A Circus of Brass and Bone

by Abra SW

  “We won’t never find him,” Michael lamented. “It’s like finding a needle in a haystack—although,” he added upon reflection, “monkeys are more active than your average needle.”

  “I thought you knew where the monkey would go?” asked Christopher.

  Michael set his jaw. “I had to say something. They weren’t going to look for him. And it’s kinda true, it’s just—this is an awfully big city.”

  “Come on. We’ve only been looking for a few hours. There must be some sign of what happened to her—er, him.”

  Michael stared at Christopher. “What do you mean, ‘her’?”

  “Nothing! I just couldn’t remember if the monkey was a boy or a girl.”

  “Because ‘Mr. Ben Doom’ is such a girl name?” Michael scoffed, happy to have something to take his mind off the impossibility of their search. “Pull the other one; it’s got bells on. Go on. Who’s the girl?”

  “No girl, really!”

  “Come on. Who is she? You got a sweetheart in New York City?”

  Michael watched as an internal war waged across Christopher’s face. Anything to distract him from his own worries.

  “You’ll find out soon enough, I guess,” Christopher finally said. “The fortune teller’s gone missing. Ginger thinks she might have come here, and maybe something bad happened to her.”

  Michael blinked. “Oh. You’re looking for her, not really helping me find Mr. Doom at all.” He felt his face twist into a glower. He wasn’t much good at not showing his first reaction to things. Just another reason he was better off working with animals than people.

  Christopher sighed. “No—I mean—yes, I’m looking for her, but I’m also looking for the monkey. Hell, for all I know, she could be a monkey under all those shawls and veils!”

  Michael chuckled despite himself. He sobered up quickly and guiltily. “We’ve been asking these city folks for hours, but nobody’s seen nothing! We must have talked to a hundred people!”

  “That leaves—what? A thousand still to ask?” Christopher said.

  Michael looked around. By the nearest apartment building, a lean man with unkempt, white-streaked hair huddled on the steps leading down to the basement. A blanket tent was pitched at the bottom of the stairs, and a small fire smoldered beside it. A skinned animal roasted over the fire on a makeshift spit, its naked pink muscles half-charred and glistening with grease. Michael didn’t look too close at the hobo’s dinner. Squirrel was one thing, but if it was cat or rat, he didn’t want to know. It was too small to be a monkey. That was all that really mattered.

  “Maybe before that hell-storm. Not so many, now.” Michael headed in the hobo’s direction.

  Christopher trailed after Michael. “Who camps outside in a city that’s filled with empty apartments? In the winter?”

  Michael looked over his shoulder at him in surprise. He himself preferred being outside over pretty much any other accommodation. When the weather was fine, he slept on the roof of the monkey wagon. When it was nasty, he bunked with the roustabouts.

  “Maybe he likes to see the stars,” he said finally.

  “With the coal smoke from all the chimneys?”

  Michael shrugged. “Ask him yourself.” He walked up to the hobo and squatted near the man, rocking back on his heels. Christopher hovered nearby.

  The hobo squinted at them. “Ask him what?” he asked.

  Michael waited, but Christopher didn’t pipe up. “Why you don’t squat in an apartment,” Michael said. “Ain’t it cold outside?”

  “I lived in Antarctica, once,” the hobo boasted. “Picked up some tricks from the natives. Snow, that’s the key.” He pointed at his tent. Snow was packed around it on all sides. “It’s warmer now. The eskwimoes, they know about snow.”

  Without much hope, Michael asked, “Did you see a monkey last night?”

  “I saw three!”

  Michael blinked. “Er, what did they look like?”

  “One was green, one was all black except for white fur around his face, and one had a skull for a head.” The hobo shuddered. “I ain’t never forgetting that skull-monkey.”

  Michael leaned forward. “Do you know where the black monkey went?”

  The hobo screwed up his face. “Now that’s an interesting philosophical question. What do monkeys like?”

  “Fresh fruit, and being groomed, and climbing on shoulders—” Michael began, when the hobo interrupted him with a snap of his fingers.

  “That’s it! Tropical islands! Monkeys and parrots and fruit and pretty native girls without any sense of proper decency at all.” The hobo sighed. “That’s where I’d go if I were a monkey, you bet. Luscious mangoes and massive cantaloupes.” He smacked his lips.

  “There aren’t any isl—” Michael hesitated. “There aren’t any tropical islands here.”

  “Sure, sure, but they know how to get there, don’t they?”

  Behind Michael, Christopher snorted. “Come on, Michael. This is useless,” he said.

  “Monkeys know how to get to tropical islands? What are you talking about?” Michael asked the hobo.

  The hobo touched his nose and winked slyly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Christopher heaved an expressive sigh. We’re wasting time. Let’s go, it said.

  Michael jutted out his lip and prepared to wait. He could be plenty stubborn when it was called for. After all, hadn’t he managed to teach the ostriches to steal the clown’s top hat and cane? There may have been some fuss later when the ostriches practiced their new trick outside the ring, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that if Michael could out-stubborn an ostrich, he could certainly out-stubborn a hobo. Or an upstart ringmaster-in-training.

  The hobo stared at Michael. “Sailors,” he explained. “Monkeys and parrots know that sailors will take them aboard. Then the sailors go to tropical islands because of the wanton island girls and their long, smooth legs and loose hair and unbound cantaloupes and—”

  “Thank you!” Michael said hurriedly. “I get the fruits—er, the picture. I get the picture.”

  Michael backed away. When he turned around, he found Christopher grinning at him. Not a word needed to be said, but Christopher said it anyway.

  “Cantaloupes.”

  Michael set off at a brisk pace, heading toward a young girl with a basket on her arm.

  “Unripe mangoes.”

  Michael veered aside and addressed an older, pinch-faced woman, touching her arm to persuade her to stop. “Excuse me, ma’am. I am new to New York, and I’ve lost an animal.”

  She scowled. “Then you’ll never see it again!”

  Michael persevered. “He’s a monkey with black fur and a white face. His name is Mr. Ben Doom. Really, it’s most important. Have you seen or heard anything about a monkey loose in the city?”

  Her mouth pursed into a scowl. “With so many people dead, you’re worrying about an ungodly animal? Shame on you, sir!” She jerked her arm away and stalked off.

  “Pineapples,” Christopher pronounced.

  It was too much. Michael wheeled on him. He seized Christopher’s collar, hauled him into an alley, and pushed him against the wall. “Enough mockery! For all you know, that hobo had a good idea.”

  “Coco—”

  Michael held up a warning finger and fixed him with his best backing-down-a-lion glare. “Don’t!”

  He waited.

  Blessed silence. The only sounds from the street were the clatter of cart wheels and the quick clack of pedestrians’ boot heels.

  Michael smiled. “Thank you. Now. If you found a monkey, what would you do? Don’t you dare say nothing about bananas!”

  With a sober face, Christopher responded, “In this town? I’d make stew and try to eat it all before a special patrolman came and used the power of his blue armband to take it away from me.”

  Michael swallowed. “But if you didn’t eat him, what would you do with him?”

  “Turn him over to a special pat
rolman?” Christopher shrugged. “I don’t know. Rationing, a strict curfew, people staying off the streets—it feels like a wartime town under occupation.”

  Wind whistled a counterpoint down the alley. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side of them. Here and there, a lamp flickered inside, but most of the windows were dark as a dead man’s eyes. For just a moment, Michael felt as tiny and insignificant as an ant under an elephant’s foot. He fought the feeling off. Even an ant could make a difference, and this ant had lived in wartime towns before.

  Michael tightened his jaw. “Exactly,” he said. “And in wartime, people try to get around rationing.”

  “A black market?”

  Michael shrugged. “Something like that.”

  Christopher shook his head. “That doesn’t help. Your monkey’s a nice slab of meat, and food is still the most valuable thing.”

  Michael flinched at that description, but he stuck to his guns. “Except for things nobody can’t get around these parts. There’s a big port here, and sailors are real expert at trading contraband on the side.”

  “And everybody knows sailors like monkeys. That’s what you meant when you said that maybe the hobo had a good idea.”

  Feeling like he’d used up all his words for a month, Michael nodded.

  Christopher clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go find some sailors!” Half to himself, he added, “Not a bad idea to get an outsider’s view on how the city’s running, either.”

  ~ * ~

  Lacey Miller, the Fabulous Lady Equestrienne Who Defies the Fiery Rings of Death!

  New York City, Central Police Department

  “I’m barely keeping this city from devolving as it is,” Police Commissioner Andre Guirard growled at Lacey and Ginger. “I allowed for a certain number of immigrating outsiders, but not for a circus! This is neither the time nor the place for frivolity. We can only absorb a limited number of people before our rationing system becomes strained.” His bushy eyebrows lowered and his face darkened. “For now, at least. I hope that we will unlock another source of food—soon.”

  As if I’d want to be ‘absorbed’ into this dreadful place, Lacey thought. Aloud, she said, “You misunderstand, sir. We are not planning on joining,” she paused, “your city. We only want to enter New York and perform for a week or so. Hopefully, we could buy more supplies while we’re here. All we need is your permission and a large space to set up our tents.”

  If she wasn’t exerting herself to be charming and persuasive, it was because she was no longer certain the circus should enter new New York.

  Commissioner Guirard shook his head sharply. “Absolutely not. We don’t have the resources or the time to waste on fripperies. You’re welcome to trade for non-contraband items, but all food sales are strictly rationed. The penalty for black-market sale of food is—severe.”

  Lacey suppressed a shudder. “So we have seen,” she said, taking refuge in the cold tones of a lady in front of whom an unsuitable subject has been raised.

  Ginger was no help. Upon entering the office, he’d sat in the chair the farthest from the commissioner’s desk, where he remained silent and motionless. A man less aware of his surroundings than Commissioner Guirard might have forgotten Ginger was there at all. Commissioner Guirard’s eyes flicked to him occasionally, but he’d clearly decided that Lacey was in charge.

  “If you people choose to stay in New York, you’ll be my responsibility,” Commissioner Guirard continued. “I cannot turn away any honest individuals who wish to escape the uncertainty of life in a lawless zone.”

  Had there been extra emphasis on that “honest?” Lacey unsheathed her most polite, high-society-drawing-room smile.

  When she didn’t say anything but simply sat there looking expectant, Commissioner Guirard cleared his throat and added, “Ration books will be issued to you for the length of your stay, if you settle here. They’re tracked by district.”

  He leaned back, his conscience apparently satisfied by this concession. “There are a number of vacant apartments available. Look for the ones with a zero chalked on the door.”

  “We have our own caravan wagons,” Lacey informed him. “All we need is a large open space where we can set up our tents and perform.”

  He was shaking his head as soon as she spoke. “Impossible,” he said briskly. “We’re barely maintaining order as it is. Groups of more than five people are not allowed to congregate in public except for the purposes of their employment. Without that restriction, a mob could form, especially in the—” he glanced at Lacey, “—ah, casual atmosphere a circus would create.”

  Loose, she translated. It was hardly the first time she’d faced the prejudices of the morally upright. To counter that same negative perception of the circus, the old ringmaster had created little Biblical playlets for the menagerie and the museum of educational novelties. The lion lying down with the lamb, that sort of thing. Such subterfuge might keep preachers from running the circus out of town. It didn’t prevent townies from imagining that females in the circus indulged in all sorts of licentious behavior with strange men.

  Her lips curved up slightly in a private smile. Little did they imagine exactly how far from the mark they were.

  “Why, it would be as bad as those—” Commissioner Guirard stopped talking. “Hmm.”

  The speculative tone in his voice snapped her attention back to him.

  “I can think of one place where your presence wouldn’t cause extra problems,” he rumbled.

  “Yes?” Lacey asked.

  “The docks of Rumsey Port would have room for you to set up your circus tents. Lord knows, you won’t cause any extra disturbance there. It may be rough—”

  “That’s no obstacle,” Lacey said hastily. The rough-and-tumble of a seaport sounded positively endearing compared to the stifled order in new New York.

  Commissioner Guirard cleared his throat and continued, “—but the sailors certainly aren’t using the space to unload their ships. You’re welcome to distract them as much as you wish. I wouldn’t count on them being willing to trade for food, however.”

  “Thank you!” Lacey said. “We are most grateful for your indulgence.”

  “Er, well.” He shifted in his chair. “The docks are not included in our rationing system. You may do better to take apartments in the city. Our reserves are limited,” he said gruffly, “but not so limited that I would turn anyone out to starve, whether or not they could contribute. Although …” He looked thoughtful. “We could use your circus animals. A lot of meat on an elephant!”

  “Not on ours, sir.” Lacey smiled. “It’s an aether-powered elephant.”

  “Eh?” He looked disappointed. “Still, your menagerie must have other edible livestock. Ostriches, hippos, that sort of thing.”

  “Hippo meat is entirely unpalatable,” Ginger assured Commissioner Guirard. One eyebrow cocked. “Far too gamey for easy consumption.”

  That eyebrow twitch meant Ginger’s peculiar sense of humor was stirring. Lacey hastened to add, “And we have just returned from traveling overseas to India, where they bathed in the rivers. One must be cautious about the risk of catching a foreign disease.”

  Commissioner Guirard appeared disappointed but not defeated. Ginger’s eyebrow remained elevated. Lacey’s mind raced as she tried to come up with plausible reasons to classify the entire menagerie as inedible before Ginger said something disastrous.

  The door of Commissioner Guirard’s office slammed open.

  “Andy-poo!” A curvy young lady with a pixie face and an upsweep of dark curls burst into the room. “It is simply intolerable! You must—oh!” She blinked doe eyes at Lacey and Ginger. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you had guests!”

  For the first time, Lacey saw the commissioner flustered. “My dear—” he began.

  Ignoring him, she turned to Lacey. “I am Mrs. Andre Guirard.”

  Lacey inclined her head. “I am Miss Lacey Miller.”

  Mrs. Guirard smiled winsomely. �
��Delighted to meet you!”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Lacey gestured to her companion. “And this is Ginger.”

  “Just Ginger?”

  “Just Ginger.”

  “How peculiar!” Mrs. Guirard looked at Ginger with interest.

  Commissioner Guirard’s choler had been rising throughout the polite exchange. Now, he burst out, “My dear, what are you—? You know I’ve asked you not to come to my office!”

  “Well!” she huffed. “As I said, I didn’t know you were entertaining!”

  “We were just leaving,” Lacey assured her. Entertaining though this scene certainly was, Lacey would rather exit the stage before the commissioner’s mind returned to the edibility of their circus menagerie.

  “Nonsense! Why, Andy-poo hasn’t offered you any refreshment!” Mrs. Guirard clapped her hands together and called over her shoulder, “Mr. Akrill, bring tea cake and lemonade!”

  There was nobody there. Did the lady think that fairies would bring her cakes and lemonade?

  With an irritated moue, the lady looked behind her. “Oh!” she said with a note of surprise. “Now where did—? He was just there a minute ago.” She turned to Commissioner Guirard. “Really, you must tell Mr. Akrill the proper way to receive guests!”

  “What have you done with my aide?” Commissioner Guirard asked in a constricted voice.

  “Oh, nothing! But he will insist on following me when he sees me in the Central Police Department! Quite unnecessary, as I’ve told him a hundred times!”

  “If you would stay home where it’s safe—” Commissioner Guirard shook his head. “I suppose the men I assigned are guarding an empty house?”

  She gave a dainty shrug. “They weren’t paying attention when I slipped away. You can’t blame them. It is simply too boring.”

  Commissioner Guirard looked grim. There would be blame assigned, Lacey thought.

  The thud of rapidly approaching footsteps drew Lacey’s attention away. Curious, she leaned forward in her chair so that she could see through the doorway to the source of the commotion. A puffing, red-faced fellow in police blues trotted toward them. When he saw Mrs. Guirard already inside the commissioner’s study, he groaned and slowed to a walk.