Mending Horses

by M. P. Barker

  She coughed the tightness out of her throat and cupped her hand around the raven’s breast, feeling the tiny heart beating fast against her fingers. The bird had chosen her; she would sing for him. She chose a song that Mam had taught her about the goddess Morrigan, who took the form of a raven and taunted the hero Cúchulainn as he was dying. Never before had the song felt so true and so sad. Never before had the song made her cry as she sang it. When she finished, the crowd was so silent that she feared she’d made a mess of it.

  The conjurer shook his head, blinking several times, as if he’d just awoken. “My God in heaven,” he whispered so softly that she could barely hear him. “Where in hell did Jonny find you?”

  The applause broke over them so suddenly that it startled the raven from his perch. The bird circled Billy and the conjurer, cawing loudly, before settling back down, this time on Billy’s shoulder, where he tugged at her hair as if he wanted a yellow tuft to add to his nest.

  The conjurer placed his hand on Billy’s head again, raising the other to signal for silence. “As I said, ladies and gentlemen, this child has powers beyond your imagining.” He ruffled her hair and added softly, “And mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “The Prince will not see anyone.” A fortress of a man stood in front of the tent, legs braced wide, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Oh, I think Fred’ll want to see me,” Jonathan said.

  “Fred?” The guard blinked. “How do you—I mean, there’s nobody by that name here.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to arrest the old reprobate. Just wanting to pay a call on a friend.” Jonathan raised a hand at the guard’s scowl. “I know it defies credibility that Fred would have any friends, but there’s one or two of us that haven’t given up on him entirely.”

  Long brown fingers streaked with white drew aside the tent flap. Fred had discarded his turban; a white band across his forehead showed where Prince Otoo Baswamati’s skin ended and Fred Chamberlain’s began. Instead of the prince’s multicolored robe, he wore a threadbare, stained dressing gown with a large towel tucked into his collar like a ruff. “I swear! Jonathan Quincy Stocking, you old scoundrel!” he cried, grabbing Jonathan by the lapels and dragging him into the tent, waving to Daniel and Billy to follow.

  “You ain’t gone and made yourself a family man, have you, Jonny?” Fred asked. He’d shed the Indian conjurer’s turban and mannerisms, but his deep-set eyes were no less dark and probing. When his gaze targeted Billy, one dark eyebrow arched slowly.

  “Traveling companions,” Jonathan explained, drawing Fred’s glance away from the girl. “A coupl’a boys seeking freedom and adventure and good company. Dan’l—Billy—” He gestured for them to come forward. “Meet Fred Chamberlain. Prince Baswamati, the Indian mystic and conjurer, formerly Chief Talks With Fire, the Cherokee shaman, formerly Sir Evelyn Higginbottom, spiritualist and prestidigitator extraordinaire, formerly—”

  “Now, now, Jonny, no need. Any friends of Jonny’s—well, as they say . . .” Fred offered his hand to Daniel. “Mr.—”

  “Linnehan,” Jonathan replied.

  Fred kept Daniel’s hand a fraction longer than courtesy required, a test of some kind in both handshake and gaze.

  “And?” Fred turned to Billy.

  “Mr. Fogarty,” Jonathan said. “Mr. William James Michael Fogarty.”

  “Mister,” Fred repeated, enveloping the girl’s hand in his. Her cheeks reddened.

  “Mister,” Jonathan said emphatically. He clapped Fred on the back, breaking his grip on Billy’s hand. “Why don’t you boys run along? See the menagerie tent and the mummy and all that. Fred and me got a lot’a years to catch up on.”

  “Good idea.” Fred rummaged among the jars and bottles, rags and brushes scattered across his dressing table and drew out a penny. “Here.” He held the coin out to Billy. “Buy yourself a treat.”

  Billy took the penny mechanically, apparently transfixed by Fred’s transformation from Indian mystic and conjurer to plain old Fred.

  Daniel nudged her. “C’mon. I want to take a closer look at them dancing ponies.”

  As the pair disappeared, Fred stared after them like a cat studying a cageful of canaries. Then he shook himself and slapped Jonathan on the back. “Well, Jonny, it’s been a few years. Seven? Eight, maybe?” He reached into one of his pockets, pulled out a segar, and gave it to Jonathan. “You’re looking well.” He snapped his fingers, and a flame appeared in his hand.

  Even though Jonathan knew how the trick was done, he still couldn’t see where the lucifer had come from or how Fred had struck it. “Still quick as ever, aren’t you?” he said.

  “No.” Fred gingerly peeled the mustache from his upper lip. “Quicker.” He sat on a stool by his dressing table and smeared his face with grease. “How d’you like the act?”

  “It’s a pip. Best you’ve come up with yet,” Jonathan said, savoring the segar. Fred’s taste was still as good as ever. Except for the cot, the tent looked like a gentleman’s bedchamber. A painted canvas covered the ground, and furniture and trunks crowded the space: a chest of drawers, a washstand, two chairs and a small table set with a cloth, a bottle, a glass, and a covered basket. All were a bit worn, but they’d been good quality when new. If Fred hadn’t come up in the world, he at least was trying to look the part. Jonathan blew a smoke ring that drifted toward the tent’s peak. “The birds—that’s a brilliant touch.”

  “I should hope so.” Fred’s voice was muffled by the rag he used to rub off Prince Otoo Baswamati’s dusky complexion. “Cost a pretty penny. They talk, too.” He looked up over the edge of the towel, one bushy eyebrow dangling into his eye like a fat fuzzy caterpillar. With a grimace, he yanked it off. He squeezed his eyes shut before he peeled the other one off with a noise like tearing paper. He tossed the eyebrows onto the dressing table next to the mustache. “Trouble with the birds is,” he said, scrubbing at his real eyebrows, “you got to remember not to feed ’em until after the show. Out in Ashfield, some idiot gave ’em blackberries a little while before I went on. Must’a ruined a hundred dollars of bonnets and gowns when they flew over the audience. We couldn’t get out of that town fast enough.”

  Jonathan hooted with laughter.

  “Where’d you pick them two up? One of your ladies pin a coupl’a bastards on you?” Fred asked.

  Jonathan puffed a cloud of smoke between himself and Fred. “They’re mine, I guess. But not by blood.”

  “Got yourself a pair of foundlings, then, huh?”

  “We-l-l-l, I’m not exactly sure who found who. They just sort’a happened along, and we kind’a stuck. I got to admit, having a coupl’a young fellas along makes for good company.”

  Fred leaned over the mirror and tilted his head to see if he’d gotten all the makeup off. “Where’d you find the girl?” He scowled and deepened his voice. “You cannot keep the truth from Prince Baswamati.” He rubbed his hands over each other as if casting a spell. “She’s good,” he said, returning to his normal voice. “Almost fooled me. So, are them two brother and sister?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “They only quarrel like they was.”

  “Females are always trouble.” Fred suddenly seemed engrossed in using a tiny pair of scissors to scrape away the traces of makeup clinging to his cuticles. Without looking up, he said, “I’d be happy to take her off your hands.”

  “Wouldn’t you just?” Jonathan narrowed his eyes.

  “Anyone else, I’d try to fox ’em into giving her away. But you, friend, name your price and you can have it.”

  “She’s not mine to sell.”

  “You got a bond on her? Seems a peculiarish sort of indenture, giving a girl to a—what line of work are you in these days, anyway?” Fred unpinned the towel and tossed it aside, then shrugged out of his dressing gown. While seven years had softened Jonathan’s middle and grayed his hair, Fred’s body was still lean and well-muscled.

  “I’m in the peddling trade now,” Jonat
han said. “I got Billy from a father who’s even more of a reprobate than you are.”

  “So she belongs to him, then?” Fred poured water into a basin and soaped his hands to remove the last of his makeup.

  “She belongs to herself. You want to bargain, you’ll have to talk to her direct.” As a flicker of anticipation crept across Fred’s face, Jonathan added, “Of course, I’ll advise her, what with my many years of professional expertise and my intimate knowledge of your character.”

  “All right, Jonny. You got me.” Fred shook his head in temporary defeat. “I’ll wager you make a tidy profit out’a that girl and her voice.”

  “I don’t keep her for the profit.”

  Fred raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who taught me there’s no profit in sentiment?” He bent over the basin and scrubbed his face. “What about the boy?” he asked. “He got any particular qualities other than big ears and bad looks?”

  “He’s mad for horses. Good with ’em, too. And no, he ain’t for sale, neither.”

  “What do you take me for?” Fred raised his head, bearded in white lather.

  “A cheat and a rapscallion and a scoundrel. Damned if I know how I ever come to call you a friend.”

  “Because underneath it all I have a good heart.” Fred laid a dripping hand on his chest.

  “Underneath it all you’re still a cheat and a rapscallion and a scoundrel. But I’m more fool than not, and there ain’t no accounting for taste.”

  “Don’t s’pose there is,” Fred said, bending back down to rinse his face. “Which is why I’m tempted to make you an offer in spite of your pigheadedness.” He groped for a towel. Jonathan put it in his hand. “You still got your fiddle?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Travel with us for a bit. You can peddle whatever it is that you peddle. If you or your . . . traveling companions feel minded to tread the boards, you can name your terms. It’ll be like the old times again.”

  “The old times wasn’t always so good, as I remember.” Jonathan settled into one of the chairs and uncorked the bottle.

  “Well, the new times ain’t, either. It’s a poor show that’s got only one horse act in it.”

  “Looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself here.” Jonathan poured a glass of amber liquid and raised it to his lips. It wasn’t the rum or cider he’d expected, but brandy. “Smells like it, too,” he said before taking a sip. Brandy, all right, and damn good brandy, at that. “You’ve even got real talent working for you. Your Italian songbird sounds like the genuine article.”

  “Actually, she’s Quebecois. But who’d pay to hear a Canadian songbird? No, they all got to come from across the ocean.” Fred rummaged through the chest of drawers and pulled out a clean shirt.

  “Canadian or Italian or Hottentot, you can’t hear much better in Boston or New York.”

  “If only you knew. You try running this show with an Italian songbird who’s broody.”

  “Flatter her. Humor her. Buy her a bauble, and she’ll get over being broody.”

  “It ain’t that sort of broody,” Fred said as he pulled his shirt on over his head.

  Jonathan’s first “Oh” was accompanied by a puzzled frown. The conjurer gave him a meaningful glower while pulling the front of his shirt out away from his body. Jonathan’s mouth dropped open in comprehension.

  “But surely with her—it won’t—I mean, she’s so—” Jonathan’s hands drew an outline in the air about the size of Madame Staccato. “Well, it won’t show for quite a bit. . . . Will it?”

  “Showing ain’t the problem. We can hide the showing. But she’s so worn out she can’t get up the wind for the high notes any more. And that’s on top of puking her throat raw.”

  “She was in splendid voice this afternoon.”

  Turning one of the chairs backward, Fred straddled it and leaned his forearms across its back. “You caught her on a good day,” he said, topping off Jonathan’s glass. “She can’t get closer to high C than A flat, and she’s going down steady. In a month, my Italian songbird’ll be singing bass.”

  “It is a dilemma, friend. A dilemma indeed. Is there, um, a Monsieur Staccato?”

  “That’s the worst of it.” Fred pulled the cloth from the basket and tucked it into his collar napkinwise. “If only Neezer could marry her.”

  “Neezer?”

  “Professor Romanov. He was just Ebenezer Pruitt and two stumbling ponies before I made him into something. And he does this to me.” Fred took an apple from the basket. “It’s a blow to my heart, Jonny,” he said, thumping his chest with the apple. “A blow to my heart.”

  “Why not make the most of it? Professor Romanov woos the Italian songbird. The culmination of true romance on stage before your very eyes. You could get ’em married in half a dozen towns before word got around.”

  “Neezer can’t marry her.” Fred bit into his apple with a vicious crunch.

  “There’s a Mrs. Pruitt?”

  Fred nodded dismally. “I’m bound to lose one or the other of ’em before the month is out. And then what do I do with all them damn ponies?”

  “The ponies aren’t his?” Jonathan asked, taking a pie from the bottom of the basket.

  “They were. But the damn fool don’t know any better than to play dice with a mystic and conjurer. . . . And then there’s the camelopard.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that.”

  “Dead. The morbid sore throat. What would you expect with a critter that’s all neck? My guess is he was already sick when I got him; I thought the bargaining went too easy.” Fred opened one of the drawers in the dressing table and extracted a pair of plates, a serviette, and silverware that appeared to be actual silver. He gestured for Jonathan to serve out the pie. “You know how big a hole you got to dig to bury a thing like that? We’d still be digging yet.”

  “You’d still be—uh—So, um, what did you do with him?”

  “You seen that wagon ’round back? The green one?”

  Jonathan nodded. “I figured it was for your costumes and gear and all that.” He scooped a bit of pie up with his knife and lifted it to his mouth.

  “Well, it was.”

  Jonathan stopped midbite.

  “Now don’t look at me like that, Jonny. It’s only the skin and bones. He’s cleaned up proper, doesn’t smell a bit. First I thought I’d get him stuffed somewhere. But that’d be a hell of a thing to be dragging along, ’specially once the weather turns. So now I’m thinking to sell him to one of those zoological societies, maybe in New York. Let them stuff him, huh?”

  Jonathan nodded, unsure whether to laugh or sympathize. Then a thought occurred to him. “Fred—”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “You said you kept the skin and bones. But what happened to—um—the rest of him?” The pie in Jonathan’s plate didn’t seem quite so appetizing anymore.

  Fred straightened up and grinned. He put his pinky to his mouth as if he were picking his teeth with his fingernail. Then he rubbed his stomach.

  “You didn’t!”

  “I had to get back some of my investment. Fed the carnivores and the whole company nearly a week and sold the rest. He was a little bit chewy, but not bad eating for all that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Daft, Billy thought. The lad’s daft. “Whyever don’t you just take ’em?” she whispered.

  Daniel gave her a sharp look. He paid the vendor, cradled the six apples inside his cap, and tucked the lot under his arm. As they turned away from the stall, he stumbled against Billy. When he recovered himself, he somehow had another apple in his hand.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said to the vendor in the flat broad Yankee tones he’d learned from Mr. S. “I miscounted. That’s seven all together.” He paid for the last apple and walked away, whistling between his teeth and tossing the seventh apple in his hand as he went.

  Billy followed, wondering what sort of game he was up to. She thrust her hands into her pockets as s
he walked, then stopped short.

  “Hey!” she said, then “Hey!” again, louder, when Daniel didn’t stop.

  He faced her, walking backward, still tossing the apple. “Missin’ something?” he asked.

  “That’s mine!” she said. Part of her wanted to give him a kick in the shins, but part of her admired the way he’d captured her money along with the apple, all without her ever feeling his hand in her pocket.

  “Oh, aye? Seems to me I’m the one as did the paying for it, eh?”

  “You got me money, too, you bastard! Give it back! I’ll call you out for a thief, I will!”

  “Go right ahead, you wee ee-jit. Mr. Stocking’ll know who to believe, won’t he now?”

  Her face grew hot, not with anger, but with the truth of it.

  Daniel stooped to face her nose to nose. “What’s the matter with you? Mr. Stocking takes us to a grand show, his friend gives you money, and the first thing you think to do is shame ’em both, and me, too, by stealing.”

  “I—I—I didn’t think,” she said, heat washing all the way to her belly now.

  Daniel knocked her hat askew. “That’s your trouble. You don’t never think, do you?”

  “I do too. I think about Phizzy,” she said. “And Mr. S.”

  Daniel straightened her cap, then yanked the visor down over her eyes. “Well, then, maybe you’re not entirely hopeless.”

  Fumbling with her hat, she stepped forward blindly and walked into an enormous purple cushion. “Zut, alors! Qu’est-ce que c’est?” The cushion seized her by the shoulders and shook her. “Petit cochon!” the cushion exclaimed, then continued with a string of words so fast and strange that they seemed all one great, long word.

  She looked up in horror and awe to see that the cushion wore the face of “M-M-M-adame St-St-St—” Billy couldn’t get her mortified tongue past the St—.

  “Madame Staccato.” Daniel grabbed Billy away from the mountainous singer. He made his best bow, his face blushing nearly as red as his hair. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” He snatched off Billy’s hat and poked her to make her bow, too. “So sorry, ma’am. My friend doesn’t always look where he’s going. I hope he hasn’t mussed your gown.”