The Cauldron

by Jean Rabe

  “You,” the shipkeeper said. “We have to talk about you.”

  “Well, that’s always an interesting topic. But I think we’ve—Jerrah and I, at least—have already pretty much covered all there was to cover.”

  “No,” the shipkeeper shot back. “There is much more.”

  “So, come closer then. If you’re closer we won’t have to shout to hear each other over the rain.”

  “I just want to help you remember, Delphoros.”

  “Right now I’m remembering every bad horror movie I ever watched. And this is worse.”

  The shipkeeper managed a step closer, his fear of the lake tightening Jerrah’s chest. He sipped at the sodden air.

  “If you want to rescue me so bad, why don’t you wade out here and do it? Come on … come out here and save me! Come out here and talk. Make me remember.”

  The shipkeeper edged another foot forward and stopped.

  “That’s right. Come in and join me. The water’s warm. You’re already soaked. Can’t get any worse, can it?” The man paused. “But you’re really afraid of water, aren’t you? Terrified of it? Like a triffid from the old movie.”

  “You sent out a distress signal,” the shipkeeper tried again. “Try to remember that, Delphoros. Remember your ship, remember navigating it. You were a navigator, Delphoros.”

  “I’m a technical writer,” the man cut back. “Soon to be a fired one, I’m guessing, if I don’t get my act together.”

  The branches scratched harder at the cabin roof, sending icy slivers through the shipkeeper’s thoughts. Jerrah’s hair lashed into her eyes, and he clawed at the strands and pushed them behind her ears.

  “You crashed on this world,” the shipkeeper continued. “It was a long time ago. A very long time by the reckoning of this world.”

  The man stared wide-eyed.

  “You remember something, yes? You have been here quite some time, Delphoros. Try to remember home. Try to remember who you were … who you are. Let me help you.”

  “Help? You’ve got a funny way of wanting to help me.”

  The shipkeeper stepped to the side, farther from the discarded knife. It was just a show; he knew Delphoros couldn’t see the blade. “I did not know what to expect, Delphoros. The knife was protection, nothing more. It was to protect me.”

  “Nothing more, my ass.”

  Another step to the side. The shipkeeper held his borrowed arms out to the side, wincing when he heard a snap and a branch fall somewhere behind him. So difficult to see now, only the rain coming down, no flashes of lightning to help. There were a few lights across the lake, but they were mere pinpricks that seemed to blink on and off. Still, it looked like Delphoros had moved closer. The water was at his waist.

  “Let me help you remember, Delphoros.” He waited and was rewarded when he could tell for certain that the man had waded nearer. “We will talk. And I will take you home.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  “That is your choice.” The shipkeeper intended to make sure Delphoros would go nowhere ever again.

  “And what if I’m not this Delphoros? What if I’m just plain old Carl Johnson?”

  “I have offered my help. I have come in answer to your distress signal. I will spend no more time in this … in this …” The shipkeeper turned and slowly walked toward the cabin, hoping his quarry would follow.

  “All right. We’ll talk.”

  The shipkeeper looked over his borrowed shoulder and squinted through the rain. Was it coming down even harder now? Was that possible? It felt almost hurtful. Finally the lightning came again, revealing the man standing on the shore, a few feet beyond the lapping edge of the lake. The shipkeeper took another dozen steps toward the cabin.

  “That’s far enough,” the man called. “We’ll talk outside. And we’ll talk over here. Right here.” The man pointed to the ground in front of him.

  The shipkeeper swung back toward the hated lake, sucked in a lungful of the wet air, and came within a few yards of his quarry. “I do not like this …”

  “Weather,” Carl supplied. “It’s called weather. And I’m not terribly fond of it either.”

  “Then—” The shipkeeper gestured to the cabin.

  “But we’re not going back inside. You want to talk? You want to convince me I’m someone called Delphoros?”

  “From Elthor,” the shipkeeper supplied. “Our home world.”

  “Great. You want to convince me I’m an alien.” The slump of the man’s shoulder made the shipkeeper realize Delphoros had dropped his guard.

  “A navigator from Elthor,” the shipkeeper continued. He’d gotten comfortable with Jerrah’s voice and managed soothing tones now. “You have been gone a long while.”

  There was more thunder, and through it the shipkeeper picked up only some of Delphoros’ words. He was saying something about an elephant and a divine bear.

  “Please,” the shipkeeper offered. “Please let us get out of … this.”

  The man shook his head and ground the ball of his foot into the muddy sand. “All right,” he said. “All right. All right. Against whatever better judgment I have left, all right.”

  The man sloshed past the shipkeeper, stumbling when his bare foot caught on something. He pitched forward, and in that instant the shipkeeper sprang. In one motion he pulled the knife from Jerrah’s back pocket, brought her knee up and slammed it into the backs of the man’s legs. The man dropped forward and the shipkeeper dove onto his back, raising the knife high and bringing it down, raising it again and stopping when a roar sounded and blinding lights struck him. A mean-looking car, big and old with a tooth-like grill, juddered to a stop in a swath of mud and gravel.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” An overweight man climbed out of the car, the headlights of which held directly on the shipkeeper and his quarry. The shipkeeper hadn’t heard the car’s approach for the sounds of the storm and the pounding of his borrowed heart. “What are you doing?” The doughy man lumbered ungainly, but quickly, toward them, waving his arms. “Carl, are you okay?”

  Delphoros tried to push himself up. The shipkeeper pressed down harder, but knew Jerrah’s body lacked the strength. Another attempt and Delphoros would dislodge him. Another few steps and the overweight man would be on them.

  “Charlie?” the man said. “Charlie Marshall?”

  The overweight newcomer formed a meaty fist and swung at Jerrah’s body.

  The shipkeeper released his hold on Jerrah and instantly returned his senses to his dry body on the ship.

  “I will return, Delphoros,” he said.

  ***

  Chapter 33

  Ellen

  Ellen frequently dreamed about the circus, and tonight was no exception.

  The big cats were her favorite; one tiger in particular had recently caught her eye. Emperor, he was called, a play on the saying that if the lion was the king of beasts, this tiger was equally as exalted. The dreams usually started with Emperor.

  She liked to watch him circle inside the ring, a vibrant mass of orange and black, muscles rippling like boiling liquid beneath fur she knew was soft. She’d touched him once, when he leaned against the bars, withdrawing her fingers quickly for fear he might notice her, turn and take them off. Emperor appeared tame, but that was just on the surface. She knew his heart was feral and that he’d escape this circus if given even a remote chance.

  In her dream she pictured Clyde Beatty talking to some newspaper reporters about his work with the Coles Brothers’ lions and tigers. He said: “You can never be certain that a lion or a tiger won’t hook you if it has the opportunity. Big cats are wild by nature, even if they’re born in captivity. They never develop any affection for their trainer, no matter how gentle he may be with them.”

  During Beatty’s act, when Emperor leaped onto a perch it was the most graceful movement she’d ever seen, all fours touching down at the precise same instant like magic.

  The paws were enormous, the claws gleaming
like razors. His head monstrous and his breath steamed in the cool evening air, caught like electric mist in the spotlight.

  His eyes were his most magnificent feature, green one moment and gold the next, as if they could be whatever color he wanted, large like saucers and missing nothing. The tiger gathered himself and leaped to a higher perch, front legs quivering almost imperceptibly. Almost … but she knew to watch for the trace of movement.

  The tiger rumbled in the back of his throat, the sound reminding her of muted thunder.

  She slipped outside the big top and ran to her trailer. She would be on soon, and she needed to get into her costume. It was tight to show her curves, but the back was elastic so the fabric would move with her. This time they were wearing pink, sequins everywhere, a riot of feathers across the top and at her hips. Nylons laced with glitter. A headdress with more sequins and feathers. Only her slippers were unadorned. Her makeup was thick so her face would standout at a distance. She hurried to join the other aerialists.

  “Tina, you’re late,” one of them scolded.

  She didn’t reply, and they bounded into the ring the big cats had vacated, pausing only for the clowns, who had entertained the crowd while the cage was torn down and the net stretched out.

  The Great Gretonas, led by Willi and Clara, performed high-wire and aerialist acts with a net for safety. She was relatively new to the ensemble, figuring in on the lesser-demanding stunts.

  They were the start of the second act, a featured spot. A waltz began, and three of them climbed to the end pedestal board thirty-three feet above the floor. Tina started, swinging in time with the music on a trapeze, releasing in mid-air and completing a twisting layout before extending her arms and grabbing onto the big hands of the catcher. A heartbeat later she returned back to the fly bar and somersaulted onto the pedestal board.

  Timing had to be perfect. Everything about the act had to be perfect, from the way the rigging was set and guyed out to the space from the pedestal board to the catcher.

  Tina posed while Clara took a turn with a more complex move: the ballet-like pas de deux, at the end of which the catcher was the one dangling from Clara’s fingers. Her turn again, the music sped up and she did a double twist, returning with a backward somersault; it was as difficult as she’d been able to manage and she knew her form wasn’t perfect this time. But she also knew the average spectator could not spot the flaws. The other circus people, though … they would know she was a bit ungainly tonight. Often the other acts watched while the flyers were on, hiding in the wings and usually as mesmerized as the patrons. Members of the Zoppe Family, who had trained dogs and monkeys, never missed the aerialists. She hoped the Bone Man was among the spectators tonight; he would only praise her, never seeming to spot the mistakes.

  Tina loved the Bone Man. It was a nickname given to Petey the Clown by one of the Coles, and it had stuck with her. Petey was bony. She’d seen him enough times without his baggy circus attire, makeup, and wig. His face was all angles and planes, his chin sharply defined, the bones of his wrists and elbows protruding to the point it looked like his skin was painfully stretched over them. Where some saw him odd-looking because he was so tall and skinny, she found him oddly attractive. His smile was rare, but beautiful, and his lips were thin, but just right when set against hers. She thought his yellow eyes were gorgeous, tiny gold coins that took in the world and measured it. Did he find the world adequate or wanting? He never gossiped about anything with her, and so she never knew where he stood on politics or fashion, music or the backbiting of some of their fellow performers.

  She couldn’t remember exactly how they came together, propinquity maybe—just working and training in proximity, bumping into each other in the mess tent, watching the great cats in their down time. She knew he loved animals. And she loved him. Despite his rail thinness, she felt comfortable in his embrace, their lovemaking was always unhurried and always left her breathless.

  When they weren’t together, she thought about him. Her Bone Man. Her king of the beasts.

  She stretched her fingers through the bars and felt Emperor’s fur, pulling back in case he’d react. The tiger, if he’d noticed her, hadn’t let on and didn’t move. She watched him for several minutes, seeing his side rise and fall as he stretched out against the bars. Was he inviting her to touch him again? Eventually he drifted off to sleep, and she risked another touch. She felt him purring beneath her fingertips, the way a place vibrates in a storm.

  Ellen woke when thunder shook her house and tree branches clawed at her window. As usual, she recalled the dream vividly and intended to enjoy more of her imagined escapades under the big top when she fell back asleep. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind-stirred branches and the crack of what she knew must be a close bolt of lightning. She worried that fishing would be bad for her vacationers come the morning; fishing always suffered after a big storm, the lake so active it stirred up plenty of food so the fish didn’t need to pursue plastic minnows and jointed jitterbugs. She suspected her tenants would be too tired to fish anyway. The cabin walls were thin, and so the storm would sound doubly-loud to those inside. She tossed fitfully, wanting to reclaim the circus dream and its delightful calliope strains, and instead hearing more thunder and speculating how much debris she’d have to clean up come morning.

  The thunder persisted, rhythmically.

  No, not thunder. Someone was pounding on the door downstairs.

  She threw on her robe and slippers and trundled down the steps, now worrying that someone was here to complain about a leaky roof; a few of the cabins were in desperate need of new shingles. She didn’t turn on the light, not wanting one of the vacationers to see her so disheveled.

  Coming her hair with her fingers and trying to smooth out the wrinkles of the robe, she drew in a deep breath, prepared for a tenant’s tirade, opened the door, and—

  “John!” She shook her head and stepped back. “Carl. Come in. Hurry. You’re drenched and you’re—”

  “Hurt. Yes.” Carl pushed past the frame and stumbled inside.

  Charlie came behind him, cradling an unconscious Jerrah. Water cascaded from them, forming significant puddles on her polished linoleum. Blood dripped down Carl’s pants leg and looked behind him.

  “Dear God,” she said. “Have you been—”

  “Stabbed,” the man holding Jerrah cut in. “Stabbed in the back with a knife long enough to go all the way through him.”

  “Upstairs,” Ellen gestured. “We’ll put her in the bed and call you an ambul—”

  Carl shook his head and nodded toward the side room where the big freezer and ping pong table were visible in the pale light that shown from the Hamms Beer clock. The bear was still slowly paddling.

  “Put her on the freezer,” Carl said. “Ellen, this is Charlie. Charlie Marshall. Maybe he’s an old friend. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I only met him a day or two ago. He’s a friend in any event. Showed up here and saved my life.”

  Ellen numbly followed the men, flipping the light switch on above the freezer as Charlie stretched Jerrah out on top of it. She touched Carl’s shoulder. “You need a doctor,” she said. “Please, let me call.”

  Carl shook his head even more forcefully, water flying from his hair and spattering her and the wall. “Not yet. Not yet, Ellen. I have to figure out what’s going on, and—”

  “Who stabbed you?” Ellen looked from Charlie to Jerrah. “A robber? Is there someone out by my cabins? The police, I’ll—”

  “Jerrah stabbed me.” Carl put his hands on the edge of the ping pong table, dripped rain water on its surface, and bent over as if he was about to retch. “Or … not Jerrah. It’s a long story. I think she was possessed. Maybe is possessed.” Again, Carl said. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  Ellen turned and rushed upstairs, gathering towels, an oversized sweatshirt, and throwing stuff from her medicine cabinet into an empty shoe box. She paused by the phone, thinking to call the police and for an ambulance anyway, decidin
g to give it a few minutes. Lightning struck close by again and a thunder tremor shook the house. She returned downstairs.

  “Take your shirt off,” she told Carl. “If you won’t let me call someone, at least let me take care of that. Or try to anyway. And no guarantees that I won’t call.”

  He grimaced when he worked his arm to shed the shirt. The bones of his elbows and wrists protruded and Ellen shuddered. He was her John, but he was also the Bone Man, Petey, from her circus dreams.

  “It looks nasty, Carl.” She had to concentrate to keep from calling him John. “What sort of a knife—”

  “Something she had from the kitchen. It was pretty sharp, though,” Carl returned, groaning when she poured peroxide on it. “Smaller than the one she’d intended to use on me. She dropped that one near the lake. We’ll find it when it stops raining. Don’t need one of your tourists to cut their feet.”

  Ellen looked at Jerrah, her breathing was ragged and she twitched like caught in some nightmare. “How could she … I thought she was your friend. I thought—”

  “Jerrah, a friend? I don’t know what she is. Someone I met in town. Someone who … we’ll talk about it later.” One more time: “Hell, I don’t know.” He groaned louder as she put more peroxide on the wound, dabbed at its edges, and dried it with a hand towel. She had a length of gauze, and she doubled it and put it against the wound, nudging him to bend over farther. It took all the first aid tape on the spool to hold it in place.

  “Put this on.” She handed him the sweatshirt and helped him get into it. Ellen didn’t want to see those elbows and wrists that reminded her of the bony clown from her dreams. The faded sweatshirt, the cracked letters of Notre Dame in blue, came to just above his waist, and the sleeves hit him halfway up his arms. At least they covered the elbows.

  “Look, like I said, I have to figure out what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on is that Jerrah stabbed you,” Ellen said.

  “Tried to kill him.” This from Charlie. His face was flat and his eyes marbles, and Ellen thought his expression could have fit on a store mannequin. “Saw her stabbing him when I drove up. Caught her in the headlights and spooked her like you would a deer.”