The White City

by John Claude Bemis

  “I just hope Gigi is all right,” Marisol whispered.

  “Fifty cents each,” the attendant said. Marisol handed over the coins, and they passed through the gates to the Midway.

  The long street leading down the Midway bustled with excited visitors. Jostled by laughing children and parasol-wielding ladies and neat-mustached gentlemen, the four walked with dumbfounded amazement.

  Their medicine show had been nothing compared to the entertainment offered here. One moment they were walking through a picturesque Bavarian village with beer gardens, brass bands, and a grand town hall, the next they were in Cairo with towering mosques, belly dancers, and shouting vendors. A ruined Irish castle sat beside a long slide inexplicably made of snow. Masked Javanese hunters in grass huts were between a great tiled swimming pool full of raucous bathers and a colorful Japanese market.

  Above the temples and coliseums and mock hamlets rose an enormous mechanical wheel, nearly three hundred feet tall. Conker kept his eyes cautiously on the monstrous wheel, fearing it would break off at any moment and roll down the Midway, crushing people in its wake.

  “Look.” Marisol pointed up. “There are people riding in that wheel!”

  “How big are those cabins?” Redfeather gasped.

  “Looks like railcars,” Conker said.

  A dapper young man in a white suit turned to them with amusement. “First time to the fair?” he asked.

  Si glared at him suspiciously, but Marisol nodded with a smile.

  “That’s Mister Ferris’s wheel,” the young man explained. “Built it to rival Eiffel’s tower in Paris. He’s done it and more, hasn’t he? A swell sight, don’t you think?”

  “It’s remarkable,” Marisol said. “Have you toured all the Expo?”

  The man laughed. “I don’t think anyone could see it all in a lifetime.”

  “There’s more than this?” Redfeather asked.

  “Sure there’s more,” he said. “This is just the Midway. Keep going and you’ll be in the White City.”

  “The White City?” Marisol asked.

  “That’s what they call it, on account of nearly all the buildings being white. You’ll think you’re in Athens or Rome or somewhere. There’s hundreds of buildings.”

  Conker felt his stomach sinking. Hundreds of buildings …

  “We’re looking for a friend of ours who works here,” Marisol explained.

  “Well, what exhibit does he work for?” the man asked, his eyes dancing over Marisol’s and Redfeather’s outfits and up to Conker and down to Si.

  “We’re not sure what it’s called,” Redfeather said. “But they built the display in a factory down in Kansas and loaded all this machinery for it on trains just a few weeks ago.”

  “Hmm …” The young man ran his finger thoughtfully along his sporting mustache. “I suppose it could be the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building. That’s the largest. You can’t miss it, all the way down on the lakefront. But there’s also the Palace of Mechanic Arts and the Hall of Progress. Maybe the Transportation or the Electricity building? Boy, there’s an awful lot it could be. Do you know what they display?”

  “Not exactly,” Marisol said, blinking at all the names. “Just a large machine of some sort.”

  “Well, sorry I can’t help you, but go ask around in the buildings. Someone will know your friend.”

  They thanked the man and headed down the rest of the Midway, under the noisy raised railroad platform, and finally into the White City. The young man had not exaggerated. Great white buildings rose from the shorefront of Lake Michigan, looking more like temples from ancient Jerusalem than a modern fair. Among the buildings were ponds and fountains, some small and one so large it surrounded a tree-covered island with a Japanese temple and an elaborately manicured rose garden.

  The four made their way from building to building, wandering through displays of various electric Edison lights and contraptions, huge sewing machines and conveyor belts, a grand telescope, bicycles of strange designs, the latest makes in warships and historical wagons and locomotives, as well as display after display of paintings, marble sculptures, beautiful glass and jewels, musical instruments, a replica of the Liberty Bell made of lemons and grapefruits, a stuffed mammoth, and an invention called an elevator that could carry people straight up to the tops of the buildings.

  All the while, Marisol and Redfeather inquired with those working the exhibits about Gigi and the machine brought up from Kansas, but no one could tell them anything to help their search.

  When it was late afternoon, they rested down at the waterfront. Marisol brought back stuffed cabbages and boiled dumplings from a Polish café, along with some sweets she said were called crackerjacks.

  “We’re never going to find Gigi,” Redfeather complained as he gazed down at the water lapping at the breakwater.

  “We have to,” Marisol said.

  Conker glanced over, anticipating the usual bickering between the two, but it seemed Redfeather was too exhausted or discouraged to argue. He turned to Si, to share a smirk as they often did, but her attention was on a group of men tying a dinghy up at the wharf.

  “Think we should look for lodging somewhere?” Conker asked her.

  Si continued watching the men.

  “What is it?” Conker asked.

  “You recognize them?”

  Conker looked again, but the men had disappeared into the crowd strolling along the waterfront. “No. Were they Bowlers?”

  “Not Bowlers,” Si said, standing and craning her neck to look for them.

  “Who, then?” Redfeather asked.

  “I’m not sure, but two of them looked familiar.” Si wrapped up the rest of her food and put it in her pocket.

  “We wouldn’t know anybody here—” Marisol began, but Si had already set off down the waterfront.

  Conker scrambled to his feet, along with Redfeather and Marisol.

  “Pardon me,” Conker said as he tried to wade through the flood of people. “Si!” he called. “Slow down.”

  Si was already far ahead, crossing a bridge and disappearing behind an agricultural building. “Hurry,” Redfeather urged, passing Conker to jog after Si. Cows were lowing from stock exhibits, and the crowds thinned on the back side of a pavilion. Conker spied Si again, and farther ahead the group of men, all dressed in cheap woolen suits and walking hurriedly down an alleyway that was clearly not where fairgoers ventured.

  Donkey wagons filled with the fair’s garbage waited in an alley, and Conker had to squeeze to get around the braying animals. “Si!” he called out, but she had already turned a corner in the alley. Redfeather pulled his rucksack off his shoulder and slid his tomahawk out, sheltering it against his leg as he rounded the corner.

  “What’s he doing now?” Marisol hissed from Conker’s side.

  But Conker was glad for Redfeather’s caution, and he picked up his pace to turn the corner. They were now deep in a maze of dirty alleys that cut between warehouses at the edge of the Expo grounds. Si had stopped and was talking to Redfeather as Conker and Marisol caught up.

  “… I don’t know which way they went,” Si was saying. “But one of them saw me following them. I know them from somewhere.…”

  The sun was setting, and dark shadows filled the alley. Conker said, “Come on. They’re gone now.”

  “We should go,” Marisol said.

  A solitary man wearing a moth-eaten porkpie hat stepped out in front of them. He had bulging fish-like eyes and spoke through a mouth of silver-capped teeth. “You’ve been following me, girl,” the man sneered, his hands cocked in his pockets. “That tattoo of yours leading you to more trouble?”

  “Who are you?” Conker stepped between Si and the man. There was something familiar about him, but Conker could not place it.

  “And you. Still looking for a fight you can’t win, giant?” the fish-eyed man asked.

  Conker’s eyes flickered toward the man’s hands as they dropped deeper into his pockets. “You a
sking for a fight with me?” Conker growled.

  The man laughed. “Me, fight? No. But do you think you could still take him?” He nodded behind the four.

  Conker spun around with the others. A group of six men blocked the alley, and at their front was an enormous man, massive gorilla arms hanging from swollen shoulders and a nonexistent neck. The huge man massaged his knuckles. “I don’t know how you come back from the dead, but I had a good nap just a bit ago. Ghost or not, I think I could take you.”

  Redfeather brought up his tomahawk, and Marisol extended her arm so Javidos slid out from her sleeve, hissing angrily. But Conker only put a hand on Redfeather’s shoulder, pushing past him.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you in those ugly suits.” Conker laughed, rushing forward to clasp the huge man around the shoulders. The other men broke into merry jeers and slapped Conker’s back.

  “Si, my dearie.” The fish-eyed man smiled, and Si rushed up to hug him.

  Redfeather and Marisol looked at each other, perplexed by the reunion. “Who are these men?” Redfeather asked.

  With an arm over the big man’s shoulder, Conker said, “This here’s Big Jimmie. And over there, that’s Mister Lamprey. Here’s Old Joshua and—”

  “Wait a moment,” Marisol said, her eyes wide. “I’ve seen them before too. After you destroyed the Gog’s train …”

  “They’re pirates?” Redfeather balked.

  “That’s right,” Mister Lamprey said with a roguish bow. “Greetings from the Snapdragon.”

  “What are you all doing here?” Si asked.

  Mister Lamprey leaned close and in a low voice said, “The Pirate Queen is planning a robbery. You wouldn’t believe all the riches they’ve got here. Various persons—wealthy folk, you see—have hired the Pirate Queen to pluck certain objects of great value from the Expo. Jewels that belonged to Queen Isabella of Spain. A coronet from India. Some Moorish diadem. You get the idea.”

  “Are you on your way now?” Redfeather asked.

  Mister Lamprey chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “No. No. Heists like these take lots of preparation. Lots to plan out. We’re just gathering information, if you see. Doing reconnaissance.”

  “We’re trash collectors,” Big Jimmie added, running his thumbs under his suspenders.

  “What?” Si asked.

  “We’ve taken employ in the sanitation crew,” Mister Lamprey said, winking. “That’s why we’re wearing these duds. Tonight, it’s just work. Sweeping sidewalks. Emptying waste bins.”

  “But all the while,” Big Jimmie said, “we’re learning the layout. Watching the guards and their routines. Making notes.”

  “Aye,” Mister Lamprey said. “But why are you here? And how come you’re breathing and walking, Conker, after last we saw you blown to smithereens?”

  One of the other pirates gave a cough, and they turned to see more sanitation workers coming down the alley. They stepped to the side to let them pass.

  “Actually, your tale will have to wait,” Lamprey said. “We’d best stay in good with our boss. Can’t afford to get the boot, if you see. Where are you all staying?”

  “We don’t have anywhere,” Si said.

  Mister Lamprey smiled. “Then you’ll be staying with us on the Snapdragon.”

  “It’s here?” Redfeather gasped.

  “Out in the lake.” Mister Lamprey cocked a thumb back over his shoulder.

  “We had to paint it pretty yellow,” Big Jimmie added. “So it wouldn’t look … what’s the word?”

  “Conspicuous,” Lamprey said. “Meet us down at the big fountain. By the statue of Lady Liberty.”

  “Which one?” Si asked.

  “The gold statue in the main fountain. She’s called Big Mary. You can’t miss her. Say, half past ten.” Mister Lamprey tipped his porkpie hat to the four as the pirates headed for work. “Then we’ll take you to the Pirate Queen.”

  WITH A SHOVE FROM THE AGENT, RAY FELL IN THE DIRT. HE sat up and ran the back of his hand across his bleeding lip. The agents surrounded him, their firearms drawn.

  “Mister Muggeridge,” Pike called out toward the steamcoach. “We’ve got the boy.”

  The door opened from the back of the steamcoach, and Muggeridge stepped down. He lifted his bowler hat to run his fingers through his mane of silver hair and, after replacing the black hat, brought his fingers to his beard, stroking the whiskers as he watched Ray.

  “We got him, yes sir,” the agent who had punched Ray said gleefully. He was one of the youngest of the remaining eight agents, a crop of red hair sprouting from the front of his bowler hat. “Caught him down in those trees, see.”

  “My vision hasn’t failed me, Mister Sandusky,” Muggeridge said. “You’re certain he’s the Rambler boy. Not just some kid off a ranch?”

  Mister Pike answered, “The crow flew into the trees where the boy was hiding.”

  “Where’s the crow now?” Muggeridge grumbled.

  Sandusky exchanged a glance with Pike. “We didn’t find the crow, sir,” Mister Sandusky said.

  “Mister Muggeridge,” Pike said. “When we caught the boy, his actions were indicative of one who knows he’s being followed.”

  Muggeridge frowned. “What kinds of actions would those be, Mister Pike?”

  Pike didn’t flinch, but the other agents anxiously watched the exchange between their commanding officer and his second-in-command. Pike said, “So he started running from us and put up a fight when he was caught. He hasn’t spoken a word to explain who he’d be otherwise.”

  Muggeridge looked down at Ray. “You the Rambler boy?”

  Ray locked eyes with Muggeridge but offered no reply.

  “You hear me?” Muggeridge said, kicking a spray of gravel against Ray.

  “Want me to get him to talk, sir?” Sandusky asked.

  Muggeridge sneered but shook his head. “I’ve just been in the back with our Hound. He’s still got the scent and it’s still to the west. Doesn’t sound like this would be our Rambler, does it?”

  “But, sir—” Pike began, but his words were cut off.

  “It’s some Rambler trick, yeah!” De Courcy growled, nursing his injured arm against his side.

  As an angry murmuring made its way around, Ray sensed the Hoarhound’s presence. He lifted a hand slightly and felt the tingling, the strange draw of the mechanical beast.

  “The Hoarhound is following the Rambler’s charm,” Muggeridge barked. “Now, it could be that the boy there has hidden the rabbit’s paw up in those mountains, but why would he do that? And why turn back toward us? Frankly I don’t think we have the Rambler here.”

  “Damn if this ain’t the Rambler!” Sandusky said. He holstered his pistol and charged forward at Ray, pulling him to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” Muggeridge said.

  “Look!” Sandusky began roughly feeling along Ray’s pockets, down his legs, and then at his chest, where he stopped as his fingers clutched the toby sack. “What have we here, see?”

  Ray twisted away from the agent, but Sandusky had him locked in his grip. With a tug, the agent popped open the top buttons of Ray’s shirt. Ray fell back, and when he landed, the red flannel toby lay exposed.

  Muggeridge’s eyes widened. “Let me see that.”

  Mister Murphy ripped the toby from Ray’s neck and handed it to him. Muggeridge opened the string and emptied the contents into his palm: roots, a dandelion petal, a twist of rue, dried herbs, and other charms. He continued shaking them out and letting them spill to the ground as he searched.

  Mister Pike said, “The Ramblers were known to carry mojo pouches of these here hoodoo curios.”

  “But there’s no rabbit’s foot in it,” Muggeridge said, throwing down the empty red flannel sack.

  “The hell! He’s got it hidden on him somewhere else!” Sandusky cried, and Pike tightened his grip on his arm.

  “Strip him,” Muggeridge ordered.

  Ray tried to remain impassive as Murphy and
another agent removed Ray’s clothes until he stood in the baking sun in only his underclothes and socks. “Where is it?” Sandusky looked as if he were about to attack Ray again.

  “Some sort of spell he’s cast on it,” one of the other agents suggested.

  “To make it invisible,” another agreed.

  “I’m not looking for a discussion,” Muggeridge barked. “I want some order here with you men!”

  “We’ve been out here for weeks on these blasted plains!” Sandusky shouted. “How much farther we going to go? To the Pacific? To China? Yes sir, we’re chasing a ghost!”

  “Put Mister Sandusky in the coach,” Muggeridge told Pike.

  Sandusky furled his brow but allowed Pike to lead him away. Muggeridge said, “You men get to your posts. Ready the steamcoach.” The men reluctantly backed away as ordered.

  Muggeridge looked at Ray after they were alone. “Put your clothes back on, boy.”

  Ray began dressing. When Pike returned, he asked Muggeridge in a low voice, “Sir, are we going to continue pursuit?”

  “We have orders to bring back the Rambler boy and his rabbit’s paw,” Muggeridge said. “And this kid isn’t carrying it.”

  Pike’s voice was tight. “The men are nearly mutinous, Mister Muggeridge. Supplies are low. Morale is worse. And I absolutely feel we have convincing evidence that this here boy is the Rambler we’re after, even if we can’t find the charm. Let’s find out.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Bring out the Hound.”

  Ray had just fastened the last button of his shirt. He kept his gaze down, trying to mask the fear twitching at his jaw.

  Muggeridge paused. “All right. You watch the boy.”

  He turned toward the back of the steamcoach. Pike thumbed the hammer back on his pistol and motioned toward Ray. “Sit on down there.”

  Ray sank to the dusty earth.

  Muggeridge unlatched the door and entered the car. After a moment, he came back out, his hand clutching the Hoarhound at the throat. Ray had only ever seen the creature at night, images that had been blurred by darkness and the terror of the encounters. But now, as the frost-armored beast steamed in the hot air, Ray had time to see Grevol’s creation more clearly. Bigger than a bull, the Hound had enormous jaws that hung slack, and its back was stitched up crudely from the battle with the rougarou.