A Circus of Brass and Bone

by Abra SW

  “Only as much as the whole town is,” Madame Wershow said. “And now you understand. Make sure the ticket taker knows not to accept fractional currency. If it’s worthless to them, it’s worthless to us. I’ll tell the rest of the circus that now we’re farmers, too.”

  Dr. Janzen nodded and left. When he found the wizened old ticket taker, he told him, “Don’t accept paper money. The people in this town think it’s worthless—and they might be right, soon enough. Coin or food only.”

  “Food?” the old man squawked. “How do I know what a potato’s worth? How much ‘change’ do I give back for a chicken? Half an egg!?”

  “Er, um.” Dr. Janzen floundered. “Charge one meal’s worth of food.”

  The old man squinted at him. “Is it a meal for somebody who’s really hungry, or for somebody who’s not so hungry?”

  “Use your best judgment!”

  ~ * ~

  Lindsay Kleinman

  Sally’s Saloon, Seppanen Town, Connecticut

  Lindsay Kleinman wiped down her bar top with a wet rag. Her dark hair fell forward and she pushed it back with a wince. The motion sent an ache through her arms. She’d worked a dawn-to-dusk shift in the fields for the last five days straight, and now she had a half-day off. A sane woman would be sleeping, but here she was, opening her saloon even though it was too early for most anyone to be drinking. She’d worked hard to open her own saloon, and she’d be damned if a minor inconvenience like the end of the world was going to make her give it up. Cathy helped out when she could, but it was Lindsay’s saloon and Lindsay knew better than to rely on anyone else doing her work for her. At least she had one customer. One of the circusfolk had stopped in, a bland-looking man who sat at the edge of the bar.

  She looked up when the saloon doors swung open. Another stranger walked in, his long duster billowing around him. He wore his hat pulled down low, but she saw a long puckered scar running down his cheek.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” the stranger said in a low, gravelly voice. He sat down at the bar and fixed her with an unnervingly cold gaze. “A young man, average tall, brown hair, easygoing. He would have said he was a salesman.”

  “Wh—what do you mean, he would have said he was a salesman?” She was so intent on the stranger that she ignored the bland-looking man—one of the circus people—who struck a match to light his cigarette and then leaned across the bar and turned one of the bottles to read the label.

  The stranger didn’t answer. “Our boss expected him back two weeks ago. Have you seen him?”

  Lindsay cleared her throat. “No, no, I haven’t. Sorry I can’t help you, sir, but here—have a drink on the house! Strangers drink free.”

  “I don’t like alcohol.” The stranger stood to go.

  She drew a breath in relief when he reached the door. Then the stranger paused and looked over his shoulder. “And I don’t like the color blue.”

  He pushed back his duster. When the stranger’s coat opened, Lindsay glimpsed the shine of a badge she recognized. The stranger pulled his pistol in a move so fast and smooth that Lindsay knew if this man wanted to kill her, she was a goner. He was a Pinkerton, and nobody stood against them—at least not for long. She ducked behind the bar with no thought of going after her own gun.

  Bang! An alcohol bottle exploded. She flattened herself to the ground and threw her arms over her head. Another bottle. Then another. Glass shards rained down behind the bar. Lindsay kept her head covered and hoped she wasn’t whimpering aloud.

  The bang!, the sharp crack of breaking bottles, the tinkling glass. The sounds echoed in her ears long after the shots stopped. When she uncovered her head and gingerly pushed herself up, she saw she was surrounded by a sea of blue glass shards. She looked up at the rack of booze behind the bar. Every shot had shattered a blue bottle, and every blue bottle had been shot. Nothing else was touched.

  “Oh, God, we have Pinkertons in town,” she whispered.

  ~ * ~

  Christopher Knall

  Seppanen Town, Connecticut

  Two houses away, Christopher braced his back against the outhouse wall, his hands on his knees as he breathed deeply.

  “What did I tell you?” Ginger said. “Show them a pistol apparently shooting, and bottles exploding, and they fill in the rest. Last night, I even added spent bullets to the explosive squibs. When they look through the wreckage, they’ll find bullets.”

  “And the fuse?”

  “Burned so fast it would barely scorch the wood. Even if they notice a little mark they won’t know what it is.”

  “I thought I would fumble the pistol for sure!” Christopher gasped.

  Ginger clapped him on the shoulder. “Not after all that practice. You had it four out of five times.”

  “And the fifth time didn’t worry you?”

  “I needed to see how you handle yourself under stress. Some people cave. Other people sharpen. You sharpened.” Ginger smiled. “Always know how the person you’re working with will react.”

  “Let me guess, that’s Rule Number 6 of being a clown?”

  “Rule Number 5, actually. Rule Number 6 is to keep track of your numbers.”

  Christopher laughed. Adrenaline made it shaky. “I’m surprised she didn’t just shoot me.”

  “You flashed the badge. Townies don’t want to shoot a Pinkerton. All killing a Pinkerton gets you is another, angrier Pinkerton. They won’t risk that. They’re civilians.”

  “And we’re not?”

  “Us? Why, we’re clowns!” He clapped Christopher on the shoulder. “You’re circus now, and we watch out for our own! If anybody had made a move in your direction, I would have taken care of it.”

  Christopher shrugged it off with a laugh, but he couldn’t help feeling a little warmth. After so long on his own, being part of something was—well, it was really something, that’s what.

  ~ * ~

  I’m back to being slave labor, Christopher thought, two hours later. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the exertion of digging up potato mounds. He prayed the sweat wouldn’t loosen his magnificent false mustache or wash off the walnut stain that darkened his skin.

  He sank his spading fork under a potato mound and heaved the plant up. He shook the dirt from it. This time, all the potatoes were good. A monstrous beetle buzzed up from the field, landed on a potato, and chomp! chomp! chomp! Half the potato disappeared. Christopher struck the beetle, knocking it off. It buzzed angrily, but retreated.

  “Insects grow big around here,” he muttered.

  Without farm animals, the harvesting went slow. At least he wasn’t alone. Around him, circusfolk and townsfolk alike worked the field. A skinny circus roustabout worked on one side of Christopher, and Dr. Janzen on the other. Mrs. Della Rocca herself worked, though Christopher tried not to look at her. He didn’t want her to sense the hostility in his gaze. Even the town’s captives worked, though somehow there were always townsfolk between them and the circus people. Clara sat on a rock at the edge of the field, her shotgun across her knees. The circus people had been told she was there to protect them from bandits, or wild animals. They’d all nodded like they believed it.

  Even the children worked, depending on their age and inclination. One small boy picked a wildflower from the edge of the field and ran to Mrs. Della Rocca. He held the flower up. She took it with a smile and bent to hug him and plant a kiss on his forehead.

  Christopher noticed Dr. Janzen watching with a smile on his face.

  “He’s not her child,” Christopher told him. “His mother was a refugee from New York. She made it all the way here on her own, but when she reached Seppanen Town, a nice woman gave her soup and a bed and she woke up indentured. Field labor didn’t suit her. She died soon after.”

  Dr. Janzen’s smile vanished. Christopher moved on to the next potato mound. And he watched.

  He watched as his captive friend Francis left the field for the third time to bring Clara a cup of cold spring water. She smiled appr
eciatively and set aside her shotgun as she took the cup. After she finished the water, she handed the cup back to Francis and their fingers touched. When she grimaced and pressed her hand against her belly, bending forward, Francis—hovered. There was no other word for it. When Clara relaxed again, he took her arm and led her to a fallen log at the base of a tree. She sat and leaned back against the tree trunk with a sigh. Then he went back and brought her her shotgun.

  Christopher had seen enough. Time for the second part of his job here—or the third part, if he counted actually harvesting potatoes.

  “Who’s that?” he shouted. “There! I saw a man in the woods!” He pointed to a perfectly innocuous section of trees.

  The other harvesters stopped working. Clara pushed herself up laboriously and swung the shotgun around to point in the direction he’d indicated.

  “I don’t see anything,” a buxom woman with her hair tied back in a kerchief grumbled.

  From behind them came the distinctive sound of a lever-action rifle chambering a round.

  They swung around. On the edge of the field stood a stranger with greasy, shoulder-length black hair and his hat pulled low. He shifted, and a stray beam of sunlight gleamed off the badge pinned to his long duster.

  “Pinkerton,” Mrs. Della Rocca said damningly.

  “We’re looking for our man,” the stranger called. “He would have passed through as a traveling salesman. If he came to misfortune in this town, you will all regret it. Your best bet is to release him unharmed.”

  “I wish I could,” Mrs. Della Rocca muttered. Christopher thought she didn’t realize she’d said it aloud.

  The stranger backed away, stepped behind a particularly large oak tree—and vanished.

  Everyone waited. He didn’t reappear.

  “Where did he go?” Mrs. Della Rocca asked. “Find him!”

  The townsfolk scattered into the woods. Christopher scooped his share of the potatoes he’d harvested into a burlap sack and returned to the circus campground.

  He headed across camp toward the supply wagon, carrying his quarter-full sack of potatoes. Were the potatoes all he’d gained, it would have been a poor reward for several hours’ work.

  He passed the snake charmer as she hung out her laundry on a line stretched between her wagon and a nearby tree. Lots of filmy, silky things, including her unmentionables. She saw him looking and winked. He sighed inwardly, regretting his lost career as a traveling salesman. She was just the type he could have persuaded to buy the expensive mother-of-pearl brush and comb set.

  The equestrienne trotted by, exercising her horse. Now, she didn’t seem to be the type for fancy brushes, unless they were horse brushes. Not much interest in the feminine fripperies or in gussying-up for a man. Christopher was respectful in his manner and nice-enough looking that he usually got a second glance from ladies. Not her.

  The cook boiled dirty dishes in a cauldron of water. As he scraped food off with a long wooden paddle, he muttered about the ingratitude of the people who could have been helping him do this. Christopher hurried past.

  The Indian mahout sat on the steps of his wagon, watering his glossy-leaved oleander plant and turning it to face the sun. Then he reclined with a slim volume in his hand. When the mahout saw Christopher approaching, he set the book to the side and folded his limbs into an unnatural position. He pressed his palms together and closed his eyes. Christopher had seen pictures of Indian fakirs in that same pose. Something to do with their religion, he thought. He glanced at the mahout’s book as he passed. Aetheric Engineering, Volume I. He noticed the mahout hadn’t felt compelled to volunteer for harvesting duty, unlike most able-bodied folks who weren’t busy at another job.

  Ginger waited for him in front of the supply wagon. Hat, duster, and black wig gone, Ginger appeared once more to be his unremarkable self.

  “How did you disappear like that?” he asked Ginger, as he deposited his meager haul of potatoes inside the supply wagon.

  Ginger grinned. “Rule Number 7 of how to be a clown: Nobody ever looks up.”

  “You climbed a tree? How is that a rule for being a clown?”

  Ginger smiled slyly. “Why, being a … clown is all about knowing how to distract people. Part of that’s being the big, shiny thing in the center of the ring. And part of that’s knowing where people don’t usually look.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Did you watch your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t want to leave,” Christopher admitted. “He’s sparking Clara, though she hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  “And so?”

  “You can only make a person do what they’re willing to do,” Christopher said slowly. “And he’s not willing to leave.”

  “Rule Number 2: Always—”

  “—know how your audience will react,” Christopher finished. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “He’s happier here. So what now?”

  “One of the most important parts of being a clown is entertaining the children,” Ginger said.

  “Oh, yes?” Christopher asked suspiciously. This sounded like it actually pertained to being a clown. He didn’t trust it.

  “Rule Number 8 of being a clown: Win children’s trust.” Ginger smiled. “You need to practice.”

  “I do?”

  “Oh, yes. Why don’t you go to Mrs. Della Rocca’s boarding house this afternoon and—collect—the younger children. Bring them here. At a small stop like this, the circus will only set up the freaks, the menagerie, and the Museum of Educational Novelties. No acts or performances, but it’s still more than this town’s ever seen. The children will love it, and you’ll get good practice.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Della Rocca will give her permission?”

  “I happen to know that she’s planning on touring all the fields this afternoon. Following up on those mysterious sightings of strange men in the woods, I daresay.”

  “Should I leave a note?”

  “Of course! Something along the lines of, ‘Return our man,’ would be appropriate.”

  “You don’t want me wearing a clown costume when I take the children, I’m guessing?”

  “Now you’re catching on!” Ginger snapped his fingers. “The Pinkerton with the scar should do nicely—unless you think we need another stranger. Probably not. We’ve already got them jumping at shadows in the fields. Take the children, entertain them out of sight for about an hour, and then bring them to the circus. Let Mrs. Della Rocca start to fret. Then I’ll tell her where her children are.”

  “Wait—you don’t want them as hostages to get her to stop kidnapping people?”

  Ginger waved a hand. “Hostages are so much trouble. Far better to take your enemy’s mind hostage. Let their fears do all the work.”

  ~ * ~

  Ginger, the Whitefaced Clown

  Seppanen Town, Connecticut

  Dressed as just another circus roustabout who’d been working in the fields all day, Ginger headed to the saloon, burlap sack in hand. He bellied up to the bar and reached into the sack, a move that made the dark-haired saloon keeper tense up. She reached a hand under the bar. Concealed shotgun, he guessed. Yes, he and the new kid had made the townies plenty nervous. He let the smile show as he pulled out a potato and plunked it down.

  “Can I trade that for a whiskey?” he asked.

  “Two potatoes,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  Ginger nodded and pulled out another one. When he got his drink, he retired to a table by the window with a good view of Mrs. Della Rocca’s boarding house.

  He’d sipped his way through half his whiskey by the time she came back from the fields. She went into the house. Lamps flared to life. Minutes later she dashed back out, looking around frantically. She shouted, waited, and shouted again. She stormed off down the street.

  Ginger sipped. A quarter of a whiskey glass later, she returned, shoulders sagging. She sat on the steps and buried her face in her hands.
Almost there, Ginger judged. Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet and plodded back into the house.

  Ginger sipped the rest of his drink at the same slow pace and then got up and left. In a dark alley, he pulled the wig, the duster, and the badge out of his burlap sack. He tucked the empty sack into a corner and walked across to Mrs. Della Rocca’s boarding house. He knocked politely and smiled when she answered the door.

  She stared at him. Her knuckles whitened around the door edge. “Where—are—they?” she hissed.

  “I am sorry about that misunderstanding, ma’am,” he said. “The children are fine. My partner returned them to a safe place before he left. Our missing man was sighted in New York—the messenger found us just a little bit ago. My partner’s tracking the lead. I’m to head West.”

  “So nobody’s expecting you?”

  “Not for months.”

  She glued a smile on. “Please, come in. Sit down. Have some biscuits and tea and we can talk.”

  She busied herself in the kitchen and then returned with a mug of tea and a biscuit for him. She sat down opposite. He noticed she didn’t get refreshments for herself.

  “Where are the children?” she asked, in a controlled voice.

  “The circus,” he told her. “My partner wanted to avoid a confrontation. He figured they’d be safe there and they’d enjoy themselves. He bought the tickets.”

  “So now you’ll go and leave our little town in peace.” She stretched her smile. “You haven’t tried your biscuit yet.”

  He picked it up. “Well, I’ll leave you in peace. Of course, since we’ve got an operation nearby, our men—and women—will be passing through right regular-like. Mostly in disguise as ordinary travelers. I’ll check in with our operation headquarters before I go, to make sure they know everything’s fine here now.”

  She lunged across the table and batted the biscuit out of his hand. It hit the floor and rolled into a corner. “I’m terribly sorry,” she babbled. “I just remembered that one fell on the floor earlier. I set it on the counter, but somehow—let me get you another one!”