The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium

by F. Paul Wilson

  Oz smiled and nodded. "Most definitely yes."

  "Will it get me a keg of German beer?" said Leshane.

  Everyone laughed.

  "I still don't get it," said Delta.

  "A change," Oz said. "We have an opportunity to work a change upon the land. And the instrument of that change cannot be activated until we find all its components and reassemble them."

  "A machine?" George said. "A machine is going to change the world?"

  Oz nodded. He'd known this was going to be a tough sell. He barely believed it himself. But he had to have their cooperation. He could not succeed without it.

  "Yes. When the Device is activated at the proper time in the proper place, it will, quite literally, change the world—change the way the world sees us, change the way the world sees itself."

  He paused and let them mutter among themselves, then raised his voice.

  "You need not believe me. I realize that might be too much to ask. But I do ask that you trust me. As we make a circuit of the country I will from time to time ask one of you to venture into the town we are passing through and retrieve one of the missing pieces of the Device. You do not have to believe that it will change our place in the world; all you need know is that it is important to me and to those of your brothers and sisters who do believe."

  Oz turned in a slow circle, eyeing each in turn.

  "Have I ever lied to you?"

  He noted with satisfaction that every head was wagging back and forth.

  "No. I do not lie." He pointed to the outer world beyond the tent wall. "They lie to you. I do not. And I say to you now that the Device is monumentally important to all our lives. Is there any one of you who will not help collect its component parts as we travel?"

  Oz searched the members of his troupe for a raised hand. He saw none.

  "Excellent. And to give you some idea of the nature of the Pieces you'll be seeking, I've brought along a few to show you."

  Oz withdrew the four objects that had been waiting in the pockets of his coat and handed them to the nearest members of the troupe.

  "Here. Pass these around. Don't worry about damaging them—you can't. Just don't lose them."

  5

  George felt something like a cold shock when the first Piece reached him. The sensation ran through his boneless forearm up to the left side of his face; from there it seemed to penetrate his skull and shoot across his brain. Vertigo spun him and for an instant he thought he saw another place full of weird angles superimposed on the tent space—coexisting with the tent space—then he steadied again.

  He looked down at the thing in his hand, blinked, then looked again. Dull yellow metal, but such a strange shape. A couple of the sides met at an angle that didn't seem possible—shouldn't have been possible.

  He passed it on and reached for another.

  This one looked hard and glossy but felt soft and fuzzy, almost alive; he thought he sensed it breathing.

  He quickly dumped that one off and reached for the next—a flat ceramic oval.

  But he sensed something wrong with this one too. He couldn't pinpoint it at first, then he noticed it didn't cast a shadow; it was solid, opaque, but no matter which way he turned it . . . no shadow.

  The last object was a tennis-ball-size sphere and it did cast a shadow—but one with sharp angles.

  George cradled this last Piece in his coiled left arm and stared at Oz where he stood in the center of the tent. One strange dude. Aloof and yet paternalistic; even the freaks who'd been with him for years knew little about him. He’d heard more than one mention that no one had ever seen him eat. Full trays were delivered to his trailer and removed empty, but he always ate alone. His only close contact seemed to be Tarantello, another one who never seemed to eat—never even got trays. The freaks kidded about taking "a walk with Tarantello." George didn't know what that meant but decided from the timbre of their voices that he'd rather not find out.

  And now these Pieces. Strange little things to say the least. Almost . . . otherworldly.

  One could only imagine the sort of Device their aggregate would produce. An instrument like that might be capable of almost anything.

  Even Justice . . .

  . . . Understanding . . .

  . . . Acceptance . . .

  . . . Compensation.

  6

  Oz stood with Tarantello and watched the tent empty.

  Tarantello said, "Do you think they’ll ever believe?"

  "Some will be a tougher sell than others, but when the time comes, they won’t have much choice."

  "They’re used to not having much choice."

  Oz glanced at Tarantello whose debonair exterior hid his particular deformities. Because of that, he could move unnoticed among the hoi polloi. And that was important, for it allowed him access to sources of the Fuel. Oz had discovered the distilling technique in one of his ancient tomes. He’d taught Tarantello, and the man proved to be a master. The Fuel was crucial. Without it Oz would not be able to keep his promise to the troupe.

  As he pocketed the Pieces he’d displayed, he glanced right and saw George Swenson standing beside him. George offered the end of his tentacle-like right arm. Oz shook it.

  "Very moving," George said. "I want you to know you can count on my help if you need it."

  "That's good to know, George."

  "Of course, your Device will be more important to the others."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. I'm sure once I get enough money together to finish my education I'll be able to get by on my own. But I'd like to help the others. So just let me know what I can do."

  "Thank you, George."

  As George moved out of earshot, Tarantello whispered through a tight smile.

  "Is our first-of-May also the Eternal Optimist?"

  Oz watched him go. "He still thinks of himself as one of them."

  "You going to tell him the whole story?"

  Oz shook his head. "Like so many of the others, George isn't ready for it."

  "Want me to think of a way to make him ready?" Tarantello said, his smile widening.

  "Yes. Do that. Come up with a way to convince him that he will never be accepted by them, that we are his real family. And his only hope."

  7

  Joe listened to Tom Shuman’s rant.

  "Never thought I'd live to see the day," Tom said as he stood at the door of the office trailer and stared at the cluster of new trailers and campers parked across the field. "Joe Peabody touring with a freak show. Who'd believe it?"

  Joe looked up at his general manager. Tom had an angular body and a reedy voice. He handled the circus's performers and Joe had known there'd be a ruckus when he found out about the freak show. He’d been dreading this moment.

  "All a question of dollars and cents, Tom. We tried all winter to raise the operating capital we needed for this year's tour. Couldn't get it. Not in this economy. So it's a choice: Tour with them or disband the show. Which do you prefer?"

  Shuman tossed his cigarette butt outside and turned toward the desk.

  "You know the answer to that. But mark my words, there's gonna be trouble."

  "There's already trouble," said Dan Nolan, a burly, muscular hulk in the chair near the inner corner of Joe's desk. "A buncha my roustabouts took one look at those freaks this morning and blew the show."

  Nolan was his other manager, in charge of the workers.

  "Get some more," Joe said.

  "Hey, I combed every mission, homeless shelter, and Salvation Army office in the county to come up with these bums. Nobody wants to work."

  "I have workers, Mr. Nolan."

  Joe started at the voice echoing through the office. Oz loomed in the doorway. Joe introduced him to Tom and Dan. No one shook hands.

  "I don't want your workers, mister."

  "How do you know that if you've never met them?" Oz said. "I'll call them."

  He turned, raised a silver whistle to his lips, and blew. Joe heard nothing, but a mom
ent later, five burly figures crowded around the door. They were identical, all stamped out with the same cookie-cutter—neckless, deep-set eyes, pug noses, and toothy grins.

  "The Beagle Boys, Mr. Nolan. They follow instructions and don't talk back. And they're very strong. They're yours when you need them. Give them a try."

  Grumbling that he didn't have much choice, Dan slipped past Oz and confronted his new roustabouts.

  "Go with Mr. Nolan, boys," Oz said. "And do what he tells you." Then he stepped inside next to Tom Shuman and looked down at Joe. "What's the route so far?"

  Joe reached into his desk and pulled out the route card.

  "Let's see. So far we've got fifteen dates across the Deep South and Southwest in late May-June. A dozen stops on the Left Coast in July, ten across the Midwest and into the Northeast in August, then we'll make the home run down the East Coast in September. Hopefully, we'll pick up more as we go."

  Oz handed him a sheet of paper. "Here are some extra stops I wish to add."

  Joe studied the list of locations. Some they were already booked into or near, others were pretty far out of the way. But rather than get into it now, Joe temporized.

  "I'll see what we can work out."

  "Excellent." Oz reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a foil sack. "And here's something for you."

  Joe took the proffered bag and unrolled the top. An exotic aroma wafted up from within. For an instant it made him almost giddy.

  "Tobacco?"

  "A gift. A special mix from India. I think you'll like it."

  "Why . . . thanks." The unexpected gesture took Joe by surprise. "Very kind of you."

  "Enjoy."

  Oz waved and was gone.

  "Trouble," Tom Shuman said, staring after him. "Nothing but trouble."

  Joseph Peabody lit a bowlful of the new tobacco and drew a few tentative puffs. He felt lightheaded again for a moment, then it passed. Strong, but smooth. An unusual flavor. He had a feeling he was going to like this blend.

  "You worry too much, Tom," he told his general manager. "I've got a feeling we're going to have the tour of our lives." He drew another mouthful of rich, sweet smoke from his pipe. "My, this tobacco is good."

  Part Two

  ON THE ROAD

  Glascock County, GA

  1

  The show rolled.

  Up through the northern Florida counties, breaking in the firsts of May, getting the kinks and bugs out of the acts in the tiny towns, playing big in Jacksonville, then sliding across the Georgia line into Charlton County.

  Along the way an artist named Caniglia latched onto them, saying he wanted to sketch the freaks. Oz thought the experience might be amusing to the troupe and so he let him travel along. Caniglia was quiet, soft spoken, and promised not to get in the way.

  When the show stopped in Moniac on the edge of the great swamp, Oz called Earl Cassell into his trailer. He had a job for him.

  Earl had no arms to speak of. But he had toes. Oh my, did he have toes. Sixteen of them, brown gnarly things varying in length from one inch to an extraordinary seventeen. The troupe called him—surprise—Toes, but the public knew him as The Amazing Monkey-Footed Man.

  Hard gray eyes stared at Oz from a weather-beaten face.

  "There’s a Piece in this town," Oz said as he offered a Xerox of a drawing.

  Earl took it with his left foot and held it before his face, studying it.

  "Who drew this?"

  "That is not important." But it was. The artist had been Oz’s father. "What is important is that you are uniquely fitted to retrieve it."

  Earl flexed his tangle of toes. "Really."

  And then Oz pulled out a map and showed him the mangrove patch where he’d find it.

  Earl shook his head. "Easier to find a needle in a haystack."

  Oz smiled. "But this won’t be just any needle. This one will call to you."

  Looking dubious, Earl shrugged and shuffled out of Oz’s trailer.

  He doesn’t believe, Oz thought. But soon he will. Soon.

  2

  "Another pair of workers blew the show last night," Nolan said.

  Joseph Peabody puffed his pipe and watched his manager prowl the office, sporting the red bandanna he affected when they were on the road. Workers blew the show every season. Most were winos, drifters, petty criminals, or all three in one. They slept on bunks stacked four high in smelly converted semi-trailers, spent their off time guzzling Mad Dog, and usually did their work with blistering hangovers. Always more where they came from. Why was Nolan so worked up?

  As if sensing Joe's question, he said, "It's those freaks."

  "Got enough men to get the top up when we get to Athens?"

  "I've got enough bodies to do it. Those Beagle Boys . . ." Nolan shook his head. "They’re striking the tents now and . . . Jesus, they're strong. Work as hard as the bulls."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "They make my skin crawl—that's the problem. And the animals ain't too fond of them neither."

  "As long as we get the canvas up and down, and the lumber moved in and out, go with it, Dan. The crowds have been good so far. Oz's folks are bringing them in. If these first two weeks are any indication of how the season's going to go, we'll be looking at the biggest end-of-tour bonus we've seen in ten years."

  "No kidding?" Nolan's dour expression mellowed a bit. "All right. I'll make do with what we've got left."

  "I'm counting on you, Dan."

  When Nolan was gone, Joe sighed and repacked his bowl. He'd hired Dan to oversee the workers and Tom Shuman to nursemaid the performers, but he in turn had to nursemaid Nolan and Shuman. He lit his pipe. He'd grown quite fond of this new blend from Oz. Each bowlful offered a quiet pool of tranquillity amid the hustle and turmoil of the tour.

  A tap on the door. He looked up, saw Ginger, and smiled.

  "You wanted to see me?" she said.

  "Come in, come in. I always want to see my favorite niece."

  How true. His sister Rosemary's daughter was damn nice to look at. Sweet face, sweet figure, sweet heart. Blue eyes and red-gold hair that Joe swore his sister must have seen before she named her. A little headstrong, a tendency to pout, but cute as a bug.

  Joe hadn't wanted Ginger in the circus, but Rosie had been an aerialist in her youth and had infected her daughter. A spot for Ginger had been part of the deal when Joe had hired the Fugazis a few years ago. She'd worked out fine.

  Ginger wrinkled her nose as she sat down.

  "Something wrong?" Joe asked.

  "Is that your pipe tobacco? Smells strange, like . . ." She seemed to run out of words.

  "I know what you mean. I can't identify it either. But it tastes wonderful. Anyway, I called you here to tell you what a good job you're doing. I watched you in the Spanish web last night and you were perfect. And your trapeze act with . . . what's his name? The Fugazi boy?"

  "Carlo."

  "You two work very smoothly together, like you've been doing it all your lives."

  "He's a good teacher."

  "Glad to hear it. Just wanted to let you know I'm proud of you, and keep up the good work."

  Her smile was sunlight as she waved at the door. "Thanks, Uncle Joe."

  3

  Ginger was feeling pretty good about herself as she walked through the backyard. Her mom had tried to discourage her, Uncle Joe hadn't wanted to hire her, but she'd hounded the hell out of them and here she was, aerialist with the Fugazis. Skill and hard work had a lot to do with it, but so did luck: The younger generation of Fugazis was almost entirely male and they needed a certain number of women for their act.

  The roustabouts had the tents down but some of the older performers were still hanging around the backyard, sitting on lawn chairs and jackpotting. Ginger loved to listen to their tales of the old days on the kerosene circuits along the back roads of the South, but she had no time for that today. She had to get her trailer hitched up and ready to roll.

  She was
passing near one of the animal trucks parked in the shade when she noticed a young man sitting on a picnic bench with Neely, the circus's new baboon. Neely didn’t seem to know she was a monkey. Rather than be lonely and pining for a fellow baboon, she'd decided she was human and hung out with humans at every opportunity. She liked everybody and everybody liked her. She would groom anyone who sat near her and loved to be groomed in return.

  Ginger hadn't seen the young man before. He seemed about her own age. He sat hunched forward, elbows on thighs, hands between his legs as he let Neely groom his hair. He was kind of cute. She noticed his muscular shoulders and back—not iron-pumping bulk, but lean, sleek, hard-work muscles. Neely was working her long fingers through the dark blond hair that curled over his ears and down the nape of his neck to the collar of his Nickelback T-shirt.

  She considered that neck: clean. With bathing limited to bucket baths, you didn't see many clean necks in the circus. Though worn, his shirt was clean too. She liked him already. But when he turned and smiled at her over his shoulder, when she saw his pale blue eyes and bright, warm smile, something tugged within her chest and she caught her breath. He was gorgeous.

  "Hi," he said. His voice was like his face—light, open, friendly. "I hope Neely's not finding anything."

  "Doesn't seem to be." Ginger stepped closer. His hair was clean, glossy. Obviously he took good care of himself. "She doesn't need to. I think it's some kind of ritual with her."

  "I only wish I could return the favor."

  She leaned forward and stroked Neely's fur.

  "That's easy. All you've got to do is—"

  At first she thought he was exposing himself, or playing with himself, or something equally sick. Then she noticed that the smooth fleshy tube wasn't rising from his fly, but was attached to his arm. In fact it was his arm. Both of them tapered gracefully to long, curving, prehensile . . . things . . . ropes . . . tentacles.

  The sight of those twisting, coiling arms came as an icy slap in the face. All the rising warmth she’d been feeling plummeted through the hole that ripped open in the bottom of her stomach.