Bacchanal

by Veronica Henry

  She was visible only to her prey. The lure: a secret carnival attraction that only the most special kids could see, and there would be a treat—a toy truck—afterward. No—he shouldn’t bother his parents; she’d have him back home before they even missed him.

  He’d put his hand, with dirty fingers and rough skin, in hers and followed her. She imagined his mother came outside later and wondered aloud, “Where did Toby wander off to?”

  As the door to the red trailer had closed and bolted behind him, he’d spun, pounded Ahiku with his little fists and clawed, but she easily lifted him, plopping him into a wooden chair in the middle of the trailer and binding him with a complicated hand gesture. Ahiku sang in her language, her voice like silk thread lining a rough sweater.

  With more odd movements of her hands, she began to weave something into existence from the air. A shimmer that was there and then gone. The shimmer coalesced and took on the colors of the room. Ahiku blew a breath of cinnamon and spice, before her head, her neck, and the rest of her body dissolved into a trail of dark smoke, easing toward Toby.

  Sweat rolled down Toby’s frightened yet determined face as he struggled to move, to run. But Ahiku held him as if an invisible rope bound him to the chair. Her misty essence floated toward him and oozed into his nostrils. And his soul, escorted by Ahiku’s deathly presence, rose up, out through his skull. His gaze lifted from where he sat in the chair to the wispy version of himself, and he twirled to look down on his own former body in horror. The wisp of Toby attempted to flee through a window, but Ahiku only raised an elegant hand toward his fleeing soul.

  Toby’s soul twisted and writhed until he tired, and soon he wedged himself in among the other small scared souls now existing only within her.

  Ahiku looked at the small lifeless body, inhaled a satisfied gulp of cinnamon-spice air, and burped as if she had consumed the most sumptuous meal of her life.

  Ahiku turned her attention to her second victim. Her right hand wove a pattern that lifted the old woman and dropped her into the center of the trailer. Though the woman was gray haired, her form bent, strength rippled from her. No match for a centuries-old demon, but her spirit was no ordinary one. And it may as well have provided a road map. As soon as they’d rolled into town, the witch’s presence had pulsed, and Ahiku had hurried Zinsa and Efe off to capture her—their Dahomey countrywoman.

  “Dear Yejide, it pains me to see you this way. Tell me what I need to know”—Ahiku flashed her smile—“and I will be generous. I am willing to limit your torture to a month. Where is my adversary, and how do you protect the children?”

  The witch doctor was likely one of the last of her kind. Their ilk had shielded the continent’s most precious children to such a degree that they’d driven Ahiku off to America in search of unprotected prey.

  “I’m already dead, demon.” Yejide looked up at her with disrespectful defiance in those clear eyes. “I will tell you nothing.”

  The woman had some meager defenses. Witch doctors of her line had their secrets. But the end came much sooner than Ahiku had hoped. And the meddling witch died without giving up a sliver of information or crying out even once.

  As much as Ahiku wanted to banish the woman to the underworld for demon sport, she had to stand idly by, seething as the old woman’s powerful ancestors claimed her soul.

  Zinsa and Efe, stoic as thousand-year-old redwoods, graced either side of the stairs leading to the red trailer’s door. They were dressed simply in white shirts and black slacks, with short, curved knives secured at their waists. Clay mumbled a greeting as he climbed the five short steps. The pair barely grunted in return.

  He entered and averted his eyes from the lump on the floor. He looked at Geneva standing over the body, at her forehead, or her nose, anything but her eyes. He’d done it once, maybe five years ago now, and what he’d seen there still chilled his soul. Clay was tall, but Geneva had him by an inch or two.

  What remained of Toby sat in a shapeless lump of gray, mottled flesh, bones sticking out at odd angles, the clothes he’d worn underneath. Clay remembered the child, the blond hair, the chin dimpled in the middle. He fought back the memory, but that was like constructing a dam over a great waterway of pent-up emotion. He couldn’t quite do it.

  “This boy had parents, Clay.” Geneva bent down, moved aside the mass, and riffled through the clothing, then picked up the slacks. She was like a tigress, sniffing around the body of the lame young she’d had to kill. “You going sloppy on me?”

  As much as he hated it, Clay took this part of his job seriously. He puffed up his chest at the perceived insult. “I know my job. Asked around. Parents poor, no home, no food, farm lost in the dust bowl.” He counted off each point on his fingers. “Couldn’t take care a themselves, let alone the boy. Did him a favor, is what I did.”

  Geneva sighed, a concession. “Treat him kindly. He deserves a good burial; he was a strong fighter.” She turned the slacks over and over in her hands, ripped a small section of cloth free, and tossed the slacks back onto the pile. She held up the fabric, peering at it in the light, lifted the hem of her patchwork skirt, and pressed the patch against the cloth. Gold threading erupted from the skirt, grabbed hold of the new patch, and knitted it in with the others.

  “I told ya . . . ,” Clay started before coughing and beginning again. He and Geneva had an odd relationship. She didn’t take adults for her little rituals, but she would sure as hell kill one if it suited her. Still, she relied on him. “If you could wait till I leave to do that.”

  “Do you still fear me, Clay?” Geneva admired the new patch on her skirt and sashayed over to the side of the trailer. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “Have I not proven myself to be a dear friend to you?”

  Clay looked up, focused on her right cheek, but he wasn’t sure it fooled either one of them. “My ma always told me I was a cautious boy. Guess that didn’t wear off none.”

  The corners of Geneva’s perfect mouth turned down slightly. She’d let on that what little family she had had died with her friends over a century ago. Clay was the closest thing she had to a friend, even though he fancied her a monster. “By the time we reach Tulsa and make the circuit again, little Toby will be long forgotten. Have Zinsa and Efe leave something for the parents.”

  “You’re the boss.” No matter how many times he had done it, he still had to fight the nausea. He pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket, slipped them on, and loaded what was left of Toby’s body into a potato sack.

  “Oh.” Geneva waved an elegant hand beneath the window. “Take that also.”

  Clay narrowed his eyes. How had he missed the shriveled form of an old woman curled in on herself? He didn’t dare ask about the body.

  Outside, he passed along the message to Zinsa and Efe, who immediately strode off to do Geneva’s bidding.

  Clay dug a hole to bury both bodies. As he hefted the old woman, something fell to the ground. He lay her gently in the hole and picked it up: a longish leather cord, a round disk attached. He opened the little cover and, inside, flipped through three carved discs: an elephant, a raven, and a badger. He shrugged and tossed it into the open grave with the bodies.

  With the deed done, Clay stole away to his trailer. There, he kneeled and crossed himself. Asked his God for forgiveness and protection from whatever demons or lesser gods Geneva had in her back pocket. He prayed that the children he’d chosen as sacrifices had died easily. He admitted that he was a coward; his only concern was that Geneva keep her promise, that she would never go after his son. Clay exhaled and, with his face once again under control, shuffled outside. He walked until the lights from the carnival were dim pinpricks and sat amid the brush and weeds.

  Clay lit a match and watched the flame, transfixed. He cursed his cowardice, rolled his sleeve up above his bicep, and held the match to his arm, relishing in the deliciously torturous caress of the flame until he screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MISCHIEF AFOO
T

  Liza slept fitfully until a stream of pale sunlight landed square on her face and she blinked her eyes open. Her trailer mate was beginning to stir.

  A loud bang on the side of the trailer broke through the stillness. “Get up, you lazy carnies. We got a show to put on tonight. Up. Up!”

  On the other bunk, the woman sat up and stretched: pretty, white but not too pale, with sparkling auburn hair and an age that one couldn’t quite pin down. She had that fresh look that only a few could achieve first thing in the morning.

  “You’re the new girl, Liza, right?” The woman swung her legs out from beneath the sheet. When she yawned loudly, that fresh look was lost in the awful smell that wafted out. A night full of closed-up mouth and something else. Cigarettes? Stale coffee?

  Liza sat up and fought the urge to wave away the scent. “That’s what my mama named me.”

  “Welcome to hell.” The woman wore a simple one-piece nightgown that clung to her formidable curves with a good night’s sweat. “I’m Autumn. And let’s get this out of the way now: I work the cooch show, and if you got a problem with that, you can keep it to yourself. And if you want, you can ask Clay to bunk somewhere else.”

  Living in Louisiana, Liza was no stranger to prostitutes or the attitudes men flung at them during the day while paying them good money at night. A prostitute had even lived in Mrs. Shippen’s boardinghouse, but she paid a little extra on the rent. The payoff meant Mrs. Shippen only flapped her tongue about her to the other women.

  “I’m in no position to look askance at anybody,” Liza said. She grew overly proud at her word choice, sensing Autumn’s surprise. “I’m a single woman who joined a carnival. What could I possibly have to say?”

  “You’d be surprised.” Autumn was rummaging through her things and emerged with a towel and a toothbrush. “Wanna follow me to the donnicker?”

  Liza was dumbstruck. Autumn had thrown a fancy word of her own right back at her.

  Autumn chuckled. “The bathroom. And the showers.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her to ask where she’d clean up, use the bathroom, or anything. “Uh, yeah. Yes, please.”

  As Liza stood, Autumn slapped a hand to her chest, eyes wide, and pointed. “What is that?”

  Had a snake somehow found its way into the trailer? No, there was only Mico, poking out from beneath her pillow, blinking his eyes wildly. Liza held out her hand, and he jumped into her palm.

  “This is Mico,” she said. “A pygmy marmoset.”

  “A pet?” Autumn took a tentative step forward.

  “Guess you could say that.”

  Autumn held out her finger, and Mico took it. Her face brightened. “Well, aren’t you the cutest little thing.”

  Mico chittered, his way of beaming at the perceived praise. Liza set him back down. “You wait here. I’ll be back to get you after we clean up.”

  As they stepped out into the bright light of the morning, carnival workers ran to and fro with a quiet but frenzied efficiency. Already things had changed from the previous night.

  “What happened to the last person who shared your trailer?” Liza asked.

  Autumn looked startled but quickly masked it. “She moved on,” she said. “Folks you see out here are the lower rung. They handle setup and takedown. Got it down to a science too. Sometimes it seems like we could be gone from a place in a matter of minutes and no trace of us having ever been there. We don’t travel with that many roadies. We take on a few from among the locals if we need them. Other than that, we make do.”

  “What did you mean back there?” Liza ventured back into questionable territory. “When you said ‘Welcome to hell.’”

  A cloud covered Autumn’s face for a moment, then cleared as though a high wind had sneaked up and blown it away. She plucked at her robe and fanned herself. “What else would you call a place this dang hot?”

  Liza frowned.

  “Oh,” Autumn said with a snicker. “That’s right. I guess you call it home.”

  More tents were going up. A carousel and Ferris wheel materialized alongside a few games. Liza stepped on a stuffed animal that squeaked in a child’s voice. She picked it up and tossed it over the counter of one of the games into a man’s outstretched hand and then paused, startled. She knew better but couldn’t help staring. He was tall and well built, maybe close to six feet. The dingy overalls and wary, downcast eyes couldn’t hide it—his face was like a rose, unaware of how beautifully it had bloomed. She held his gaze a moment more than was strictly ladylike. Her insides did a two-step when he tipped his hat, and she hurried to catch up with Autumn.

  They came to an enclosed tent lined with shower stalls, a bucket of water beside each, probably drawn from the nearby tap. Across the path was a single row of four separate bathroom stalls. Hastily constructed wooden-panel affairs with a sheet stretched across the front.

  Autumn tilted her head in that direction. “If you go early enough, you can avoid the worst of the smell, but still, we’re in the south, and with this heat . . . it isn’t the most pleasant experience. Do your business and get out as fast as you can.”

  Even when she’d lived with her parents, they’d gone to the bathroom in the woods, used things like leaves for wiping. But that was out in the open. Liza made quick use of the facilities—little more than holes in the ground—and moved to the crude shower, soaked her towel and soaped up, then washed and dumped the remaining water over her head.

  Surprisingly clean, she changed into her other set of clothes—threadbare but skillfully mended trousers and a cotton button-up shirt—and was as well put-together as she could manage when Clay found her.

  “Hope you got a good night’s rest,” he said. “Gonna need you to pitch in on some of the other acts until you get your own show up and running.”

  “I’ll do whatever needs doing,” Liza said. A small man walked past, and her breath caught in her throat. He wore no visible clothes, was about four feet tall, and was covered in what appeared to be a shaggy green coat of grassy hair from head to toe. He had striking hazel eyes, and his fingers ended in pointed claws. The little man turned and called out, “I cut quite the handsome picture, do I not?”

  Clay followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s Eloko, our little man from somewhere in Africa. Never said where. Been here as long as I have. Hear tell he came to America in a cage in the basement of a steamboat.” When Liza cocked her head to the side, Clay added, “Not sure who bought his ticket.”

  “Humph” was all she could muster in response. If Clay owned the carnival, wouldn’t he have been the one to recruit the little man?

  “Ain’t you never even been to a carnival?” he asked.

  Liza blinked, looked down. “Well, I guess I haven’t.”

  “Lordy, I sure did pick a green one.” Clay wiped the sweat already streaming down his face. “Hope you’re a fast learner.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I learn fast. And remember, I’m good with writing and numbers too.”

  “You mentioned,” Clay said. “I think we’ll start you off with Autumn in the cooch show. Uh, the show, after the show.”

  Liza’s mouth dropped open, and Clay grinned. She noticed that it was a half grin, as if it were hard for him to smile full on.

  “Man, you are green,” he said. “Listen, gonna need a word later on, get your thinkin’ on where best to jump the show to next. For now, report to Mabel in the food tent. She can always use an extra hand. Later on, we’ll work out what you can do with the animals, put together a little show of some kind. Right now, folks pay pretty good to come in and look at them. We can bump up a penny or two if you can get them to do something.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Liza said. Where to suggest they go next? Mama got most everything she needed from South Carolina: sweetgrass, bulrush, pine needles, sometimes palmetto palm. They sold them baskets all over the place. Some towns better off than others. Where would the carnival have the best run?

  A little b
oy cut across their path, and Clay’s expression went all anxious and angry. “What’s that kid doing here?” he shouted.

  Liza’s gaze trailed Clay as he strode off yelling, chasing the boy away. You’d think the carnival boss would be pleased to see kids sneaking in early—they’d run home and get everybody else all fired up for the show.

  The thought of children stirred the longing for her baby sister that lived just beneath the surface of her thoughts. With luck, this traveling carnival would steer Liza onto her sister’s trail.

  Liza let her nose and her rumbling stomach lead her to the food tent, its big red flag lolling in the nonexistent breeze.

  Breakfast was in full swing with a long line stretched out the length of the cookhouse. Things were set up buffet-style. Dented metal plates on one end and food stored in burners along the front. Cutlery and napkins at the far side. A separate table was set up with coffee and juice. Her eyes bulged. Did they have all this every day? As much as she wanted to eat, Liza approached Mabel first. She spotted the woman easily: small in stature but big in voice. She wore an apron, barked commands, and generally oversaw everything.

  “Clay asked me to report to you. I’m Liza Meeks.”

  Mabel gave her a quick once-over and said, “Haven’t seen you in my line yet. I don’t need workers who gone fall over from starvation. Get yourself a plate, and I’ll get you set up in the back.”

  Hmm. Gruff on the outside but probably all sugar and sweets on the inside.

  Mabel grabbed Liza by the wrist and partly dragged her from the end of the buffet line to the front. She shoved her in front of another carnie. As the man made to protest, she cut him off. “Shut your highfalutin mouth, Freddie. Don’t you see a lady here? I swear some of you carnies ain’t got the good sense the Lord gave you.”

  Mabel shoved a plate into her new charge’s hand and said, “Eat up and come to the back. Clay said you good with numbers, and I can use some help with my ordering system. Seem to keep running out of eggs.” She walked off muttering something else derogatory about carnies.