by Abra SW
Dr. Janzen felt the usual anticipation at the first cut of his scalpel. What might he learn?
He made a Y-shaped incision from the shoulders to mid-chest and then straight down to the public bone. Carrying the incisions across allowed him to gently peel back flaps of flesh to reveal the ribcage and glistening organs.
He followed the modern Virchow autopsy procedure, which dictated removing each organ individually, carefully examining it for abnormalities, and preserving what was necessary before proceeding. He felt pride that he followed techniques still taught in the premier medical schools of Berlin. Never mind that he wasn’t licensed and that his patient was quite dead. He would not let his standards slip. And the circus’ Museum of Educational Novelties provided a good source of formaldehyde for specimens.
At some point, the sound of men talking loudly outside and the barking of dogs disturbed him. He pushed aside the blanket covering his window. Lanterns bobbed around the animal wagons. He listened, but he heard no shots, and none of the circus raised an alarm, so he kept working.
The corpse’s over-muscled arm drew his attention. He cut a flap along the forearm and peeled the skin fascia back. He found the lesions he’d feared.
Hoping to disprove his theory, he pulled out sections of muscle and ligament so he could study them more closely beside the lamp. Signs of sudden growth were apparent. The main veins were scaled by fresh scarring, and he noted blood extravasation. The blood leakage into surrounding tissues could have been caused by an allergic reaction or a burn, but there were no other indicators of such a thing. When Dr. Janzen flensed the arm down to the bone, he noted bone deformities, nodules of improper growth that would cause trauma to the area. The man must have been in great discomfort, though he couldn’t have known the cause.
Dr. Janzen had only seen such symptoms during the War. He’d hoped never to see them again.
Long after the corpse was once more bundled up in canvas, the implications kept Dr. Janzen from his rest. Dark thoughts spiraled like buzzards above the dying. Finally, he rose and measured out laudanum sufficient to let him sleep through to sunrise.
~ * ~
Christopher Knall
Christopher was hungry enough that the hardtack crackers were starting to look good. Morning light filtered through chinks in the wall. He heard people and animals moving around. But Ginger hadn’t come back yet.
He pressed his mouth to a crack and hissed, “Hey, Ginger! Could somebody get—”
The secret panel unlocked with a click. He pulled back barely in time to get out of the way before it opened. Ginger stood there, glowering.
“Sorry,” Christopher said. “I—I thought you were going to let me out earlier. I thought you’d forgotten me or been caught.” He climbed out of the dark hidey-hole and stretched. The bright blue morning sky arched above him. A brisk autumn wind ruffled dark red maple leaves. The smoky smell of the cook’s fire wafted on the breeze to him. It all seemed new and precious.
“Fugitives in hiding tend to come out for breakfast,” Ginger told him. “A smart hunter always checks back in the morning.”
Christopher tensed. “They’re here?”
Ginger shrugged. “They aren’t smart hunters. I didn’t think they would be.”
“So you kept me locked up for nothing?”
“Ah!” Ginger raised three fingers. “Rule Number 3: Never underestimate your audience. If they had come back, they wouldn’t have found you. Now you’re going back in your hiding place until I’m absolutely certain it’s safe. Be quiet in there. No calling my name.” He paused. “I’ll bring you a plate of eggs later.”
“Sorry,” Christopher mumbled.
“What are you planning to do today?”
“I need to rescue my friend.”
“And after that? Will you two hide until we’re out of town?”
Christopher frowned. “I can’t just walk away, knowing that they’ll keep doing this to other people. That’s not right.”
“Oh, I have a plan for that.” Ginger smiled a smile with sharper edges than Christopher would expect from such a mild-mannered man.
“What plan?”
“Can you shoot? —Well, never mind, I have explosive charges that will do the job. Rule Number 4: Keep extra explosives on hand. You never know when they’ll be useful.”
~ * ~
Dr. Christopher Janzen, the Great Doctor Panjandrum!
Dr. Janzen found the other circus members to be strangely quiet over breakfast. He didn’t mind. When in his circus persona, The Great Doctor Panjandrum, he unreeled an amazing spiel. The rest of the time, Dr. Janzen enjoyed silence and the ability to observe but say nothing.
This morning, he observed that several people’s appetites were diminished. The group lacked the conviviality typical of a rest day. Only Ginger the clown seemed unaffected.
At least nobody complained about odd noises coming from his wagon the night before, Dr. Janzen thought. The pillow and feed sack must have provided adequate insulation. Or perhaps the circusfolk were distracted by the men who’d visited during the night.
“Did everyone sleep well?” he asked. He certainly hadn’t, but what was their excuse? They remained in blessed ignorance.
They stared at him as if an ostrich had talked.
“Quite well, thank you!” Ginger said cheerily.
“Excellent. Won’t a couple of days rest be welcome? Seeing new faces?”
“They’re just ordinary folks, and we’ll be treating them as such,” Ginger said firmly.
“Certainly, but—”
“I can’t stomach this,” the knife-thrower interrupted harshly, standing up and stalking away.
Dr. Janzen made a mental note to keep an eye on the knife-thrower. His reaction must be due to delayed shock from the attack yesterday. If it persisted, it might be a cause for concern.
“Is anyone going into Seppanen Town?” the midget’s wife asked. “I need a couple of things from the dry goods store, but I don’t trust myself to act all nice.”
Female troubles, Dr. Janzen diagnosed but didn’t say. Women were touchy about such things. “I’d be happy to make your purchases for you,” he said. “I’m planning on walking into town to consult with Mrs. Della Rocca, as a fellow medicine practitioner.” He hoped nobody would ask about what; he didn’t wish to alarm them unnecessarily.
Her lip curled. “Voluntarily? You doctors are cold-blooded.”
Dr. Janzen looked around and found disapprobation on every face except for Ginger’s.
“Did you skip supper?” Ginger asked.
Dr. Janzen blinked at the non sequitur. “Why, yes. I was—working.”
Understanding dawned on the faces around him.
“I thought that must be it, since you’re eating your eggs so heartily!” Ginger said. “Cook’s pork and beans didn’t ruin your appetite. You sure missed something.”
“I’m sorry for snarling,” the female midget said. “I—” She cast about for the right words.
Dr. Janzen held his hand out before she resorted to indelicacy. “Don’t worry about it, dear lady. I understand your condition entirely.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “If it’s particularly bad, I may be able to prescribe a dose of laudanum.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Thank you,” she said in a constricted voice.
“Come to think of it, Doctor,” Ginger said, “you may be the best man to discuss trading for supplies with Mrs. Della Rocca. Nothing in Seppanen Town happens without her say-so, and since you hope to speak with her anyway …”
“But I’ve never—”
“The supply master’s still recovering from being hit in the head,” Ginger said. “He’s subject to spells of confusion.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You’ll have more of a friendly relationship with her than the rest of us could. Collegial. And you won’t actually be trading, just finding out who’s willing to trade what and for how much.”
~ * ~
Dr. Ja
nzen found himself in front of Mrs. Della Rocca’s boarding house still not entirely sure exactly when he’d agreed to act as the circus’ emissary. Still, he did need to speak with her. It made sense to talk trade at the same time.
Mrs. Della Rocca answered his knock wearing a fresh apron and a harried smile. “Good morning!” She squinted. “Are you with the circus?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the circus doctor, actually, and I was hoping that—”
“You must have come to retrieve your sleepwalker! Sleepwalkers. I confess I was afraid that my little flock was going to grow even larger!”
“Your flock? Sleepwalkers? I don’t—”
A child’s shout interrupted him. “It’s bubbling over!”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Della Rocca said. “Come in, come in—I have to take care of this!” She dashed kitchenward.
Dr. Janzen followed at a more dignified pace. When he entered the kitchen, he found her lifting a massive pot of bubbling porridge off the stove, her apron skirt wrapped around the hot handle. Pop! went the porridge, and an oatmeal splat landed on her pristine apron.
“Drat,” she said, looking down. The children giggled.
The children. Almost a dozen children perched in her kitchen, sitting on stools, leaning against the counter, or sitting on the floor. Dr. Janzen studied Mrs. Della Rocca’s “flock.” They ranged in age from toddlers to youths almost old enough to strike out on their own. Their faces glowed with fresh-scrubbed health and their eyes were bright. Some of their clothing was thin to the point of translucency, but hand-stitched patches covered any holes. A couple of the children were on the scrawny side, but their faces weren’t hollow with need.
Every child held a thin sliver of pumpkin pie. He noticed that Mrs. Della Rocca was not having a piece of pie herself; it was all for the children. A treat. A row of porridge bowls on the kitchen table would hold the main course. The bandages and medical supplies had vanished overnight.
A familiar light laugh brought his attention to the corner of the room. A redheaded boy of about thirteen, who must be in the middle of a growth spurt, blocked his view. Dr. Janzen leaned forward. Two familiar faces smiled back at him: the conjoined sisters, Roxane and Betty Murray. One was blonde, the other brunette. Both were pretty enough, setting aside the jointure that left the freak show as their best option for supporting themselves in life. They gave their age as sixteen, but their small stature made them seem closer to twelve. Their act played that up, and so they wore the ruffles and braids of younger girls. He understood why Mrs. Della Rocca thought them children.
Roxane Murray ate her piece of pie daintily but with every evidence of pleasure. Betty took a bite and then set hers down on the counter she leaned against. The redheaded boy eyed the pie and sidled a bit closer.
“Sleepwalkers?” Dr. Janzen asked Mrs. Della Rocca.
She shrugged. “I came downstairs this morning to find them in my kitchen. Both of them were genuinely asleep. I’m certain of that.”
“Thank you for finding them, but I came here to discuss—” he glanced around, “—medical matters not for tender ears. And to gain your advice on acquiring supplies,” he added, as an afterthought.
“Hey!” the redheaded boy complained. “Where did that piece of pie go?”
Roxane turned to him. “It wasn’t your pie!”
In the lull that followed, the only sound was the happy smacking of lips.
“And no, they’re not all my children,” Mrs. Della Rocca said. “I’m sure you were wondering. Some of their parents were townsfolk who died in the storm. Some of them wandered in on the road. They were half-starved! They stay in my boarding house now, and I take care of them. We must protect the children and make sure they have enough food,” she said fiercely. “No matter what it takes. Without the children, we have no future.”
“Commendable. Er, the circus has children to take care of, too. Who would you recommend we talk to about buying food supplies?” Dr. Janzen asked awkwardly. “We have money enough.”
“Paper money? You might as well use it like the Sears catalog. Some farmers might sell you supplies in exchange for hard coin. Try Farmer Johnson. He’s got a lot of good windfall apples but not enough hands to gather them.” She shook her head. “Food is tight, though. We need enough to last us through the winter and to feed our children. But we don’t have hands enough to bring in the harvest.” She sighed. “If there even is a crop to harvest.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our crops are dying. Unpredictably. We just started harvesting potatoes, but many of the plants are hardly edible. They’re shriveled, twisted things. We can’t tell which are ruined until we dig them all up. Sometimes just the leaves are shriveled, sometimes the whole plant.”
“And some are normal,” Dr. Janzen continued. “And some—are some unusually large?”
“Yes!” She smiled. “They don’t make up for the bad ones, but they help.”
He glanced around. “That’s what I wanted to speak with you about. Not in front of the children, though.” He gave her a meaningful look.
“Once they’ve had their breakfast, I’ll send them out. As far as buying food goes,” she shook her head, “you’re on your own. The dry goods store doesn’t have much. Mostly we barter food with each other. A bushel of apples for six pumpkins. Like that. I make sure that even those who don’t have anything worth bartering still get a little food. Nobody in Seppanen Town will starve if I can help it.” She squared her shoulders. “But the circus isn’t part of Seppanen Town.”
“The children must come first,” Dr. Janzen murmured. The town was lucky to have such a determined champion. That didn’t get food in the bellies of circusfolk, though. “More food than you can harvest,” he said musingly. “Wasting food in these times is a sin. Can we harvest what would otherwise go to waste?”
Her eyes sharpened with interest. “That doesn’t benefit us if you keep everything you gather. We might yet be able to bring in the harvest ourselves, if we can get more labor from travelers passing through.”
“So we only keep part of our take. What’s a fair percentage?”
A tow-headed little boy tugged on Mrs. Della Rocca’s skirt, holding up an empty bowl. “Please, ma’am, may I have some more?”
“Just a little bit, Oliver. We have to share.” She dolloped out another ladle of porridge. Then she tilted her head, considering Dr. Janzen. “I understand that sharecroppers would usually keep half,” she said dubiously.
“Done!”
She looked a bit regretful, as if she should have named a lower amount. To distract her, Dr. Janzen said, “Not much sharecropping up here. Have you lived in the South?”
“I worked as a nurse in Fredericksburg, during the War and a bit after. I met my husband there.” Her eyes softened. “But it wasn’t to be. And you? Where were you during the war?”
“Chattanooga.”
“Did you know Dr. Mary Walker? An eccentric, to be sure, but also a fine doctor and a gallant lady.”
“I—mostly dealt with the dead,” he temporized, remembering the terrible softening of the limbs that occurred as the dead settled into their new state. It was worse, somehow, when he didn’t have to fight to strip the corpses of their soiled clothes. The yielding flesh was too lifelike, so that he almost believed he bathed and wrapped and boarded living men into coffins. When he had nightmares of the dead, he woke with the imprint of that feeling still lingering on his fingertips.
“Can our people start harvesting today?” he asked, pushing away the memory. “We’ll trade for what we can, but from what you say, I doubt that will be enough.”
She answered with a quickness that hinted she had nightmares of her own to banish. “Yes. We need more hands in the potato field to bring the crop in. You can start there.”
He waited in silence while the children finished scraping the last bit of porridge out of their bowls. As soon as they were done, Mrs. Della Rocca shooed them outside to go help in the fields.
&nbs
p; Dr. Janzen tilted his head to indicate that the conjoined sisters should wait outside too. Betty blinked at him, but Roxane nodded and whispered in her sister’s ear. As they passed, Dr. Janzen noticed a smear of pumpkin pie on the back of their dress, but it didn’t seem to be the moment to comment.
“I apologize for making you wait,” Mrs. Della Rocca said to him, once the last child had stacked its bowl in her washing basin and left, “but a few of these children went hungry for so long that, if I don’t watch them, they’ll bolt their food and then get sick later.”
“Your concern is admirable.”
“I do what I can, and the devil take the hindmost.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “What did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t be discussed in front of the children?” she asked, as she began to tidy up the kitchen.
“We were attacked before we reached your town.”
“Oh?” She moved over to the stove.
“One of the men died during the attack. When I performed the autopsy, I discovered some disturbing signs that may explain why they attacked us.”
She lifted a heavy cast iron skillet from the stove top and walked toward him. “Did you tell anyone else about it before you came here?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to alarm them unnecessarily. But you have a medical background, and even more importantly, you were on the front lines during the War.”
She stopped in front of him. “What does that have to do with it?” she asked, running one hand over the curve of the frying pan.
“Did you ever treat any of the Confederacy’s Grey Steel regiment? The ones who had been taking bone aether for too long, or in too high of a dose?”
She paled. “Yes. But that can’t have anything to do with the—bandits. The Union banned the military use of bone aether and destroyed the war harnesses.”
“Surely they missed a few. Something so valuable, so dangerous—people would keep it in case of need. Bury it in the back yard. Or maybe a clever person could jury-rig something similar up from an old slave harness. Those are still legal, even if slavery isn’t.”