The Bright Unknown

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  “I won’t leave Angel.”

  Her gaze lingered over me and then went back to her daughter, who was so still it was like she was already dead. Then she looked back at me.

  “Becky wouldn’t leave without me either, and now she’s going to die because of it. I would rather be here alone and have her out there somewhere alive, even if it meant I’d never see her again, than this. Leave, Nell. Before he owns you like he does everyone else.”

  “Owns?”

  “He adopts the children. And tricks the adults into servitude. It doesn’t matter. He makes sure they can never leave without great risk or consequence.”

  “But they seem so happy. Like a family.”

  “What other choice do they have? Where will they go after what they’ve become here? After what he’s forced them to become.” She paused. “They’re good people, with a taskmaster who will use them until they’re in the grave.”

  The more I watched this mother sit vigil at the bedside, the more I felt like a caged beast. With quick words I told Cara how sorry I was and thanked her. She never even looked up from Becky when I left.

  “What are you doing?” Conrad came up behind me as I slipped from Becky’s truck.

  “I-I—” I didn’t know what to say. “I thought this was my truck. They all look the same.” I tried to giggle my lie away.

  He was studying my face. He knew I was lying.

  “Careful—my sister’s sick. It might be catchy.” It sounded more like a threat than concern.

  His sister?

  So Lazarus was his father. How trapped was he?

  “Is she going to get better?” I said, pretending not to know the truth.

  “The doctor, well—” He didn’t finish, then looked away.

  “Have you always wanted to live this life?” I asked before I could pull the words back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All of this. Is this what you want for the rest of your life?”

  “I was born into this.” He lit a cigarette and took a long drag as he looked far off into the distance and then back at me. “It’s all I’ve known.”

  “But—why this life? Why not live out there?”

  He shrugged. The cigarette smoke masked the air between us.

  “I need to go to my aunt,” I said slowly and quietly. “Angel and I can’t stay. My aunt is my only family.”

  He came so close I could smell soap underneath the scent of the cigarette. “I don’t think your Angel wants to leave.”

  I inhaled deeply, taking in a lungful of his smoke. How did he know that about Angel? I exhaled the smoky air, not letting him see my worry.

  He leaned back and handed me the cigarette. I’d never smoked before, but the scent alone dulled my senses and I took it. I put it to my lips and inhaled just a little. Then turned my face away from his and blew out the smoke.

  “Ah, you’re a natural,” he said, and his smile congratulated me. He let me have the rest of it, and I smoked it until there was nothing to hold on to.

  1941

  Unmasked

  The rest of the night was almost the same as the night before. Except I didn’t wear the pretty pink dress. Conrad pretended not to care. But I knew he did. And it meant Octavia had to paint someone else and the Mentalist had to dig for someone else’s secrets.

  When Angel came out in his cage, the gasps were even louder. I’d lost Angel a little more with this show. Gabrielle was winning him over.

  And then Becky died.

  It happened near the end of the show when Lazarus—the Mentalist—was doing one more mind trick on the crowd. I hung out on the fringes. I was still in men’s working clothes, and I’d pilfered a hat. I wore it tightly on my head and tucked my hair inside it. I was so thin I looked like a young boy.

  As the audience sat in awe, Cara came running into the tent screaming. Her arms flailing. Her face streaked with tears.

  “It’s all your fault,” she yelled, pointing at Lazarus. “She’s dead because of you.”

  The portion of Lazarus’s face that was unmasked lost all color. He stepped back, like he’d been pushed by the unseen force of her grief. I wondered if he had been. Maybe there was some power in Cara’s sorrow that could do that. If there was, I understood it.

  “Conrad,” Lazarus called, his chest heaving and his voice like a sail without wind. “Get her.”

  Conrad seemed to materialize, and he had his mother by the back of the arms. He was coaxing her gently, but she pulled away from his grip. She turned around and looked at Conrad. She took his face in her hands and spoke so gently but loud enough for all to hear.

  “Oh, Son. She’s dead. Your baby sister is dead.” Ragged words fell like heaps of rubbish, mounding between mother and son.

  She sounded like the ladies at Riverside. Grief-stricken to the point of losing herself. Her eyes buzzed and her breathing was erratic. My own eyes filled for her loss and for the life that had been taken.

  “Mother,” Conrad said, sweetly and almost reverently, “come with me.”

  Hearing his voice break broke another piece of my own heart.

  Her wailing quaked into a growl. I sensed what was coming next, but Conrad wasn’t prepared. She pulled away roughly, then slapped him across his face. Then she flew onto the stage with a leap and clawed at Lazarus. He tried to get away, but anguish was a strong monster and she took him down and ripped off his mask. There was yelling and crying. Some of the audience stood and leaned in to see better, and some covered the eyes of their children.

  Lazarus stood, clutching his face. My gaze instantly went to find his distinctive scars from the Great War, but instead I saw that there was nothing wrong with his face. The crowd saw it too and gasped. It was unblemished and without a single mark. His story had all been a ruse. He was a liar. What else was he lying about? Everything?

  “He’s not scarred,” a woman said from the front row. Words like fraud and liar came next, and a few men stormed the stage as Lazarus ran through the back curtains.

  As Conrad pulled his mother from the stage floor, our gazes locked. For several long moments it was just the two of us—like no one else was there, and he knew that I knew all of this was a farce.

  And that Lazarus wasn’t the only liar. He was a liar too.

  Many of the townsfolk streamed out faster than they’d come in, leaving behind overturned chairs and tent walls pulled down. The few who stayed were either angry or nosy. The building crew ran them off quickly. Then Conrad finally had his fainted mother in his arms, like a child, and moved toward the trucks.

  “Quick. Follow me,” he said, and without questioning, I did.

  He opened up the truck where I had been sleeping and put his mother inside on my bed, and when he caught sight of the small doctor, he waved him over. He closed the door behind them both, then he grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the truck.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Go?”

  “You and me,” he said, his eyes wide. “Let’s get out of here and start a life somewhere and forget all of this.”

  “I—” I stepped away from him when he pulled me close, and before I could consider what was happening, he was kissing me.

  Not the way Angel had kissed me. The hard edges of Conrad were gone and he was soft against my body and his lips were soft against mine, but he was kissing me with an urgency I couldn’t keep up with. Panic took over. I tried to push him away, but he was so strong and his hand held my head in place.

  I began struggling and hitting him, trying to make him stop. This wasn’t what I wanted.

  “What’s wrong?” He stopped kissing me but kept his hold on me. “Don’t you feel it between us?”

  “Feel what?” I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. “Your sister is dead and you’re kissing me?”

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.

  “Conrad. Son.” Lazarus’s voice was unhinged and riotous, so much like the voices I’d been raised with. Nothing like the
controlled and cunning way he’d been since my arrival.

  Conrad let go of me and walked to his father. Lazarus looked entirely different. He was still in his performance suit, but his mask was stuffed into his pocket and his whole, unscarred face was white with grief, shock—reality. He suddenly appeared entirely common and small.

  “Where is she? Where’s my little girl?” His movements were twitchy and erratic. He was crying through his words. “Where’s my Becky-girl?”

  “Pop, over here.” Conrad put an arm around his father and guided him away. “Come.”

  Lazarus continued to speak, but his words didn’t make sense. The powerful man I’d met only a few days ago was reduced to a raving man grieving over something he himself had caused. I couldn’t divert my eyes from them. Conrad loved his father, despite the deceit. Lazarus was as responsible for Becky’s death as I was my mother’s. I was no better than this man.

  Conrad stopped for a moment and turned to me. He mouthed the word wait. He wanted me to wait for him? And run off together?

  He was in front of me a moment later, digging through his pockets, then handed me money. My hands were full of bills, and several coins slipped through my fingers. Next to Conrad, Lazarus collapsed on the ground like a puddle.

  “If you walk through these woods, you’re going north. There’s a town on the other side of it. This little town here doesn’t have a bus or train station. Find one in the next town and get as far away as you can with the money.” He spoke fast and rushed. “If you don’t have enough, wash dishes at a diner or find a boardinghouse where you can work until you make enough. Be tough. Be smart. Now go.”

  “I’m not leaving without Angel.” I shoved the money into my pants pocket before he could take it back.

  “Listen, once my father comes to his senses, he’ll be worse than ever. He’ll find a way to own you, Nell—Brighton—whoever you are, whatever your name is. I don’t want that to happen. Do you know how hard it is to come across a girl like you? No ties to the world. No one to come looking for you. He’ll send out his men to find you if you don’t go now. These people aren’t free. He owns them. And he plans to own you too.” His arm gestured to all the people who stood nearby. Some of them looked at me, and the sorrow in their eyes was more than just because of Becky.

  Then I watched as the rest of the troupe walked toward Becky’s truck. The Sirens were weeping, each in her own skirt, walking on her own legs. Alima gathered them close. The child with the extra arms had his working arms around the woman without any. The reptile-looking man and the acrobatic man stood there, eyes cast down. The crew who built the tents stood with hats in hand, chins quivering. Their weeping filled the night air.

  Gabrielle stood in the very back with Angel. Holding his hand.

  The few townspeople who were left were taking photographs, but no one seemed to care.

  This was our chance.

  While Conrad pulled his father from the ground and led him away, I ran to Angel.

  “Angel?”

  Gabrielle let go of his hand and didn’t look at us when I pulled Angel away from the crowd. He was still wearing his white costume, except for the wings, and every part of him glowed.

  “Conrad said we need to go,” I told him. “He gave me money and told me what to do.”

  Gabrielle twitched. She was listening.

  “We have to.” I told him about Conrad’s warning.

  Angel’s stoic expression from yesterday softened. His hands found my arms and his touch reminded me that we were doing this together. He turned and looked at Gabrielle, then back at me. I knew this was hard for him.

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  “Will she stop you?” I asked. “I think she heard me.”

  He shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s a good person.”

  We made a plan to meet after he changed his clothes and grabbed his bag while the crew dismantled the tents. There would be so many people around it wouldn’t be hard for us to slip away.

  Then the Sirens sang their melancholy tune as desperate as the song of mythological Orpheus. And like his song, theirs could bring no one back from the grave. It was a song of farewell.

  It was time to go.

  1941

  Disturbed Places

  The Sirens’ song ended and slowly everyone retreated to their trucks in small groups. Including Angel. The tents went down in record time, and none of the townsfolk lingered further. I tried not to look suspicious. I hadn’t seen Lazarus since he’d melted like butter before Conrad took him away. And I’d only seen Conrad at a distance. He’d caught my eye once and nodded his head for me to leave. I looked away, not wanting him to see the secret behind my eyes that I was waiting for Angel.

  Another hour passed, and the performers were all tucked into their trucks. Where was Angel? Conrad had taken his mother back to her own truck, but Alima and the Sirens were asleep with sorrow-dampened faces. But I sat and waited until a quiet knock came to the door.

  “Nell.” The whisper pushed through the cracks. Angel would’ve said Brighton. This had to be Conrad. “Nell.”

  I peeked around to see if the whisper had disturbed anyone else in the truck, but it hadn’t. I leaned over and opened the door.

  It was Conrad. I tiptoed outside and into the cold air. “What are you doing?”

  “Why didn’t you leave when I told you to?”

  “Angel went to get his things but hasn’t come back yet. As soon as he comes we’re leaving.”

  The work crew began calling out instructions and the men headed to their designated trucks. Headlights and motors were turning on, covering the song of the crickets. I looked around, sure Angel would appear soon.

  “Do you have the money I gave you?” Conrad asked.

  “In my bag,” I said and pointed to the truck.

  He stepped toward the truck, opened the door, and in a moment tossed my bag at me.

  “What?”

  “You’re not coming with us.” Conrad started to walk backward, away from me. “Remember what I said about how to get to your aunt’s.”

  “Conrad? I’m not leaving without Angel. He’ll be here any minute.” I craned my neck to see if I could catch sight of him. I started walking toward his truck.

  In a few big steps Conrad rushed toward me and had his hands tightly around my forearms. His face was so close to mine I could almost feel his whiskers against my skin. His breath smelled like cigarettes. He pushed me away from the line of trucks. When I fell backward the wind was knocked out of me. But I rushed to stand, sputtering to breathe.

  “You aren’t hearing me, Nell. Lazarus knows you’re trying to take Angel and that you know everything about Becky. You have to go. Now.” His eyes were wilder than they usually were.

  A few of the trucks started moving slowly through the field toward the dirt road we’d come through. I frantically looked around for Angel’s shadow coming toward me.

  “Where is he? Gabrielle’s behind this, isn’t she?” I yelled, making my throat raw.

  “She doesn’t have that kind of power. Lazarus already owns him. He has to pay us back for all our help. It’s too late for him.”

  He looked me up and down. “Things could’ve been so different.” He shielded his eyes from the glare of headlights and moved closer to me. “I would’ve taken care of you, you know.” Then, without warning, he ran over and jumped into his truck and was gone.

  I started running alongside the moving trucks, yelling for Angel. Lights inside the truck houses started turning on, and I kept yelling. I knew his was the one with the long scrape on the side. It was rolling forward, but not quickly.

  “Angel,” I called after him without pausing.

  “Brighton,” he yelled back over and over.

  His truck was moving faster, and I couldn’t keep up. I heard him calling my name, but I couldn’t see his face. I might never see his face again. I kept running, but then the last truck in line was passing me.

  “It�
��s over, Nell. Just go,” Conrad yelled from the passenger side of a passing truck.

  The caravan was completely out of sight before I finally stopped running. My lungs had never burned so much. My broken heart was scattered around me on the edge of the empty field. The crickets were my Sirens, singing my funeral dirge. I turned and looked at the empty field. It was dark. The only visible signs of the troupe were the deep ruts from the trailers and a few tent pegs that had been left behind. Like me. But otherwise it was like no one had been there.

  The Fancies and Fears were gone.

  Angel was gone.

  And I was lost.

  My grieving cast an iron-strong echo into the night. I had no cocoon to mourn within. I had no restraints to hold me down. I only had my skin to keep everything inside from exploding into a thousand pieces.

  I wasn’t sure if I fainted or if I’d actually fallen asleep crying, but at some point the brightness of the dawn assaulted me. I was lying in the tall dried grass on the edge of the field where the caravan had been, my bag on top of me.

  I ached. My body felt too solid for the emptiness inside. Through swollen eyes, my blurred vision fell upon the cascading sunrise. I didn’t want to see the beauty. I didn’t want a new day to start. But maybe it was a sign that the east held my future. East was the direction of Riverside. East toward Joann. East toward an expected life instead of unpredictability and loss. East.

  My tears fell onto the fragile, brittle grass and wetted the ground. As the grass continued to grow, would I still be here? Even if my body moved on, some part of me would be left behind. The shape of me. The sprawling and curl of my body like an imprint of the wrong that had been done.

  I didn’t move for hours. I hummed Mother’s tune. I wrapped long handfuls of long and dry blades of grass around my wrists. My skin became raw and chafed in the nature-made restraints. By the time night came, I had grown to be part of the husks around me. Empty and done—growing dead. Dead in the ways that mattered. I still lay there when evening fell, and when the first star shot across the sky, I heard it.