by Ronald Kelly
“Thanks, Bobo,” she said, stretching up on tiptoes and giving him a kiss on his white grease-painted jaw. The clown feigned exaggerated embarrassment before escorting her inside.
The interior was dark, except for a spotlight focused on the center ring. Maggie breathed deeply. The scents of sawdust, popcorn, and cotton candy filled the air, as well as the excited rumbling of the crowd all around her. She felt her heart begin to beat faster, not in fear, but in happy anticipation. This was what she secretly lived for; the thrill of performing.
A tall, debonair ringmaster stepped into the spotlight, dressed in shiny black boots, white pants, a red jacket, and a tall black top hat. The crowd launched into a burst of cheers and applause. He bowed gracefully and spoke into a microphone he held in his hand.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls!” he called in a clear, crisp voice that would have put a radio deejay to shame. “Now for the moment you have been waiting for! The spectacle that has made this show the greatest in all the world!”
The crowd went wild. Whistles, cheers, and clapping burst from the audience, rising clear to the roof of the Big Top.
“That’s your cue, sweetheart,” said a dwarf wearing a red satin jacket with CIRCUS MAGNIFICENT in white letters on the back. He took her hand and led her to a tall steel pole with rungs bolted to the side.
She laid an affectionate hand against the side of the little man’s smiling face. “Thanks, Max,” she whispered. Then she took the rungs one at a time, ascending to a platform that stood a good seventy feet above the center arena.
In reality, Maggie had a secret fear of heights. Even when she climbed apple trees with Rusty back home, she fought to remain calm and nonchalant, even though she was scared half to death. But here in her dream, she felt no such anxiety. As she climbed the rungs, pulling herself higher and higher, she felt relaxed and tranquil, like a fish in water. Before long, Maggie was stepping onto the small platform secured at the uppermost reaches of the pole. She looked up and saw that she could almost reach out and touch the ceiling of the Big Top. That in itself should have thrown her into a fit of panic, but it didn’t.
“I wish to direct your attention to the spotlight high above the center arena!” continued the ringmaster. “There you will see the star of our show and the one you have all been eagerly waiting to see. The world famous high wire acrobat extraordinaire! Lady Margret!”
A cheer forceful enough to shake the poles of the Big Top exploded from the crowd as a spot suddenly illuminated Maggie. She squinted against the glare of the beam and smiled as she saw the audience – thousands of men, women, and children – rise to their feet and applaud. She waved cheerfully to them all and went to work. She took a long balancing pole from where it stood on the platform, then stood at the very edge, centering herself. The crowd fell into an immediate hush, their eyes glued to her graceful form, directly overhead.
Maggie took a breath, then, for the first time, looked at the rope that stretched from her platform to the one directly opposite, a hundred feet away. The rope looked like a long, silver thread in the brilliant glow of the spotlight. Calmly, she took the pole firmly in her hands and placed a single foot upon the rope. Below, the crowd gasped loudly.
She felt no apprehension whatsoever. Confidence filled her as she mounted the rope and, gripping it with the curled soles of her feet, deftly traveled it, one step at a time. Her breathing was shallow, her balance perfectly centered, as if she had been born on the high wire. A minute later, she was stepping onto the other platform, raising her arms to the deafening cheers of her admiring fans below.
Maggie then tossed the pole away and, with no hesitation at all, returned to the rope. This time she somersaulted back across, doing death-defying flips and half-turns, landing firmly on the rope with hands and feet at all times. The spectators were ecstatic. They whistled, cheered, and stomped their feet, threatening to cave in the wooden bleachers around them. She ended her act with a triple backflip that brought her to a perfect handstand on the platform where she had originally started.
“Truly stupendous!” called the ringmaster over the roar of the crowd. “The one… the only… Lady Margret, Queen of the High Wire!”
Maggie took a bow and blew kisses to those who cheered in the stands below. The ovation lasted for five minutes, eventually prompting an encore. She took a unicycle from a hook on the pole, as well as several balls from a wicker basket. Then she rode the unicycle across the rope, juggling as she went. She returned – backwards – eliciting more adoration from the appreciative masses.
She looked down at the center arena and saw that bouquets of roses were being thrown to her. With tears in her eyes, she spread her arms and soaked in the love that poured up from the stands. Yes, that was what she had craved for so very long. Total love and acceptance. And, here in the circus of her dreams, she received all of that and more.
~ * ~
Chuck found himself sitting on a long bench in the fuselage of a World War II bomber plane. An Air Force lieutenant stood at an open doorway a few feet away, wearing an orange flight vest and white helmet. He peered into the fading light of dusk, the wind of the slipstream causing him to hang onto a handle bolted to the plane’s inner wall.
“Only a few minutes until we reach the rendezvous point” he called to Chuck.
Another airman stood directly next to him, double checking the parachute pack that was strapped squarely to Chuck’s back. “Everything’s A-Okay, Sergeant,” he said, giving Chuck a thumbs up. “Are you ready?”
Chuck suddenly knew what he was about to do. He was about to jump from the plane, like a paratrooper. He expected to throw a fit and refuse to go, but he did nothing of the kind. Instead, he nodded bravely and squared his shoulders. “Ready whenever you are,” he said.
“Thirty seconds until the jump-out point,” called the lieutenant at the door.
Chuck took a deep breath and felt for his weapons. They were all there; the K-Bar Marine knife, a bandoleer of pineapple grenades, a holstered .45 automatic, and an M1 carbine with a banana clip of .30 rounds. He wore olive drab fatigues with the stripes of a sergeant high on the sleeves, combat boots, and a helmet with camouflage netting.
He felt something wiggle against his chest and looked down. From inside his flak jacket, he saw his pet iguana peering up at him. “Are you ready, Churchill?” he asked. The lizard clicked happily, the snuggled further into the vest for the duration of the ride down.
A red light on the wall suddenly turned green. “This is it!” called the lieutenant into the howl of the wind. He joined the other airman and, together, they lifted Chuck from the bench. Chuck felt a little disappointed that he was still crippled; he thought that he would have regained the use of his legs in such a detailed dream. But the regret lasted only an instant. He had more important things to think about, like his rendezvous in the heart of enemy territory, as well as the mission that would follow.
“Best of luck to you, Sergeant,” said the lieutenant as they reached the open doorway.
“The fate of the Allied forces and the world are upon your shoulders, Sir,” said the other one.
“I’ll do my best to crush the enemy and end this damned war,” Chuck promised. Then he nodded and felt himself being heaved into the open air.
The blast of cool air and the force of the gravitational pull nearly knocked the wind out of him. He recovered immediately, spreading his arms as he plunged earthward. Growing accustomed to the freefall, he turned his head and saw the dark silhouette of the plane making a sweeping turn, heading back toward friendly borders.
Chuck looked downward, the goggles over his eyes providing protection against the sting of the wind. The scarred landscape of a vast battlefield stretched beneath him for Miles. Further to the north, he could see the flashes of violent explosions as the War continued on schedule. Even from such a lofty height, he could smell the odor of gunpowder drifting skyward.
War is hell, he thought to himself. And I love it!
<
br /> Chuck found himself counting in his mind as he watched the earth of the desolate German countryside rush up to meet him. “Here we go, Churchill!” he called out. Then he grabbed the pack’s ripcord and pulled.
An instant later, the chute bloomed overhead, jerking him upward. He felt his momentum slow, until he was drifting easily, heading toward a network of trenches that cut across a sprawling area of pockmarked pastureland. Chuck knew he was a sitting duck, sailing in the open air like that, but he hoped that the chaos of battle a mile or so to the north would prove to be a valuable distraction. Fortunately, he found that he was right. He reached the earth without drawing any attention at all. At least no hostile attention.
Chuck hit the earth with his dead legs and rolled, careful not to get entangled with the cords of his chute. The circle of dark nylon joined him on the ground seconds later. He wasted no time. Taking a folding trench shovel from his belt, he quickly dug a hole and buried the parachute, concealing it from view. Then shrugged out of the empty chute pack and, taking a pair of binoculars from a case that hung around his neck, trained them on the foremost trench that he had just passed over.
It wasn’t long before dark forms climbed out of the foxhole and cautiously moved in a V-formation toward him. The leader of the platoon cupped a hand to his mouth and called out. “Those who seek guidance eagerly watch the skies,” he said, giving the first code phrase. He stared through the gloom at Chuck’s prone figure, his carbine at the ready, in case the enemy had pulled some clever act of deception.
“Their wait has ended, for the eagle has landed,” replied Chuck in response.
A moment later, the platoon was across the field and gathered around him. “Right on time, Sarge,” said the point man.
Chuck reached out and shook his hand. “Good to see you, Corporal Steel,” he said. “How far to the enemy line?”
“A mile and a half north,” he replied, unfolding a map and showing their commander the lay of the land. “But before we can even get close to the real action, there’s a Kraut machine gun nest blocking our way. We’ll have to take it out.”
Chuck opened his flak vest and took out a cigar. He bit off its end, then lit it with a Zippo lighter with the Marine Corp emblem stamped into the metal. “Then let’s do it,” he said gruffly. “Where is my Warchair?”
“We have it back here, Sir,” said a buck private from the rear of the platoon.
“Bring it to me,” he ordered.
A second later, the group of infantry soldiers parted. The private appeared, pushing the mighty Warchair. It was an armored wheelchair that looked more like a miniature tank with its heavy steel plating and iron treads. Chuck was lifted and placed into the seat of the chair, then handed a British-made Sten Mk2 submachine gun. He jacked a 9mm round into the breech and set the selector on “full automatic”. Then he closed the Warchair’s armored hatch and stuck the gun’s barrel through a narrow slot in the front.
“You take point, Corporal,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” replied Steel. He worked the bolt of his M1 carbine and started forward.
“Come on, men,” said Chuck. “Let’s kick some ass.”
Together, they headed across the battle-scarred earth, their eyes glued to the brilliance of bursting bombs and tracer bullets that lit the gloom of dusk a mile and a half away. Churchill left the shelter of his master’s flak vest and scrambled to the top of his helmet to get a better look. Chuck puffed on his stogie and worked the gears of the armored wheelchair, sending it onward at a slow, steady pace.
A short while later, Corporal Steel turned and silently held up his hand from a position eighty feet ahead. “Stay here, men,” Chuck told those who stood around him. “I’ll take care of this myself.”
With a low hum, the wheelchair surged forward. Soon, he joined the soldier behind the shelter of a bombed oak tree. “How many are there?” he asked.
“A good dozen of the goose-steppers, Sarge,” Steel told him. “There’s four clustered around a heavy-duty Maxim, while the other eight are lined along the wall of the nest with their Mausers. Want me to come with you?”
Chuck thought about it for a second, then shook his head. “No, I believe I can handle it.”
“Good luck, Sarge,” said Steel, heading back across the battlefield to rejoin the platoon.
Chuck wasted no time. He shifted his chair into high gear and, with a roar, powered around the blasted trunk of the tree. It wasn’t long before he had closed the gap between him and the Nazis to only a few yards. Mausers cracked as he appeared out of the twilight. Their rounds merely glanced off the chair’s armor plating. He heard a German curse rise from the trench, followed by a volley of fire from the 7.92 mm Maxim. The steel-plated wheelchair rocked on its treads with the force of the gunfire, but remained upright. Chuck continued onward, his teeth gritted around the stub of his smoldering cigar, his eyes full of steel and fury.
“Hang on, Churchill!” he called to his lizard. “We’re going in!”
Thirty feet from the machine gun nest, a German potato masher spun from the trench, heading straight for him. He shifted the barrel of the Sten gun and sent a burst skyward. The slugs hit the grenade’s handle, knocking it back into the foxhole from where it came. A second later, an explosion went off in the trench, filling one end of it with fire and smoke. A couple of Nazi soldiers were thrown from the nest, their bodies riddled with shrapnel. Chuck let out a loud battle-yell, then picked up speed and went over the edge of the trench, into the passageway below.
He landed atop the Maxim, crushing the German machine gun beneath the treads of the Warchair, as well as a couple of the soldiers who were manning it. A German major drew a Luger pistol from a flap holster, but it did him no good. A burst from the Sten nearly cut him clean in half. Four stormtroopers attacked Chuck from the right, their bayonets fixed. The top half of the Warchair pivoted and a swarm of 9mm slugs from the Sten mowed them down, leaving them in a twitching heap on the dirt floor of the trench.
The last three Nazis made a futile attempt to take him from the right. A bullet from a Mauser rifle ricocheted off the side of Chuck’s helmet, knocking it slightly askew. “Hey, that smarted!” he growled. He pivoted to the right and, through the gun slot, tossed a couple of pineapple grenades beneath the soles of their jackboots. They went off almost immediately, tearing the soldiers limb from limb. One’s head – wearing a German stormtrooper’s helmet and an expression of utter defeat – spun out of the trench and bounced several yards across the battlefield, before resting against a bullet-scarred boulder.
Chuck grinned around his stogie. He opened the armored hatch of the Warchair and took one of the mangled Mausers from the trench floor. He tied an American flag around the end of the barrel and held it high, so his men could see.
“All’s clear!” he yelled out.
It wasn’t long before the soldiers of his platoon were hauling the ton of steel-plated wheelchair to level ground once again. They smiled at him with admiration and respect. They knew they would be led to victory with Sergeant Adkins leading the way.
“Well, what are we waiting for, boys?” asked Chuck. “Let’s have some real fun!”
A cheer rose from the ranks as they surged forward. They were ready to take on Hitler’s warriors and win, no matter what the cost might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Edwin Hill felt miserable.
He sat in his chair next to the potbelly stove, drinking from the bottle of Wild Turkey. Only the light over the front counter was on. The rest of the general store was cloaked in darkness.
Edwin took a sip of liquor and felt it burn its way down into his belly. Usually, he indulged in his secret vice due to a feeling of loss over the death of his son. But this time it was something else entirely. The emotion that dragged his spirits down that night was pure and simple guilt. He felt bad about lying to his best friend.
The storekeeper couldn’t figure out why he had done it. The incident in Hell Hollow had taken place wa
y back in 1917, nine decades ago. True, he had been sworn to secrecy concerning the killing of the murderous medicine man when he was eight years old, but the need for secrecy had passed long ago, when most of the men of that vigilante posse had died. Now there was only he and Jasper McLeod left, and Edwin was the only one of the two who even remembered what had happened. Jasper had either been too young to recall the awful events of that night, or he had completely suppressed the memory.
“There ain’t no need to keep it hidden away any longer,” he told himself, screwing the cap back on the liquor bottle. “Jasper has a right to know, even if it does cause him pain.”
The one memory of that night that stood out the strongest in Edwin’s mind was the moment when Charles McLeod aimed the sights of his Winchester and put a bullet squarely between Augustus Leech’s defiant eyes, followed by five-year-old Jasper’s cry of shock and disbelief. Seeing one’s father kill another man is truly a traumatic experience, even if the bastard slain was responsible for the death of your baby sister and eleven others.
“Yeah, I’ll do it tomorrow,” he declared out loud, his words slightly slurred by the whiskey he had consumed. “I’ll have Jasper come over first thing in the morning and tell him flat out. I owe him that much at least.”
Edwin looked at an old Orange Crush clock that hung on the wall directly behind the counter. “Lord Almighty! It’s done past one in the morning. I’d best close this place up and get on to bed.”
He was getting up out of his chair, when the jangle of the copper cow bell over the front door drew his attention. He glanced over and saw someone stepping inside. Edwin tried to identify the man, but the light of the forty-watt bulb over the counter failed to reach the doorway. The customer closed the door behind him and stood there, cloaked in shadow, neglecting to move any further inside.
Edwin mustered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed. I know I should’ve put the sign on the door, but I had my mind on other things. We’ll be open bright and early at seven o’clock, if you want to come back then.”