The Rib From Which I Remake the World

by Ed Kurtz

Charles grinned and shook his head, taking Rich by the elbow.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” he said. “We got a town to burn.”

  It did not take Jojo long to find a car with the key still in it. It was a Packard and the fender was all beat to hell, but it worked. He opened the passenger side door for Theodora, who half-curtsied before climbing in. He got in next to her on the other side and stood on the accelerator all the way out to the country. Along the way he gave her the digest version of his talk with Jim Shannon. She listened quietly and responded with silence.

  “Something Charles said struck me,” she said at some length. “He was talking about the Bible story, when God destroyed the world? Well, I guess he did that because he didn’t like the way it turned out, right?”

  “I can’t say I know the Bible that well, but sure.”

  “It seems to me this might be similar, if reversed. Say Barker Davis wanted to create a little kingdom for himself—wouldn’t it be a kingdom fit for its king? A sideshow world, populated by freaks and prisoners?”

  “Sawdust and elephant shit.”

  “And misery, that’s the key. I remember what it was like, what you were like. That’s got to be how come you’re the link. Forgive me for saying this, Jojo, but you’re a particularly unhappy person, aren’t you?”

  Jojo jerked his head and threw a surprised glance at her.

  “It’s been a tough ride for you, and you haven’t always reacted well, but really it’s been tough from the beginning. The truly awful beginning.”

  “Big deal,” he said, returning his gaze to the pitch black road. “Who’s really happy with their lot, anyway? No one I’ve ever known.”

  “But that’s not necessarily true. Some people are, even if they recognize the big, sometimes ugly sacrifices they’re forced to make just to eke out a tiny little bit of happiness in their lives. And that is Davis’s equivalent to the wickedness of man being great on the earth.”

  “So you’re saying he expected us to develop into a parody of civil society? And that he’s disappointed that we didn’t?”

  “Not even all the tragedy that started a year ago ruined us like he expected it to. It’s his world and we’re his puppets, maybe, but we’re people, too. He can’t decide how we feel or how we might react to those feelings. Jojo, I think he expected us to bring Litchfield down all by ourselves.”

  Jojo clicked his tongue against the roof his mouth and groaned.

  “Knocked me down as low as I could go, but . . .”

  “But you still got back up again,” she finished for him. “That’s what he couldn’t have seen coming.”

  “And that’s why he’s back to finish the job himself.”

  “Yes, at least that’s my best guess. Maybe he’s planning on starting over, learning from his mistakes. One thing’s for sure: he’s a sadist in the extreme, and he needs a big sandbox to play in.”

  “Then let’s go take it away from him.”

  The Packard lurched over the uneven road as he applied the brake to turn off, back toward the church and the sprawling woods behind it. The world remained enshrouded in night until, a few hundred feet down the side road, the treetops began to glow a dim orange. A little further still the lights came into view. The first light they saw derived from the leaping flames that consumed Shannon’s house.

  “Damn,” Jojo said. “I hope he got out of there.”

  “Maybe he did,” Theodora suggested.

  He nodded, not believing it.

  A minute later they saw the dozens of torches that lit the grounds of the encampment and its tents and numerous wagons. Shadowed figures moved about, some in groups. Many more sat still or leaned against tent poles, smoking cigarettes and juggling balls and engaging in impromptu wrestling matches. There were clowns and dwarves, men in battered hats barking orders and carnies, stripped to the waist, who obeyed them.

  Jojo ground the car to a halt and switched off the headlamps.

  “Looks like the circus is in town,” Theodora said bitterly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He killed the engine and watched in silence, moving only when a fire-breather made him flinch. The flame leapt five feet from the bare-chested man’s face, brightly revealing the ornate tattoos that covered his torso and snaked up his neck to the back of his shaven head. An obese woman applauded him: his only audience for the moment. Jojo thought the man looked vaguely familiar, and it occurred to him that a man wasn’t likely to experience déjà vu with a heavily tattooed fire-breather unless he’d known one.

  He had little doubt about it—this was the circus sideshow of his childhood.

  He said, “Maybe you should wait in the car.”

  “Nuts to that,” she said. “There’s no telling what might happen down there.”

  “Exactly why you shouldn’t come.”

  “Exactly why I should.”

  He frowned. “That isn’t how I figure it.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t ask how you figured it.”

  She pulled the handle, opened the door. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Slumping his shoulders and softly grunting, Jojo acquiesced and got out of the Packard. They each shut their respective doors gently and quietly, and they traipsed down the mild incline to the encampment at the forest’s edge.

  It was a muscular man with a handlebar moustache who noticed him first. Their eyes met, the strongman and Jojo, and the latter froze. A toothy grin spread out beneath the meticulously waxed whiskers and the huge man winked.

  “Hey, kid,” he said, his voice a resonant baritone. “Who let you out?”

  The man’s handle flashed in Jojo’s mind—Lion Jack.

  “We’re looking for Davis,” Jojo said. “Or maybe Ashford, the magician. You know where we might find either of them?”

  “And who’s the little lady?” Jack said, ignoring the question completely and bending over to display his teeth more closely. “Be careful, now: I know he’s cute, but he’s known to bite.”

  The strongman snapped his jaws at Theodora and roared with laughter. He then snatched a barbell up from the ground and carried it off, still shaking with laughter.

  “What was that all about?” Theodora asked.

  “Not really sure, but I guess they were all snowed. Even the kind ones believed I was everything they billed me as—a vicious little monster.”

  “That’s what he saw, Jojo,” she said, awed. “He saw you as a little boy, and me as a little girl.”

  “Hmn,” he grunted. “I guess the show must go on.”

  “The hell it does,” she said, her glowering face lit yellow by the torchlight.

  He looked around, taking in all the hazy, ugly memories of the encampment from the rickety wagons to frayed canvas of the tents. One tent in particular interested him, and he pointed to it.

  “There,” he said. “Do you remember it?”

  She followed the line from his finger to the tent and said, “Oh. Oh, yes.”

  It was the tent in which they first met, more than three decades before, and it was remarkably unchanged in every respect. The Ten-in-One.

  Jojo took a moment to take it in, the unfeasibility of it, and then commenced a quick beeline straight for the open flaps. Theodora caught up with him before he ducked into the tent, squinting in the murkiness of the weak lantern light. Sawdust carpeted the ground inside. A sickly, yellow-skinned man crouched like a gargoyle on a wooden stool as if standing guard over the row of barred cages. His ribs jutted out, wrapped tautly in papery, jaundiced flesh; his cheeks sank like pits in his long, hollow face. He glanced up, his eyes glittering in the light, when they entered.

  “You,” he rasped, his voice every bit as papery as his skin. “You’re not supposed to be out. You’ll get a whipping.”

  “I’m looking for Davis,” Jojo said. “Him or the magician. Whe
re are they?”

  The skeletal man jumped down from his perch, straightening out to his full height. He stretched out an arm and wiggled his bony fingers at Jojo.

  “Come on, then. Back you go.”

  “Christ,” Jojo growled. “What’s he hearing, baby talk?”

  The man scampered back suddenly, defensively displaying his palms.

  “Whoa there, little fella,” he said, eyeing Jojo cagily.

  “I’d wager he’s hearing you bark,” Theodora ventured.

  “Waste of time,” he muttered as he turned back for the flaps.

  “Wait!” the human skeleton cried. “No, stop!”

  Jojo ducked to go back out when Theodora screamed, “Watch out!”

  Instinctively he dropped to the sawdust, catching his weight on his hands and rolling away as the skeletal man’s stool smashed against the ground and shattered. Theodora yelped as Jojo leapt up to a crouch and the man grabbed a splintered leg from the wreckage, which he jabbed at Jojo like a dagger.

  “Back in your cage, you little puke!”

  Jojo danced a circle with the man, shrugging out of his coat as they moved. The flame in the lantern flickered and the man lunged. Jojo met him halfway, quickly wrapping his coat around the sharp end of the stool leg and wrenching it out of the man’s hands. He then sent an uppercut crashing into the guy’s chin, snapping his head back and bowling him over. He collapsed on the sawdust, moaning pitifully.

  Breathing hard, Jojo threw the coat and broken stool leg in a corner and bent down to take hold of the skeletal man’s wrists. He dragged the man across the ground, from one end of the tent to the other, where the row of cages stood. There he paused for a moment, standing in front of the last one, the cage in which he was kept long ago. His stomach flipped and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. He shook it off, steeled himself and assumed a deep scowl as he dragged the man all the way into the cage and slammed the gate shut.

  “You know that man?” Theodora asked.

  “Probably.”

  He hooked an arm around the small of her back and led her toward the opening.

  “This is a dead end,” he said. “But I’ve got an idea where to go.”

  “The woods,” she inferred.

  Jojo touched the tip of his nose. “Bingo,” he said.

  Per the sheriff’s instructions, Charles took the nozzle from the fuel pump and gave the handle a quick squeeze. Astringent gasoline spurted from the nozzle, dousing the section of bed sheet he’d affixed to the end of a table leg. He had three other makeshift torches at the ready, as well. He doused them in turn.

  Across the street from the filling station, Ernie Rich struck a match and ignited his own torch, which erupted into a large bright flame. He was standing in front of the darkened windows of the Starlight Diner, one of which he promptly smashed in with the blunt end of the torch. Before the glass was done tinkling down to the floor inside and the sidewalk without, Rich hurled the burning torch into the diner. It landed behind the lunch counter, where its light was barely visible in the moments leading up to the sudden burst of grabbing flames that rapidly spread across the counter.

  The heat took him by surprise, countering the frigidity of the night air and snapping at his face like wasp stings. He hurried to the middle of the street and watched as the fire quadrupled in size, filling the diner and melting the vinyl booths in seconds. He heard a distinct whoomp close by and turned to see Charles igniting his first torch, whereupon he touched it to the dry wooden siding of the city records office, which went up nicely. All the damn records were worthless anyway, fictions deserving of the flames that consumed them.

  Rich sprinted back to the filling station to collect another torch. He took it back to the other side of the street before lighting it and carried it a block down to the Palace Theater.

  Barker Davis held the skull in the palm of one hand, blackened bits of flesh hanging in tatters like strips of rotted leather. He looked the skull over with detached interest like a jeweller examining a gem for imperfections. The nurse rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Davis extended a forefinger and ran it around the edges of one of the skull’s empty eye sockets, then brought it up to his nose and sniffed. Black dust wafted up from his fingertip and into his nostrils.

  “Dust to dust,” he said.

  Margie watched intently, standing on the balls of her feet. Davis bent over the coffin to replace the skull, his back to her. She did not hesitate—Margie fell into a sprint, entirely unaware of which direction she was going. By the time she realized that she should have gone toward the smoke, rather than away from it as she had, it was too late to change her mind. She just needed to get away.

  She flew through the woods, relying on instinct to avoid crashing into the trees she sped between. Dry twigs and brambles sliced at the bottoms of her feet, scraped the skin from her legs and sides. She did not care. She kept running.

  Her mind reeled as it was, flitting across primitive, abstract concepts of terror and survival, and when she saw the distant, sputtering glimmer of firelight, she was sure she had gone full circle. The house fire had been behind her when she took off, and now it was flames that she spied ahead of her, dancing all Halloween orange at what had to be the edge of the forest. This meant to her that she’d thrown herself right back in danger’s path, but also that her father’s land was just seconds’ running distance. A weird, involuntary giggle escaped her lips and she pumped her arms, willing herself to move faster for the open yard.

  Voices filled the smoky night air: some laughing, some singing. Jangling music emanated from among the floating flames that she could see now were torches. And a figure stepped into her way, blocking her path—Margie could not slow down quickly enough and she collided with the coming shadow, shrieking as they fell together into a twisted heap of arms and legs.

  “No!” she screamed, kicking at the figure with all her strength. “Get away! Get away!”

  Arms reached for her, clawed at her shoulders. She spun away from them, scurrying over the cold dirt and crackly leaves and heaving herself back to her feet.

  “Wait,” said a woman’s voice.

  Margie did not think it was the nurse, but there was no sense in waiting around to confirm her suspicion. She swayed to the left and pointed herself at the torches, which by now symbolized a sort of salvation for her. Her plan permitted her to avoid the reaching arms of the figure she ran into—which was rising now—but did not account for the woman.

  “Margie, stop,” she said, and the woman embraced Margie in a tight bear hug that stopped her dead in her tracks.

  She jerked and thrashed and let out a desperate cry. The woman squeezed her harder and the other one drew near, heavy footsteps crunching the undergrowth.

  “Quiet, Margie,” he said. “It’s Jojo and Theodora.”

  “Wuh—what?”

  “Shh,” Theodora said. “Jojo, she hasn’t got any clothes on.”

  “I think we’re beyond propriety at the moment.”

  “They’ll come after me,” Margie stuttered, the sudden break inviting her tears. “They’ll be coming.”

  Theodora released her and Margie stepped back, her nakedness only partially hidden with the moonlight streaming through the branches in thin, white shafts.

  “We’re finishing this,” Jojo said. “Tonight. It’s nearly over.”

  “Over? How?”

  “Too much to explain,” Theodora cut in. “But trust us: this ends tonight.”

  She reached for the girl’s hand, and in that moment Margie blew a puff of air and her mouth went slack. Her head wobbled as if it were balanced on a spring and the skin around her neck split open, spraying blood in all directions. Margie said, “Guh” in the second before her neck snapped and her head shot away from it, leaving a spurting stump between her shoulders. Theodora screamed as the girl’s decapi
tated body dropped to the ground. A crunching of leaves some yards distant signalled the landing of the severed head.

  Jojo nearly dove to catch what was left of Margie before she hit the ground; some primordial impulse telling him to save her when it was much too late. Instead he grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and howled with despair. Between their combined cries of anguish, neither he nor Theodora heard the approach of the woman in the snug nurse costume. Only when the woman spoke did their cries turn to surprised gasps.

  “No need for her anymore,” she said, holding up a beheaded doll in her hand. “Or this.”

  She tossed the damaged doll into a tangle of brush and glanced disinterestedly at Margie’s headless corpse.

  “Goddamn you,” Jojo growled.

  “Helpful little things, poppets. And easy as pie.”

  Jojo roared with rage and sprang at the nurse, but his foot got caught in a tough root and he toppled over. The root then snapped out of the earth and whipped at him, cutting his face. He groaned and threw his hands up in defence. Two more gnarled roots shot up and wrapped around his wrists, pulling him to the ground and securing him there. He lashed his head from side to side and twisted at the waist, but the roots remained firm. A grumbling erupted from the ground beside him and he watched in terror as the forest floor opened up and swallowed Margie’s body whole. In an instant she was gone and the ground was solid again; it was as though she’d never been there at all.

  “Folk magic,” Barker Davis said with a showman’s flourish, emerging from the shadows into the moonlight. “Simple stuff, most of it. A little cheesecloth, the right mix of herbs—bones, if they are procured in just the right way—and anyone can make an effigy that kills surer than any weapon. Why, if our fighting men abroad had the likes of my poppets at their disposal, Hitler and Tojo would be reduced to minced meat like that.”

  He snapped his fingers and spread his arms, the performer even now.

  “But why Margie?” Theodora sputtered, her voice wavering in her grief. “She was just a kid! What’d she ever do to you?”