Barrel it is,” Conrad said gloomily. “Not like I have a fancy bathtub like those highfalutin rich folk with their indoor running water and all.”

  Valentine leaned forward, and his eyes gleamed. “Says who? Think on it, man. How many died? Did you think the rich were spared? If we go knocking on doors, we’ll find one where nobody answers. And then—” He laughed, leaning back. “Then you’ll have your bath!”

  Dr. Fallon didn’t look shocked, and she didn’t tell Valentine that what he was thinking was wrong, William noticed. Maybe she wasn’t too fond of her neighbors, either.

  “Ten blocks up, there’s a fine blue and white mansion with hydrangeas growing in front. The owner rushes to the physician when any member of his family so much as sneezes. I’m only a poor substitute when his regular physician isn’t available, of course—” she cut a length of bandage off the roll with a vicious snip, “—but under the circumstances, I doubt he would have been able to reach his regular physician. I haven’t heard from him, which makes me think that neither he nor his household is up to repelling visitors.”

  “Bless you, doctor!”

  She snorted. “Get those who need medical care organized before you leave, with able-bodied men to help them.”

  “I will that!”

  “Leave?” William asked, but nobody answered him.

  William trailed after Valentine as he left the doctor’s parlor. Valentine was as good as his word. He got volunteers to help the injured, checked to see that they’d all had sweet tea, shook hands, and patted backs.

  William followed. He saw how heads turned after them, how dull, stunned faces regained a semblance of life when they passed.

  William stayed hot on Valentine’s heels as he rounded the corner of the house. His work gang loitered there, waiting. “Come on, lads!” he said.

  “You can’t just leave them!” William burst out.

  “I’m not one of the saints, lad, to be watching out for all in need!” William felt his face fall. Valentine hastily added, “But that’s not what I’m doing at all! Just—looking about a bit. You should go and tend to your mam.”

  “She’s resting here as well as she can. Where could I take her? Back to the North End? You think she’ll get better care there? You think maybe this only hurt the rich folk? I’m coming along with you, I am.”

  Or you might not come back.

  A trace of a scowl lingering on his lips, Valentine led the others off at a pace brisk enough that William had to trot to keep up.

  When he saw the house Dr. Fallon had recommended, however, Valentine seemed to forget his irritation. “Now, lads, isn’t that there better than living all crowded together in a one-room apartment with your friends who fart in their sleep and never wash their socks?”

  A roar of agreement went up from the half-dozen men following him. William couldn’t help but shout along. He and his mam shared an apartment with another family, and the youngest boy had a digestion that cabbage disagreed with. William himself, of course, never offended.

  He tilted his head back and stared up at the big house. Blue and white, yes, but that was like describing a castle as “greyish.” Gingerbread trim curlicued around the house. Turrets jutted from the roof. Perfect for a boy to guard over the house from, he couldn’t help thinking. Large bay windows opened up onto the lawn, and he imagined curling up in the sunlight with a schoolbook, as he thought a boy who lived in this house would. That boy would still be in school, not trudging all over town trying to find any job that would take him.

  Envy spiked through William.

  Valentine jerked the bell pull. A bell rang inside the house, but no footsteps answered it. They waited long enough for a maid to reach the door. They waited long enough for the mistress of the house to rouse herself and answer the door if the maid could not. They waited even a bit longer than that.

  Valentine opened the door a crack. No irate butler appeared to chase them out. Valentine pushed the door open wider and strode inside.

  William timidly followed. Over the threshold, he stopped and gaped. Only the grumbled curses of the men piling up behind him propelled him into the house. Polished wood gleamed, oak and mahogany carved so artfully that William thought they belonged in a museum. He wouldn’t dare sit on one of the fancy chairs in case he messed it up, even though his legs still ached. They looked awful inviting, though, all overstuffed plush and brocade.

  A hunting landscape papered the hall, dogs baying happily after a fox while figures on horseback watched from a distant hill. Birds flew through blue skies near the ceiling. The poppies and daisies painted at the bottom stood out sharp and vivid, as if they sprouted from the baseboards; William felt an impulse to stoop and pick one. A grand open staircase swept up from the entryway to the second floor.

  It seemed so fantastic, like something from a dream or a storybook. They could live here now, he and his mam, if they wanted to. William tilted back his head, a huge smile on his face, and saw—a gas-lit chandelier. It hung above their heads like the Sword of Damocles. Sunlight glittered on brass. Broken rainbows danced across their faces.

  Fragments of memory. Flesh cut to ribbons. Small bodies. The cries of the dying.

  William bolted outside and vomited in the hydrangeas. Valentine followed him out and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. Bad things take some men like that. They’ll be strong as long as they need to be, and then … Everything will be fine now.”

  William looked up at him and didn’t believe a word he said. But he went back in, though he avoided looking at the chandelier, afraid of what he might see reflected in its prisms.

  Valentine’s men spread out to explore their new domain.

  Two rampaged upstairs. “I’m sleeping on a feather bed tonight!” Tommy hollered.

  Patrick said, “I’m going to eat like a rich man!” The others scoffed and asked him if he’d be cooking up this rich food himself, but that didn’t stop him from going in search of the kitchen.

  The joyful shouts upstairs stopped abruptly, and the men came back to stand above the staircase, grim-faced. “We found the nursery,” Tommy said. “And the master’s study,” the other added.

  Patrick returned from the kitchen looking as if he’d lost his appetite. “The butler, the maid, the footman, and the cook were all in the kitchen when the storm hit. I think the cook would have lived if she hadn’t collapsed onto the range.”

  Valentine winced. “That’s not pork for dinner I was smelling, then.” He pointed at William. “You stay here. We’ll need to haul them out.”

  “Bury them, you mean?” William asked.

  Valentine hesitated. “Of course, of course. In the garden. That’ll be nice for them, won’t it? Like sleeping under flowers.”

  “I know they’re dead,” William told him. “I’m not a baby.”

  “That you’re not,” Valentine said dryly. “More like a bird chirping in my ear.”

  William stayed.

  Valentine’s gang went up the curving staircase. There was thumping, and some cursing, and then they came down the stairs with carefully sheet-wrapped bundles, some pitifully small. They went out back. The thunk of shovel hitting dirt carried into the entryway, but William stayed where he was. More cursing. When silence fell, William went out into the
back garden.

  The men stood, hats in hand, around a large, churned-up patch of ground. Seven new mounds lay at the foot of the rose bushes, but what had been planted would not blossom into life next spring. Valentine mumbled the Lord’s prayer and they all trouped back inside.

  “Rich folk like these will have their own indoor water closet,” Patrick said. “Did anyone see it? I’d like to wash the grave dirt from under my fingernails.” One of the others pointed him in the right direction. After a few moments, he came back looking disgusted. “I thought I’d like using one of those fancy water closets, but the water wasn’t running at all! I used a pitcher and basin to wash my hands, just like usual.”

  “Was there a bathtub?” Conrad asked.

  “Aye and there was, but likely it won’t be working!”

  “I’ll just be seeing about that!” Conrad said. “Even if I still need to haul the water, I’ll be having a bath in a proper bathtub! Just like I was a rich man!”

  He darted off, and after a moment, the sound of trickling water came to their ears. “I left the tap open, and there came a few drops. Now it’s a proper stream, it is!” he shouted down.

  Patrick scowled.

  Valentine laughed. “Lads, I found something a mite more important than water: the liquor cabinet. It’ll be a proper wake!”

  That roused the spirits of the men and they happily followed Valentine. William trailed along, though his mam didn’t let him drink anything stronger than short beer.

  “Here’s to the man of the house and his generous stock of liquor!” Valentine said, lifting a glass of whiskey.

  William thought of the folk lying under a thin blanket of dirt in the garden, and he couldn’t smile.

  Valentine looked William’s way, and his smile faded a bit. “May God and the angels welcome him and his family, and Mary intercede—”

  A horrible gurgling scream interrupted the toast.

  Chapter 3

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