Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  "Don't—not steady."

  How did he know? Lewis pushed on the outcropping with his left foot, and it toppled, falling with a rumble and slap into the stream below.

  "The rest of the way can be climbed less difficultly," János said.

  No alternative...concentrate on the rock ahead...climb. When he reached the top, he sprawled near the edge, catching his breath. Despite his exhaustion and the heat, he smiled. The acrobats stood looking at the water as though assessing its worth.

  "The other side is likely better," János said, pointing to where the river had undercut the bank beneath a clump of low-growing evergreens. "But I feel not like crossing again so soon. We shall try here for the while, and move if it does not please." János and József assembled rods, reels, lines, and lures. Their assemblage consisted of a gold, propeller-like device with three hooks on one end that they baited with a ball of gooey mash wrapped in a swatch of gauzy fabric.

  "You try here," János said. He handed Lewis a rod, walked about twenty feet, and pointed to József. He walked a little farther and stopped.

  Lewis wished he had been able to bring his lure, taken from Are No's house so long ago. Deciding to watch the acrobats before trying it, he sat on the extended, claw-shaped root of a tree with scaly bark and small wispy branches high up near the crown. Near his feet, a number of wingless insects with narrow bodies trailed out from a layer of rotting leaves. Beneath the shade of the branches he could relax. The heat wasn't so bad, once you acclimated. It was real anyway, not like the processed air of the train, and this experience—climbing, fishing—was also real. He drew this reality close, wrapping himself in it, throwing off the cloak in which Cybele had trapped him for so long.

  The acrobats cast upstream, allowing the bait to drift downstream, then reeled it in and repeated. They continued with no success, alternating between standing on the bank and wading a short distance into the stream. Lewis got up to join them, but after he had made a few casts, János announced that they would switch to the opposite bank.

  "Lunch before fishing more," József said after they had crossed the stream.

  Lewis wasn't hungry. He sat with his feet dipped into the water while the acrobats ate dried fish and Cinteotl's flatbread. When they finished, they lay with their heads on their packs, talking in their own language. Lewis felt left out and wished he had brought someone else to talk to. But he was enjoying the outside, and the companionship, despite the lack of translation. He lay back and stared at the sky. Could he leave Cybele, yet remain with the circus? What if Dillon was right, and they were trapped here, held fast by some mythical force? Until someone performed this ritual sacrifice to free them. Gold should do it, then they would be rid of the bragging fool. But that wasn't right—he had grown to like Gold, self-absorption and all. If Dillon was correct—and when was he ever incorrect?—the task of freeing them belonged to Lewis. Meanwhile, so pleasant here...breeze...the water...

  Someone approached from his right, familiar figures: a slim man with a white cloth wrapped around his waist and a woman sheathed in cinnamon. He could see them more clearly this time. Their smooth cheeks shone with vitality. They looked like twins, brother and sister, slim-hipped and small, their heads coming up to his chest. "His preparations are still incomplete," the woman said.

  "But he is beginning to understand." They both reached up to touch Lewis's face, and he smiled at their contact and the warmth it gave him.

  ~

  A flapping in the water woke him. Two fish hovered just below the surface. They resembled catfish, though without whiskers. One of them poked its head above the surface and gulped air.

  "Hey, look at this," he said.

  "Ugh, no good flavor," József said.

  "We have caught them before, and we do not like them," János said. "But now is the time to stand up and resume the fishing." He tossed a rock at the pair. "I do hope there is more to catch here than those things."

  Unfortunately, they seemed destined to catch nothing else, and János grew more irritated with each one he hooked and threw back. He flung one behind him into the trees, muttering that it was the third time he had hooked that particular fish. Even Lewis caught one, and would have kept it despite the acrobat's distaste, had József not extracted the hook and heaved it into the trees before Lewis could stop him. Finally, József landed something with lobe-shaped fins that looked as if they could be used as legs.

  "These are good fish," he said.

  János and József each caught another of the lobe fish, and as the sun tinted the water orange, János stepped back onto the bank. "Shall we spring the night in these distant pastures? Or away to the hut?"

  "The hut," József said.

  "What hut?" Lewis asked. He handed his rod to József to disassemble.

  "Not far," János said. "In the meadow where the river bends around the flat-topped hill."

  Lewis looked down at the slope he had ascended along the waterfall. "I don't think I can climb down, especially with it getting dark. Maybe there's another way."

  János took out the rope. "Perhaps many ways, but for now, we will lower you and then climb ourselves to the bottom." He wove the rope around Lewis's legs and waist and tied it. The other end he looped around a tree. "You hold onto the rope and walk with feet while we give slack. Very easy. We know many such things."

  ~

  The hut stood maybe fifty yards from the river, on a rise covered with the same shrubby grass Lewis had found near the train. The acrobats had assembled the hut from the trunks of tree ferns, two on either end, lashed in pairs to form Xs. A pole across the top supported two rafts of ferns and mud that served as walls and roof. Reed mats covered the ground. One of the open ends faced the river, and in its entry was a circle of stones containing the remains of a fire.

  "The Chalas showed us how to build this," János said. "And when we leave, it will revert to its nature, with no remains of us."

  "And they showed us how to cook the fish in fire," József said. He left the hut and returned with a bucket of mud. "We coat the entire with mud and put it in the coals. Isn't this wonderful to know?"

  While the fish cooked, Lewis sat outside, looking out at the river. The motionless water fascinated him. Perry, after returning from one of his long rides, had told everyone that they were close to the sea, and when the incoming tide met the river's current, they halted each other's progress for a brief period. In the still water Lewis saw reflections of the moon and stars and the wooded bank opposite. A flux of indeterminate memories attempted to surface, warm hues of contentment, the darkness of strife, but nothing moved outside the realm of his senses, no explanation approached, no guide to lead him from the labyrinth, the dark walls of which rose to infinite heights, merging with the gloom until they became indistinguishable from the surrounding ether.

  János announced that the food was ready. Lewis still didn't feel like eating, but when József served him a fish, steaming in its cracked-open mud shell, he felt obligated to try. It proved to be bony and bland. He continued to stare at the river and found himself able to eat more than he had expected. Behind him, János and József argued about who had caught the biggest fish. Lewis ate most of the bone-free pieces and tossed the rest into the water.

  He returned to the hut and curled up in the blanket he had brought. This land wouldn't be such a bad place to start a new life: good climate, clean air, companionship. Maybe he could settle with someone, have children. Miss Linda had apparently chosen Barca. Leaving Dawn, the redhead, and Bodyssia. Then there were the other men: Perry, Dillon, Jenkins, Cinteotl, and Brisbane. He flopped onto his side so he could stare out the back of the hut into the night. In addition to the supreme freshness of the air, the stars bore down with greater intensity than at home. Ursa Major rose, its presence comforting after so long in the train. His gaze drifted to the right, and he smiled at the sight of Orion's belt. This was how the ancients had viewed things, before industrialization colored the sky.

  After walking t
he land with the acrobats and witnessing the glorious night sky, he was even more determined not to return to Cybele. Staying with her embraced desire without purpose. But he didn't want to leave the circus. He had to find a way to stay, but without her. The twins he had dreamed about, the Gemini, though male and female instead of both male. He rarely had recurring dreams. They carried a message for him...he had to focus, open himself to their power.

  Sitting up, he called out to the acrobats, who had remained by the fire. "I need to go back to the train in the morning, so I won't be fishing with you tomorrow."

  Chapter 34: Rider in a Parched Land

  Once—he had lived a life oblivious. The divinations of nature passed unseen. Overhead, sky screamed his name, shrubby grass he trod upon whispered. And between, between, he always felt himself between. Martha to Are No to Dillon to Cybele. Flow. Everything in constant motion. Break it down, motion picture frames, and you have frozen moments, but there is no true frozen moment. Cybele held him, if not frozen then petrified, freeze-dried. An end to this, then. And there, the train, coming into view. She...would she be in his room?

  Having resolved, he expected his room to be empty, she off on an unnamed journey, but she sat, staring out the window. The afternoon sun filled the room, and her presence, inside despite the glorious weather and landscape, infuriated him. He wouldn't be saddled with someone who didn't appreciate what lay outside. Martha had preferred inside as well. Not him. He floated free. He closed the door behind him. She remained at his desk, her gaze fixed toward outside, but he doubted she saw anything the way he did. And why didn't she turn to greet him? He wasn't to be trifled with.

  "I've had it," he said. "Look at this, you, sitting there like...I don't want this anymore. It's not real." Her back, he was talking to her back. He felt his voice fading, resolve drifting. He had to stay angry. "Look at me," he said, but she did not. "Damn you then. I've made my decision and you'll have to live with it." He opened the door, looked at her once more, and slammed it shut between them.

  He tried to walk toward the dining car, but every door he passed looked like his. Was he walking in place? He closed his eyes, attempting to conjure the dining car as he had first seen it: Cinteotl, meats hanging, piles of fruit and nuts, and the smells there, too many to comprehend. Cinteotl's power was greater than hers, it would save him. A door in front of him slid open and he didn't need to open his eyes. The scents told him where he was.

  Cinteotl offered fish stew, and he ate it. Cinteotl handed him a plate of steamed greens, and he ate them. Bread. Cheese. Everything. And when he finished, he returned to his room, satisfied, confident. No more sleeping on the couch. He would resist her. But moments after entering his room, cramps twisted his body; he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

  Exhausted, limp, defeated, he lay beside her. He wouldn't touch her. She didn't care about him, not really, her plan, always her plan...beautiful and terrible she dominated his life. No longer. He reached back to regain his anger, allowing it to smolder like Are No's fire, a strong slow cleansing burn. But now the bed was an oven, her body like coals. He couldn't sleep, couldn't be so near without touching, but to touch her would defeat him. Sweat dampened his hair, chest, and underarms. Wide flows the river, cold blows the north wind, where the children grow...He kicked the sheet off. Beside him, her pale body gleamed. He reached for the base of her neck, but her skin burned him and he cried out.

  He rolled onto the floor, sobbing. He finally slept, clutching the figurine she had given him, but at some point in the night he felt it lifted from his fingers.

  When he awoke, he looked up from the floor at a corner of sheet hanging off the edge of the bed and reached for it, idly stroking the fabric with a fingertip. Outside light filled the windows, a reddish haze. The rosemary bush, grown so large it had filled a corner...now shriveled sticks...needles dropped and scattered on the carpet. Finality. He knew she wouldn't return.

  ~

  Lewis sat in the dining car, as empty as his room. Cinteotl's counter drifted in and out of sight. Odd that he had never noticed how much it moved. Was his forehead warm? He couldn't be sick, not so soon after freeing himself. His head though, so heavy. He would rest here, wait for Cinteotl.

  "Sitting around when there's work to be done, eh?" Bodyssia's blaring voice shook him. It was easier to look at her with his head resting on the table, putting his eyes in line with her midsection. She wore a tank top cut off above her stomach. She had always been strong, thickly muscled and heavy, but now each abdominal muscle stood out as though etched. A landscape of flesh, mountains and valleys of muscle filled his sight. Her comforting hardness called him; he reached toward her with a hand he couldn't keep from shaking.

  The acrobats rushed in, then Perry.

  "Something has changed out there," Perry said. "The sun casts an evil red haze, withering, everything withering."

  Redness filled the windows. Soon everyone had gathered in the dining car. Lewis heard their anxious comments, but couldn't bring himself to join the discussion. Holding the edge of the tabletop, he pushed himself upright. With slow steps he left the dining car.

  Back in his room, he stood at the windows and looked out. The sun appeared sullen now, bulging and low. The temperature in the room remained comfortable, but near the window the heat pushed at him, thick and lifeless. What of the once-inviting green? He felt lost now, unwilling to face the prospect of the relentless sun, but unable to forsake his responsibility. He turned away from the glare. His bathroom had no windows. In there, he could find comfort. For a time. He twisted the shower tap to cold, lowered himself to the tile floor, and sat under the spray.

  ~

  Lewis examined himself in the mirror, admiring his translucent skin and the shape of his protruding ribs. He felt fit and powerful, energized by the shedding of excess flesh. With his body thus prepared for travel, he needed only the means.

  He put on his costume, everything: armor, boots, sword, helmet. The pack from the fishing trip still held some dried fish and a change of clothes; he slung it onto his back and left. In the kitchen, he stopped for more food and water. Arriving at Dillon's room, he entered without knocking. Dillon sat on the floor, surrounded by mounds of books. A spiral notebook lay across his lap and wadded sheets dotted the carpet. He looked up toward Lewis, but made no acknowledgment of his presence. Dark patches showed under his eyes and stubble covered his cheeks and chin. Lewis didn't think he had ever seen Dillon unshaven. Had Dillon been here, working in his room, ever since their last meeting in the dining car?

  "I need to take the horse out," Lewis said.

  Dillon opened the book on top of the nearest stack and flipped the pages, then held it open with one hand and groped the carpet near his feet, to grasp an ornate fountain pen the size of a fat cigar. He squeezed the chrome top with his lips and unscrewed the pen. With a finger marking his place in the book, he scrawled in the notebook.

  Lewis had no time for Dillon's games. "The horse, I need it."

  "Endless configurations," Dillon said without looking up from his work. "So many probability models, each giving rise to a complicated series of event calculations...hoped to estimate the parameters by the principle of maximum likelihood... always the same...should never have taken this upon us. Here we are, here..." Dillon's voice faded to a hoarse whisper and he slumped over his books. Lewis turned and left.

  In the empty storage car, he confronted the walls, defeated by their smooth surfaces. One of them hid the mechanical horse. He would have to find tools, crowbar, pick-axe...but think! What would he do when he found the horse? He didn't want to think. The windowless room gave him sanctuary from the angry sun, but the bare bulb pulsed, its hue intensifying as if fortified by the outside light, but this light he at least had the power to extinguish. He tugged on the pullcord, filling the room with tactile dark, and lay on the dusty floor with his pack for a pillow.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shapes emerged, glowing pinpricks.

&
nbsp; Madness, he had been crazy ever since the Are No fire. Joining this circus train ride to nowhere. But the luminous pinpricks drew him. Some in clusters, others scattered, some bright, a few so dim he thought he imagined them, they covered wall and ceiling...looking like. He laughed a sharp ha! Stars. Constellations. There was Pisces, Aquarius, there was... Pegasus. He jumped to his feet and lunged toward the wall. He touched the dots forming the horse. The wall slid open.

  He attached his pack and the bag of food to the saddle and led the mechanical horse to the elephant car and out the portal. Before mounting, he put on sunglasses and his helmet. It was already late afternoon. He rode without choosing a direction, and the horse took him to the river. The marshy, reed-filled bank had dried out and the river's flow had lessened. He couldn't believe how quickly the landscape had changed, the former lushness replaced by parched green turning to brown. He continued upstream along the water's edge, loving the feel of the horse under him, better than a real horse and responsive only to him. Despite the dark glasses, the glare from the setting sun made his eyes water and sting. The river curved to his right, and the ground began a gradual rise; not far ahead, the riverbank on his side thrust into abrupt cliffs. Even with the horse's uncanny ability to guide him, he didn't want to risk traveling the terrain at night. Safer to continue in the morning, and besides, he couldn't find Cybele in the dark.

  He laughed. Was that what he was doing—looking for Cybele? His laughter grew hysteric, his belly heaved with it, and he kept laughing until he gasped for breath. He needed to stop, get off the horse and rest, but when he pulled up on the reins, nothing happened. He yanked back hard, again and again.

  The ground continued to rise, and the horse veered away from the river with a movement so sudden Lewis had to clench the reins to keep his seat. The slope grew steeper. Not possible to dismount now—he would have to hold fast and wait it out. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the horse's neck. The horse lurched up and over a ridge, onto level ground. Below them, far past the river, the sun dipped toward the horizon. The horse took the next slope. Up and up they went. His arms felt numb. Where was Cybele now? Waiting. She knew he couldn't leave her. So close, freedom...gone. He sobbed into the mechanical horse's soft mane. Tired of being manipulated... tired, simply tired. When he returned to the train, he would sleep for a week...feast...one of Cinteotl's birds. The ground leveled.