A Circus of Brass and Bone

by Abra SW

  “They have cinnamon!” she told Papa Sasse happily. “I’ll be able to make your favorite apple pie the way it’s meant to be.” She laughed. “I may have to have one of the girls roll out the pie dough, though, if this arm of mine doesn’t behave!”

  Love and fear flashed across Papa Sasse’s face. Ginger looked away.

  “What is it?” Mama Sasse asked, in an altered tone. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not now,” Papa Sasse told her. His words sounded choked. He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you later. What do we have here?”

  Mama Sasse gave him a sharp look, but she went along. “These boys brought a choice of things to pay their way. The younger girls fancy that silver cloth, and I admit it would be terribly becoming on Rosie, but I think spices are a better investment, and—hey!” She pointed a steady finger at the old man with the tobacco pouch. “Don’t think I didn’t see you inching that toward your pocket. Put it back in the pile! We don’t have an agreement yet.”

  Ginger circled around the trade goods. Could it be—yes! He pounced, pulling out a brown paper bag with Cacao Beans hand-printed on the outside. He allowed himself a triumphant grin. “I’ll take this,” he said.

  “I beg your—” Mama Sasse began.

  Papa Sasse rested his hand on her arm. She gave him a quizzical look. “Later,” he repeated.

  ~ * ~

  By the time Ginger returned to Rumsey Port, circus tents billowed in the breeze. Talkers strutted in front of their pitches, practicing the spiels that would lure marks into giving up their hard-earned coin—or, in this case, food. Posters announced the wonders and marvels to be found within the tents. A pair of ostriches strutted along the dock, ostensibly being “exercised,” but really serving as a walking advertisement for the menagerie. A handful of costumed circus folk roamed nearby. Now and then, as if on the spur of the moment, they did rolls or flips, to the assembling crowd’s delight.

  Judging by the size of the gathering, word had spread that there was something new in town. The ticket wagon blocked the main road entering the port, and the line of customers stretched up the street and around the corner. As Ginger approached, the wizened old ticket taker ended an argument with a customer by leaning out of his window and pointing to a hand-lettered sign pinned up between a poster advertising The Daring Miss Dyer-Bennet, Who Dives Into Thin Air! and another that boasted of The Conjoined Murray Sisters, a Medical Miracle Alive Only By God’s Grace! In large letters, the handwritten sign admonished, “No Cash Money! No Ration Coupons! Barter ONLY!” followed by a list of suggested barter items. Even the man brandishing a handful of useless paper currency must not have been surprised; after a heated back-and-forth with the ticket taker, he shrugged and reached into his coat to produce a jar of peaches.

  Ginger made a mental note to have someone keep watch for the commissioner and his wife, so that they could be kept away from the ticket wagon. Many of the cityfolk had begun comparing trade goods while they waited, and the line was beginning to resemble a black market.

  Although—Ginger glimpsed a familiar face—it might already be too late. The commissioner’s aide wasn’t wearing his police blues, but Ginger recognized him by his reddened face. This time the red was caused by the cold instead of the exertion of chasing down Commissioner Guirard’s wife, but the effect was distinctive. Commissioner Guirard already had the tickets Ginger had given him. Had he sent Mr. Akrill here to spy?

  Then Mr. Akrill sneaked a look around him, opened his coat, and revealed a small jar of molasses to the old woman standing next to him. Not very long on common sense, Ginger mused. If Mr. Akrill wasn’t the police spy, then he should have expected that someone else in the crowd was. Ginger shook his head sadly. Rule Number 10 of being a clown: Know who your audience is.

  After waiting long enough to allow Mr. Akrill to finish his illegal black market transaction and long enough again to let the man relax, Ginger sauntered up to him. “Sir!” he said, as if seeing him for the first time. “Whatever are you doing waiting in line? There’s no need for this! Come along with me. Here, this ticket is yours.” He placed a ticket in Mr. Akrill’s palm and closed his fingers around it.

  “Er, well, I don’t want any special favors,” Mr. Akrill protested feebly. “I’m not an important man like the commissioner, you see, and I don’t want anyone thinking—”

  “Ah!” Ginger threw his arm over the man’s shoulders and guided him away from the rest of the crowd. “Think of it as a trade, then. I was hoping you could do something for me. For the commissioner, really,” he amended hastily, when the aide began to look stubborn.

  Chapter 17

  ~* * *~

  A Small Favor

  Ginger, the Whitefaced Clown

  Port Rumsey, New York City

  Mr. Akrill frowned. “For the commissioner?”

  “Exactly. But he mustn’t know about it.”

  Mr. Akrill pulled back. “Hold up there. I won’t do anything that might—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about!” Ginger hastened to assure him. “I was hoping for the name of that candymaker his wife favors so much. It’s a surprise, you see. Entirely harmless.”

  Mr. Akrill’s brow furrowed. “Hmm.”

  Ginger smiled amiably. As he waited, he thought of a half-dozen ways that the information could be used against Commissioner Guirard. Apparently, Mr. Akrill did not. His frown faded. “No harm in that, I suppose,” he agreed. “She adores Hardy’s Candy Confections. The proprietress is a Mrs. Nave. I don’t think you’ll find any chocolates there, though. Commissioner’s been grumbling about it.”

  Ginger heaved a sigh and put on a resigned face. “It was worth a try. I’d hoped a gift would sweeten his temper.”

  “Everyone tries,” Mr. Akrill commiserated. “Just abide by his rules and you’ll be fine.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you for trying to help,” Ginger said, reinforcing the idea that Mr. Akrill’s answer had been useless because the candy shop could no longer supply the desired candy. And if his answer had been useless, there was clearly no reason to bother telling the commissioner about this conversation, now was there? “I have to prepare for my performance. Enjoy the show!”

  “Good luck!” Mr. Akrill said. Ginger tried not to wince.

  As Ginger headed for his wagon, he walked by a couple gawking at the poster for Rajesh, the Hindoo Mystic, and His Fearsome Aether-Powered Bone-and-Brass Elephant! “That’s him!” the man was saying excitedly to the woman. “I tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. That elephant was unstoppable! Even in the war I didn’t see anything to match it. I think it could have taken out an aether tank all by itself.”

  Ginger stopped, caught by the man’s assertion. He’d been in the war too, and he hadn’t seen anything to match the aether-powered elephant either. The thought nagged at him.

  “Ginger!” One of the roustabouts ran up and caught his arm. The thought dissipated. “We’re setting up the sideshows, but Doc Panjandrum says he ain’t playing. Claims he’s too busy dissecting those things that attacked us on the bridge. Says that’s more important than lying to a crowd of sick folks.”

  Ginger shrugged. “Why ask me what to do?”

  “You’re good with people. The fortune teller’s missing. The new ringmaster’s just a kid. We tried to get Lacey to talk to him, but she went all stiff and said it weren’t proper and she couldn’t boss the circus.”

  “Hmm.” Ginger took a second to consider this. It seemed another mess had fallen to him to clean up. “If the doc wants to cut up monsters, let him do it in front of a paying audience. Put up a table in the tent, get lots of lights, and move all the deer-things onto tarps inside. Take all Doc’s tools and knives, and any extras you can scrounge up. Polish them up all shiny and put them on display too. Get a rope ring around him to keep the crowd at a distance, and let him cut to his heart’s content.”

  The roustabout seemed much struck by this idea. “Hell, I bet the rubes will pay double to see tha
t! Thanks, Ginger.”

  “You bet. Say, could you do a favor for me?”

  “Name it.”

  “I gave the commissioner and his wife a pair of tickets to tonight’s performance. I want him to be happy with what he sees, and that means keeping him well away from the ticket wagon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Ginger bent an exasperated look on him. “Have you seen what these rubes are bringing to barter? We might as well be running an Indian trading post.”

  Understanding dawned. “Oh! Sure, I’ll ask the boys to keep their eyes open and snag the commissioner before he sees anything that might upset his digestion.”

  “Appreciate it.” With a nod of thanks, Ginger continued on to his wagon, where he stretched out and took a quick snooze until he heard the trumpet that announced the imminent start of the main show. He found himself humming as he pulled on his costume. When he took this role, he hadn’t expected to enjoy being a clown so much, but he did. It was relaxing to be able to perform so openly, to wear expressions that everyone knew were false.

  His happiness lingered as he gathered up his props and trotted over to the backstage tent where the performers waited for their entrances. A wrangler gave him the reins for Zahra the Zebra. Ginger pulled himself up to sit facing backwards in the saddle and arranged his props. He nodded to a circus hand, who opened the curtain to the main ring.

  The zebra trotted forward, and Ginger entered the circus ring ass-first. His brilliant yellow hat was tucked under his arm, his boldly striped suit coat was draped over the zebra’s neck, his right shoe was on his left foot, and his left shoe was on his right foot. He held a mirror in one hand and a gigantic, fluffy powder puff in the other. He was the very image of a clown entirely unready for an audience. As he entered the ring, he powdered his nose so vigorously that a huge cloud of chalk powder poofed up into the air. He surveyed the results in the mirror, turning his head this way and that. Then he brought the very edge of the powder puff closer and daintily dabbed his nose.

  The crowd laughed.

  Ginger jumped a little and peered around him, as if he’d only just realized that he had an audience. Quickly, he shook the powder puff out and used a little sleight of hand to transform it into a large orange flower while the cloud of glittering chalk dust settled. He tucked the flower into his lapel.

  Then he pulled his hat out from under his arm and brandished it. The audience hushed. He put it on his head and pulled it down over his wig … and his ears … and his eyes … and his nose … and his mouth … and his neck. The crowd began to laugh. By the time the top of his hat popped open and he peered indignantly over it, they were rolling in the aisles. He pulled his hat back off, pantomimed giving it a stern talking-to, and put it back on. This time, it stayed in its proper place. He continued to ride around the ring.

  “Mama, he’s riding the painted horse backwards!” a child in the crowd exclaimed.

  Bless children. Ginger couldn’t have asked for a better cue. He turned around and stared at the zebra’s head as if he’d never seen it before. Then he pulled his feet out of the stirrups, pushed himself up to a precarious stand on top of the saddle—and toppled off into a splendid pratfall in the dust. The zebra kept on going without him.

  Ginger remained motionless for just long enough to start the crowd murmuring, before he pushed up off the ground into a rising handspring that landed him on his feet. He removed his hat and dusted it off. He dusted off his legs. He dusted off his chest. He dusted off his arms. Then he did a comic double take and swung around to stare at the zebra, who was walking away—with his coat still slung over its neck.

  He began to chase the zebra. And his trousers fell down, revealing bright red long underwear. He hiked his trousers back up and resumed the chase. His trousers fell down again. He stopped, pulled them up, squinted suspiciously at them, and took a step. Nothing happened. He took another step. Still nothing. He took a third step, and his trousers fell down yet again. The crowd roared. Ginger pulled his trousers back up, gripped them firmly, and carefully inspected them for defects. He twisted this way and that. He bent over and looked between his legs as if the answer could be found there. Then he pantomimed a sudden, astonishing realization. The crowd hushed and then burst out laughing as he proudly fastened his suspenders.

  Ginger resumed the chase, but this time he kept tripping over his shoes. By the time he figured out that his shoes were on backwards, switched them to the proper feet, caught the zebra, put on his jacket, mounted the zebra the right way around, and finally finished “preparing” for his performance, the crowd was laughing and in an excellent mood to enjoy the rest of the show.

  When the ringmaster came out, Ginger pantomimed furious protests but allowed himself to be shooed back behind the curtain, where he waited with giggling aerialists, a snake charmer who was cooing to her giant boa, and a dyspeptic camel being groomed for its appearance. Ginger settled back to wait for his next cue.

  Lacey rode through to perform her equestrian act. Then the crowd roared, deafeningly loud. Ginger jerked the curtain aside, expecting to see he knew not what.

  Lacey was performing the Cossack drag, hanging from the side of her horse as it galloped around the ring, but that trick alone would not have roused the crowd so very much. Word of the rescue she’d performed on the High Bridge must have spread. Ginger hoped it would help his case with Commissioner Guirard.

  When Lacey trotted backstage, roses bloomed in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled. “Did you see how much they loved me?” she asked Ginger, as she dismounted. “It’s because of what they’re calling the High Bridge Battle. We could make a play out of it, with monster costumes for a few of the horses. They could be trained to fake attack, and I could swoop down and rescue one of the aerialists.”

  “A longer equestrian performance would help fill the show,” Ginger said neutrally, “since we no longer have a sharpshooter act.”

  The joy faded from her face. “I’m sorry. You must think me devoid of any proper feeling, turning her death into an entertainment. It’s only that after the first time you see someone die in front of you, it becomes harder to feel as deeply as one ought.”

  Ginger nodded. He’d observed the same thing in the War. Confront a man with enough corpses, and eventually when he looks around, all he sees is dead men walking.

  “I do honor her courage and her sacrifice,” Lacey continued, “but I need to do whatever I can to make my equestrian act a success. The circus must not fail now.”

  “And you hope that by reminding the populace of how you rescued the little girl, you’ll make Commissioner Guirard less likely to seize your horses,” Ginger finished.

  She whitened and then flushed an ugly red. Her hands clenched and unclenched. “I can’t let him,” she said. The words tumbled out too fast as she lost her composure. “The horses are all I have. I’ve talked to the ship captains. None of the aether ships will carry us anywhere. Not even the Indian mahout could persuade them.”

  “What’s this about the mahout?”

  “He was trying to persuade one of the ship captains to take him back to India. None of them would. I don’t think they even could. Captain Angie said she couldn’t make it all the way to India, but she could take us somewhere closer. It would have to be in one trip, and her hold is too small for the horses. I’d have to drug them. Some of them would still injure themselves so badly I’d have to cut their throats, but I’ll do it if it’s the only way to keep them from being taken. I can’t bear it that they might—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” Ginger patted her shoulder. “No need for that yet. I tell you, I have a plan to get us all out of here.”

  “Really?”

  “Really and truly.”

  She straightened her back and made a watery attempt at a polite smile. “What you must think of me!”

  He smiled kindly at her and made no comment on what he thought of her, which was that if he ever wanted to take her horses away, he was going to make damn sure he wa
s out of her reach at the time. Fortunately, he had no such plans. The circus really did need her and her horses.

  Locating Commissioner Guirard and his wife after the performance was easy; Ginger simply had to watch the currents of the crowd. Everyone gave Commissioner Guirard a wide berth, which created an odd island of peace amidst the bustle.

  “Commissioner Guirard,” Ginger said as he approached. He bowed courteously. “I hope you and your lady wife enjoyed our humble performance?”

  Commissioner Guirard’s face hardened a bit, but words tumbled from Mrs. Guirard in an effervescent cascade. “It was delightful! The lady horse rider—I heard there were monsters! And flying through the air! I could never—. So funny you were! The bone elephant made me shiver, but the lion was so adorable! Just like a giant kitty! I wonder, might you have a lion cub? If it was raised in a home, I’m sure—”

  Commissioner Guirard’s eyes glazed a bit. Ginger felt his do the same, as he imagined the result of raising a lion in a fine home. He cleared his throat. “Lions do get a bit too large for a city home, ma’am,” he managed.

  “Oh. I daresay.” She pouted. “I suppose we’ll have to keep the circus instead, so I can visit the cuddly lion whenever I like!”

  Ginger blinked. He knew his face was blank. He simply could not think what expression to put on it.

  Her pixie face grew stubborn. She turned to her husband. “But you must do something about where the circus performs, dearest! These sailors can be quite crude. I assure you that my hearing is excellent, and their language really isn’t fit for a lady to be around. I didn’t say anything at the time because I know how it distresses you. And the port is so untidy! You will need to clean up the docks and teach the sailors gentlemanly manners.” She touched a slim finger to her lips in thought. “Or perhaps you could clean up Central Park and move the circus there! I attempted to go for a promenade the other day, and the park was absolutely littered with squatters. Why, it was nearly as bad as when I was a child, before they cleared out the squalid little shacks and the pig farms!”