Elegy for a Lost Star

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “Ya can come back tamarra!” the hunchback shouted as they ran. “We here fer two more days!”

  Brookins shielded his eyes from the torchlight and looked around. “I don’t see anyone waitin’,” he said nervously. He clucked to the horse, who was dancing anxiously in the torchlight.

  Quayle glowered in agreement. There was no one outside the ring of tents and wagons waiting to meet them.

  “I can go in and find him,” Brookins offered.

  The other fisherman laughed. “I’d forgot you had a taste for this sort of thing, Brookins,” he said, scanning the scene again and still seeing no sign of the Ringmaster. “But we don’t want to meet him on his own twisted ground. Such places are havens of monsters, after all.”

  “So how are we gonna talk to him?”

  “We’ll get him to come out to us.”

  Brookins scratched his head, perplexed and agitated. “But what if he don’t come out?” he said, watching the crowd begin to enter the gate.

  “Oh, mark my words, he’ll come out,” Quayle said confidently.

  He jumped down from the wagon, then pulled the oilcloth covering back. The creature in the seaweed hissed at him, its eyes full of hate.

  “There ya go, bucko, hold that thought,” he said to it, ignoring its withering glare as it struggled to reach him with its bent limbs.

  He pulled the oilcloth covering over the creature once more, then stood up in the wagon, cleared his throat, and began calling in the barker’s voice he had used in his days as a monger on the wharf.

  “Step rightly, lads and lasses, come one, come all—see the Amazing Fish-boy! A better freak you’ll not find within the show you’ve already paid for—and what’s more, it won’t cost you a thing!”

  The crowd of onlookers heading into the Monstrosity continued streaming past him, though a few turned and looked in his direction.

  Quayle tried again. “Come now, if you dare, look into the face of true monstrosity! Come and take a gander at a being who is half man, half woman, and half fish!”

  A few men slowed their gait, but otherwise the crowd ignored him, hurrying to the tents.

  Not to be deterred, Quayle addressed a heavyset woman strolling with her husband, a redheaded man with a barrel chest.

  “You, madam! You appear to be a right brave soul. You want to be the first to see the real freak? Somethin’ so frightening that the Ringmaster of the Monstrosity himself is afraid to come out and see it?”

  The woman paused, intrigued, and plucked at her husband’s arm. The man shook his head disapprovingly, but she dug in her heels.

  “Come along, Percy, he picked me! I want to be the first!” she bleated. “Come on, now, love. Let’s have a look.”

  “Yes, manny, listen to the little lady,” said Quayle in a manner he believed to be smooth. “You can look, too. And it won’t cost you nothing. Be the first! Or move on.”

  The barrel-chested man cast a longing glance in the direction of the Monstrosity, then looked back at his wife’s expectant face and sighed.

  “All right, Grita, but then we are late for the gate,” he said grudgingly.

  Quayle clapped his hands together in delight. As he had expected, a small crowd had started to form, willing to delay for a moment their entry into the carnival of freaks in anticipation of what might be hiding in the wagon. The light from the torches cast long fireshadows that scurried across the oilcloth, making it seem like a menacing bog or a cave from which something hideous was about to appear.

  “Come ’round this side, missus,” he said to the woman, who eagerly made her way around the wagon to the place where the fisherman had indicated; her husband followed her, exhaling loudly. Quayle glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the sideshow; as he expected, enough of the crowd had been diverted to have caught the attention of the hunchback at the gate. The ticket taker muttered something to one of the bare-chested guards, and the muscle-bound man slipped through the gate and disappeared into the Monstrosity.

  Quayle returned his attention to the woman, who was dancing impatiently next to the wagon. He adopted as polite a tone as he could muster.

  “Are you ready, missus?”

  The woman nodded eagerly.

  “Now, make sure you stay within grasp of your fine husband here. This is a savage beast.”

  “Get on with it,” her husband growled.

  Quayle glanced up at the small crowd once more, and, determining the size to be right, he nodded.

  “Very well, then. Behold the Amazing Fish-boy.”

  He grasped the oilcloth and tugged it up so that the woman and her husband could see inside, while the rest of the crowd around the wagon watched their faces.

  The man and the woman peered into the depths of the wagon.

  At first all they could see was darkness. The woman stood on her tiptoes and leaned in for a better look, while her husband crossed his arms, looking annoyed.

  “I don’t see nothin’,” he said in a surly voice.

  “Neither do—”

  Just as the words left the woman’s lips, the creature in the wagon lunged at her with all its might, hissing and screeching ferociously. Black water poured from its gaping mouth, its lips fused in the center over its soft yellow teeth, its eyes, cloudy with cataracts, filled with unmistakable murderous rage.

  Both of them reeled back in shock, then screamed in unison. The woman’s face went completely gray, and she darted behind her husband, sobbing; he could do little to help, as he seemed rooted to the spot, gibbering like a monkey.

  The unveiling had its desired effect. The response was so genuine, the husband and wife so aghast, that it caused ripples of residual horror to wash over the small crowd, which gasped in fear, even without seeing the freak in the wagon.

  Quayle chuckled at the shock on Brookins’s face; the ripple of terror had caught his dockmate unaware. He pulled the oilcloth back over the wagon.

  “All right,” he called to the crowd around his wagon, which had tripled in the wake of the scream, “who’s next?”

  Brookins, recovering, had been watching the gate. “Quayle,” he murmured, “he’s comin’.”

  Without looking, Quayle nodded. “You, sir?” he asked quickly, pulling a tall, brawny man in from the wagon’s edge. A group of other people around him stepped quickly back.

  The man was coaxed into place just as the Ringmaster and two of his keepers came into the circle around the wagon. Quayle timed his revelation to coincide with the Ringmaster’s arrival; when he was just a few steps away, the fisherman pulled the oilcloth off again, once again eliciting a strangled gasp and a cry of genuine horror rising from the brawny man’s viscera.

  The crowd of peasants began to talk among themselves in an enthusiastic blend of excitement and fear. The Ringmaster shoved his way through the convocation, followed by his keepers, trying to talk above the din of chatter, endeavoring to convince the group to move on to the gates of the sideshow, but the promise of free viewing of what must be a heinous monster served to make them insistent upon seeing it for themselves.

  “What do you think you are doing?” the Ringmaster demanded angrily of Quayle, who was watching the proceedings with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “Why, just giving your sideshow customers a little—a little—”

  “Side show?” Brookins piped up.

  Quayle chuckled. “That’s it! A side show to the sideshow.” He glanced from the boisterous crowd, which was now jockeying to see who would peer into the wagon next, to the livid Ringmaster and his bristling henchmen, and leveled an insolent stare at the man. “Now, don’t get uppity, Ringmaster,” he said patronizingly. “Remember, it’s you what stood me up. I offered you first crack at this freak, and you didn’t bother to come to our arranged appointment.”

  The Ringmaster pushed his way through the crowd and came around to the side of the wagon where Quayle stood.

  “Let me see it,” he demanded. He seized the edge of the oilcloth.r />
  “Ah, ah,” Quayle chided, slapping his hand away. “It’s not free for you, Ringmaster. You charged me to come into your show. Seems only fittin’ that you should pony up a crown to see mine.”

  The crowd, caught up in the excitement, began to babble in agreement.

  Inhuman sounds began to issue forth from under the oilcloth.

  The Ringmaster’s face slackened. “I don’t carry money,” he said sullenly.

  Quayle nodded. “Mayhap that’s true. So I will show you what a gentleman I can be. Despite how rude you’ve treated me, I will spot you the crown. But if you want to buy my fish-boy, you will have to pay me my price, plus the crown, plus the first half-crown you charged me.” He looked to the growing throng for support. “Does that seem fair?” he asked the assembly.

  A chorus of assent replied.

  “All right,” the Ringmaster snarled. “Show me your damned freak.”

  Quayle broke into a wide smile and stepped aside, bowing and gesturing politely at the wagon. “Be my guest, sir.”

  The Ringmaster lifted the tarp high.

  A pale arm shot forth from the bowels of the wagon, its sickly skin almost green in the flickering light of the brands, followed a moment later by the misshapen head, its huge, cloudy eyes blazing, its grotesque mouth hissing and screeching sounds that were clearly inhuman, and possibly demonic. It clawed at the Ringmaster, clutching his waistcoat and dragging itself toward him. The man pulled free and stepped away. The creature swiped helplessly at Quayle before sinking weakly back into the depths of the wagon.

  The crowd gasped collectively, the spectators in the front pushing and shoving to get clear of the wagon.

  Only the Ringmaster stood still. He turned to Quayle, who was still unable to disguise his gloating.

  “How much do you want for it?” he asked tersely.

  Quayle pretended to consider. “Well, this afternoon I had planned to ask for fifty crowns,” he said, continuing on through the Ringmaster’s shocked intake of breath, “but since you’ve been so downright rude, the price is one hundred gold crowns. Plus two.”

  The Ringmaster started to protest, but then caught sight of the crowd surging enthusiastically toward the gate of the Monstrosity, and reconsidered.

  “Done,” he said. He motioned to one of the keepers, and the man disappeared in the direction of the outer villages of Bethany.

  “We’ll give you an hour,” Quayle said, climbing back into the wagon. “My friend Brookins here would like to use his ticket, if you don’t object. Then we’re gone, with our money and without our fish-boy, or without it and with him. So if your lackey ain’t back with the money—”

  “He’ll be back in time,” the Ringmaster said through his teeth.

  “Good,” said Quayle, stretching out on the wagon board. “And just to show you what a generous chap I am, you can take its fish; that’s what it eats, though it likes eels better. And maybe next time you’ll show up when you’re expected.”

  The creature was handed over in the dark, when the sideshow had closed for the night. It had spat and hissed, but its soft bones and weakened state made its transfer a fairly easy one.

  “Don’t forget to keep it wet,” Quayle had cautioned the Ringmaster as the creature was placed in a canvas sling and carried away beyond the gate and into the strange world of the Monstrosity. “It dries out easy.”

  “Take your money and get out of here,” said the Ringmaster, watching the keepers carry the creature into one of the tents within the carnival. He turned and followed them without another word.

  Later that night, as they rejoined the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, heading back west to the coast, Brookins finally spoke. He had been staring directly ahead of him for hours, trying to process what he had seen beyond the gates.

  “There was a—woman in there with two—two—purses,” he whispered, gesturing between his legs. He shook his head, trying to expunge the sight from his memory.

  Quayle laughed aloud. “Good thing I was holding the gold, Brookins,” he said with a crude tone. “You wouldn’t want to deposit any of your ‘coin’ in either of those ‘purses.’ ”

  “And one that ate manflesh,” Brookins continued, still attempting to exorcise the experience. “Severed arms all around her, tearing at the muscle and fingers with her teeth—”

  “Stop now,” Quayle directed, annoyed. “I just want to enjoy our good fortune.” He patted his chest where the wallet of tender was kept, and felt something sharp scratch across the skin over his ribs. He reached inside his shirt and pulled forth the ragged, multicolored disk he had taken from the creature. It shone, prismatic and radiant, in the light of the sliver of the setting moon.

  “Well, lookee here,” he said, pleased; he had forgotten about the strange object altogether. “I guess we have another memento of our fish-boy.”

  “Didn’t you promise to give that back?” Brookins asked.

  Quayle shrugged. “A promise to a fish don’t count,” he said nonchalantly. “I make ’em promises every day to lure them into the nets. I don’t keep those, neither. Besides, by the time we would get back there, that sideshow will have packed up and moved on.” He turned the scale over, admiring his own face in the reflection.

  “Did they say where they are goin’ next?”

  Quayle thought for a moment, trying to recall, then nodded.

  “Sorbold,” he said.

  They drove most of the rest of the way in their accustomed silence, Quayle planning how he was going to spend his share of their good fortune, Brookins trying to forget how they got it.

  10

  Faron awoke in water.

  The creature blinked; it was dark inside the tent. It could make out dim shapes through the blurry glass of its container; with a little effort it floated to the surface and took a breath, bumping its soft skull on the ceiling of reinforced canvas that had been chained around the outside of the glass.

  It tried to remember what had occurred to bring it to this place, but the picture in its limited mind was hazy and painful to contemplate. Faron vaguely recalled being wrestled from the wagon onto a sling of some kind, and fearing drowning when plunged into the tank, but other than that, everything was a blur.

  It banged helplessly on the glass, futilely pressing its bent hands against the canvas ceiling, but gave up after a few moments, spent. At least it was out of the blistering sun, back in the comfort of water without salt.

  The thought of salt water made Faron melancholy. The last time the creature had seen its father was aboard a ship; he had left and gone ashore in an angry state and never came back. Faron had seen him pass through the Death scale into a deep abyss; the Lord Rowan, Yl Angaulor, had refused him entrance to eternal peace. Its father’s death had broken Faron’s heart; deep despair had set in, but only for a moment.

  Grief had fled in the wake of the tidal wave that followed its father into the Underworld.

  Faron had been belowdecks, down in a pool of glowing green water in the darkness of the ship’s hold, when the wave struck the ship broadside. The creature could hear the screams a second before, but had no idea what was going on above until the ship lurched violently, upending the pool and slamming the creature into the hull. Faron had lost consciousness and awoke in the sea, surrounded by flotsam and jetsam, and no sign of another living being.

  And remained thus, suffering the sting of the salt and the thunder of the waves, until it washed ashore, unconscious, in the fishermen’s net.

  The flap of the tent was pulled aside, spilling light within. Faron winced.

  A stout woman in many tattered layers of ragged dresses, soiled aprons, and torn petticoats came into the tent, a tray in her sharp-nailed hand. She wore no shoes; her enormous feet, easily twice as large as would seem proper, were splayed at an odd angle, flat and covered with calluses. The toes appeared to have a webbing of skin between them.

  She came straight up to the tank and peered inside. Faron wrenched away to the back wall, treading wa
ter furiously. The woman’s wrinkled lips skinned back, revealing an almost toothless smile; what teeth she did possess were black or broken.

  “Yer awake! Aw, dearie, Sally’s so glad to see yer feelin’ better.”

  The woman set the tray down on the dirt floor, clucking sympathetically.

  “Now, now, little ’un, nothin’ to fear. Old Sally would neva hurt ye.” She undid the knot in the chain that held the canvas cover on the tank and, reaching over her head, slid it off and onto the floor.

  Faron’s arm went up defensively, and the creature hissed at the odd woman. She didn’t blink, just crossed her arms and regarded the new arrival fondly.

  “Now, you just stop that, little ’un, my sweet. Ye got nothin’ to fear. Ye hungry?”

  Faron’s cloudy eyes narrowed. The creature looked askance at her, then nodded guardedly.

  “Poor dearie. Well, I’ve brung ye some nice fish, live ’uns. Will that do ye?”

  A mix of hunger and excitement came into Faron’s eyes. The woman chuckled at the response, then pulled the cloth from the tray to reveal a small bowl full of goldfish. She held it up before Faron’s face, and chortled with delight as the creature began salivating and whimpering with anticipation. She extended a long taloned finger and, with a motion so quick Faron could not follow it, speared one of the fish on her nail, then held it, wriggling, over the tank.

  “Here ye go, my beauty, my sweet little ’un,” she whispered. “Come an’ eat.”

  Faron floated in the back of the tank for a moment, considering; finally, hunger won out over suspicion and the creature swam forward, bracing itself against the front wall of the tank. With quivering lips Faron reached up and plucked the writhing fish from the woman’s nail, shivering with delight as it slithered down its gullet into a stomach that had known nothing but hunger since the shipwreck.

  Outside the tent, voices could be heard as two men walked past.

  “Ye seen Duckfoot Sally? Ringmaster’s looking fer her.”

  “Ayeh, she went into the tent ta feed the new ’un.”

  The canvas tent flap pulled aside again. Faron shrank away from the light. Duckfoot Sally scowled at the man who opened it.