by Evelyn James
“By your logic, we have no power, we might as well just do nothing. Why try to change the world or strive hard for success if everything is already mapped out for us and we shall end up exactly where we were meant to be?”
Mary smiled.
“Exactly.”
The cards began to fall onto the table again.
“You see, while there is a path before us, it is invisible, hidden, so we can only make choices based on what we know now, none are truly bad, none are truly good, they are just choices. We have to accept that there will be unexpected hurdles ahead, developments we could not foresee. To try to control the uncontrollable is the way to madness.”
“And yet you try to predict the future,” Clara remarked.
Mary’s smile broadened.
“Yes, yes, we are all flawed, all trying to see ahead. However, those of us who are happiest, are those who can also appreciate where they are now, accept it and understand that this is no more forever than the previous moment, or the one before that. I accept that I am no longer Clark’s companion, just as I accept that there is a future out there I cannot see and which may contain another lover,” Mary finished with the cards. “I have cast this same pattern too many times this morning, the cards are determined and I fear they mean to tell me that whatever I might wish, there is no other future ahead than the one they insist upon.”
Clara looked at the mixture of playing cards on the table. They meant nothing to her, just different suits and numbers. They could have been a messy hand of bridge, or the remains of a poker game.
“What future is this?”
“Clark’s,” Mary said solemnly. “I lied before when I said he was no concern of mine. I still care about him, even if he has shown a woeful disregard for me. The cards spell it out. Someone wishes for Clark’s blood and he is doomed.”
Clara’s brow furrowed at this news.
“I don’t care for the assumption that the future is fixed,” she said. “Maybe I am fooling myself, but if we all have choices, as you say, then the future must hold a million possibilities depending on the choices we all make. Clark’s choices influence those around him, while the choices of those near him affect him, and then we have the choices of the person who wishes him harm. No. With so many variables, there can be no certainty about what is to come.”
“The cards cannot lie,” Mary said.
“Then they are merely misguided. They suggest one possible outcome to the events unfolding here, but only one. And I am very poor at taking direction.”
Mary gave a low chuckle.
“You are a woman with a great deal of willpower, that I admire. I really wish you would let me tell your fortune.”
“I am not looking for any hints,” Clara replied. “I have enough uncertainties as it is, without throwing possible future predicaments into the mix.”
Mary opened her mouth to speak, but they were both rendered silent by a shrill scream from outside.
Clara exited the caravan so fast she forgot there were steps outside, nearly twisted her ankle as she remembered at the last minute and was forced by her momentum to jump the last two. Mary was close on her tail, scuttling down the steps sideways.
“It sounded like it came from the show tent,” she said, taking the lead and rushing across the fairground in a pair of light slippers that were soon slick with water.
She was right about the main tent being the source of the commotion; as they drew closer, they could see others rushing through the entrance flaps which were hanging closed. Gunther and Vladimir were there, as was Maven, but many of the others heading inside Clara did not recognise; she guessed they were workers at the funfair.
Mary was ahead of her and pushed open the tent flap, ushering Clara inside. They were in the wide aisle that led off to the seats either side and directly ahead to the main ring. There was someone slumped on the sawdust of the ring and everyone was heading towards them.
Mary pushed several people aside, clearing a path for herself and Clara. She was a sizeable woman and clearly had the strength to match, no one argued when her rough hands shoved them. Within moments, Clara was standing in the main ring, looking upon the reclining form of Polly lying on her side on the ground. Maven was by her head, stroking back her hair that had fallen over her face to see if she was breathing. Gunther and Vladimir were a few paces away, looking sick to their stomachs at the sight of another victim.
Killing horses and sending cowboys crazy was one thing, but this…
Clara knelt by Polly.
“She is breathing,” Maven said, his face grey with shock. “I’ll have a doctor summoned.”
Clara pushed back more of Polly’s long hair and saw that around her neck was what appeared to be a noose. Mary, stood by her shoulder, gave a gasp.
“That’s a lasso!” She declared. “Clark showed me how to make one and use it.”
Clara carefully removed the lasso from around Polly’s neck. Behind her she could hear the pounding of more feet and someone shouting for people to get out of the way. Mary gave a slight grunt and removed herself from the scene. Looking up, Clara saw that Clark had arrived, closely followed by Captain O’Harris.
“Polly!” Clark said, dropping to his knees by the prone woman.
“She is alive,” Clara promised him. “Someone put this around her neck.”
She showed Clark the lasso. He only glanced at it at first, then he seemed to recall something and took it from Clara’s hands. He weighed the rope in his palms and his eyes widened.
“Whipcord Bill’s lasso,” he hissed.
“You are saying this belongs to a specific person?” Clara asked him carefully.
“Here,” Clark pointed to parts of the lasso where a black thread seemed to run through the rope. “Whipcord Bill killed his victims by lassoing them around the neck and dragging them behind his horse. He was a sick soul. He made the lasso his trademark and he personalised every single one he used by weaving some of his horse’s tail hair into the rope.”
“You are going to tell me he was one of your bounties,” Clara said darkly.
Clark blinked once, seeming to only now grasp her point.
“Whipcord Bill was a mad man; he was up to thirteen known victims and there was a sizeable bounty on his head. Yes, I went after him, and yes, I shot him dead, and not a single soul mourned him.”
“I’m not so sure,” Clara replied pointing at the lasso. “Seems someone has remembered him.”
Chapter Thirteen
Polly was taken to her own caravan where she was attended not by a doctor from the town, but by Hulu who purported to be an African medicine man. Whether he was or wasn’t, Clara would have been happier if a doctor with a medical degree had been summoned. However, it seemed that Hulu was the unofficial funfair doctor and unless you were actually dying, he was the person called to treat you.
Polly was regaining consciousness by the time he arrived and was able to describe in a croaky voice what she recalled of the attack. She had been in the main ring looking for an earring. She had discovered it missing a short time earlier and knowing she had worn it during the final performance the night before, there was a good chance it had been lost in the sawdust of the ring. As far as she had been aware, she had been alone.
She was in the centre of the ring when she heard a noise, started to turn to see what it was and felt something loop over her head. In the next instant she was choking, a rope cinched around her throat and being pulled back. She just had enough air to scream before she was fighting for her life.
Polly showed them her ripped fingernails, where she had dug at the thick rope throttling her. She could vividly remember the panic and horror she had felt as she struggled for air, but it seemed only to last a moment before she passed out. She knew nothing more until she awoke in her caravan.
“And I never even found the earring,” she laughed slightly hysterically.
Clara and O’Harris left the caravan when Hulu arrived. The small space was too cramped
for everyone and they had learned all they could. Clark said he would remain with Polly. The medicine man nodded his head to Clara as he passed her, she replied with a smile masking her doubts about his medical ability. In truth, there was not a lot any doctor could do for Polly except prescribe rest and soft foods until her bruised throat healed.
Mary was stood a short distance from the caravan, clearly waiting for Clara. She was smoking a clay pipe and pacing back and forth.
“She is all right,” Clara said as she drew close.
Mary took the pipe from her mouth.
“Good. I never wished her harm, well, not real harm.”
She frowned at the caravan, her anxiety plain.
“This is all about Clark, someone attacking those dear to him,” she said.
“I would suggest you take care,” Clara said. “But I imagine you are already alert to the possibility of someone attempting to hurt Clark through you.”
Mary gave a resigned smile.
“The thought had crossed my mind. Depends if this monster realises Clark and me were once lovers. But I suppose if you could find that out, anyone could. At least they did not kill Polly. I suppose it is one thing to slay a horse, another to kill a person.”
“Maybe,” Clara responded. “Or they were disturbed by everyone rushing to the ring before they could finish her.”
“You have a sinister mind, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mary pulled a face. “I have made sure the police have been fetched, by the way, I knew Maven would try to avoid it, but you can’t ignore someone trying to strangle a woman.”
“Thank you,” Clara was pleased someone had some sense. “This all comes back to Clark, in the end. Both attacks were marked by souvenirs of Clark’s bounty hunting days. That to me signals a message, though the exact meaning is a little hazy. After all, what are the odds that someone would hold a grudge for the deaths of two unrelated outlaws who, by all accounts, were pretty evil.”
“Maybe it’s a general warning,” O’Harris suggested. “Maybe the attacker is trying to spook Clark, remind him of his bounty hunting days and to let him know that someone else has not forgotten.”
Clara was of the opinion that when killers aimed to send sinister messages they invariably failed. They tried to be too clever or subtle, resulting in the messages being incomprehensible. Whatever happened to simply writing a letter telling someone they had offended you because of such-and-such an event? Why did everyone have to try to be inventive?
“Mary, do you know anything about Clark’s bounty hunting days, did he discuss them with you?”
“Not really,” Mary answered. “He never liked talking about the past, he is not that sort of person.”
“Did he ever tell you why he left America and came to England?”
Mary was thoughtful for a bit.
“Once, just once, he hinted at it. He was having a bad day. There had been an accident at one of the stalls, I think the duck shoot. A boy had been hit by a pellet when one of his friends aimed a rifle at him instead of the targets. People do stupid things, sometimes, that’s why the rifles are now chained to the stall. Anyway, the lad was not badly hurt, but the incident really shook Clark.
“It was rather like it brought back memories of something else. He was really twitchy about it all, anyway he came to my caravan and I made him take some whisky. Clark was not normally a big drinker. That was when he started to talk, muttering about the evil of guns and how just one mistake could tarnish a man’s life.
“I asked him what he meant, but he would not say more. Struck me as odd that a famous gunslinger would be calling guns evil, but the more I tried to press him, the more he refused to talk. I think something happened that changed the way Clark viewed his life and made him question himself.”
“You think he was running from something that happened in America?” Clara asked.
Mary put her pipe between her teeth.
“Yeah, I do.”
~~~*~~~
Clara and O’Harris retreated to the food tent, ignoring the private sign and slipping inside to sit at a table and contemplate what had happened. The funfair was open once again and they could hear the excited voices of people arriving. Clara turned her head to the canvas walls of the tent and listened to the noise, allowing her mind to be quiet for just a little while, to absorb the world around her and reset herself. It made her feel better, as if for a moment the rush of ideas pounding inside her skull had become still.
She took a deep breath then turned back to O’Harris.
“How can we find out more about Clark’s career as a bounty hunter?”
O’Harris raised his eyebrows.
“Telegraph an American newspaper, perhaps, see if there are reports on his work. There would have been stories printed about the men he captured or killed.”
“Hmm,” Clara pondered. “But which newspaper? And how long might it take to get all that information? Telegraphing an entire newspaper article would be expensive, posting it is going to take weeks.”
“I have been thinking about the possible ways we could help restore Clark’s memories,” O’Harris said. “If haste is a priority.”
“Considering the attack on Polly, it definitely is.”
“There is something I thought might work,” O’Harris said tentatively. “But Clark would have to agree.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Mesmerism,” O’Harris said. “I have a fellow at the home who practices it and it can be very helpful in digging into a man’s subconscious.”
“Tommy underwent something like that, to help him walk again,” Clara nodded, liking the idea. “A skilled doctor can tap into a man’s inner thoughts and release them. Yet you are right, Clark would have to be persuaded to take part. It will only work if he is willing.”
“You think he will refuse,” O’Harris said bluntly.
Clara twisted her lips, expressing her feelings.
“Yes. I think he has been suppressing his past for a long time and that is part of the reason this massive amnesia has taken place. When we ask him if we can allow someone to delve into his memories, I suspect he will instinctively refuse, because he unconsciously recalls there is a reason he wants to hide his past. He won’t know why he is so determined to refuse us; the feeling will just be so strong he cannot help himself.”
“That is a lot of assumption on your part,” O’Harris pointed out.
“True,” Clara smiled. “Let’s hope I am wrong.”
From a flap at the far side of the tent a man entered and glared at them. He was carrying a big pot of food which he took to a portable coal burner and placed on top, then he lit the coals and let everything begin to warm through. He gave them another stern look as he left again.
“We are very popular around here,” O’Harris remarked.
“This is normal for me,” Clara smirked. “Come on, if we are going to persuade Clark to be mesmerised there is no time like the present.”
They made their way back to Polly’s caravan first, assuming Clark would still be there, and they were not disappointed. He allowed them in, Polly being propped up in the narrow fold-down bed of the caravan. She gave them a wane smile, looking very shaken and uneasy.
“She is insisting she can still perform later this afternoon,” Clark grumbled to O’Harris and Clara. He had clearly been arguing about this with Polly only moments before. “She should rest.”
“I want to carry on as normal,” Polly said in a hushed whisper. “I don’t want to sit around thinking about what happened.”
“See?” Said Clark with a roll of his eyes.
“We all have our own ways of coping with things,” Clara reminded him gently. A nudge that his solution to trauma was to forget everything related to it.
Clark frowned but said nothing.
“We have an idea about how we can help you regain your memory,” Clara said, quickly changing the subject. “Could you explain John?”
O’Harris picked up the conversation.
> “I have a man at the home I run who practices mesmerism, ever heard of it?”
Clark shook his head.
“I have,” said Polly in her reedy whisper, raising her hand. “At my old circus there was a man who practiced it. He was very good.”
“Mesmerism is a very simple process of tapping into the unconscious mind,” O’Harris continued. “It causes no harm, is painless, but can have immense healing properties. The mind is a very complex thing. We remember everything that has ever happened to us somewhere within it. A mesmerist will find a way to activate those memories that matter.”
Clark was frowning and Clara could almost see his lips forming into the word ‘no’.
“What would be the point?” He said, folding his arms across his chest defensively.
“Well, for a start, the mesmerist could restore your memories, especially of the night when Gung-Ho was attacked. He could help you remember what happened.”
Clark seemed to manage to fold his arms even tighter.
“What if I don’t want to remember?” He said. “Seems to me there is a reason my mind has shut out those thoughts.”
“You have lost over ten years of your life,” Polly whispered. “That is not a good thing.”
“I am doing just fine without those ten years,” Clark shrugged. “I’m settling into everything. I don’t need my mind meddled with.”
“Clark, someone is coming after you because of an event that happened in your past,” Clara told him plainly. “They have hurt Polly to get to you, they killed Gung-Ho. They think you know why this is happening, instead you are in the dark. We have no idea who might wish you harm or why. If we could learn what happened the other night, then we might have a chance of stopping this before someone is seriously hurt or worse.”
“She means someone is going to get killed Clark,” Polly hissed. “Someone you care about.”
Clara did not mention that someone Clark cared about had already been killed. Gung-Ho’s death had sparked this amnesia.
Clark was still stubbornly determined to refuse.