The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  The rest of the morning was a busy rush. Who knew success would mean so much work! We scrambled to get another batch of Langley’s out the door to be published, and we paid our delivery man extra for his increased time, a bonus if he could get it to all our distributors before two pm. Then, exhausted from our work, we set back and waited, toasting ourselves with glasses of wine, despite the early hour.

  I left the print shop later that evening, tipsy from the cordial and the sense of triumph from the day. I couldn’t wait to share my good news with my dear Anna. Perhaps we could go out to a late dinner, but when I got home, her practiced handwriting informed me that she was out with Jacob. I frowned. It was probably best that she was out with Mr. Rigby, but I couldn’t deny my disappointment. I was too full of life and excitement to sit home alone and wait for her to get back. I could try Mrs. Crow, but she wouldn’t understand, not fully anyway, not the way a sister could.

  I was convinced, however, not to let this night go to waste. It was still early enough for a woman to walk about unescorted. Surely, there was something to see or enjoy. What was it? Thursday? I was a hit writer. What was I doing cooped up by myself?

  My thoughts lingered to an advertisement I had seen the other day for a traveling carnival show down by the old empty lot on the east side of the river bank. It’d be a bit daring to attend by myself, but who knew what type of fun, or even inspiration, awaited there? In any respect, I hadn’t treated myself like this in ages.

  Decided, I set off at once after scribbling a quick note for Anna should she return before I did. It was unlikely.

  I had spent my entire life in Dawnhurst, and we had lived in a smattering of different flats. After my father died, we did a brief turn in the darkest, seediest area of the city, sandwiched between the east side of the river and the factories. I had tried to forget our time there. The only memories that remained were frigid winds blowing through my blanket during the winter and the nauseating smell of unwashed drunkards in the summer.

  The city had developed on either side of the Severn. We had done nearly everything we could to be on the west side. The city’s more prominent families lived on the west, as well as the more pleasant industries. The florists. The bakers. The cobblers. It wasn’t uncommon to run into well-dressed couples on strolls around the small and scattered parks around the west. The printers and publishers were on the west as well, at least the reputable ones. Byron would have dropped dead before seeing Langley’s headquarters on the east.

  The carnival had been set up in a large clearing on a vacant acre or so almost hugging the east shore. A similar lot faced it across the river on the west. That the carnival had set up on the east side said a great deal about who the proprietors must have assumed would come. That wasn’t to say anything of the carnival’s financial situation but more of the quality and nature of their headlining exhibits. Certainly, they would lean toward the macabre and mystic. After Edward’s account of the fog man, I couldn’t help but feel that a carnival on the vacant lot on the east side was the perfect place to celebrate “The Steely-Eyed Detective.” I owed some type of gratitude to my readers, and at least a good representation of them would be attracted to a carnival such as this one.

  From some ways off, I could see the alien, eerie glow of electric lights. The sight quickened my pulse and made me feel dangerous. What could be more fitting than for me to prod confidently across Thompson’s South Bridge into the unknown, ever-darkening evening?

  I crested a small hill, and the carnival’s grandiose tents came into view. I was prepared to see typically bright colored bunting and banners, in red and white or yellow and blue, but the tents emanated an eerie green color, almost as if there was an unsettling haze over the whole area. It mingled with the electric lights and cast funny shadows. Perhaps it was just my imagination or the celebration cordial, but even the tent poles seemed crooked and stuck into the ground at funny angles. I pinched myself. The sight reminded me of my recent dreams.

  The carnival was well attended. There were costumed men and women dancing about, fire breathers, carts hawking exotic foods and gifts. I found small crowds in front of fortune tellers and magicians. I saw gypsies and giants from the far east. My nostrils were assailed with pungent aromatics, spices and smells from different, unknown lands. It created an intoxicating atmosphere. I tried to orient myself to decide what I should do first. I was celebrating, after all. Everywhere I turned, there was something new to look at. Here, a woman beckoning me in to browse her magical tonics. There, a man inviting me to investigate his taxidermy faerie collection.

  I smiled as I waded deeper into the foray, noting an eclectic mix of different kinds of people. Surely, my readers roamed among them. How sweet it was to write for both the east and west sides of the river. Humans are, in spite of social status, united in an interest in the mysterious and unknown. We stood together, intrigued by the curiously disproportionate Frenchman swinging around a magic rope that changed colors or the exotic reptile exhibit with creatures, the keeper claimed, that could speak plain English. Deep down, didn’t everyone believe in some kind of magic?

  An old hag with gnarled fingers beckoned me toward a shadowy yurt promising me to see into the future. I stood for a moment watching a man move what his handler claimed to be a solid ton of granite, but I got distracted by wandering acrobats, competing for attention with two red-headed twins that must have been over two meters tall. They tossed knives dangerously back and forth between each other.

  I wandered still deeper, by now pinching myself to ensure I wasn’t dreaming. Had the whole day been the imaginations of my sleeping mind? Would I wake any moment to receive the news that my story had been a colossal failure and Byron was second-guessing our engagement?

  I purchased a cone of honey-roasted nuts, the perfect complement to watching a woman hypnotize a young man and turn him into a crudely, self-deprecating spectacle. I laughed along with what looked like the largest gathering of spectators I had seen yet. His belt fell to the floor and tripped him as he tried to pursue the beautiful hypnotist around in a grand circle.

  This was freedom: standing among strangers, observing the world without fear. I knew I could write and produce stories that could contend with the others. Brutus, and whatever he was to write as a critique in the coming days, be damned. I could survive. I had the mind to create stories others would read. Even without Byron, I could survive if need be.

  I bit into a bitter nut. There’s always one in every bunch, after all. Its rancid flavor fought with the gentle notes of honey and smoke. Despite its generous sweet coating, the bad came through. It reminded me immediately of a Christmas from many years before, when I had saved up to bring Anna home some honey-roasted nuts. I had been so excited to give them to her, but the entire bunch had gone bad. I’d been had by the peddler and should have known the reduced price he offered me was indicative of some defect.

  Somehow, tasting the rancid flavor caused the excitement of the day to catch up with me. The exhaustion set in, and my legs and torso felt hollow. Under my skirts and bodice, I felt like a barrel perched on two bamboo canes. I looked for a seat and found a log bench near a tent. I stumbled my way over and plopped myself down ungracefully.

  “Too much excitement for one evening?” A husky, baritone voice floated from behind me, cutting through the din. I turned halfway in my seat and saw the silhouette of a man standing behind the open flap of a yurt. His question hung in the air. I could feel his gaze rest on me. I should have been alarmed, being all alone in a bizarre carnival, out of strength, and now confronted by a strange man in the dark. Instead, my senses were slipping from me. I was tired. I had just settled myself on the log, and I wasn’t inclined to move.

  “I just need to sit for a moment, thank you,” I replied.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “You can do what you like,” I said. I could feel my reservations melting into the evening. It must have been the side effects of the emotional journey I’d been o
n that morning. Still, I was determined to hold on to the dignity and pride I’d won that day. Tonight, I wasn’t just a member of the masses. I wasn’t just a woman to be scared of strangers or shadows. I didn’t need to move if a stranger wanted to share a log bench.

  The man sat down with a sigh. I heard him take a crisp bite out of an apple. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a beautiful Burgos pointer follow behind him and sit erect and obedient at his flank. I kept my head forward, feigning interest in the hypnotist, who now had another woman hypnotized. Her two thralls danced together at her command.

  “That used to be me,” he said, gesturing to the center of the ring with a half-eaten apple.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There in the center. Used to have my own show. They had me on the advertisements,” he said, taking a bite. “Times change.”

  “You used to be a hypnotist?” My curiosity was getting the better of me. I inclined my head ever so slightly and darted my eyes, catching a glimpse of his features. The electric lights across the crowd lit up the stubble on his face, brown, red, and black. Perhaps a Scotsman? Though I didn’t detect the unmistakable northern accent. I was tempted to look at him openly to assess his features more fully, but I held back. Not yet. Let him feel my disinterest.

  “Not a hypnotist, no.” I heard a smile in his voice. It was congenial. “Tried that once; it didn’t end well. Hypnotized myself by accident. Couldn’t snap out of it for a week.”

  This absurd account did me in. I shifted in my seat and gave him my full attention. “Is that meant to be a joke?” I asked.

  “Depends. Do you like to laugh?” he replied, giving me a boyish grin. I puzzled on his question. I laughed with Anna occasionally. Something about this man made me feel nineteen. I don’t know whether it was the playful expression on his face or the absolute mess of brown hair on his head. His eyes were a deep, honey color, though that might have just been tricks by the lights. He had a peculiar talent of looking very comfortable sitting anywhere, and this effect permeated into my demeanor. Girlish feelings swelled in my bosom.

  He wore a ratty old robe made of what once may have been velvet, patched over in faded groupings of foreign silk and tapestry. Underneath, his linen shirt, collarless, was largely unbuttoned down to his slim fitting waistcoat. His question, and his appearance, took me off-guard.

  “Do I know you, sir?” I asked.

  “She called me sir,” he said to the pointer. It sniffed the apple in his hand in response. I could not place his face, but something must account for this feeling of familiarity. I was not accustomed to feeling swept up by the charms of strange men, but I caught myself leaning toward him.

  What was I thinking? My thoughts flew to Byron like a lifeline. Me, an engaged woman! It wasn’t right to be here alone. The propriety of it! The very appearance of evil! I had made him a promise. What if someone saw me? How would he react if reports of this got back to his ears?

  This man was so unlike Byron, too. He felt young. He felt vibrant. He felt unreasonable. How did he feel all these things by slinking onto a bench and eating an apple? I stood.

  “No, not a hypnotist,” he continued, seemingly disregarding my imminent departure. “I had a show of a very different kind. A better show. But, I guess you’re only as good as your last performance.”

  I should have walked away. My head told me to walk away, but I felt like he was chiding me. As good as your last performance? My thoughts flew unbidden to the face of my father in a fog-filled church. You’re more than a single story. Isn’t that what he’d said?

  I needed water. I wanted something to take the bitter nut taste out of my mouth. Meandering aromas in the air smothered me, aromas that were free and intoxicating only moments before. All around, people clapped and marveled at the many facades of the carnival. They consumed the entertainment like a drug then wandered on to the next amusement.

  Only as good as your last performance. I watched the hypnotist in the center ring. The two strangers who had danced only minutes prior were now put into attack mode, being held at bay by another two volunteers, so they wouldn’t tear each other limb from limb. It was terrifying. I reflected on my first sip of success. Was I hypnotized? Was I the hypnotist?

  I stewed over what I wanted for myself. My recent story should have made me so happy, but the day had not yet expired, and I already felt empty. It was, after all, a single success. Soon, my story would be just another bit of ink on scrap paper lying in the mud. My father had wanted more for me, sacrificed so that I could accomplish more than this, perhaps, with time, something as illustrious as our city’s most prestigious literary award.

  I suddenly realized why I came to the carnival in the first place. I wasn’t after celebration. I had celebrated all day with Byron. In my mind, the success had lit something dark and desperate inside of me, something that a strange man breathed life into with an offhand comment. Maybe what I found so familiar in him was the wisdom of my father.

  Inside of me, lurking behind the drunken dizziness and puffed up pride, crouched a looming, fanged question.

  What next?

  I needed more stories, and Edward wasn’t going to see a ghost every day.

  “Why aren’t you still in the center ring?” I asked.

  “A dangerous accident. A paying customer met an unfortunate end,” he said grimly. The hair on my neck prickled.

  “What kind of show did you say performed, Mister…”

  “I’m Bram,” he said, standing. He walked to the entrance of his yurt and lifted the flap. “Would you care to see?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Retired Magician

  THE YURT’S CANVAS closed behind me, leaving my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The yurt’s interior was stretched out in a simple large circle, lit by a large fire in the center and accented by a series of well-used candles. A hole in the top of the ceiling let the smoke escape and prevented an overwhelming campfire smell from seeping into the living space. In its place, more of the carnival’s foreign perfume permeated the air.

  The pointer gaited over to a ratty blanket next to a dirty, though intricately designed, rug. A small desk stood next to a surprisingly sturdy bed. I imagined it would be difficult for a transient to lug around. The walls (if you could call them walls) were adorned with tapestries fastened to the wood structural beams and paper advertisements from what I could only assume was Bram’s show before it was shut down. I squinted to make out the images. The fire gave them an eerie mood. I also noticed a small dining table with an odd-looking tea kettle and an oversized kettle bottomed mug.

  “It’s not much, but it’s homey,” Bram said with a sweeping gesture of his arm. He picked a dead leaf off a potted dwarf tree near the entrance. “A good host would offer you something to drink.”

  My heart pulsated in my throat. Entering the yurt crossed some line in my mind. In here, I was this man’s guest or prisoner. Anything could happen, and I doubted I could get out or to help in time. What was I doing? My mother’s voice sounded in my head about dangerous men with dangerous wants.

  I could still leave now. If I just turned around right now, I could get out and to safety. I could run home or to Byron’s and pretend this was all a dream.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said, my nose in the air. Run. I could still leave. I shouldn’t risk throwing away my life.

  But Bram’s words wouldn’t go away. You’re only as good as your last performance. How could I return empty-handed? Overnight, Langley’s Miscellany had become a huge success. Byron would be expecting more stories. If I couldn’t replicate success like this, what was I to him? Just a wife? He would never admit to it, but deep down, he would know I was a one trick pony or that I was lazy.

  Worse still, my father’s challenge stuck to me. I had to be more than one story if I was to win the Golden Inkwell.

  “So how about this show you were talking about?” I asked.

  “You’re sure you don’t want anything?” Bram had opened
a little cupboard and fingered through a set of bottles. They clinked in different musical tones.

  “Quite sure,” I spit out. “You promised to show me something quite remarkable.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember saying that exactly,” he said, sinking into a chair near the tea table with one of the bottles. He reached into a sack and pulled out another apple. He cut out a wedge and ate it off his knife. A knife? My pulse quickened again. Suddenly, everything looked like a weapon. The bottle. The knife. The Burgos Pointer.

  Get out of here. Get the story. The two thoughts waged war inside of me.

  “You promised a story. You told me your headline act was cut short when someone died, and you invited me to see what the show was. Looking around now, I see you were lying and that there was no show. You’re wasting my time.”

  He peered at me, head tilted, from his seat. I felt like he was looking right inside of me. I eyed the knife.

  “What do you think is going on here?” he asked. “Are you—are you afraid?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You look like a spitting cat, hair on end.”

  “I do not,” I stammered. “I just—” I forced my shoulders to relax and tried to look natural.

  “Do you think I’m going to...attack you or something?” The pointer yawned and curled up for an evening nap.

  “Well,” I said, gathering my courage, “you are gesturing with a knife.”

  He laughed, stuck the knife into the table with an overly dramatic flourish, and stood up. “Let’s just work this out really quick.” He crossed to the yurt opening and drew back the canvas. “You are discriminating against me because I’m a carnival performer, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  “I’m discriminating?” I echoed, gaping.

  “This meeting is over,” he continued and started out the door.