Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality

by Pat Murphy

  So many people, all of them talking and shouting. She wondered how she could ever find Max among them.

  “You there!” the Professor called to a farmer gaping from the street. “Is there a barn nearby that we could use for the circus?”

  The man looked startled to be singled out. “Well, I reckon I have a barn,” he said. “You could use that.”

  “Excellent,” shouted the Professor. “Climb aboard and point out the way.”

  Right there in the street, Ruby knelt and the Professor helped the astonished man climb aboard. The crowd cheered, and the parade continued, escorted by shouting children and barking dogs.

  Sarah sniffed the air, fascinated by the smells. Hot iron and smoke from the blacksmith shop; baking bread from the bakery; perfumed pomade from the barbershop; saddle soap from the livery stable; beer and whiskey and tobacco and roasting meat from the saloons and restaurants. And everywhere the scents of people, so many people.

  She breathed deeply, sorting through the scents and searching for Max’s unique aroma. She could not smell him. So many strangers.

  Sarah relaxed a little as they turned off the main street, following a winding track to the man’s farmyard and barn. Though a gang of children accompanied them, most of the crowd stayed in town.

  The Professor inspected the barn and negotiated with the farmer for its use, discussing how it might best be set up to accommodate the show. “This is simply splendid,” he said. “Simply splendid.”

  Sarah found herself pacing in the barnyard while the Professor made arrangements. In exchange for free admission, he hired three of the older boys to post flyers around the town—in case anyone had missed the parade. “And spread the word,” he told them. “We have a special attraction tonight. The Wild Angel will be performing with us. After that, come back and I’ll give you another job.”

  The boys were off in a flurry of noise and dust. The Professor grinned as he turned back to Miss Paxon. “Might as well let them in free,” he said. “They’d have been sneaking in anyway.” He reached an arm out to Sarah. “Stop your pacing, my dear. Come inside the barn and let’s plan tonight’s entertainment.”

  Mrs. Selby rushed out of the hotel as soon as she heard that the Wild Angel was with the circus, lingering only long enough to pack a picnic basket. She was sure that Sarah would be hungry.

  She was red-faced and out of breath by the time she reached Amos Butterfield’s barn. Billy Johnson and two of his friends were standing guard at the door, keeping the other children out, but she bustled past them, not putting up with any nonsense. “Hallo,” she called to the people in the barn. “I’m Mrs. Selby. I’ve come to see Sarah McKensie.”

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the barn, she studied the people. She saw Sarah’s coppery hair and recognized her delicate features from the sketch Max had shown her years ago.

  “There you are!” she cried, her eyes bright with tears. This, at last, was the lost child. A child no longer, she was a young woman. Strangely dressed, to be sure, but Mrs. Selby forgave her that. Mrs. Selby would have forgiven her anything. “Oh, you poor motherless waif.”

  She hurried to Sarah’s side. Sarah tensed, alarmed at the speed of the woman’s approach, then relaxed when Mrs. Selby set down her basket and flung her arms open wide, a gesture of such vulnerability that Sarah knew she meant no harm. Sarah did not resist when Mrs. Selby put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders and hugged her close. She liked Mrs. Selby’s smell, a warm scent that reminded Sarah of biscuits baking.

  “Mrs. Selby, I am so glad you found us.” The Professor smiled. “Our young friend is eager to find Max, and I thought you might be able to tell us of his whereabouts.”

  “I certainly can,” Mrs. Selby said. “But you must be hungry after all your traveling. I’ve brought lemonade and a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Max told me Sarah liked the biscuits that he made over the campfire, so I am certain that she will like my bread.”

  They sat in the barn and had a picnic, while Mrs. Selby told them that Max was in San Francisco, fetching Sarah’s aunt. She answered one question and asked half a dozen: How did they meet Sarah? How long were they staying in town? Would they come and stay at Selby’s—it would be her pleasure to provide them with rooms.

  “You must come and eat at the hotel,” Mrs. Selby said to Sarah.

  “I need to fatten you up. And put some clothes on you, too.”

  “I have clothes,” Sarah said, touching her shirt.

  Mrs. Selby shook her head. “You were raised by wolves, but you are in civilization now,” Mrs. Selby said. “We’ll get you out of those filthy rags and into a bath and a nice dress. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Sarah frowned. She did not like the way that Mrs. Selby had dismissed her clothes. She was fond of the shirt that Max had given her; she liked the way it felt, the way it smelled. She thought the trousers were too long, but she could tolerate them. She glanced at Helen, suspecting that this talk of clothing would lead to another discussion of skirts.

  “It did my heart such good to see her,” Mrs. Selby told Jasper Davis. “After all those years with the wolves, the poor motherless waif has come back to us at last. She’ll be coming to the hotel after the performance. I insisted.”

  Jasper nodded. He had just ridden in from Nevada City, and stopped by Selby’s for a beer to wash the trail dust from his throat. He had missed all the excitement of the circus parade, but Mrs. Selby was happy to share all the news—including the news of Sarah McKensie.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs. Selby said.

  Jasper agreed that it was wonderful that Sarah McKensie had come down from the wilderness at last. Yes, it would be a fine surprise for Max and Sarah’s aunt. He nodded, wondering what the girl remembered, what she had told the circus folks. Clearly, she had said nothing of import to Mrs. Selby, who was reporting with great joy that Sarah had eaten four slices of her fresh bread.

  “What is she like?” he asked Mrs. Selby.

  “She’s the sweetest girl you could meet,” Mrs. Selby said stoutly. “A bit shy, but well-spoken. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said when I buttered her a slice of bread. Just as plain as could be. Max taught her to speak, she said.”

  “He did?” Jasper narrowed his eyes.

  “Oh, yes, he certainly did. Max has been visiting with her in the mountains each summer.” Mrs. Selby shook her head, as if reporting on the mischief of a favorite son. “He’s been taking care of her all along, without letting us know. But all that doesn’t matter, now that she’s here. Are you going to the circus tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

  The sun was low in the sky when he reached Amos Butterfield’s barn. The warm summer day was becoming a balmy summer evening. He made his way through the crowd, smiling and greeting people. He found a place with his cronies, men he knew from the Masons’ lodge, on a bench constructed of hay bales and boards.

  Sarah perched in the hayloft on one side of the barn and watched the Professor stroll into the ring, tipping his hat and welcoming the audience to the circus. He talked for a while about reality and illusion and the mysteries of the Orient, but Sarah didn’t pay attention to all that.

  She was staring down at the audience, the largest gathering of people she had ever seen. She found Mrs. Selby, sitting in the front row, and that reassured her. She saw Helen and Miss Paxon, far in the back.

  It wasn’t much of a circus, but then, it really didn’t have to be. The Professor had a performing elephant, and that was enough in itself to amaze and thrill the people of Selby Flat.

  First Cassidy hobbled into the ring and juggled balls and swords and flaming torches, standing carefully on his injured ankle. After he hobbled off, the Professor produced Snowflake, the smallest of the poodles, from his bowler hat. He called the other poodles and they ran out and ran around and around the Professor. At a command, the two big dogs stood still, and the medium-sized dog vaulted over them, continuing to run around
and around. The Professor put Snowflake down, and she ran with the other, but rather than vaulting the big dogs, she scampered between their legs when the Professor was looking the other way. In the finale, the poodles formed a pyramid with Snowflake standing on her hind legs at the top.

  As the dogs ran off the stage, Miss Paxon led Ruby in the door. The elephant ambled into the ring, lifting her trunk as if saluting the Professor. As she strolled around the ring, he talked about her, telling the audience that she weighed five tons and stood nine feet tall at the shoulder. She could win a tug-of-war against a dozen horses. If she decided to charge, she would be unstoppable, trampling everything in her path. (At this, some members of the audience looked somewhat alarmed.)

  “I brought Ruby to California from the exotic kingdom of Siam,” the Professor said. “We have performed together many times. But tonight, she will not perform under my command. Tonight, we have a special guest. You know her as the Wild Angel of the Sierras. Adopted by wolves when she was just a child, Sarah has lived in the wilderness, surviving by her wits and rescuing those who are in need. Just yesterday, she came to the aid of our humble traveling troupe. When we were threatened by a raging cougar, she came to our rescue. She befriended Ruby, and now she and the elephant will perform together. I present—the Wild Angel.”

  Sarah hesitated, staring down at the audience. When she had practiced earlier, the barn had been empty. It had been fun to swing down to the floor, fun to ride on Ruby’s back. The Professor had been so happy that she would help them.

  She took a firm grip on the rope that Cassidy had suspended from the rafters, pushed off her perch, and swung over the heads of the audience into the center of the barn to land beside Ruby. She wore the Professor’s trousers and her own flannel shirt, preferring these clothes to the glittery dresses he offered her (all castoffs that Lulu had left behind).

  The elephant knelt beside Sarah, and the girl quickly climbed up onto Ruby’s back. She rubbed the elephant’s head. Ruby smelled pleasantly of warm hay and dust, a comforting smell. Ruby strolled around the ring, swaying gently beneath Sarah.

  While Sarah studied the audience, the Professor talked and Ruby went through her paces. She circled the ring, reared onto her hind legs, picked up an American flag and waved it gaily overhead, all in response to the Professor’s cues. Sarah was strictly a passenger, with plenty of time to consider the audience as they watched her.

  She saw Mrs. Selby, smiling and waving from her front row seat. She saw Helen and Cassidy, standing together at one side of the barn. The rest of the audience was a blur—so many eyes watching, so many hands clapping, so many voices cheering.

  At last, Ruby completed her final circuit of the barn. The elephant knelt again. Sarah leapt down and stood beside the Professor. The audience was cheering. “Bow,” the Professor told her, and she bowed.

  Finally, she left the stage, running up the aisle between the benches to return to the safety of the hayloft. One of the boys that the Professor had pressed into service had already returned the rope to its place, in anticipation of curtain calls. The Professor wanted her to swing down again, saying the audience would enjoy it just as much the second time.

  She wasn’t thinking about that. She was grateful to have returned to the shadows of the hayloft, grateful that the audience was watching the Professor now.

  The Professor was doing magic tricks with six apparently solid metal rings. First he showed the audience that he had six rings, each one solid metal, each one separate from the others. At least, that’s what he said he was showing them. Through all his talk, he kept one ring firmly in his hand. He linked the solid rings by magic, he said, but Sarah noticed that the ring that was in his hand was always the same ring and she suspected that it might not be as solid as the others.

  But what she suspected didn’t matter. The audience was astounded. He joined the rings together and took them apart, talking all the while. When he was done, the audience applauded.

  Miss Paxon brought him a basket for the rings and brought him a rifle. He took the rifle and faced the audience again. “I would like to ask your cooperation in performing my final act. I am going to perform a feat that requires the utmost concentration. In my bare hands, I will catch the bullet, fired from this rifle. If I miss, my life is forfeit. If I succeed, your pleasure is my reward. Now, I need the help of a volunteer, someone who knows how to fire straight and true. A brave man, who will not waver in this task.”

  There was a great deal of shouting in one section of the audience. A tall man was being pushed forward by three other men. “Here’s your volunteer!” shouted one of the men. “Sheriff Davis.”

  The man shook his head, but the crowd took up the call, shouting for the sheriff. “Hey, Sheriff, if you shoot the magician, who’ll take you to trial?” “Come on, Jasper.” The man stepped forward.

  When the tall man stepped from the crowd, Sarah shivered, struck by a sudden chill. The light of the lantern that hung from the rafters shone on his golden hair. Her heart was pounding.

  Professor Serunca handed the man a bullet for his examination. After the man had examined it, the Professor loaded the gun. He handed the rifle to Jasper and walked slowly to the far side of the barn. There he held his hands beneath his chin in a prayerful attitude and closed his eyes. Then he nodded.

  The blond man lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired. In that moment, as Sarah watched, a memory came into sharp focus. A sunny day by a flowing stream; a cold wet stone in her hand. Mama—her mama—was staring down into the valley, an expression of shock and disbelief on her face. In the valley, a man—this man—lifting a rifle to fire.

  Sarah acted without hesitation, her reflexes honed by her years among the wolves. She grabbed the rope and swung down into the ring on a trajectory that would lead her to her enemy.

  But Jasper was moving, stepping back and laughing as the Professor displayed the bullet that he had caught in his hands. She landed beside him, her knife drawn, her teeth bared. She was snarling, poised to spring—but for a moment, just for a moment, she hesitated.

  What was it that stopped her? She did not hesitate to battle a raging grizzly or face a snarling wolf. From childhood, her reflexes had been trained for fighting. But for a moment, she did not move.

  What stopped her? Only this: a scent in the air and the memories that it stirred.

  Mingling with the scent of hay, Sarah caught the scent of Jasper Davis, as unique to him as his fingerprints, the aroma that was the essence of the man. A breath and she was transported to another time. She was a child, crouching in a cave among the boulders. She stared from the shadows into the sunlight. There, by a laughing stream, the tall blond man stooped over the fallen body of her mother. The breeze carried his scent—the aroma of terror, of fear, of helplessness. She could not move. She watched as the man stood up, his hands red with blood and overflowing with her mother’s coppery curls.

  In that moment, Sarah stared at Jasper Davis, frozen in fear. Then she sprang for his throat.

  Her hesitation had given him time to prepare. He sidestepped, catching the strike intended for his throat on his arm and swinging the empty rifle as a club. The heavy stock caught her in the temple, sending her slamming backward into one of the heavy timbers that supported the barn. She fell, closing her eyes, tumbling backward into unconsciousness.

  Jasper stood with his hand clamped around his wounded arm, blood welling up between his fingers. “Look to the girl first,” he told the doctor. “I can wait.” Then he swayed on his feet. The Professor and the juggler helped him to a bench, where he watched the doctor examine the girl.

  Cassidy and Miss Paxon were clearing the barn, telling people that the show was over, time to go. The crowd was moving reluctantly. Mrs. Selby stood by the fallen girl, tears on her motherly face. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would she attack the sheriff?”

  Jasper shook his head, frowning. “I can’t say, Mrs. Selby. But I reckon it was good she attacked me, rather than
one of the women or children.” He knew that some of those women were close enough to hear. “I hate to think what could have happened then.”

  “She was always very gentle with us,” the Professor said.

  Jasper shrugged. “She was raised by wolves,” he said. “Wild animals.”

  “She isn’t a wild animal,” Helen said. “She’s a sweet girl, really.”

  “Poor child,” Jasper murmured. “I reckon I’ll have to lock her up for the night. In the interests of public safety.”

  He shook his head, carefully furrowing his brow in an expression of grave concern.

  He watched the doctor kneel by Sarah’s side and thought about how right Mrs. Selby was. It was a wonderful day. Sarah McKensie had tried to kill him in front of a hundred witnesses. He would lock her up immediately. No one could argue with that. He had no choice. And then, when she tried to escape, he would be forced to shoot her. Such a tragedy.

  21 HAVE YOU SEEN THE ELEPHANT?

  “…virtue has never been as respectable as money.”

  —Innocents Abroad; Mark Twain

  SARAH OPENED HER EYES and saw moonlight shining on a gray wall constructed of roughly fitted stone. She lay on a strawtick mattress on a stone floor. Her mouth was dry. Her head ached, a dull pain that centered in the right temple.

  The air reeked of Professor Serunca’s Chinese liniment. Carefully, she touched her head and felt a cloth bandage, wrapped like a turban around her temples. She felt for her belt and her knife. Gone. Her lariat. Her bow and arrows. All gone.

  Bad stinks clung to this place. The air held the bitter aroma of coffee, the dull scent of gunpowder; the musky smell of the men who had slept on the strawtick mattress before her. The scratchy wool blanket that had been tossed over her reeked of whiskey and tobacco, of old sweat and fear. The nearby bucket stank of urine.

  Under all the other smells, through the reek of the liniment, there was another scent, one that made her heart pound in fear. She could smell the blond man, the sheriff they called Jasper. This was his place—she knew that.